It’s been a while since I’ve posted something, so I thought I’d write a nice, long observation on a hilarious life event.
Nah.
Instead here’s a photo of something that literally stopped me in my tracks.
 Seriously?
Apparently cyclists can only read words in the order they are presented.
Finest its at idiocy is this.
Last week I was walking behind an American woman who was holding hands with her young daughter and talking to two young French girls. She was asking them about France and how to say certain words in French.
As I got closer I heard:
“So, how do ya’ll say ‘Camden‘ in French?”
There was a pause as the two girls looked at each other bemused, and then turned slowly back to the woman.
One of them replied:
“Er, Camden eez ze name of a market in London, no?”
Woman “Uh huh” said the woman, not getting it; “So how do y’all say it in French?”
There was another pause as the French girl tried to decipher if there was something she missed, or a meaning she hadn’t considered…or if it was simply a stupid fucking question.
Finally she looked back at the woman and gave the only answer she possibly could.
“Camden”
The French have another word that’s the same as English.
Imbécile.
There was a guy in the gym tonight who, I would say, is in his early sixties with a shaved head and built like a brick shithouse.
He’s clearly been working out for over half his life which was evident from the fact that he was as wide as he was tall, like an equilateral triangle….but sweatier.
Like most of the meatheads in there he was grunting and groaning with every push or pull of the machines he was using, and quite rightly so; he was lifting some heavy shit.
Anyway, as I was leaving I thought I’d wash my hands because, well, I’ve seen some of the people who touch the machines. Most of them are sweaty, and a lot of them are douchbags. I don’t want any of that on me when I leave, especially douchebag.
So I went to the toilets, washed my hands and as I turned around to dry them, in came the equilateral triangle.
He walked[1] to the urinals, barely wedged himself in the ‘normal human being’ sized space and fumbled with the cord of his gym trousers.
At least, that’s the assumption I’m making here. There’s no way I was going in for a closer look just to give validity to this post.
Once he’d (presumably) undone the cord he let out a grunt similar to those he’d demonstrated when lifting the heavy weights before.
Yeah right. Don’t flatter yourself mate.
I’ve heard the stories about steroids.
[1] It was the awkward walk of someone with three huge pillows under each arm and a protein bar inserted rectally.
I want to take a moment to look at the word ‘Entitled’.
It’s a common word of which I’m sure you’re familiar. If you’re not, here’s a dictionary definition:
verb (used with object), entitled, entitling.
– to give (a person or thing) a title, right, or claim to something; furnish with grounds for laying claim.
Well, in America, this ‘right’ or ‘claim’ seems to extend to all those walking Bags Of Pus Filled Shit we called pedestrians (or BOPFS for short).
Now, I’m being very specific here; I’m not referring to people in general – of which I have varying levels of tolerance – but I am instead talking about people when they’re in the role of ‘inconsiderate prick’.
As a human being (barely) I have been a pedestrian many times in my life, and there are certain unwritten rules of pedestrianism (is that a word?) that should be adhered to. These aren’t complicated rules taught in schools or training courses, they’re just common sense rules laced with decency, common sense and manners.
It’s also inevitable that these rules vary slightly in the US than they do in the UK, but surely not enough to send this calm(ish) Brit into a seething rage on a daily basis?
Oh yes, they do.
You see, there’s something that BOPFS do here that really pisses me off. It’s something so fucking infuriating it makes me want to smash the bonnet [hood] of my car into their soft fleshy bodies at high speeds; sending their stupid twatty faces (and Starbucks) up in the air whilst I let out a maniacal laugh that sounds like a donkey with its cock stuck in a milking machine.
What is this thing?
Entitlement.
In America, a BOPFS will just walk out in front of you without looking. Now, I can forgive a momentary lapse of concentration when crossing in front of a car (maybe you’re reading some awesome blog on your phone), but this happens everywhere, all the time.
In America, like the rest of the world, pedestrians always have the right of way, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a festering dick about it.
In the UK if someone is crossing the street at a non-allocated crossing[1], they will do it quickly so as to not disrupt the flow of traffic. In a car park [parking lot] they will move even quicker, often smiling and raising a hand to say ‘thank-you’.
