I don’t know about you, but my main problem with public transport is that other people are allowed to use it, too. My feeling is that the whole operation would run far more smoothly if I were the only person on board, but for some reason TFL still insist on pulling buses into stops I’m not getting out at (who wants to go to Angel Road Superstores anyway?) and holding the tube for inordinate lengths of time at pointless stations like Russell Square. It’s not that I’ve got something against other people per se, just the irritating, inconsiderate, idiotic, unsavoury 95% that occupy every bus or carriage.
To illustrate my point, here are a few situations I encounter regularly while enduring public transport. If you’re not familiar with these, it probably means you earn enough to take taxis, or you’re one of the 95% mentioned above:
1. People who’ve been waiting for the bus for a good 10 minutes, yet still seem to think the best time to start fishing around in their bag looking for their Oyster card is when they step on to the bus and arrive at the reader. Likewise the idiots who block the tube barriers doing the same thing.
2. People who get on the bus, which has just travelled down the road in full view of them with, say, ‘243 to Waterloo’ plastered on its front, and ask the driver ‘Does this bus go to Waterloo?’ This is called asking for asking’s sake, and I await the day that the driver responds with either, ‘What do you fucking think?’ or ‘No.’ I bet they wouldn’t get off.
3. People who barge on to the bus without paying. Some of the best excuses I’ve heard are: ‘I’m with the Olympic team’ from an obese man in a tracksuit, and ‘I’m taking stuff to a homeless shelter’ from a man who then proceeded to blow his own cover by explaining loudly to other passengers that he’d got on for free by pretending to take stuff to a homeless shelter.
4. Tourists who don’t seem to realise that the bus or tube they’ve just boarded will actually be moving shortly, resulting in them flying down the aisle, falling up/down the stairs, or lurching into a fellow passenger’s lap with much Ooohing and nervous laughter, usually met with looks of disdain or flagrant disgust from other commuters.
5. Tourists who try to tap their train tickets on the Oyster card readers. This is mainly just amusing.
6. People who try to get on the tube before letting others off. This is definitely not amusing. At the very least I would like to punch them in the face.
7. People who run for the tube and hurl themselves at the doors as they’re closing, invariably getting trapped, holding everyone else up and making themselves look an utter dick.
8. People who stand on the left-hand side of the escalators. Move, or prepare to be mown down.
9. People who stop dead at the top of escalators to read their tube maps. See above.
10. People who take pictures of empty tube tunnels. Just, why?
I could go on to mention the man who wiped his muddy feet on my suitcase on the bus the other day, or the unsavoury character who coughed violently into my hair, but I think 10 is enough from me. Over to you. What have I missed? Come whine with me in the comments box!
21 October, 2012
12 March, 2011
Vintage posts from my days of slave labour at Focus DIY
28 July 2008
Well, another utterly thrilling day at Focus ‘for diy and gardening’ has ensued. I am now officially ready to give the noose that’s hung loosely around my neck for the past two months a nice firm tug.
The general public have long been the bane of my life. I do not enjoy queuing alongside them in supermarkets, driving amongst them, or indeed sitting next to the plump, perspiring variety on planes. Needless to say, I enjoy even less serving them for nine hours a day to earn a pittance at my mundane part time job at a failing DIY store.
Old people are the worst, in every respect. Rude, ignorant, painfully slow and utterly moronic. They scowl as they edge towards the checkouts, using the trolley as a substitute zimmer frame on which to lean their entire weight. When they eventually arrive within earshot, the friendly ‘Good afternoon’ I have mastered so impeccably is immediately silenced with a suspicious glare. If purchasing any item heavier than a pack of nails, they stare incredulously as you try a cheery wave goodbye, before spitting ‘Well clearly I’m going to need some help to my car.’ (That’ll be the Volvo parked illegally on the double yellows two feet from the entrance, then). That’s another thing about pensioners, they get away with everything.
29 July 2008
The roof has fallen in. The entire store has flooded, several drownings have occurred and Focus, along with all its socially rejected staff, is no more.
Well, they say imagination is healthy. The fact of the matter is, the spot of rain we incurred yesterday was evidently a spot too much for the roof in the foyer to cope with, resulting in a leak lasting a full 24 hours. A most curious affair, considering the shower itself only lasted about 24 seconds. Naturally though, being a DIY store, we had no products at our disposal suitable for fixing such a problem, so decided the best option would be to just watch it drip all over the floor and keep letting the customers in. Hazardous and irresponsible? Steady on. There was a bucket positioned three feet away from the leak ready to catch any back-splash, after all.
