Let’s go visit your grammar

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything.  To be honest it’s been a hectic couple of months which I will no doubt write about in the coming weeks.

Aren’t you excited?

Anyway, to ease myself back into the habit of writing, I just wanted to share an interaction I had the pleasure of witnessing on the Tube this morning.

There was a couple.  I would say they were mid-to-late twenties and very posh.

How did I know?  Well…

He had immaculately combed back (and yet thinning) hair with glasses and was wearing cufflinks.  Yes, he was one of those people who actually wear cufflinks to work.

She had straight strawberry-brunette hair with enough make-up to choke a rabbit.  You could still see her freckles which gave her that posh ‘England Rose’ look. Her handbag looked stiffer than a Scotsman’s drink.

They were both wearing those long expensive coats you only ever see in magazine adverts worn by good looking people walking and laughing under trees in autumn.

Anyway, as the train filled up I was herded in their direction until I was stood inches away with my back to them.

This, they had decided, was the time to engage in a very posh and plummy conversation.

“I say, what time will you get to work?” she asked him with a voice that emphasised the ‘h’ in ‘what’.

“Not long now”, he replied, lacking any hint of enthusiasm; “I am so frightfully tired”.

“Mmm, yes me too” she said; “I ordered some new contact lenses but I ordered the wrong ones and they’re actually making me tireder”

There was a pause.

I’m sorry; did she just say ‘tireder’?  That can’t be right.  Surely it’s ‘more tired’?

A few seconds passed.

“Do you know; I don’t think tireder is a word” she said, emphasising the ‘h’ in ‘word’.

I smirked.

Neither is ‘twattiest’, I thought to myself, but I think I’m going to use it anyway.

stupider

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Dubai Dickhead

On this nice quiet train carriage, a plum voiced prick starts talking unnecessarily loudly into his phone for all of us to hear.

“Oh, Chris, hi” “Yah” “Yah, M-hah hah hah” (known as the ‘posh twat’ laugh)

“No, I’m just on my way up from Gatwick now, yah”

“Uh huh, yah, I flew in, had the meeting, then went to Dubai, spent one night there and flew home; you know, the standard. M-hah hah hah”.

We all think he’s a complete cock.

You know, the standard.

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Oh do shut up

Oh fuck.

I’m sat at a table on the train surrounded by seven horse-teethed 40 somethings (probably with names like Tarquin, Jeremy, Marjory, Cynthia etc.) drinking wine, gin & tonic and grazing on hand made crisps, guffawing at tedious jokes and japes at a volume fitting of a jet engine.

I’m so glad I’m trying to watch Doctor Who on my phone.

The volume just won’t go any higher (on my phone, not on these plum voiced pricks whose volume has no ceiling)

Exterminate!
Exterminate!

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What would the Earl say?

I’m sitting in a hotel bar right now waiting for some food I’ve ordered.

But in a place like this it’s never just food is it… no, it’s pompous wanky food with unnecessarily long and tedious descriptions.

It’s places like this that have words like compote, medley and terrine on the menu.  Even the scrambled egg on toast sounded so exquisite I wanted to have sex with it.

Is this to somehow justify the inflated prices?

Would I pay £10 for a prawn cocktail?

No.

Would I pay it for saltwater Alaskan shrimp on a bed of distressed iceberg shavings, drizzled with creamy homemade Marie Rose dressing and a tickle of paprika, complimented with hand cut toasted wheatbread laced with Devon churned butter?

Fuck yeah! Here are the deeds to my house, just feed me this extravagance!

Oh, wait, it’s just prawn cocktail.

And it doesn’t end with their choice of words.  Everything is delivered on a tray.  Even my diet coke was delivered on a tray, complete with a posh stirrer.

Why?   Is it so I can mix my diet coke with the rest of the diet coke in my glass?

I perused this minefield of Shakespearean verse called a menu and eventually decided to go for the ‘free range slivers of extra matured….’ Oh for fuck’s sake, I went for a ham sandwich.