Courteous.
Well mannered.
Awesome.
In America you’re lucky if the person acknowledges you at all. They simple walk – no, I’m not going to use the word ‘walk; that implies speed – they AMBLE out in front of you.
They KNOW you’re there but still they walk out like they own the fucking road and often proceed to slow down.
What makes it worse is that some of them walk at an angle so they’re walking in the same direction as you like a Funeral Conductor walking in front of my car.
My car isn’t a Hearse.
Although soon it might be.
Plus, my car is white, with the potential for a lot of sudden red.
And brown.
Don’t forget the Starbucks.
I can’t believe people here have the nerve to abuse their ‘right of way’ entitlement to this extent. It makes me want to abuse my ‘go to jail for murder’ entitlement.
Fuckers.
These people shouldn’t mess with large and dangerous killing machines, especially when they’re behind the wheel of a car.
I should drive around them and then stop in their path, and then when they attempt to walk around me I should keep blocking them.
My father in law said a woman once stopped in front of his car and proceeded to adjust her toddler’s clothing while he just sat there, unable to proceed. Apparently she couldn’t walk the last few feet and do it to one side.
All this in a nation that allows guns.
And this got me thinking about Red Bull.
(“Eh?” says the reader).
There seems to be an epidemic of energy drinks in the USA. People are seriously hooked on them. The standard can of Red Bull is basically sugar and caffeine. Add to this that a lot of people drink these back to back throughout the day. That’s a lot of caffeine.
By rights, people should be walking around like an old black and white silent movie!
So taking this into consideration, why are they all walking so fucking slow in front of my car?
I hear Red Bull gives you wings.
So will I.
[1] ‘jay walking’ isn’t a thing in the UK. If you want to get to the other side of the road, you just cross…the…road. You don’t have to walk 3 miles to an allocated crossing so you can cross the road and walk the 3 miles back to the place where you wanted to be.
I had trouble walking through London Victoria station this morning due to some idiot in front of me pulling a big red holdall on wheels.
Slowly.
I tried as hard as possible to pass him, but he blocked me at every attempt; zigzagging like a shark swimming through an ocean of directionless pillocks….sorry, pollocks.
Is it wrong that I wanted to punch him out of the way?
He was a menace, nearly taking out my legs and those of others around me. He was oblivious to the carnage he was leaving in his wake.
It might also explain why his bag was red; stained with the shin blood of the capital’s masses.
Eventually I managed to get past him and felt the same sense of freedom as overtaking a tractor on a narrow country road. I had the urge to run through the station, flailing my arms in the air screaming “Yes! Yes! I’m free!!”, but I decided against it as I wasn’t entirely convinced my wife would join in.
Although she IS American, so there was a chance.
Still, I wasn’t going to chance it and frankly I was just too tired.
The excitement and energy of passing the holdall hauling halfwit meant I really didn’t have the strength to do anything but place one foot in front of the other.
Anyway, we traversed the concourse and headed towards the underground station, joining the throng of people shoving themselves through the entrance.
As we joined the back of the crowd, there in front of me was the big red holdall on wheels.
How the fuck?
I looked behind me in case there was another big bag bearing bell-end, but only saw a trail of hobbling commuters; limping and clutching their shins.
I turned back in disbelief and it was then that I noticed the writing on his bag:
‘London Fire Brigade – Keeping London Safe’
(clenches fist)
London Victoria underground station was closed tonight due to ‘someone being taken ill’.
Bollocks.
There’s no way someone said “I think I’ve got the flu coming on” and they shouted “Stop everything!”
I suspect it’s a more subtle version of “someone being liquidated by a train”.
If it’s not I can assure you that I, and about a thousand people frantically redirecting to other stations to escape the city like a frantic piss out of a pair of leaky rubber pants, will be hoping they feel better long enough to fall under the next train that’s “not stopping at Victoria”
It was utter bedlam tonight with agitated commuters strutting around directionless looking for an alternative way of getting home, and failing.
I made my way to London Bridge station as I knew I could get home from there and stood waiting for my platform to be announced.
It’s always been platform 5 whenever I’ve travelled from this station so I went through the barrier into the station, up the escalator and waited patiently by the platform entrance.