The powers that be eventually decided shutting the entrance might be a wise idea when the area between the two sets of automatic doors began to resemble a fish tank. Much bafflement and confusion ensued as those customers unable to follow the instruction ‘use other doors’ stood pitifully, peering through the locked glass, occasionally giving it a shove with their trolley to see if that would do the trick.
Having finally negotiated their way into the store, it seemed a couple of befuddled customers had trouble finding their way out again. In the end, they were forced to exit through the emergency doors at the back of the shop, completely forgetting to pay for their purchases! Silly sausages. Still, I’m sure the minute they realise their mistake they’ll be back, all purses and apologies.
30 July 2008
Today it rained. Again. And I was given the highly important task of sticking reduced labels on all of the dead plants in the garden centre. Honoured, I’m sure. When I tried to protest that such filthy weather doesn’t agree with my straightened hair, the manager’s face resembled that of someone who found my point utterly trivial. Unbelievable.
Still, the upside of being dumped out there (without so much as one of Focus's ultra-fashionable high visibility waterproof cagoules) is that people tend not to bother you. Mainly because nobody else is stupid enough to be out in the pissing rain, but also because the moment a marker pen and some price change labels are produced, customers assume a major operation must be underway and back off. (Seeing a member of staff actually doing some work is a very rare, astonishing sight that’s always short-lived, you see. Rather like the witnessing of an eclipse.)
As I skulked about trying to look productive, a rising wisp of smoke coming from the other side of the yard caught my eye. Upon further investigation, I discovered the manager wedged between two pallets, inconspicuously puffing away on a Benson and Hedges. The calibre of the man. Still, at least it wasn’t a Lambert and Butler.
As the day wore on, the weather improved and the customers started to crawl out of the woodwork. My efforts to look impossibly busy failed to fool one woman, who midway through browsing the conifers, launched into a lengthy rigmarole about her next door neighbour from hell. I stood awkwardly, attempting to chuckle in the right places whilst edging away as discreetly as possible. She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort however, and proceeded to follow me around the garden centre blazing on about what a ‘lazy little bitch’ her neighbour was for letting her garden overgrow, and the ongoing dispute between them over a garden gate.
Sometimes I wonder if my life isn’t a little empty for failing to engage in such dramatic rifts with those living two doors down.
Well, another utterly thrilling day at Focus ‘for diy and gardening’ has ensued. I am now officially ready to give the noose that’s hung loosely around my neck for the past two months a nice firm tug.
The general public have long been the bane of my life. I do not enjoy queuing alongside them in supermarkets, driving amongst them, or indeed sitting next to the plump, perspiring variety on planes. Needless to say, I enjoy even less serving them for nine hours a day to earn a pittance at my mundane part time job at a failing DIY store.
Old people are the worst, in every respect. Rude, ignorant, painfully slow and utterly moronic. They scowl as they edge towards the checkouts, using the trolley as a substitute zimmer frame on which to lean their entire weight. When they eventually arrive within earshot, the friendly ‘Good afternoon’ I have mastered so impeccably is immediately silenced with a suspicious glare. If purchasing any item heavier than a pack of nails, they stare incredulously as you try a cheery wave goodbye, before spitting ‘Well clearly I’m going to need some help to my car.’ (That’ll be the Volvo parked illegally on the double yellows two feet from the entrance, then). That’s another thing about pensioners, they get away with everything.
29 July 2008
The roof has fallen in. The entire store has flooded, several drownings have occurred and Focus, along with all its socially rejected staff, is no more.
Well, they say imagination is healthy. The fact of the matter is, the spot of rain we incurred yesterday was evidently a spot too much for the roof in the foyer to cope with, resulting in a leak lasting a full 24 hours. A most curious affair, considering the shower itself only lasted about 24 seconds. Naturally though, being a DIY store, we had no products at our disposal suitable for fixing such a problem, so decided the best option would be to just watch it drip all over the floor and keep letting the customers in. Hazardous and irresponsible? Steady on. There was a bucket positioned three feet away from the leak ready to catch any back-splash, after all.
The powers that be eventually decided shutting the entrance might be a wise idea when the area between the two sets of automatic doors began to resemble a fish tank. Much bafflement and confusion ensued as those customers unable to follow the instruction ‘use other doors’ stood pitifully, peering through the locked glass, occasionally giving it a shove with their trolley to see if that would do the trick.
