“I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say hello” – The Beatles

I got to work a bit early this morning, so took the opportunity to make myself some coffee and toast.

Whilst I was waiting by the toaster another employee came over to put some Tupperware’d nastiness in the microwave.  We smiled and performed the customary “Good Morning”, the optional “How’s your day going?” and (as I found out very quickly) the unnecessary “I’m utterly fucked”.

I must say, her face indicated that maybe, just maybe, I may have gone a tad too far; but she asked….so….

Anyway, she went back to zapping her box of whatever and I went back to waiting for my toast to ‘Shadunk‘ out of the toaster, when another employee walked by and shouted out to my new ‘friend’.

“Yoo Hoo gurl!” (not a typo; she said ‘gurl’, not ‘girl’)

“Oh, toodle-oo!”

Face palm.  That’s ‘goodbye’, you twat.

Ding!

Shadunk!

Oh, thank fuck.

toaster hit

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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

You get me innit Bruv yeah?

There are four twats on the train sat at the table across the aisle from me.

All four are dressed like Carlton from ‘The Fresh Prince Of Bel End’ er, I mean ‘Bel Air’, but talk like the chavvy rudeboys they are failing to be.

There is a funny smell in the carriage and the conversation (ha ha, ‘conversation’) starts:

“What is dat smell innit?”

“No idea bruv, yeah?”

“Man, that smells is for real, I smelt it on the way up, innit?”

This really pisses me off. Do they realise “innit” is a slang version of “isn’t it”?

They have no idea how much I’d like to punch each of them in the face.

That’s reasonable.

ISN’T IT?

Subway club

Imagine a Subway sandwich shop at lunchtime.  It was busy; heaving with people cramming themselves in for 6 or 12 inches of satisfaction.

Ahem…

The queue was practically out of the door and it was going to take a while until anyone was served.  This allowed plenty of time to peruse the brightly back-lit displays of delicious sandwiches on offer.

And yet there was some penis who, after queuing quietly for a lifetime, got to the front and THEN begin deciding what he wanted.

That’s it, start the decision process now dipshit.

Right now.

Not when you came in. Not while you were queuing for an eternity.

Nope…now.

Now is the perfect time to start thinking about what you might possibly maybe want to have, you total and utter bell-end.

“Erm….I think I’ll have, er…hmm, I don’t really know.  What’s your sub of the day?”

“We don’t do the sub of the day anymore sir”.

“Oh right, er, ok.  Right….I’ll have…erm….hmm….what do I fancy?”

At this point I could take no more.  I stood up from my seat (I wasn’t even in the queue), turned him around, clubbed him across his stupid face with my sandwich shouting “too slow cockface!” while covering him in bits of masticated turkey ham and salad, before frogmarching him out of the shop to an enthusiastic, if not distinctly boney, round of applause from the emaciated starving masses in the queue.

If only.

subway penis bread