And waited.
And waited.
It was 6 minutes until my train was due to leave and the platform still hadn’t been announced.
And then….
‘Platform 9’
What??
Where the fuck is platform 9?? There’s only platforms 1 to 6!
Cock!!
I ran down the escalator, back through the barriers, out of the station and saw there was another entrance which had platforms 7 and up.
Grrr!
There is nothing more infuriating than the possibility I was going to miss my train despite having been there for ages!
And, true to form, all the commuters had been switched to ‘slow, ambling, zombie fuckwad mode’; making my run that much more varied with slaloming, hurdles, chicanes, twists, turns and twats at every step.
I bolted through the masses, up the escalator, through the barriers to the platforms and ran (a concept unfamiliar to the cretins around me) down the platform alongside the train.
Ideally I wanted to be at the front of the train, but it was about to leave so I boarded halfway down and continued my journey inside.
It was at this point that some suited prick boarded the train at the next doorway and cut in front of me, only to then stand still.
Oops, my mistake, he WAS walking but at a speed which I could be forgiven for mistaking as ‘stationary’.
In fact, ‘Mr Stop’ here was so piss-achingly slow, I got off the train, walked down the platform and boarded ahead of him (on the same carriage) so I could continue at a pace that actually involved putting one foot in front of the other.
No sooner had I traversed another carriage than a woman did the exact same thing and cut in front of me; moving at sloth-like speed while she decided where to sit on this virtually empty train.
It amazes me how these people function day to day.
I sat down and took out my phone to begin writing this blog entry.
It took around 40 minutes to write (as autocorrect can be a bitch) and, as I sat thinking about how I could end it, I looked up and saw Mr Stop finally taking his seat.
Perfect.
My wife, being from the United States, needed to set up a bank account as every transaction in which she used her American debit card was causing her to be glared at like she was robbing the place. Even the nice ladies at the supermarket suddenly transform into ferocious interrogation officers, scrutinising the information on her card and I.D. like a dieter with a packet of biscuits.
Also, she’ll soon be working and companies prefer to pay directly into an account rather than give cash or cheques directly to employees, maybe because this involves actually touching them or something; I don’t know.
Needless to say, she needed a bank account.
So, it made sense that I set her up with the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) that I’ve been with all my life. This would make it easier if we ever need to transfer funds to each other and I have a better understanding of how that bank (sorry, ‘building society’) operates.
We had originally set up an account for her online two weeks prior and had received instant approval, but the paperwork had not arrived in the promised “3-5 working days”.
I assume they use the term ‘Working days’ with a sense of irony.
This resulted in us calling them only to be told that she needed to visit a branch of the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) in order for them to validate her identification. Thanks for telling us. I have no issue with visiting a branch in person, but don’t allow us to arrange it online if we still need to physically go to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) anyway. Amazon doesn’t ask us to go and pick up our item from their depot after ordering something online, and if this is the trend of things to come I’ll be fucked if I’m buying anything from DFS.
It’s online for a reason people.
I assume they use the term ‘Applying for a Flexaccount online is easy’ with a sense of irony.
But, having said that, we also needed to post a Christmas gift to America AND arrange for my wife to get a haircut, so it made sense to park the car in the centre of town as all three of these were very close to each other. This was ideal as we were heading up to London (for a concert in the evening) and we wanted to leave as early as possible so my wife could at least spend some time in the capital beforehand.
We should’ve only be about half an hour, maybe an hour…maximum. Then we could’ve gone and caught our train.
So we drove into town, parked at a nearby car park and I walked over to put change in the ticket machine. I reached into my pocket and produced three £1 coins.
“That’ll be more than enough” I thought to myself.
‘Up to 2 hours – £3.10’
I’m sorry, what? Are you fucking kidding me? £3.10?? I don’t need two hours! And who the hell comes up with an idiotic price like that?
I was just about to grudgingly get another £1 from the car when I saw the words ‘No Change Given’ on the machine. Aha, that explains the cock-eyed price. They were relying on people like me not having the random shrapnel needed to pay for the privilege of parking my car. Why not make it £3.88 so at least it covers all the coins in one transaction?
Wankers.