Having finally negotiated their way into the store, it seemed a couple of befuddled customers had trouble finding their way out again. In the end, they were forced to exit through the emergency doors at the back of the shop, completely forgetting to pay for their purchases! Silly sausages. Still, I’m sure the minute they realise their mistake they’ll be back, all purses and apologies.
30 July 2008
Today it rained. Again. And I was given the highly important task of sticking reduced labels on all of the dead plants in the garden centre. Honoured, I’m sure. When I tried to protest that such filthy weather doesn’t agree with my straightened hair, the manager’s face resembled that of someone who found my point utterly trivial. Unbelievable.
Still, the upside of being dumped out there (without so much as one of Focus's ultra-fashionable high visibility waterproof cagoules) is that people tend not to bother you. Mainly because nobody else is stupid enough to be out in the pissing rain, but also because the moment a marker pen and some price change labels are produced, customers assume a major operation must be underway and back off. (Seeing a member of staff actually doing some work is a very rare, astonishing sight that’s always short-lived, you see. Rather like the witnessing of an eclipse.)
As I skulked about trying to look productive, a rising wisp of smoke coming from the other side of the yard caught my eye. Upon further investigation, I discovered the manager wedged between two pallets, inconspicuously puffing away on a Benson and Hedges. The calibre of the man. Still, at least it wasn’t a Lambert and Butler.
As the day wore on, the weather improved and the customers started to crawl out of the woodwork. My efforts to look impossibly busy failed to fool one woman, who midway through browsing the conifers, launched into a lengthy rigmarole about her next door neighbour from hell. I stood awkwardly, attempting to chuckle in the right places whilst edging away as discreetly as possible. She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort however, and proceeded to follow me around the garden centre blazing on about what a ‘lazy little bitch’ her neighbour was for letting her garden overgrow, and the ongoing dispute between them over a garden gate.
Sometimes I wonder if my life isn’t a little empty for failing to engage in such dramatic rifts with those living two doors down.
27 February, 2011
Not so Supermarkets
Visiting the supermarket is one of those tiresome, weekly chores we all must endure in order to avoid starving to death. Unless you choose to do your grocery shopping online, which admittedly has its benefits – not having to vacate the sofa, as well as its drawbacks – trusting an unknown Asda/Tesco employee to pick out vegetables that aren't already covered in fur, and to know that normal pasta is not an acceptable substitute for wheat-free.
But, perhaps by finding food shopping an altogether irritating, tedious task, I am in the minority. It would certainly seem that way if my last few trips to the supermarket are anything to go by. Who knew that the foundations for a fun-packed day for the entire family could be built on running out of eggs and milk? Cheaper than the cinema, a trip to the supermarket with every household member in tow appears to have become the weekend activity of choice for unimaginative parents who can't think of any better way to spend their Saturdays.
I go on the occasional supermarket trip with Chris and come out needing a dose of Valium and a couple of relationship counselling sessions – and we don't even have children. Or live together. A typical food shop with Chris usually goes something like this: he makes a list, consisting mostly of tinned peaches, Snickers bars and various packets of bizarre grains and pulses that Runner's World magazine has promised will turn him into an Olympic athlete; he puts said items into the trolley, before proceeding to stride in a methodical, purposeful fashion up and down every single aisle in the entire store. Why? 'In case I need something that I've forgotten to put on the list.' From the feminine hygiene section? Right. Not that I'm in any particular hurry to get to the checkout, where Chris spends most of the process wringing his hands and barking at me for bagging the groceries up in the wrong order.
In short, I prefer going shopping alone. It's just unfortunate that other people don't seem to share the same attitude. At the weekends, my local supermarket undergoes an abrupt transformation into an unmanned crèche, because, while most parents seem willing to bring their herd of offspring to the supermarket, they're surprisingly reluctant to take responsibility for them once they've arrived.
On my last visit, for example, I rounded a corner with my trolley and almost mowed down a stray, sticky-fingered infant who was pawing casually through the birthday cards, no obvious parental unit in sight. And then there was the chubby young boy who barged past me, arms laden with sweets, apparently on a lone mission to clear out the entire confectionary aisle.
After an hour or so of allowing their children to run amok, some parents try, and fail, to assert a little belated authority over them. 'That's enough! Stop asking for things, because you're not having anything!' bellowed one father to his whining daughter, with all the impact of shouting at a brick wall. Still, at least he gave it a shot. Unlike the many parents with no backbone who forget how to form the word 'no' around their children. 'Why don't you get these sweeties instead, darling? Then you can afford three packets with your pocket money,' cooed one spineless mother, in a pathetic effort to placate her snivelling son.
