I do not steal babies. You know that (I hope) and I know that. Unfortunately, there is now a carriage full of people that think that I do in fact steal babies. All because I was being helpful.
I was on the train home today. I've waxed lyrical many times on how I hate the rush hour so I'm not going to go into any detail here about it but imagine this: Every seat taken. Almost all standing space gone. Not too much to hear above the odd mp3 player spitting out tinny baselines, newspapers being rustled and the monotonous clackety-clack of the rolling stock ferrying us all home.
My stop arrives and I stand up from my seat and wait for various sets of legs to make enough space for me to first emerge from the little set of seats I have been sitting in and then for the standing commuters to give me enough space to get to the doors. As I struggle through my supremely uninterested and dour looking peers I get to the doors and see a middle aged lady struggling to get off with her pram. It looked like one of these only bigger. Seriously, a few pieces of drywall and plasterboard and you could plumb the fucking thing into the mains and live quite happily. I noticed the doors were about to close and she was still no nearer to getting off. I was fucked if I was going to miss my stop so I did what any self respecting gentleman would have done. I grabbed her pram which had a multitude of shopping bags dangling from it and lifted the whole thing off the train and onto the platform just as the doors closed. The middle aged mother turned to me with a look of utter horror on her face and I quickly smiled at her to allay any fear she may have had about me and said jokingly "Don't worry, I'm not going to steal your baby". Still looking horrified she said to me "No, but I think you might have just stolen someone else's. That's not my pram, my jacket was just caught on the handle and I was trying to free myself!"
Oh shit. I had just stolen a fucking baby.
I looked into the carriage as it began to slowly pull away and didn't see any commotion at all. I slammed hard on the window and mouthed for someone to pull the emergency cord. I got a few weird glances but no one seemed to understand what I was on about and turned away from the nutty man slamming train windows and turned back to their respective newspapers and mp3 players. Now it was too late and the train had pulled out of the station and I definitely had stolen a fucking baby!
It was only then that I actually looked inside the pram to have a look at my new baby that I realised that there wasn't a baby in there at all. All I had actually stolen was a massive four wheeled and seemingly fuel injected pram dripping with various shopping bags and baby accoutrements.
Middle aged woman was looking at me now with a look of almost cartoon-like relief. Fuck this I thought to myself, your problem. I walked off as quick as I could leaving her asking after me what I expected her to do with a stolen pram. I paid no attention at all and quantified that if she hadn't been flapping about like a drunken mackerel, I wouldn't have stolen the pram in the first place.
Some poor mother is going to get off the train and realise she has been royally fucked over.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
Trains. Again
Fucking trains, they'll be the death of me. When my time eventually comes I know I'll either be on a train or hit by one. They don't like me and I'm not too fond of them. Shit always happens to me on trains.
I must deviate to give you some back story.
Of all the people I have met in the media industry, I have known only a very few that have become friends. One guy I got to know quite well works in the marketing department of an American film distribution firm over here. We used to meet every now and then and I would take him and his team out for drinks on a Friday. At first it was lunchtime drinks and after a while we somehow made our midday meetings stretch a few hours longer. Eventually it became the norm to meet up at about 2pm and drink expensive alcohol until we would both stumble home in the early hours. He and his team are a decent bunch and I have became quite close with them over the last 3 years.
A few weeks back, this guy split up with his girlfriend and as is often the case, it turned rather messy. This guy suddenly needed somewhere to stay and I gladly offered my sofa until he sorted himself out. Two days ago I had come home after work and rolled a joint and made myself a cup of tea. After my refreshment I decided I wanted to go for a run and knowing that he might come back here while I was out I decided to leave him a note on the door. "Gone for a run" was no good as I live in a dodgy part of town and letting everyone know your house is empty isn't the smartest move. "Call me" sounded way too gay so I added a simple "Fuck you" and thought that got my point across nicely. I couldn't find anything else to write on apart from a cigarette paper. Still, write on one side and lick the other to stick to the door and this was turning out to be the perfect solution.
I went for a run and came back to find he hadn't arrived so took the paper from the door and let myself in. Skip forward to this morning when I'm about to leave the house on my way to work and I find I need a page marker for my book. I look around and see this same scribbled on cigarette paper and insert it into my book and head to work. The train was rammed, as usual, and I made my way down the carriage. We were so packed on that I eventually found myself standing almost on top of a lady who had happened to bag herself the last available seat. I open my book, remove my page marker and as I insert it between the first and second pages of the book it slowly flutters from my grasp. Now I would have loved to have caught it but my arms were jammed together due to the close proximity of everyone else so I just watched in vain as it twisted and turned slowly down towards this lady and landed face up in her lap.
"Fuck you, call me" scrawled on a fucking cigarette paper and me smiling at her as she looked up.
I didn't bother to explain myself as the other hundred or so people on the carriage would hear and that was just too much information. I did find it funny though and giggled to myself for the next 25 minutes. Unlike her who markedly stared everywhere else other than at me for the entire journey.
Brilliant.
I must deviate to give you some back story.
Of all the people I have met in the media industry, I have known only a very few that have become friends. One guy I got to know quite well works in the marketing department of an American film distribution firm over here. We used to meet every now and then and I would take him and his team out for drinks on a Friday. At first it was lunchtime drinks and after a while we somehow made our midday meetings stretch a few hours longer. Eventually it became the norm to meet up at about 2pm and drink expensive alcohol until we would both stumble home in the early hours. He and his team are a decent bunch and I have became quite close with them over the last 3 years.
A few weeks back, this guy split up with his girlfriend and as is often the case, it turned rather messy. This guy suddenly needed somewhere to stay and I gladly offered my sofa until he sorted himself out. Two days ago I had come home after work and rolled a joint and made myself a cup of tea. After my refreshment I decided I wanted to go for a run and knowing that he might come back here while I was out I decided to leave him a note on the door. "Gone for a run" was no good as I live in a dodgy part of town and letting everyone know your house is empty isn't the smartest move. "Call me" sounded way too gay so I added a simple "Fuck you" and thought that got my point across nicely. I couldn't find anything else to write on apart from a cigarette paper. Still, write on one side and lick the other to stick to the door and this was turning out to be the perfect solution.
I went for a run and came back to find he hadn't arrived so took the paper from the door and let myself in. Skip forward to this morning when I'm about to leave the house on my way to work and I find I need a page marker for my book. I look around and see this same scribbled on cigarette paper and insert it into my book and head to work. The train was rammed, as usual, and I made my way down the carriage. We were so packed on that I eventually found myself standing almost on top of a lady who had happened to bag herself the last available seat. I open my book, remove my page marker and as I insert it between the first and second pages of the book it slowly flutters from my grasp. Now I would have loved to have caught it but my arms were jammed together due to the close proximity of everyone else so I just watched in vain as it twisted and turned slowly down towards this lady and landed face up in her lap.
"Fuck you, call me" scrawled on a fucking cigarette paper and me smiling at her as she looked up.
I didn't bother to explain myself as the other hundred or so people on the carriage would hear and that was just too much information. I did find it funny though and giggled to myself for the next 25 minutes. Unlike her who markedly stared everywhere else other than at me for the entire journey.
Brilliant.
