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.
Saturday 31 January 2009
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.
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