And then it's time to pay. A relatively simple part of the supermarket experience, you may think. But evidently not for the large-and-in-charge family of four I encountered on Saturday. As they slogged along the aisle at a pace that would inconvenience most snails, I found myself jerking from side to side behind them, searching for a gap, a crack of light even between their colossal forms, that I might slip through in a sly endeavour to overtake. In fact, all I succeeded in doing was knocking a bunch of gift cards off a shelf and adding to the hold up. Apruptly(ish), they halted in confusion. 'Oh! You have to do it yourself on these ones,' dad wheezed, pointing at the self-checkouts as though they were an entirely new phenomenon that haven't been around for years. This gave way to much incoherent muttering, before they all hefted themselves back off the way they'd just come.
When I finally made it into the self-checkout queue, I was second in line. Or so I thought. However, it seemed the lady and gentleman who joined the queue after me had other ideas. They decided to form their own line, adjacent to mine. In their minds, they were waiting for the checkouts on the right, and we were waiting for those on the left. Well, actually, no. It doesn't work like that. I was here first, therefore I will be smoothing into the first available booth thank you very much. This bizarre behaviour can often be witnessed at cashpoints too, and in toilets with two entrances. Look out for it.
But the trouble doesn't end there. Along with having to scan every item at least three times, and wait patiently until the forgetful checkout realises that actually it was expecting the 'unexpected item in the bagging area', there are also self-serving neighbours to contend with. As I went to plonk my basket down, I noticed the woman on the next checkout was using mine as some kind of overflow area for her handbag. I gingerly lifted the straps and was gently pushing it to one side when she turned on me. 'You are touching my bag!' she screeched, snatching it up as though I were about to make off with it. I felt like saying, 'Calm down love, stained canvas isn't my style,' but settled for the classic eye roll and pitying shake of the head instead.
My online shopping is being delivered tomorrow. I figured if it means avoiding tripping over the young, getting stuck behind the slow and generally enduring the presence of the public, receiving a couple of furry courgettes is one small price I'm more than willing to pay.
But, perhaps by finding food shopping an altogether irritating, tedious task, I am in the minority. It would certainly seem that way if my last few trips to the supermarket are anything to go by. Who knew that the foundations for a fun-packed day for the entire family could be built on running out of eggs and milk? Cheaper than the cinema, a trip to the supermarket with every household member in tow appears to have become the weekend activity of choice for unimaginative parents who can't think of any better way to spend their Saturdays.
I go on the occasional supermarket trip with Chris and come out needing a dose of Valium and a couple of relationship counselling sessions – and we don't even have children. Or live together. A typical food shop with Chris usually goes something like this: he makes a list, consisting mostly of tinned peaches, Snickers bars and various packets of bizarre grains and pulses that Runner's World magazine has promised will turn him into an Olympic athlete; he puts said items into the trolley, before proceeding to stride in a methodical, purposeful fashion up and down every single aisle in the entire store. Why? 'In case I need something that I've forgotten to put on the list.' From the feminine hygiene section? Right. Not that I'm in any particular hurry to get to the checkout, where Chris spends most of the process wringing his hands and barking at me for bagging the groceries up in the wrong order.
In short, I prefer going shopping alone. It's just unfortunate that other people don't seem to share the same attitude. At the weekends, my local supermarket undergoes an abrupt transformation into an unmanned crèche, because, while most parents seem willing to bring their herd of offspring to the supermarket, they're surprisingly reluctant to take responsibility for them once they've arrived.
On my last visit, for example, I rounded a corner with my trolley and almost mowed down a stray, sticky-fingered infant who was pawing casually through the birthday cards, no obvious parental unit in sight. And then there was the chubby young boy who barged past me, arms laden with sweets, apparently on a lone mission to clear out the entire confectionary aisle.
After an hour or so of allowing their children to run amok, some parents try, and fail, to assert a little belated authority over them. 'That's enough! Stop asking for things, because you're not having anything!' bellowed one father to his whining daughter, with all the impact of shouting at a brick wall. Still, at least he gave it a shot. Unlike the many parents with no backbone who forget how to form the word 'no' around their children. 'Why don't you get these sweeties instead, darling? Then you can afford three packets with your pocket money,' cooed one spineless mother, in a pathetic effort to placate her snivelling son.