My Underpants
I haven't spoken about my underpants for some time now and realise that in some circles this amounts to serious neglect. This had been playing on my mind for several weeks and I really didn't know what to do about it. Luckily for all of you, The God Of Underpant Mishaps had evidently been alerted to my plight, looked down on his checklist and noticed that I was more than overdue for some of his undergarment related shenanigans and gave me his personal attention.
Friday night found me falling asleep in front of the tv. I woke up in the early hours with a stiff neck and headed straight for my bed. I threw my clothes in a heap on the floor and got under the covers. My alarm went off at 8:30 Saturday morning as I had to get my suit to the dry cleaners at 9am. I jumped out of bed and put on my jeans from where I had left them on the floor the previous night and grabbed a t shirt. Brushed my teeth and out of the door with one dirty suit.
I'm walking to the dry cleaners and there is some small bustle on the parade of shops I'm walking down. There is a young mother and her two squawking children approaching me. She looks less interested in them than I am and that's saying something. It is at this point that I feel something strange nestled against the back of my knee and I look down just in time to see last nights boxers fall from the right trouser leg. "That's weird" I think to myself, "they look just like mine". I still had sleep in my eyes and the whole thing seemed rather bizarre. It wasn't until after one of the young children asked his mother in a loud and clear voice "Mum, why have that man's pants just fallen out of his trousers" that I realised that they must have been carefully nestled in my jeans when I took them off together last night. I guess they were somewhere in the leg when I pulled my jeans on in such a hurry not 10 minutes before.
I picked them up and stuffed them in my pocket as If I was taking a trophy of a night with myself. To exacerbate the effect, I masturbated with them as soon as I got home.
Friday night found me falling asleep in front of the tv. I woke up in the early hours with a stiff neck and headed straight for my bed. I threw my clothes in a heap on the floor and got under the covers. My alarm went off at 8:30 Saturday morning as I had to get my suit to the dry cleaners at 9am. I jumped out of bed and put on my jeans from where I had left them on the floor the previous night and grabbed a t shirt. Brushed my teeth and out of the door with one dirty suit.
I'm walking to the dry cleaners and there is some small bustle on the parade of shops I'm walking down. There is a young mother and her two squawking children approaching me. She looks less interested in them than I am and that's saying something. It is at this point that I feel something strange nestled against the back of my knee and I look down just in time to see last nights boxers fall from the right trouser leg. "That's weird" I think to myself, "they look just like mine". I still had sleep in my eyes and the whole thing seemed rather bizarre. It wasn't until after one of the young children asked his mother in a loud and clear voice "Mum, why have that man's pants just fallen out of his trousers" that I realised that they must have been carefully nestled in my jeans when I took them off together last night. I guess they were somewhere in the leg when I pulled my jeans on in such a hurry not 10 minutes before.
I picked them up and stuffed them in my pocket as If I was taking a trophy of a night with myself. To exacerbate the effect, I masturbated with them as soon as I got home.
The Moth.
Now first off, let me make a distinction here. When I refer to a moth from here on I don't refer to those beautiful moths you see pictures of that live in the jungle. None of us live there so I'm not talking about those moths (those ones aren't actually moths anyway, they are part bird). I'm referring to the kind of moths that live in our houses. Those singularly useless creatures that are attracted to bright lights, are always a dull brown colour and act like retarded butterflies.
They have no purpose. At all. I am sure there will be several learned stumblers that could point out some interesting fact or other regarding the humble moth yet I would respectfully call them all liars. I appreciate your "knowledge" in this field is greatly advanced when compared to mine but in this instance I shall not pander to "fact". Moths are deserving of fuck all. In fact, less than fuck all. They flap away at a wall for hours on end only after tiring of my head. Previously finding it the most interesting place in the entire world, ever. This will maybe go on for a day or two at most until they eventually die and fall onto my book shelf and get crispy.
When moths go to the cinema and watch a hero movie, the star of the show is always a pigeon. Moths aspire to the heady heights of pigeonhood as they intrinsically recognise the only creature on the planet to hold a higher status in the category of "World's Biggest Cunt".
When moths grow up they want to hang around in parks and cities eating shit from the floor while cooing and having gangrenous legs that spread disease. Instead of flapping around uncontrollably with natures second worst navigation system (after Daddy Long Legs), having no mouth and generally making a fucking nuisance of themselves.
Not much of a jump to be honest.
If I had my way, all future generations of both moths and pigeons would view me as their own Personal Hitler
They have no purpose. At all. I am sure there will be several learned stumblers that could point out some interesting fact or other regarding the humble moth yet I would respectfully call them all liars. I appreciate your "knowledge" in this field is greatly advanced when compared to mine but in this instance I shall not pander to "fact". Moths are deserving of fuck all. In fact, less than fuck all. They flap away at a wall for hours on end only after tiring of my head. Previously finding it the most interesting place in the entire world, ever. This will maybe go on for a day or two at most until they eventually die and fall onto my book shelf and get crispy.
When moths go to the cinema and watch a hero movie, the star of the show is always a pigeon. Moths aspire to the heady heights of pigeonhood as they intrinsically recognise the only creature on the planet to hold a higher status in the category of "World's Biggest Cunt".
When moths grow up they want to hang around in parks and cities eating shit from the floor while cooing and having gangrenous legs that spread disease. Instead of flapping around uncontrollably with natures second worst navigation system (after Daddy Long Legs), having no mouth and generally making a fucking nuisance of themselves.
Not much of a jump to be honest.
If I had my way, all future generations of both moths and pigeons would view me as their own Personal Hitler
Dave
- My cousin Dave is, and always has been, a constant source of amusement to me. He is 5 years younger than me and, unfortunately for him, the perfect age to have been terrorised by myself as we grew up. You all know how this one works right? If you have an older brother or sister you know that they will have at times fucked your life up just cos they are either bored or malicious. That's just the way life works and all kids learn to cope with it. Puts hairs on your chest and all that. Well, my sister is four years older than me and regularly used to fuck me up when I was too young and far too trusting to do anything about it. She used to do bad shit and blame me so my poor stressed mother would walk into the room, see a mess, slap me and then walk out. Poor woman, I was a handful. Anyway, all this caused me to need an outlet for my frustration. This is where Dave steps into the story. He got it from me bad. I terrorised him so badly when we were kids that the pattern of constant ribbing and hardship on his behalf has never really stopped. It's comfortable now for me (and him) to walk into a room, see him, give him a slap either actual or verbal and walk out. That shit is recurring. He has just turned 30 and still to this day nothing gives me greater pleasure than to see him fall over or fuck up somehow. As I said earlier, he is a constant source for me. Always will be. There has been one blot on this copybook for me though. Dave went out one night about 5 or 6 years ago with some pals. A big group of them went out one night and what was seemingly an innocuous evening in a pub swiftly escalated into fucking carnage. One of those nights where people end up dancing on tables and shots are the only thing being drunk and in great abundance. Well, maybe 90 minutes into the evening Dave realises he is in a bit of trouble and reckons he is about to puke and dashes into the toilet. He really wants to stay out and knows if he throws up it is game over and he is gonna need to be in a cab home. While he walks into the toilet of this rather dingy little pub he sees a guy selling drugs by the line. Bingo! Dave isn't really a drug taker but knows well enough that a couple of fat lines of coke and he is gonna be like the Duracell Bunny. He hands over a tenner to the dodgy dealer, sniffs up his charlie and heads back out to the bar. Not 3 steps into the main room and he crashes to the floor like he has been shot. Right into the middle of some random peoples table, knocking their drinks everywhere. He is out cold and for no apparent reason. Turns out mr dodgy dealer has sold him two fat lines of kettamine instead of coke although he only realised this the next morning. Daves mates pick him up and an ambulance is called. He is dragged out with various "fucking lightweight"'s drifting in his wake. Everyone laughing at him. I am still gutted I missed seeing this and it has grown into our folklore. Imagine my utter fucking joy when I found out a few days back that there was actually a sneaky mobile phone picture of him in the ambulance that has only just surfaced after 5 years! Put a massive smile on my face that did. I'm going to get miles and miles out of this one.