Basically it was going to cost me four quid to park my car for half an hour or so.
No fucking way.
I gave my wife the parcel for the post office and told her I’d re-park in the local supermarket which was £1 for 2 hours; we’d then meet outside the post office and visit the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and hair salon together.
Off she went.
I drove to the supermarket (a 2 minute drive that took 15 minutes in pre-Christmas Saturday traffic), parked up, paid the £1 and walked 10 minutes back to the Post Office. There, as expected, was my wife, but she was not looking happy.
It seemed the Post Office wouldn’t accept her debit card.
Of course.
I went in, paid, glared at the unapologetic assistant for doing everything but assist, and we left.
I assume they use the term ‘Assistant’ with a sense of irony.
We then crossed the road to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) before realising the documentation she needed was still in the car.
Of course.
So we began the 10 minute walk back to the car, stopping off at the hair salon to arrange an appointment for my wife to get a trim. This salon was always open on a Sunday which was perfect for us as time was ticking.
Not this Sunday though. This Sunday they were shut. No reason; they just were.
Of course.
We left, walked the rest of the way to the car and drove back through the traffic to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) where, of course, I wasn’t allowed to park.
Fuck it, I was going to wait outside. All my wife needed now, as she headed into the bank (sorry, ‘building society’), was a shotgun and a balaclava for me to really look the part.
She had been in there less than a minute when I spied a traffic warden in my rear view mirror walking up the street. Oh come on!
I calmly and furiously moved into the car park opposite and sat in my car poised and ready to drive away and/or punch the shit out of someone if challenged.
After about three minutes my wife came out shaking her head. It seemed the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) weren’t happy with her American I.D. card and driving licence as proof of identification as advised by the friendly customer service representative we’d called the day before. Apparently she needed to produce her passport.
I assume they use the term ‘Customer service’ with a sense of irony.
Usually this would result in us rolling our eyes, but considering we were already late for getting to the capital, we were starting to get pissed off. We drove home, picked up her passport, drove back and arrived at the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) 40 minutes later. In she went again. I parked up and cracked my knuckles in readiness.
This time she was in there about 10 minutes before coming out; a face like thunder. It appears that, due to money laundering regulations, she’s unable to open a bank (sorry, ‘building society’) account for the first three months of living in the UK. Something that could’ve been mentioned A BIT EARLIER ON DON’T YOU THINK?!?!
What a massive shitting fucking pisslicking waste of time.
I use the term ‘Fucking morons’ with no sense of irony.
Well, I suppose everything comes in threes. The post office, the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and the hair salon. Surely that’s the end of it?
Nope.
We got to the station and the queue was just long enough for us to miss the train by 2 minutes resulting in a half hour wait for the next one.
The carriage was nice and quiet except for the three girls sat RIGHT in front of us who didn’t stop talking fat sweaty hairy bollocks throughout the entire journey.
At the concert we were at the front (result!) and when someone at the back decided to throw their drink forward it just happened to miss everyone except my wife and I. Mmm, eye-stingingly refreshing.
After the concert the tube was delayed due to someone being taken ill on another train. Once the ambulance had finally arrived and sorted it out 15 minutes later, we were advised that the train would now be delayed due to someone on another train pulling the fucking emergency cord.
We should’ve known this morning, when the alarm didn’t go off, that it was going to be a fantastic day.
This morning I was greeted by this…
Some inconsiderate prick thought it was a good idea to park their car right across my garage.
My first instinct was to get in my car and sound the horn until the fucker came out and then punch them in the face, but it was 7am and I didn’t really want to wake the whole neighbourhood. I was angry, but that didn’t excuse me being an annoying wanker about it.
My second instinct was to kick or scratch their car, but considering my vehicle is the only one blocked in, it would’ve pretty obvious who had done the damage and I didn’t want to risk them retaliating.
It’s not like I could move my car and hide it afterwards.
This is also the reason I resisted squatting on the bonnet and laying a hot fresh pie on their windscreen.
Shame, because the first one of the day is usually the meatiest.
And if they didn’t retaliate I could be slapped with a fine for criminal damage, which is always fun.
So instead I was terribly British and paced back and forth, muttering under my breath, and shaking my head in a misguided belief that it would somehow flush out the culprit…which it didn’t.