Now, in my experience a ham sandwich is bread, butter, ham, possibly mustard and then bread. It is basically ham ‘sandwiched’ between two slices of bread.   So why am I still waiting for it an hour later?

If the pig has been hand reared as a result of my order, the cows milked and the butter churned,  the mustard seeds grown fresh, and the bread baked specially…then it makes sense I’d have to wait. But I suspect they’ve run out of trays in the kitchen and don’t know how to deliver my food to me any other way.

Frankly, I’m so hungry right now you could deliver it with a crossbow and I’d be happy.   In pain, but happy.

Interestingly, I’ve just had a second diet coke brought to my table (on a tray, naturally) and I find myself a little disappointed it has no stirrer.   If you set the bar too high, you’ll inevitably disappoint.

My sandwich finally arrives an hour and twenty minutes after I ordered it, but at least it’s a special sandwich with…. ….oh wait, no, it’s just a ham sandwich.

But it isn’t; not really. It’s three quarters of a ham sandwich.   They’ve clearly managed to figure out the bread-ham-bread thing and then understandably cut it into quarters, only to give me three of them.

Where’s my quarter of a sandwich?  Did you fucking eat 25% of my dinner you bastards?

It then occurred to me that maybe they give everyone 3 out of the 4 quarters of the sandwich to save money.  They could effectively create a fourth ‘three quarter sandwich’ for free, provided they have three customers who order them.   I bet that’s why I was left waiting for 100 fucking minutes for a fucking sandwich because these bastards were waiting for two more fucking guests to order ham fucking sandwiches.

It all makes sense now.

To add insult to injury, they’ve provided me with an unwanted handful of cress and a ramekin of crisps. A bloody ramekin  of crisps! Do you realise how few crisps you can fit in a ramekin??

I didn’t even want these 7 crisps; I wanted my whole sandwich!

For what it’s worth, the sandwich is delicious, dammit.

ham

How the other side flies

One of the perks of working in the travel industry, other than cheap holidays, is the opportunity to upgrade on a flight for free. One of the great things that comes with a flight upgrade is the opportunity to get access to the special airport lounges.

Guess where I am right now.

There are a few things I’ve noticed that I’d like to share…

Firstly, I’ve noticed how I carry myself at all times when I know I’ve got an upgrade; head high, acting like I do this all the time, saying thank you instead of cheers…general full on twat behaviour.

Secondly, I feel like I’m undercover and at any moment I’ll be ‘found out’ by the actual paying poshies as a fraud and poshly thrown out. This doesn’t go away even though we know the people at the welcome desk to the lounge who are happy for us that we got free access. Somehow I still feel the eyes of the wealthy boring through my disguise to the pauper underneath.

And let me talk a little about these creatures of affluence; these money drenched drips. There’s a certain kind of style of person that you only find in special flight lounges, and possibly at posh horse racing events. They tend to wear clothing ne’er seen in high street shops, but rather at boutiques named after other priggish pricks with equally pompous names like ‘Whittingtons’, ‘Bletherington Smythe’ or ‘Turtle Kuntz’.

Here are some examples:

Women
– Big fur hats, not unlike those worn by Russian Kossaks, or the guards at Buckingham Palace. It resembles a large sticky doughnut that’s been rolled in King Kong’s pubic hair.
– A poncho/pashmina/tablecloth made of Balinese silk woven by free range gibbons fed on unicorn meat and fairy urine. As a result it costs more than my entire holiday and makes them look like a walking table.
– Huge sunglasses, and I mean ‘make you look like a wasp’ big! They usually have a massive D&G logo on the side, presumably to strengthen the frames to keep their massive fat heads from hitting the edges of doorways.
– Multiple scarves, usually made of satin, with designs ranging from anchors and ropes, to zebras and various animal prints…or are they the actual animals? Probably.
– Hair from 80’s porn.

Men
– Jumper over a shirt

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Oh, and leather pads on the elbows of whatever they’re wearing.

There’s just not enough denim going on.