Cooking tips for twats
An explosive mixture of boredom and gluttony (bluttony) got me thinking the other day. When you've got a hangover, there really is no substitute, at all, to a Full English. The only problem you have here really is the fact that when waking with a hangover, the last thing you want to do is fuck around with the annoying task of actually cooking it.
Here is where the humble greasy spoon comes into its own. I fucking love those places. As a rule you can multiply the amount of minutes you spend in there by 3 and that is the exact number of days chalked from the end of your life. The food is that bad for you.
So what happens if you wake up with a hangover so bad that you find yourself praying to God, despite the fact that you don't actually believe in him, to take the pain from inside your head. There is no way that in this state that you could traverse the disgusting route of getting clothes on and getting to your necessary Valhalla. Would there be some way to make the Breakfast of Champions the night before?
I think I might have cracked it my friends. I gladly present to you this masterpiece:
The Full English Pie
A layer of fried scalloped potatoes, some fried mushrooms, five well cooked sausages, 8 slices of the crispiest bacon and then finally 4 beaten eggs poured into the cracks and left to settle and then topped up again. 30 minutes at 180 celsius and you shall reach salvation.
Here is where the humble greasy spoon comes into its own. I fucking love those places. As a rule you can multiply the amount of minutes you spend in there by 3 and that is the exact number of days chalked from the end of your life. The food is that bad for you.
So what happens if you wake up with a hangover so bad that you find yourself praying to God, despite the fact that you don't actually believe in him, to take the pain from inside your head. There is no way that in this state that you could traverse the disgusting route of getting clothes on and getting to your necessary Valhalla. Would there be some way to make the Breakfast of Champions the night before?
I think I might have cracked it my friends. I gladly present to you this masterpiece:
The Full English Pie
A layer of fried scalloped potatoes, some fried mushrooms, five well cooked sausages, 8 slices of the crispiest bacon and then finally 4 beaten eggs poured into the cracks and left to settle and then topped up again. 30 minutes at 180 celsius and you shall reach salvation.
Poker: The new cunt magnet
I had the intense displeasure to meet a professional poker player last night. What a massive cunt.
I can't remember meeting anyone so impressed with his own shadow in quite some time. He looked genuinely surprised when I told him what I thought about pro gamblers and I've known a few. His main argument in his defence hinged almost completely on the fact that he could afford the finer things in life and was only 23 years old. I found it rather funny when he asked his girlfriend if he could borrow £20 for a cab home and let him know that in no uncertain terms.
I think I can safely say that he was the first Swedish person that I have ever met who I didn't warm to. Swiftly followed by his girlfriend who told me several times that she was the best poker dealer in London. At the tender age of 22.
This was perhaps the first time in my life that I had a little bit of hindsight as to how I must have seemed to others at her age. I wasn't that much of a cunt was I? Surely not...
I did mention that old croupier joke to this "best poker dealer in London" girl that asks the difference between a card dealer and a gynaecologist? A gynaecologist only has to deal with one cunt at a time. I had to explain it to her three times. They do say that the key to all humour is timing and having to backtrack and explain an off the cuff joke like that killed the momentum somewhat. She mentioned how she found the word cunt distasteful and didn't like how frequently I used it which I found slightly amusing as it was her innate cunty demeanour that demanded I explain a simple joke again and again. How many other four letter and one syllable words could perfectly encapsulate a cunt other than cunt? She then drew out the age old and completely spurious argument that those who swore to excess were just exposing their own lack of vocabulary. To prove her wrong in the fullest sense I spoke in hugely belligerent multi syllabic terms for the next 5 minutes with the odd cunt thrown in for good measure. I always find that to be a most satisfying way to communicate. Juxtaposition being everything.
I can't remember meeting anyone so impressed with his own shadow in quite some time. He looked genuinely surprised when I told him what I thought about pro gamblers and I've known a few. His main argument in his defence hinged almost completely on the fact that he could afford the finer things in life and was only 23 years old. I found it rather funny when he asked his girlfriend if he could borrow £20 for a cab home and let him know that in no uncertain terms.
I think I can safely say that he was the first Swedish person that I have ever met who I didn't warm to. Swiftly followed by his girlfriend who told me several times that she was the best poker dealer in London. At the tender age of 22.
This was perhaps the first time in my life that I had a little bit of hindsight as to how I must have seemed to others at her age. I wasn't that much of a cunt was I? Surely not...
I did mention that old croupier joke to this "best poker dealer in London" girl that asks the difference between a card dealer and a gynaecologist? A gynaecologist only has to deal with one cunt at a time. I had to explain it to her three times. They do say that the key to all humour is timing and having to backtrack and explain an off the cuff joke like that killed the momentum somewhat. She mentioned how she found the word cunt distasteful and didn't like how frequently I used it which I found slightly amusing as it was her innate cunty demeanour that demanded I explain a simple joke again and again. How many other four letter and one syllable words could perfectly encapsulate a cunt other than cunt? She then drew out the age old and completely spurious argument that those who swore to excess were just exposing their own lack of vocabulary. To prove her wrong in the fullest sense I spoke in hugely belligerent multi syllabic terms for the next 5 minutes with the odd cunt thrown in for good measure. I always find that to be a most satisfying way to communicate. Juxtaposition being everything.
Subtitles at Midnight
At what point did television execs sit down and decide that people wanted to hear about pension deficits and government party manifestos on a Sunday morning at 8:30? As a child, Sunday had the capacity to be the very best or the very worst of days for me. There is so much around that could put an instant dampener on a Sunday for a child. The long months of grey skies and cold winter rain meant you were more than likely locked indoors over weekends and then you were faced with political and religious programming liberally scattered across the then 4 television channels. Neither the kind of thing that any normal child would look forward to.
As a choice it was Thatcher or Archbishop of Canterbury who forever seemed to be presiding over some ridiculously boring Harvest Festival which owed less to religious observance and more to do with your mum and dad getting rid of the old unwanted tinned food that had sat in the cupboard since the last time you were told by your primary school teacher to pester them for their handouts. Sunday have always been a shitty day for me.
Next week: Why are signed programmes for deaf people only on at 2am in the morning? Are deaf people really all vampiric in nature? Does that explain why they sound so daft when they try to speak?