And then it's time to pay. A relatively simple part of the supermarket experience, you may think. But evidently not for the large-and-in-charge family of four I encountered on Saturday. As they slogged along the aisle at a pace that would inconvenience most snails, I found myself jerking from side to side behind them, searching for a gap, a crack of light even between their colossal forms, that I might slip through in a sly endeavour to overtake. In fact, all I succeeded in doing was knocking a bunch of gift cards off a shelf and adding to the hold up. Apruptly(ish), they halted in confusion. 'Oh! You have to do it yourself on these ones,' dad wheezed, pointing at the self-checkouts as though they were an entirely new phenomenon that haven't been around for years. This gave way to much incoherent muttering, before they all hefted themselves back off the way they'd just come.
When I finally made it into the self-checkout queue, I was second in line. Or so I thought. However, it seemed the lady and gentleman who joined the queue after me had other ideas. They decided to form their own line, adjacent to mine. In their minds, they were waiting for the checkouts on the right, and we were waiting for those on the left. Well, actually, no. It doesn't work like that. I was here first, therefore I will be smoothing into the first available booth thank you very much. This bizarre behaviour can often be witnessed at cashpoints too, and in toilets with two entrances. Look out for it.
But the trouble doesn't end there. Along with having to scan every item at least three times, and wait patiently until the forgetful checkout realises that actually it was expecting the 'unexpected item in the bagging area', there are also self-serving neighbours to contend with. As I went to plonk my basket down, I noticed the woman on the next checkout was using mine as some kind of overflow area for her handbag. I gingerly lifted the straps and was gently pushing it to one side when she turned on me. 'You are touching my bag!' she screeched, snatching it up as though I were about to make off with it. I felt like saying, 'Calm down love, stained canvas isn't my style,' but settled for the classic eye roll and pitying shake of the head instead.
My online shopping is being delivered tomorrow. I figured if it means avoiding tripping over the young, getting stuck behind the slow and generally enduring the presence of the public, receiving a couple of furry courgettes is one small price I'm more than willing to pay.
19 February, 2011
Two Legs Good, Two Wheels Bad
I don't like bikes. I am also rapidly going off people who ride them. There are a number of reasons for this, which I fully intend to bore you with over the following paragraphs. As such, I would like to open this post with an amusing anecdote about my 2010 near-death cycling experience.
Picture the scene: It's my birthday, and Chris and I have just arrived at our idyllic New Forest retreat for the weekend. I am about to get stuck into what I anticipate to be the first of many, many cupcakes when there is a knock at the door. It's the owner, bearing the terrible news that he has two bicycles we are welcome to use free of charge. Chris's face lights up whilst I recoil in horror at the very mention of the word and the notion of exercise it implies.
I hadn't even been near a bike since my previous near-death experience aged 14, where there was an incident involving me, Molly, one bike and a kerb, which saw Molly walk away unscathed and me confined to the house for an entire week whilst my nose reconstructed itself. And now I was once again expected to saddle up? It wasn't until I came to terms with the inevitable, i.e. Chris getting his own way, that I realised a bit of saddle sore would be the least of my worries. The conversation shortly before setting off on our intrepid adventure went something like this:
Me: Er, what do you think you're doing?
Chris: Putting your helmet on
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing a helmet
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing the helmet
I wore the helmet. Probably a good job really, as I'm quite sure riding out in front of that car would've been a lot scarier without one. Although at least I'd have been road kill with good hair. What was a car doing on a cycle path anyway, I hear you ask? Well, over the years Chris has realised that in order to make me do something I don't want to do, he must continue to lie until he's sure there's no possible way I could back out. Bearing this in mind, he informs me as we approach the T junction that I will have to endure a mile on a 60mph road to reach the cycle path. Which for most people would obviously not be a big deal. I am not most people.
Upon hearing the instruction to turn right, I immediately veered into the path of oncoming traffic, skidding down a country lane before eventually coming to a halt outside a pub (convenient), leaving Chris apologising profusely to a collection of motorists for my mental inadequacy. I then proceeded to wobble a further 100 yards down the lane before falling off due to sheer terror at the sight of a car approaching. No really, I am this cool. Suffice to say, I have not endangered my life or the sanity of others since.
Other people and their bikes, however, are not so easily avoided. When I'm in the car and I see a cyclist wobbling along up ahead it is quite frankly one of my worst driving-related nightmares (second only to negotiating Hemel's magic roundabout). 'Can I get past them, give them a wide enough berth and still make it back on to my side of the road before smashing into that oncoming bus?' etc. By which time, my dithering and deliberating has left me only two less than desirable options: speed past erratically, or crawl along on their tail in a fashion which is sure to be both threatening to the cyclist and utterly infuriating to any motorist caught in my wake.