Still, as I was once told, even the queen has to poo from time to time and it reminds me that these people are, after all, just people like you and me (except with helicopters, swimming pools and under stairs staff on hand to wipe their bums). This became a harsh reality when I used the toilet and had that unnerving sensation of the seat still being warm from the last bum to have graced this porcelain throne.

(Shudder)

I must admit I was tempted to stand up and look in the toilet to see if they really did shit money, but then I realised they’d probably flushed it away, or bought duty free with it.

I wonder who wiped them today?

Hmm…

Anyway, all of this, and I mean every little bit if it, is tolerable because after all….I don’t turn right when I get on board the plane today 😉

I hope you, like, really, like, LIKE this like, post.

I have the two most annoying girls sat next to me on the train. They are talking constantly, and luckily the ONLY two people talking on the entire carriage.

It’s ok, I didn’t want to sleep anyway. It’s fine ladies, you carry on. And on. And on. And on.

To add context, they both say ‘yah’ instead of ‘yeah’, and the word ‘Uni’ comes up a lot. You know the type.

But what’s fascinating is how much they use the word ‘like’ in a sentence.

Allow me to, like, demonstrate….

Let’s use the simple sentence;
“We went to a great bar last night with a group of people and it was good”

This is how they’d, like, say it;
“Oh my God! We, like, went to, like, this great bar last night and, like, we went with, like, this huge, like group of, like, people and it was, like, soooo amazing and stuff!”

Add in hand gestures that look like they’re playing chords with both hands on an invisible piano.

Also, they also go up at the end of each sentence making it sound like a question. Those of you who know me will understand how infuriating that is! For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, don’t worry…I’ll blog about it at some point.

Anyway…

I have my camera and tripod with me today, so I’m contemplating twatting them both across the face with them. Twice each; just for good measure.

Don’t want to damage my camera though.

Posh nosh

Picture the guy opposite me on the train. In his late 40’s, got the whole jeans and sensible jumper/shirt combo going on. Imagine a slimmer Richard Curtis and you’re pretty much there. He’s reading his iPad so I haven’t heard his voice, but I suspect there’s a private school tone to his voice. The sort of guy who has children called Tarquin and Felicity, and whose wife is probably shagging the gardener as I write this.

A posh twat basically.

So why am I telling you about him? No particular reason; he’s just grating on me a little bit by what he’s doing.

Firstly, he’s covered in biscuit crumbs, like a gibbon with a packet of digestives. I understand that they can be crumbly, but for god’s sake man, brush them off. But no, instead he continues to wear them whilst opting to frequently slurp his coffee like a child with a bowl of soup. I have nothing against slurping hot coffee as it’s hot and therefore a full on sip will burn the lips, but this guy’s been at it for ages. The coffee is cold…like his wife.

This is not helped by the fact the train has stopped due to a signalling failure and we’re all plunged in that uncomfortable, awkward silence usually reserved for full elevators. A whole carriage full to the brim with people and all you can hear is ‘cough’, ‘sniff’, ‘rustle rustle’ (newspapers)….oh, and ‘slurp’.

Tensions are high. I might flick his nose.

Speaking of which, here’s the other thing he’s doing that I’m not keen on. He’s picking his nose. Thats right, picking his nose!!

This isn’t simply scratching it, no; he’s really digging in and mining for the green stuff…all with his little finger. Mmm, nice.

He then starts to roll his findings between his little finger and his thumb. Mmm, nice.

Once he’s finished excavating, he begins to slowly, but purposefully, flick it. Failing at first (due to stickiness no doubt), but persevering nonetheless. It’s at this point he reverts to wiping it off, either on the seat or himself.

Hang on, are they actually biscuit crumbs?

Also, as I starting writing this he reached into his satchel (yes, satchel!) and produced a banana. He then proceeded to eat it which ordinarily wouldn’t be worthy of mention, but remember this; we’re on a deathly silent train that isn’t moving.

He begins to munch the banana (insert private school joke here), and as he chews he does it with his mouth open so he sounds like stirring stodgy porridge.

I may beat him to death with the skin.