As a choice it was Thatcher or Archbishop of Canterbury who forever seemed to be presiding over some ridiculously boring Harvest Festival which owed less to religious observance and more to do with your mum and dad getting rid of the old unwanted tinned food that had sat in the cupboard since the last time you were told by your primary school teacher to pester them for their handouts. Sunday have always been a shitty day for me.
Next week: Why are signed programmes for deaf people only on at 2am in the morning? Are deaf people really all vampiric in nature? Does that explain why they sound so daft when they try to speak?
Pitch me and I'll fuck you back.
Mondays. They really are shit aren't they. I've never been a fan and am usually a grumpy twat until at least 4pm.
A guy just turned up at my office and said he had a meeting with me at 9:30am. First I'd heard of it. Rather than sit there and go through my diary and question him as to when this meeting was pencilled in, I grabbed my tea and we both headed into our meeting room and let him get to it. He sat down, took a presentation from his bag and started pitching me for all manner of stupid ideas that I had absolutely no interest in following up in any way. Fuck it I thought to myself, I'll give him his ten minutes and by the time I finish my cup of tea I shall boot him out and get to the real work of the day.
Pages are being turned in his intensely cheap looking presentation and he is giving me facts and figures I am paying no attention to. Suddenly we get to a page with a picture of a dog in a jumper. He looked slightly confused at this and I smelled the fact that maybe he had been tucked up and jumped on it mercilessly.
Me - "What's this with dogs in jumpers? We're really not the type of company to waste time with this kind of shit, especially not on a Monday morning"
Him - "Er, I really apologise for that, that shot must have got mixed up in the presentation somehow..."
Me - "Hmmm"
So, slightly flustered he turns the page while I fix him with the steeliest of glares and then it happened. The funniest and best thing ever to occur on a Monday morning. The next page was a semi naked picture of him lying on a bed holding a bottle of beer in one hand and giving the thumbs up with the other hand. That was my composure gone and I just started laughing as loudly as I could. In between laughing so hard that I couldn't breathe properly I shouted for all of my colleagues to come in here right away and take a look at this. The poor fucker looked unbelievably horrified and he got up and left in such a hurry that he forgot the copy of the presentation (big mistake) and left me laughing so hard that I was now crying.
Oh the joy. I'm guessing right now that someone is about to get sacked in a big fat hurry.
Oh well, back to work
A guy just turned up at my office and said he had a meeting with me at 9:30am. First I'd heard of it. Rather than sit there and go through my diary and question him as to when this meeting was pencilled in, I grabbed my tea and we both headed into our meeting room and let him get to it. He sat down, took a presentation from his bag and started pitching me for all manner of stupid ideas that I had absolutely no interest in following up in any way. Fuck it I thought to myself, I'll give him his ten minutes and by the time I finish my cup of tea I shall boot him out and get to the real work of the day.
Pages are being turned in his intensely cheap looking presentation and he is giving me facts and figures I am paying no attention to. Suddenly we get to a page with a picture of a dog in a jumper. He looked slightly confused at this and I smelled the fact that maybe he had been tucked up and jumped on it mercilessly.
Me - "What's this with dogs in jumpers? We're really not the type of company to waste time with this kind of shit, especially not on a Monday morning"
Him - "Er, I really apologise for that, that shot must have got mixed up in the presentation somehow..."
Me - "Hmmm"
So, slightly flustered he turns the page while I fix him with the steeliest of glares and then it happened. The funniest and best thing ever to occur on a Monday morning. The next page was a semi naked picture of him lying on a bed holding a bottle of beer in one hand and giving the thumbs up with the other hand. That was my composure gone and I just started laughing as loudly as I could. In between laughing so hard that I couldn't breathe properly I shouted for all of my colleagues to come in here right away and take a look at this. The poor fucker looked unbelievably horrified and he got up and left in such a hurry that he forgot the copy of the presentation (big mistake) and left me laughing so hard that I was now crying.
Oh the joy. I'm guessing right now that someone is about to get sacked in a big fat hurry.
Oh well, back to work
Saturday 31 January 2009
Covert Bullshit In Adland
I've mentioned on here before how much I hate my job, you may have read that at some point. If I were to go into a little more detail I would say that the job in itself wasn't really what I hated, it is the people that I have to converse with that make it such a soul expunging day to day existence. As time has gone on I have found myself automatically adjusting so that I can wheedle myself into some little corner of my mind that allows me to approach the situation and retain some sense of dignity. Not easy. Now I mainly hate myself during the week.
There is one part of my job that makes it a more bearable way to earn money. We are constantly entertaining clients. That can mean taking them to football matches in Spain to watch Real Madrid play at the Bernebeu, or getting tickets to the biggest gigs in town. VIP. Taking their entire team of 50 to the pub for a huge piss up. That kind of thing. We always pick up the tab. All my boss gives a fuck about is that they have fun with us and we forge relationships with them.
It all sounds like great fun right there doesn't it? Only problem is, the people you will be watching football with, visiting movie premieres with, getting fucking hammered with, are all fucking massive cunts. To a fucking man. I've been doing this for 3 years now and have had a huge internal tussle with where I sit in amongst all of this. I tried playing their game and couldn't keep up the pretence for too long. I'm not fucking interested in your iphone. I'm not interested in hearing about how you really know banksy and sniffed coke with him. Your trendy beard nauseates me, and so does your face. It is offensive to me how you put countless creams and lotions on your face and hair just so that it looks "naturally untended".
That didn't work. So I backed off, puzzled and questioning if I could really do this. The director asks me why I am spending less of his cash getting fucked with my clients. I tell him they are all cunts and hate myself when I am with them. He laughs conspiratorially and agrees with me, shrugs his shoulders as if to say "What can you do?". Bit of a shock really as he would be well up there in the final three if the BBC ever decide to make my proposition to them of "Cunt Idol".
I eventually came to the conclusion, not so long ago, that I would just be completely and totally me. The next time you flash your new trendy gadget at me I am going to theatrically yawn in your fucking face, and then laugh. I'm going to tell you that your beard looks like a spider crawled all over your face after jogging around in an ink pot if you ask me my opinion. It offended some and surprisingly intrigued others. Strange developments were afoot and although I am forever trying to kerb myself, and feeling guilty when I fail, it seemed to have the opposite effect and drove me on.
Imagine my fucking heart singing arias written by angels, both fallen and exalted, when I am at lunch with an entire media agency team (one of the big ones) including three board directors. Swapping meaningless words with their main man and then finding myself getting carried away simulating sucking a dogs cock, while telling him why he is such a daft cunt, to such an extent that two of the directors choke on their food with laughter. The other director is snorting ridiculously expensive sherry from a spoon and two of the girls start kissing.
I'm winning the battle and beating these motherfuckers from the inside.
There is one part of my job that makes it a more bearable way to earn money. We are constantly entertaining clients. That can mean taking them to football matches in Spain to watch Real Madrid play at the Bernebeu, or getting tickets to the biggest gigs in town. VIP. Taking their entire team of 50 to the pub for a huge piss up. That kind of thing. We always pick up the tab. All my boss gives a fuck about is that they have fun with us and we forge relationships with them.
