Socks. Considering their undeniably mundane nature, they have this astonishing ability to fuck everything up. In my life anyway.
In my first job there was a strict stipulation that all socks worn at work must be black. A little extreme you may think but I was wearing a dinner suit as well. Wearing bright red socks with a dinner suit makes you either look slightly eccentric, or a massive cunt. Neither was the required look, so black socks all round.
Buying socks from then on became an automated activity. Black socks, 6 pairs for £5. All day long. Two or three bundles at a time. The only problem arose when I had washed and dried them. I was always left with a bundle of black socks and pairing them up correctly was going to be an effort. I soon lost interest in that and just chucked them all in the sock drawer together. Whenever I needed some socks I would grab the first two socks in the drawer and put them on.
Every now and then a sock would tear, as socks do, and it would get thrown in the bin. Whenever the s(t)ockpile ran low, a trip to the shops and 6 pairs for £5 later the problem was sorted. Thus my socks had an organic growth rate and there was no way of knowing just how old each individual sock was.
I've been doing this for 12 years now (I just laughed at myself as I typed that) and today is a momentous day. I just threw out every single fucking sock I could find. If those socks were Jewish then I was Joseph Mengele. No quarter was given. A cold and detached operation I can assure you all. No sock was harmed anymore than was absolutely necessary. Subsequently I am going to chuck a match onto the small mountain of petrol soaked socks in my garden right now.
I also purchased 14 pairs of brand spanking new black socks. And so it begins again. Next scheduled sock holocaust 30th June 2020.
Friday 11 July 2008
Authentic Cunts
I had a few beers on Friday afternoon with a friend who happened to be going to Peru the next day to see Machu Pichu. Very nice. The pavements outside all the pubs were fucking rammed with people. I guess that they were all in "meetings", just like I was. Anyway, a couple of pretentious tossers standing close by happened to hear us discuss her trip and invited themselves into our Friday afternoon. There was a guy and a girl. He looked as if his name was Quentin and he looked desperate to convey his creative tension within. A cunt basically. All piercings and intricately shaven patterns in his scrawny bumfluff beard. She on the other hand looked as is she was called Cressida and was a little horsey to look at. I only know that cos I offered her a sugar lump and she had my fingers off. Haughty as well. Another cunt.
Quentin inquired as to whether my friend was going on the four day trail or taking the train up instead. She told him that she was using the train. A sensible choice if you ask me. If there is one word I associate with mountain climbing it is "why?". Quentins face lit up at this answer as he then launched into a lecture on how she was missing out on the authentic experience by doing this. He told us in glorious detail about his 4 day trek up the side of a Peruvian mountain. He felt he had connected with the indigenous peoples during this trip. A truly authentic experience. I did ask him whether he now sacrificed small children daily on the upper step of his personal Ziggurat. Drenching both the steps and himself in their lifeblood. Seeing as that was the truly authentic response to the area, I fully expected him to answer yes and tell us how his family line could be traced back to Montezuma himself. Unfortunately he didn't. He got the underlying sentiment of my question though and turned back to Cressida as she snorted and shook her head. I wish I had a curry comb to offer but alas I had left mine at home that morning.
Why do people always seek to experience true authenticity to the point of ridiculousness?
"Oh yeah, seriously, you simply must go to Kallamattarecopapolous. Make sure it is during the summer solstice, yeah. That is their holy time you know. Seriously, I felt truly Greek then."
Or
"Oh you must try this recipe I got back from Sicily. You absolutely have to use Sicilian lemons picked from the tree on the waxing of the moon in the fourth phase, of course. If you can't get those lemons, don't bother, just forget it."
What a heap of shit. Indigenous accents are adopted by some on their return from their holidays. Someone comes back from their 2 weeks in Thailand and suddenly pronounce the place names in what they deem an authentic Thai accent.
"Well, that is how they pronounce it over there you know. No need to call me a cunt for trying to be real."
Yes there is, and there always will be.
Quentin inquired as to whether my friend was going on the four day trail or taking the train up instead. She told him that she was using the train. A sensible choice if you ask me. If there is one word I associate with mountain climbing it is "why?". Quentins face lit up at this answer as he then launched into a lecture on how she was missing out on the authentic experience by doing this. He told us in glorious detail about his 4 day trek up the side of a Peruvian mountain. He felt he had connected with the indigenous peoples during this trip. A truly authentic experience. I did ask him whether he now sacrificed small children daily on the upper step of his personal Ziggurat. Drenching both the steps and himself in their lifeblood. Seeing as that was the truly authentic response to the area, I fully expected him to answer yes and tell us how his family line could be traced back to Montezuma himself. Unfortunately he didn't. He got the underlying sentiment of my question though and turned back to Cressida as she snorted and shook her head. I wish I had a curry comb to offer but alas I had left mine at home that morning.
Why do people always seek to experience true authenticity to the point of ridiculousness?
"Oh yeah, seriously, you simply must go to Kallamattarecopapolous. Make sure it is during the summer solstice, yeah. That is their holy time you know. Seriously, I felt truly Greek then."