Instead I was left feeling more helpless and frustrated than a handcuffed pervert watching porn.
I was also angry that my four minute drive to the train station was going to result in a thirty minute uphill walk on a very, VERY cold October morning.
All I could do was take a photo (to send to my boss showing that my reason for being late is in fact genuine – not that I’m a cynic!), close my garage, lift their wiper blade up in defiance and begin my tedious walk to the station.
I would’ve left a note under their wiper blades but annoyingly I didn’t have time to go back in the house to write it. If I left immediately and walked at the blistering pace of an angry woman, I might just be able to make the later train.
I did, however, do the one thing that I thought might make me feel better; the one thing that may help ease my suffering and give me a sense of comfort. I posted it on Facebook.
Within seconds I got the affirmation and acknowledgement I was so clearly craving, with lots of advice on a variety of vindictive things I could’ve done to teach this parking penis a lesson. My favourite comment was this small poem…
Dear driver of the black car
Who do you think you are?
Don’t you find it bizarre…
You park but wander somewhere far?
Now my mate can’t access his car
Better this note, than my fucking crowbar!
Brilliant.
To all you commuters who like to change direction on a whim right in front of me, often two or three times, causing me to either bash into you, do a Matrix style maneuver around you or change direction entirely, often two or three times, thus perpetuating your retarded inability to fucking walk in a fucking straight fucking line….
To all you pricks who stop right at the top of the stairs in a station to decide your next life choice, causing me and the hundreds of unstopping masses to practically fall over you; resulting in us almost making the fucking choice for you….
To all you tedious twats who are simply stood still until the moment I’m literally about to walk past you, at which point you decide to walk out directly in my path resulting in me virtually FUCKING YOU UP with a full on body slam….
To all you meandering rimlickers who get on the train and then stop in the aisle to put away your train ticket, or change the track on your iPod or locate your disappointing genitals, unaware that the rest of us are stuck behind you,followed by not rushing to move or apologising when you do….
To all you shitbiting fuckers who sensibly stop in a doorway to sort out your luggage because it somehow seems the least obstructive place to be, despite the fact everyone uses doors to get into and out of places…
And to all you festering cockwarts who desperately try to get In front of me whilst walking and then, once you’ve succeeded, choose to either slow down to the speed of fuck all or stop altogether, making me wonder why you so desperately had the need to push in front of me, or breathe in and out for that matter…
To ALL of you absolute fucking bastards on my daily commute, may I just take this opportunity to say….
In my time as a commuter I’ve grown to dislike certain types of people.
For those of you who have read most of my previous blog entries will know this to be true.
There is, however, a type of commuter who makes me as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs; particularly when I’m walking behind them.
The arm swingers.
These are almost always (although not exclusive to) women.
I’m not being sexist here; I’m simply making an observation. In much the same way I could observe that a majority of the world’s comedians are almost always men and a majority of these comedians’ suffering (and material) is almost always women. See…not sexist.
Anyway, allow me describe an arm swinger.
These fuckers, whilst walking, tend to swing their arms back and forth in a manner synonymous with the Queen’s guard. However, unlike the Queen’s guard, they also tend to swing their arms out at a 45 degree angle which only serves to take out small children, midgets and my balls.
A bit like the walk adopted by overly camp cabin crew strutting through an airport terminal.
Seriously. These people are the testicles’ natural enemy and need to be stopped (arm swingers, not camp cabin crew as I hear the latter can be incredibly considerate).
It’s at its worst when the arm swinger has a bag on one of her shoulders (yes, ‘her’). It somehow forces the unladen arm up to an almost horizontal position in which she is practically clotheslining my sack.
Is she somehow hoping to smash the squidgy softness of my gonads, hoping for the inevitable curt and high pitched whimper? Surely they must realise that mothers are walking past them looking around wondering where their kids are. If these sadistic Sallys turned around they’d see the trail of kiddie carnage and full grown men groaning, writhing and clutching their faces and groins respectively.
I’ve tried to pass these women many a time and failed. It’s like trying to casually negoitiate spinning helicopter blades, or charity collectors in the street.
Head In A Blender 