It all sounds like great fun right there doesn't it? Only problem is, the people you will be watching football with, visiting movie premieres with, getting fucking hammered with, are all fucking massive cunts. To a fucking man. I've been doing this for 3 years now and have had a huge internal tussle with where I sit in amongst all of this. I tried playing their game and couldn't keep up the pretence for too long. I'm not fucking interested in your iphone. I'm not interested in hearing about how you really know banksy and sniffed coke with him. Your trendy beard nauseates me, and so does your face. It is offensive to me how you put countless creams and lotions on your face and hair just so that it looks "naturally untended".
That didn't work. So I backed off, puzzled and questioning if I could really do this. The director asks me why I am spending less of his cash getting fucked with my clients. I tell him they are all cunts and hate myself when I am with them. He laughs conspiratorially and agrees with me, shrugs his shoulders as if to say "What can you do?". Bit of a shock really as he would be well up there in the final three if the BBC ever decide to make my proposition to them of "Cunt Idol".
I eventually came to the conclusion, not so long ago, that I would just be completely and totally me. The next time you flash your new trendy gadget at me I am going to theatrically yawn in your fucking face, and then laugh. I'm going to tell you that your beard looks like a spider crawled all over your face after jogging around in an ink pot if you ask me my opinion. It offended some and surprisingly intrigued others. Strange developments were afoot and although I am forever trying to kerb myself, and feeling guilty when I fail, it seemed to have the opposite effect and drove me on.
Imagine my fucking heart singing arias written by angels, both fallen and exalted, when I am at lunch with an entire media agency team (one of the big ones) including three board directors. Swapping meaningless words with their main man and then finding myself getting carried away simulating sucking a dogs cock, while telling him why he is such a daft cunt, to such an extent that two of the directors choke on their food with laughter. The other director is snorting ridiculously expensive sherry from a spoon and two of the girls start kissing.
I'm winning the battle and beating these motherfuckers from the inside.
You Touched It Last
At what point does the product wrapping or the empty drinks can in your hand become rubbish? Once it has served the intended purpose, and is empty, is it rubbish? No, it seems that it only becomes rubbish once it touches the floor.
The London Underground subway system hasn't had any rubbish bins at all for some years now. If I remember correctly it was an IRA bomb placed in a bin on the underground that prompted this. Fair enough of course but now there is nowhere to dispose of the crap we have no choice but to accumulate so frequently. Wrappings and cannisters and used cartons, all that shit needs to go somewhere and people don't seem willing to carry it with them to their destination.
Now, i'm no eco warrior. I don't recycle, I would if we had some sort of local collection, but we don't. I wouldn't think twice about nonchalantly setting fire to a pile of used tyres in a nature reserve. However, I am a sometime antagonist and after a particularly stressful journey to work, and then straight out to an external meeting, I saw my chance and jumped. A middle aged man with a face that offended me, for no apparent reason, had just finished messily eating a cornish pasty and was looking around for somewhere to put the crumpled paper bag that was now useless to him. We were on the platform and the train was just pulling into the station so he hurriedly chose his easiest option: He placed it onto the upper part of the outwardly jutting "London Underground" sign on the wall. It wobbled precariously but finally decided to stay put. He looked horrified for a second at the thought of the paper bag hitting the floor and becoming rubbish, and then relieved as it didn't. The train arrived, we both got on but not before I grabbed the crumpled bag and got on the train behind him. I was hoping to hand it to him and announce "oh, I think you dropped this" in a loud voice. Unfortunately he had his back to me for the entire time we were on the train so I just gently placed it in his hood without him noticing. All those childhood years playing Operation and Buckaroo came in handy after all.
I was a little miffed at the gentle conclusion and was fully prepared to revert to 8 year old mode and play "You touched it last" with a 50 year old. I even cleared my trouser pockets so when I shoved the bag into his arms and announced that he had indeed touched it last, I could speedily place my hands in my pockets to place a devastating checkmate and end this game the victor.
Life doesn't always give us the outcomes we crave but we must consistently approach every situation believing it will. In that way we can at least smile inwardly to ourselves, even if we piss off every last fucker in the process.
The London Underground subway system hasn't had any rubbish bins at all for some years now. If I remember correctly it was an IRA bomb placed in a bin on the underground that prompted this. Fair enough of course but now there is nowhere to dispose of the crap we have no choice but to accumulate so frequently. Wrappings and cannisters and used cartons, all that shit needs to go somewhere and people don't seem willing to carry it with them to their destination.
Now, i'm no eco warrior. I don't recycle, I would if we had some sort of local collection, but we don't. I wouldn't think twice about nonchalantly setting fire to a pile of used tyres in a nature reserve. However, I am a sometime antagonist and after a particularly stressful journey to work, and then straight out to an external meeting, I saw my chance and jumped. A middle aged man with a face that offended me, for no apparent reason, had just finished messily eating a cornish pasty and was looking around for somewhere to put the crumpled paper bag that was now useless to him. We were on the platform and the train was just pulling into the station so he hurriedly chose his easiest option: He placed it onto the upper part of the outwardly jutting "London Underground" sign on the wall. It wobbled precariously but finally decided to stay put. He looked horrified for a second at the thought of the paper bag hitting the floor and becoming rubbish, and then relieved as it didn't. The train arrived, we both got on but not before I grabbed the crumpled bag and got on the train behind him. I was hoping to hand it to him and announce "oh, I think you dropped this" in a loud voice. Unfortunately he had his back to me for the entire time we were on the train so I just gently placed it in his hood without him noticing. All those childhood years playing Operation and Buckaroo came in handy after all.
I was a little miffed at the gentle conclusion and was fully prepared to revert to 8 year old mode and play "You touched it last" with a 50 year old. I even cleared my trouser pockets so when I shoved the bag into his arms and announced that he had indeed touched it last, I could speedily place my hands in my pockets to place a devastating checkmate and end this game the victor.
Life doesn't always give us the outcomes we crave but we must consistently approach every situation believing it will. In that way we can at least smile inwardly to ourselves, even if we piss off every last fucker in the process.
Pigeons. Again
Me: Briskly walking on stretch of pavement with wall to my left, and security railings to my right. Enough room for two abreast.
Pigeon: Happily minding own business pecking at random detritus on floor.
Me: Notice pigeon for first time. Keep exact pace and position on pavement.
Pigeon: Notices me. Looks alarmed from a distance. Stops pecking and freezes.
Me: Wondering if pigeons can sense my derision. Then have two second daydream of me sitting on throne of Planet Of The Pigeons. All around me are dead pigeons. Now within 4 paces of pigeon. Directly in my path. One of us is gonna have to change direction.
Pigeon: Not happy, slightly alarmed. Decides to abandon completely the random food stuff on floor and makes erroneous decision to walk and not fly in opposite direction
Me: Wondering why pigeon doesn't just move aside
Pigeon: Why is this cunt following me? Shit he is huge and he is getting closer. Must walk quicker
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Move aside little pigeon. This is all about testosterone now. Honk imaginary truck horn.
Pigeon: Now beginning to flap wings in panic but not enough to take off. Walking in straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION
Pigeon: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I am so scared I will continue to walk in a dead straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Now giggling
Pigeon: FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. Brain still not decided to fly yet. Sprinting in a straight line
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Laughing openly, attracting attention from passers by.