Or
"Oh you must try this recipe I got back from Sicily. You absolutely have to use Sicilian lemons picked from the tree on the waxing of the moon in the fourth phase, of course. If you can't get those lemons, don't bother, just forget it."
What a heap of shit. Indigenous accents are adopted by some on their return from their holidays. Someone comes back from their 2 weeks in Thailand and suddenly pronounce the place names in what they deem an authentic Thai accent.
"Well, that is how they pronounce it over there you know. No need to call me a cunt for trying to be real."
Yes there is, and there always will be.
Pigeon Face Flap AIDS Fiasco
Picture the scene: Me, walking to walk along a busy street in the heart of the city at about 8:30am yesterday morning. In my hand I have a steaming hot, freshly purchased cup of coffee. I am surrounded by busy looking people all walking with great determination towards their respective offices. No one is out for a stroll. No one is interested in the richly detailed history under their very feet. Who gives a fuck if the consort of King Henry VIII resided not 20 feet from their present location? Not us, we're on the WAY TO WORK motherfuckers. Out of our fucking way. My whole existence at this point is my next step, and then the one that would follow. Homing in on my office. Nothing else matters.
I am approaching a building on my left that is being refurbished and the building work is spilling, ever so slightly, onto the pavement in front of me. I spy two pigeons there on the pavement. They were also looking quite determined in their endeavours, whatever they may have been. Trotting around looking important to all the other pigeons that may be watching. I didn't notice as I was so ensconced within my own journey. A huge bang erupted from the building site just as I drew level with it. It happened to jolt me a little. It also happened to scare the fucking crap out of the two pigeons who were now directly in front of me, maybe 3 feet away. One pigeon flew directly away from me looking rather urgent. The other pigeon decided to do a 180 and took off, still with his back to me. He (or maybe she) banked hard to the left and headed right towards my face. Then, our world drowned in honey and time seemed to freeze. I say "our" as I know that the pigeon had the exact same feeling as me. We had eye contact. Seriously. I don't know too many people that have looked a pigeon in the eye. And survived. His velocity was terminal and my positioning was flawed, and there was fuck all either of us could do about it. Not a fucking thing.
I knew he was gonna hit me and could also tell he was going to connect with my face. My most prominent thought was for the coffee. Not the coffee itself but its temperature. If I start flapping, there is a good chance that i'll be wearing boiling fluid. Not the best way to start the day, and so I stopped dead. Medusa couldn't have frozen me any harder as Mr. Pigeon crashed into my face. I wasn't flapping, but he was. Fucking hell, had you asked me how many wings a pigeon has at that exact moment, I would have confidently argued for at least 15. 15 fucking SETS of wings. My face was screwed up and out of the very corner of my pursed lips I am cursing at this fucking flying cunt as he flaps, and he flaps, and then he fucking flaps again.
Face - pigeon, pigeon - face.
Then it was over and the suddenness of the incident makes me stop. All I can hear is the wind, and the tale end of a fading "Flapping cunt..." trailing from my lips.
As soon as I came too properly, I turned on my heel and headed for the nearest chemist for heavy duty anti-bacterial wipes to clean the copious Pigeon AIDS that covered my face.
Not nice
I am approaching a building on my left that is being refurbished and the building work is spilling, ever so slightly, onto the pavement in front of me. I spy two pigeons there on the pavement. They were also looking quite determined in their endeavours, whatever they may have been. Trotting around looking important to all the other pigeons that may be watching. I didn't notice as I was so ensconced within my own journey. A huge bang erupted from the building site just as I drew level with it. It happened to jolt me a little. It also happened to scare the fucking crap out of the two pigeons who were now directly in front of me, maybe 3 feet away. One pigeon flew directly away from me looking rather urgent. The other pigeon decided to do a 180 and took off, still with his back to me. He (or maybe she) banked hard to the left and headed right towards my face. Then, our world drowned in honey and time seemed to freeze. I say "our" as I know that the pigeon had the exact same feeling as me. We had eye contact. Seriously. I don't know too many people that have looked a pigeon in the eye. And survived. His velocity was terminal and my positioning was flawed, and there was fuck all either of us could do about it. Not a fucking thing.
I knew he was gonna hit me and could also tell he was going to connect with my face. My most prominent thought was for the coffee. Not the coffee itself but its temperature. If I start flapping, there is a good chance that i'll be wearing boiling fluid. Not the best way to start the day, and so I stopped dead. Medusa couldn't have frozen me any harder as Mr. Pigeon crashed into my face. I wasn't flapping, but he was. Fucking hell, had you asked me how many wings a pigeon has at that exact moment, I would have confidently argued for at least 15. 15 fucking SETS of wings. My face was screwed up and out of the very corner of my pursed lips I am cursing at this fucking flying cunt as he flaps, and he flaps, and then he fucking flaps again.
Face - pigeon, pigeon - face.
Then it was over and the suddenness of the incident makes me stop. All I can hear is the wind, and the tale end of a fading "Flapping cunt..." trailing from my lips.
As soon as I came too properly, I turned on my heel and headed for the nearest chemist for heavy duty anti-bacterial wipes to clean the copious Pigeon AIDS that covered my face.
Not nice
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