Pigeon: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. ALERT, ALERT. ESCAPE STRATEGY NOT WORKING. NEW DIRECTIVES NEEDED
...computing
...computing
...computing.
NEW DIRECTIVES ARRIVED. WALK INTO BUSY ROAD.
Bus: "Hey, 'sup"
Me: Amazed at amount of blood caused by freshly squashed pigeon. Looks like a pancake. Mmmmmm, pancakes...
Pigeon: Happily minding own business pecking at random detritus on floor.
Me: Notice pigeon for first time. Keep exact pace and position on pavement.
Pigeon: Notices me. Looks alarmed from a distance. Stops pecking and freezes.
Me: Wondering if pigeons can sense my derision. Then have two second daydream of me sitting on throne of Planet Of The Pigeons. All around me are dead pigeons. Now within 4 paces of pigeon. Directly in my path. One of us is gonna have to change direction.
Pigeon: Not happy, slightly alarmed. Decides to abandon completely the random food stuff on floor and makes erroneous decision to walk and not fly in opposite direction
Me: Wondering why pigeon doesn't just move aside
Pigeon: Why is this cunt following me? Shit he is huge and he is getting closer. Must walk quicker
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Move aside little pigeon. This is all about testosterone now. Honk imaginary truck horn.
Pigeon: Now beginning to flap wings in panic but not enough to take off. Walking in straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION
Pigeon: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I am so scared I will continue to walk in a dead straight line away from scary man
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Now giggling
Pigeon: FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. Brain still not decided to fly yet. Sprinting in a straight line
Me: MAINTAIN PACE. MAINTAIN DIRECTION. Laughing openly, attracting attention from passers by.
Pigeon: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. ALERT, ALERT. ESCAPE STRATEGY NOT WORKING. NEW DIRECTIVES NEEDED
...computing
...computing
...computing.
NEW DIRECTIVES ARRIVED. WALK INTO BUSY ROAD.
Bus: "Hey, 'sup"
Me: Amazed at amount of blood caused by freshly squashed pigeon. Looks like a pancake. Mmmmmm, pancakes...
Stabbed In The Arse On The Train
I like my dry cleaner. He and his wife are one of the very few people I will happily pass the time of day with in my area. I visit him at least once a week and to date he has always done a great job on any of the clothes I drop off with him. I am gonna have words with him after this though.
Lunchtime today found me hunting yet again for my sisters christmas present. She wanted some specific cosmetics and I had hunted for them on three separate occasions with no joy. Today I meant business. No toodling around the shops near my office. No. Today I jumped on a train to travel a few miles to a place I was sure would have these cosmetics. I went into the underground, waited on the platform for the train and when it came I hopped on. It was quite busy in the carriage and maybe three quarters of the seats were taken. I located a free seat and sat down between two people. The second my arse hit the seat I felt an intense jabbing pain just under my right arse cheek and before I could jump up the jabbing had travelled further into my flesh and jarred into bone. Before I knew what I was doing, and more importantly where I was, I leapt high into the air with what must have been a cartoon expression of pain and screamed my favourite expletive at the top of my lungs. More than once and with other adjoining words scattered inbetween.
Everyone is now watching. Everyone. And they look shocked.
I instantly stare at the seat for the offending something that has stabbed me right in the arse with such force. Nothing jumped out at me and I bent over for a closer look. Nothing. Half the carriage can see my arse and the other half can see the pained look disappearing from my face and merging into something resembling embarrassment. This had all gone on now for maybe three or four seconds and I needed to triumphiantly hold aloft something to let everyone know I wasn't some kind of weirdo but that my arse had been publicly violated, and I wasn't having it. Still nothing.
Now I was noticing the jarring pain in my arse again and instinctively reached behind to touch the exact epicentre. I don't know why but it is something we all do isn't it. I felt a foreign something. Then I felt it dislodge and fall down my trouser leg where I heard a soft noise as it hit the floor. As there was total silence at this point I think the entire carriage may well have heard that soft noise too so some of them were already gleefully glaring at my feet to see what had made this strange man scream like a little girl, and then curse like the most fervent of Somalian pirates upon discovering the Indian navy at the horizon.
A safety pin. With blood on the end.
I grabbed it and got the fuck off the train in a hurry. Fate had thrown me an olive branch and we were suddenly at my station. As I limped off the train it all began to fall into place. My dry cleaner puts little blue paper tags on every piece of clothing he cleans. He usually tags them there with one of those machines that annoyingly fastens price labels to clothes. He must have run out and used a safety pin. I guess I sat on it during the morning and as I got up from my desk to go to lunch it unfastened and was hanging there awaiting its opportunity.
Holy fuck that hurt. It actually hit bone.
Lunchtime today found me hunting yet again for my sisters christmas present. She wanted some specific cosmetics and I had hunted for them on three separate occasions with no joy. Today I meant business. No toodling around the shops near my office. No. Today I jumped on a train to travel a few miles to a place I was sure would have these cosmetics. I went into the underground, waited on the platform for the train and when it came I hopped on. It was quite busy in the carriage and maybe three quarters of the seats were taken. I located a free seat and sat down between two people. The second my arse hit the seat I felt an intense jabbing pain just under my right arse cheek and before I could jump up the jabbing had travelled further into my flesh and jarred into bone. Before I knew what I was doing, and more importantly where I was, I leapt high into the air with what must have been a cartoon expression of pain and screamed my favourite expletive at the top of my lungs. More than once and with other adjoining words scattered inbetween.
Everyone is now watching. Everyone. And they look shocked.
I instantly stare at the seat for the offending something that has stabbed me right in the arse with such force. Nothing jumped out at me and I bent over for a closer look. Nothing. Half the carriage can see my arse and the other half can see the pained look disappearing from my face and merging into something resembling embarrassment. This had all gone on now for maybe three or four seconds and I needed to triumphiantly hold aloft something to let everyone know I wasn't some kind of weirdo but that my arse had been publicly violated, and I wasn't having it. Still nothing.
Now I was noticing the jarring pain in my arse again and instinctively reached behind to touch the exact epicentre. I don't know why but it is something we all do isn't it. I felt a foreign something. Then I felt it dislodge and fall down my trouser leg where I heard a soft noise as it hit the floor. As there was total silence at this point I think the entire carriage may well have heard that soft noise too so some of them were already gleefully glaring at my feet to see what had made this strange man scream like a little girl, and then curse like the most fervent of Somalian pirates upon discovering the Indian navy at the horizon.
A safety pin. With blood on the end.
I grabbed it and got the fuck off the train in a hurry. Fate had thrown me an olive branch and we were suddenly at my station. As I limped off the train it all began to fall into place. My dry cleaner puts little blue paper tags on every piece of clothing he cleans. He usually tags them there with one of those machines that annoyingly fastens price labels to clothes. He must have run out and used a safety pin. I guess I sat on it during the morning and as I got up from my desk to go to lunch it unfastened and was hanging there awaiting its opportunity.
Holy fuck that hurt. It actually hit bone.
Jesus. Tell Your Followers To Chill Out Would You?
Had an interesting experience the other night. It was maybe 11pm or so and I was considering going to bed and just flicking through the channels. My wandering thumbs took me unintentionally to the once small section of Jesus channels. I say used to cos there are now 15 or 20 of them. What was previously just American evangelical preachers in stadiums healing people in the name of Jesus, now seemed to have home grown English versions as well. Glee! I'd never seen this before. As far as I can see, in England, evangelical Christianity is ruled by the Africans. I'm no expert, but that is what it seems like to me. Poorly recorded preachers in cheap looking rent a rooms preaching in heavily African accented English. Huge black women fanning themselves in the audience dressed in their finest, which means every single colour of the rainbow in one dress.
That piqued my interest for a few minutes and I started clicking again. Ohhhh, what's this? It was the cheapest looking set up so far by a long shot. A fixed camera on close up on an African preacher, but this time he was taking calls from the public. I very much doubt there were more than 3 people involved in this broadcast in totality, and that included Mr Preacher and the caller. 30 quid tops. He was midway through a conversation with Mamase Mamasa Mamamboosa from Foooolam (Fulham). Nothing too interesting. He told her that if she believed in the "powa of tha wahd of tha Load", then all would be peachy. Next call was pretty much the same. Kalititi from Romfahd (Romford). I was beginning to lose interest and was about to get up when Karen from Sydenham came on. She sounded English as well. She didn't sound classy though. Pregnant at 13 kind of not classy.
After chatting about nothing in particular for a few minutes Mr African Preacher told her how he could hear the word of the lord right now and she cut him completely dead.
Karen: *excited* "WOW. YOU TOO! I HEAR VOICES ALL THE TIME."
Mr African Preacher: "You heah tha wahd of tha load too?"
K: "I hear voices all the time. Do you know what I mean? They're always talking to me. Telling me to do things"
MrAP: "What things theez voices ah tell you?"
K: "They just whisper. All the time. They never stop. Always whispering. Do you know what I mean?"
MrAP: "I don't tink theez voices ah tha load. Tha load would nevah..."
K: *cutting in* "They're always talking, always *starts sounding nervous now* They won't leave me alone now. Always there, do you know what I mean? *speech quickens and she sounds slightly out of breath* Should I do what they say? They say some strange things. *shouting now* I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, THEY NEVER STOP. ALWAAAAAYS......."
It was at this point that I swear I could hear her clawing her own eyes out as she screamed down the phone. It was also at this point that Mr African Preacher decided to cut her off.
I'm going to be watching this channel sporadically from now on.
That piqued my interest for a few minutes and I started clicking again. Ohhhh, what's this? It was the cheapest looking set up so far by a long shot. A fixed camera on close up on an African preacher, but this time he was taking calls from the public. I very much doubt there were more than 3 people involved in this broadcast in totality, and that included Mr Preacher and the caller. 30 quid tops. He was midway through a conversation with Mamase Mamasa Mamamboosa from Foooolam (Fulham). Nothing too interesting. He told her that if she believed in the "powa of tha wahd of tha Load", then all would be peachy. Next call was pretty much the same. Kalititi from Romfahd (Romford). I was beginning to lose interest and was about to get up when Karen from Sydenham came on. She sounded English as well. She didn't sound classy though. Pregnant at 13 kind of not classy.
After chatting about nothing in particular for a few minutes Mr African Preacher told her how he could hear the word of the lord right now and she cut him completely dead.
Karen: *excited* "WOW. YOU TOO! I HEAR VOICES ALL THE TIME."
Mr African Preacher: "You heah tha wahd of tha load too?"
K: "I hear voices all the time. Do you know what I mean? They're always talking to me. Telling me to do things"
MrAP: "What things theez voices ah tell you?"
K: "They just whisper. All the time. They never stop. Always whispering. Do you know what I mean?"
MrAP: "I don't tink theez voices ah tha load. Tha load would nevah..."
K: *cutting in* "They're always talking, always *starts sounding nervous now* They won't leave me alone now. Always there, do you know what I mean? *speech quickens and she sounds slightly out of breath* Should I do what they say? They say some strange things. *shouting now* I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, THEY NEVER STOP. ALWAAAAAYS......."
It was at this point that I swear I could hear her clawing her own eyes out as she screamed down the phone. It was also at this point that Mr African Preacher decided to cut her off.
I'm going to be watching this channel sporadically from now on.
Useless Yiddo
The two back legs on my bed broke the other day while I was moving it. That'll teach me to buy cheap beds. Rather than sleep on a slant I decided to do the only thing a Jewish man can do. Go kill thousands of Palestinians. Shit did I just say that or think it? That'll be those cursed Jew genes talking. What I actually meant was I chopped off the other two legs to put myself on an even keel when sleeping.
Guys will generally learn their DIY skills from their fathers. I don't know too many Jewish plumbers or carpenters (apart from Jesus and that useless fucker was nowhere to be found) and so I learnt fuck all in that respect from my dad. My entire toolbox consists of one of those multi tool things, a hammer, a drill that never gets used and a few screwdrivers.
One of my biggest regrets is being as remarkably unhandy as is humanly possible. Luckily I have many goy mates to do that kind of shit for me. Symbiosis is a wonderful thing
Guys will generally learn their DIY skills from their fathers. I don't know too many Jewish plumbers or carpenters (apart from Jesus and that useless fucker was nowhere to be found) and so I learnt fuck all in that respect from my dad. My entire toolbox consists of one of those multi tool things, a hammer, a drill that never gets used and a few screwdrivers.
One of my biggest regrets is being as remarkably unhandy as is humanly possible. Luckily I have many goy mates to do that kind of shit for me. Symbiosis is a wonderful thing
Fat Chefs
I like my chefs fat. Why would you trust a whip lean cook? If I wanted a personal trainer I would find one with muscles. If I wanted advice on art (not that I would of course) I would find someone who looks like Salvador Dali, all spindly moustaches and long floppy bow ties. If I wanted to discuss the finer points of washing the dishes, I would consult the nearest woman.
In fact, when I look for advice on any subject I turn to someone who looks like they know what they are talking about. Qualifications mean nothing.
In fact, when I look for advice on any subject I turn to someone who looks like they know what they are talking about. Qualifications mean nothing.
Coppers Make Me Nervous
I got a letter pushed through the door last week from the police. It asked "Sir/Madam" to contact them on the below number as there was something they wanted to talk to me about. Now I didn't really worry too much due only to the fact that it was addressed to generic house owner and not me specifically. If it had been addressed to me then I would have started doing that auto brain scan thing you do when you think you may be in trouble. What the fuck have I done and more importantly how am I going to wiggle out of this one? I called the number on the letter the next day. I was told that the two detectives that wanted to speak to me weren't at the station right now and could I leave my full name, address, phone number and date of birth with them and they would call me back when they could. My date of birth? Why? Are you at all interested in the colour of my underpants perhaps? White before you ask. My socks? Of course. They are black, and I once watched a midget porn show in Bangkok and was mildly repulsed by the whole thing but that was years ago now and surely you will take my inebriation at the time into consideration detective?
If someone asks me unnecessary questions the usual response would be short sharp answers delivered with the straightest of faces and with an icy undertone. And an overtone if I'm really angry. Not so with the police though, no need to get on the bad side with the coppers. Especially when they already want to come to my house in the first place. They didn't call back that day and as I have had an old friend over from Sweden recently I just forgot about it. Two days ago found me sitting in the pub with my friend when my phone rang. It was the police and could they come round to my house tomorrow night at 8 to talk. No problem, see you then. My friend and I then decided to have a ban on smoking anything dodgy after 4pm that day and clear all potentially incriminating evidence. We would open the windows from 4 as well. It is fucking freezing but cold and at home is preferable to warm and in prison.
We did our stuff the next day. Both of us scanned the shit out of the flat at 4 and by 4:45 we were both happy that we were now completely sanitized although we were sundered with several layers of extra clothing. Imagine our surprise when we got a knock on the door at 5:30. It was one of those knocks that only policeman use. 4 short sharp raps. My friend looks at me with an incredibly guilty look on his face and whispers "Fuck, it's them!". He knew it was them and so did I. I got up and had a last glance across the room as I walked to the door repeating "It's cool, it's cool, it's cool" to myself. I opened the door and there was a him and a her. She flashed her badge and he instantly told me that he was sorry he was early but he had just had to change the wheel on his car and could he come in and wash his hands. He pushed past me into the house. Brilliant.
She came into the front room and told me she wanted to show me a photofit of a man they think is local and had been committing all kinds of naughtiness. She showed me a picture of a black man in a balaclava. All I could see were his eyes. I laughed and told her that she would have to give me a little more as staring into random mens eyes on the street wasn't really my kind of thing. As I was handing the photofit back to her Mr.Policeman came out of the bathroom and asked me to sign a sheet saying "Yes I have seen the picture of a black mans eyes and no I didn't recognise them". I was smoking a cigarette and went to place it in the ashtray and his eyes followed my hand down and that was when we both saw it. At the same time. A half smoked joint just sitting there looking up and smiling at both of us. I could not fucking believe it. I had cleared under the fucking sofa and hidden my hash box so totally that a psychic would have had a job finding it. I had even emptied my drawers in my room of anything naughty. All that and we had both completely forgotten to clean the fucking ashtray, and here we were with far too many clothes and windows wide fucking open in January. Then he looked at me and we locked eyes. I had an easy smile on my face as if to say "So what, it's only a joint". He then started looking around my place as Ms.Policewoman was talking to my friend.
A few more nonsensical pleasantries were exchanged between them and I am just thinking what a fucking stupid stupid cunt I am. Fucking busted because I didn't empty the ashtray. We had been so concerned with all the secret little places that we forgot the most obvious.
Mr.Policeman finishes his hungry eyed search across my room, looked back to me and smiled and this is what I heard ringing in my ears
"You are fucking nicked my son. What else you got in this place? I'm going to do a full search."
What he actually said
"Thanks very much for your time. We'd better get going now"
I couldn't believe it when I realised he was going to leave it there. As soon as he left I showed my friend the ashtray and we both laughed and then I sparked it up.
If someone asks me unnecessary questions the usual response would be short sharp answers delivered with the straightest of faces and with an icy undertone. And an overtone if I'm really angry. Not so with the police though, no need to get on the bad side with the coppers. Especially when they already want to come to my house in the first place. They didn't call back that day and as I have had an old friend over from Sweden recently I just forgot about it. Two days ago found me sitting in the pub with my friend when my phone rang. It was the police and could they come round to my house tomorrow night at 8 to talk. No problem, see you then. My friend and I then decided to have a ban on smoking anything dodgy after 4pm that day and clear all potentially incriminating evidence. We would open the windows from 4 as well. It is fucking freezing but cold and at home is preferable to warm and in prison.
We did our stuff the next day. Both of us scanned the shit out of the flat at 4 and by 4:45 we were both happy that we were now completely sanitized although we were sundered with several layers of extra clothing. Imagine our surprise when we got a knock on the door at 5:30. It was one of those knocks that only policeman use. 4 short sharp raps. My friend looks at me with an incredibly guilty look on his face and whispers "Fuck, it's them!". He knew it was them and so did I. I got up and had a last glance across the room as I walked to the door repeating "It's cool, it's cool, it's cool" to myself. I opened the door and there was a him and a her. She flashed her badge and he instantly told me that he was sorry he was early but he had just had to change the wheel on his car and could he come in and wash his hands. He pushed past me into the house. Brilliant.
She came into the front room and told me she wanted to show me a photofit of a man they think is local and had been committing all kinds of naughtiness. She showed me a picture of a black man in a balaclava. All I could see were his eyes. I laughed and told her that she would have to give me a little more as staring into random mens eyes on the street wasn't really my kind of thing. As I was handing the photofit back to her Mr.Policeman came out of the bathroom and asked me to sign a sheet saying "Yes I have seen the picture of a black mans eyes and no I didn't recognise them". I was smoking a cigarette and went to place it in the ashtray and his eyes followed my hand down and that was when we both saw it. At the same time. A half smoked joint just sitting there looking up and smiling at both of us. I could not fucking believe it. I had cleared under the fucking sofa and hidden my hash box so totally that a psychic would have had a job finding it. I had even emptied my drawers in my room of anything naughty. All that and we had both completely forgotten to clean the fucking ashtray, and here we were with far too many clothes and windows wide fucking open in January. Then he looked at me and we locked eyes. I had an easy smile on my face as if to say "So what, it's only a joint". He then started looking around my place as Ms.Policewoman was talking to my friend.
A few more nonsensical pleasantries were exchanged between them and I am just thinking what a fucking stupid stupid cunt I am. Fucking busted because I didn't empty the ashtray. We had been so concerned with all the secret little places that we forgot the most obvious.
Mr.Policeman finishes his hungry eyed search across my room, looked back to me and smiled and this is what I heard ringing in my ears
"You are fucking nicked my son. What else you got in this place? I'm going to do a full search."
What he actually said
"Thanks very much for your time. We'd better get going now"
I couldn't believe it when I realised he was going to leave it there. As soon as he left I showed my friend the ashtray and we both laughed and then I sparked it up.
Don't Scribble On Eddies Face Or I'll Whip You In The Cock
When I was about 13, my best friend had this annoying 9 year old living in the house next door. My mates mum was friends with the annoying 9 year olds mum and they were frequently encouraged to "play together". You can imagine how happy he was with that arrangement. My pride and joy then was the Iron Maiden LP "Powerslave". My friend had borrowed it and then annoying 9 year old boy from next door asked his mum to ask my friends mum if he could borrow it. Without the knowledge of my friend, his mother took it and let annoying 9 year old boy borrow it. When my friend got it back it had a huge scratch on it and the artwork on the front had been scribbled on with felt tip pen. All over Eddies face.
A plan was hatched between us to exact revenge. We invited annoying 9 year old boy round to my friends house to "play". What followed was a junior version of Reservoir Dogs. We stripped annoying 9 year old boy naked and tied him to a chair with his hands tied behind his back. We then whipped his annoying 9 year old boys cock with our belts until he cried.
He never scribbled on my Iron Maiden albums again so I guess you could say he learnt his lesson.
This friend of mine is now a messianic cult attending Rabbi. No Joke. I got an email from him a few years ago showing me a "news report" of a talking fish found in New York harbour and how this presaged the second coming of the Messiah. Fuck you Robert for becoming a fruit loop. I preferred it when we used to set fire to things and abuse smaller boys.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