Saying that, there are some cyclists I would happily mow down: for example, the gentleman who brandished me a 'fucking fucker' after trying and failing to cut me up on a dual carriageway, or the herd of cyclists who rampaged past my aunt, bellowing 'Get out the way', almost sending her plunging into the canal as she walked along the tow path to work.
As a pedestrian working in London, I also frequently find myself on the receiving end of cyclists' misplaced sense of importance. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that it's the law to stop at a zebra crossing if a pedestrian has already stepped out. But there must be some new piece of legislation I've missed which states cyclists, white van drivers and people who just don't really feel like stopping are exempt, which would explain my daily brushes with toelessness.
Oh, and fyi, this imaginary piece of legislation that all cyclists now adhere to also means they can ignore red traffic lights, thump and kick the sides of cars that get in their way, make obscene, angry gestures at pedestrians for no apparent reason and veer up on to the pavement whenever they fancy. The other day I actually found myself apologising and hopping out of the way of a Royal Mail man who came speeding along the path towards me. Instead of saying 'No, I'M sorry for riding illegally on the pavement, whilst you, a pedestrian, are perfectly entitled to be here', he merely glared and swerved around me.
So here's a little message for our puffed-up, two-wheeled friends. Cyclists: pipe down. You are nothing special. You are merely slightly speedier pedestrians who have lost the privilege to use the pavement and gained a wardrobe full of unflattering fluorescent clothing. If you smack the side of my car in a temper, I will open the door as you ride past. If you swear at me whilst I'm using a pedestrian crossing, I will stick my foot out in front of you. In either scenario, I can't see me coming off worse. So behave, or on yer bike! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)
Picture the scene: It's my birthday, and Chris and I have just arrived at our idyllic New Forest retreat for the weekend. I am about to get stuck into what I anticipate to be the first of many, many cupcakes when there is a knock at the door. It's the owner, bearing the terrible news that he has two bicycles we are welcome to use free of charge. Chris's face lights up whilst I recoil in horror at the very mention of the word and the notion of exercise it implies.
I hadn't even been near a bike since my previous near-death experience aged 14, where there was an incident involving me, Molly, one bike and a kerb, which saw Molly walk away unscathed and me confined to the house for an entire week whilst my nose reconstructed itself. And now I was once again expected to saddle up? It wasn't until I came to terms with the inevitable, i.e. Chris getting his own way, that I realised a bit of saddle sore would be the least of my worries. The conversation shortly before setting off on our intrepid adventure went something like this:
Me: Er, what do you think you're doing?
Chris: Putting your helmet on
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing a helmet
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing the helmet
I wore the helmet. Probably a good job really, as I'm quite sure riding out in front of that car would've been a lot scarier without one. Although at least I'd have been road kill with good hair. What was a car doing on a cycle path anyway, I hear you ask? Well, over the years Chris has realised that in order to make me do something I don't want to do, he must continue to lie until he's sure there's no possible way I could back out. Bearing this in mind, he informs me as we approach the T junction that I will have to endure a mile on a 60mph road to reach the cycle path. Which for most people would obviously not be a big deal. I am not most people.
Upon hearing the instruction to turn right, I immediately veered into the path of oncoming traffic, skidding down a country lane before eventually coming to a halt outside a pub (convenient), leaving Chris apologising profusely to a collection of motorists for my mental inadequacy. I then proceeded to wobble a further 100 yards down the lane before falling off due to sheer terror at the sight of a car approaching. No really, I am this cool. Suffice to say, I have not endangered my life or the sanity of others since.
Other people and their bikes, however, are not so easily avoided. When I'm in the car and I see a cyclist wobbling along up ahead it is quite frankly one of my worst driving-related nightmares (second only to negotiating Hemel's magic roundabout). 'Can I get past them, give them a wide enough berth and still make it back on to my side of the road before smashing into that oncoming bus?' etc. By which time, my dithering and deliberating has left me only two less than desirable options: speed past erratically, or crawl along on their tail in a fashion which is sure to be both threatening to the cyclist and utterly infuriating to any motorist caught in my wake.
Saying that, there are some cyclists I would happily mow down: for example, the gentleman who brandished me a 'fucking fucker' after trying and failing to cut me up on a dual carriageway, or the herd of cyclists who rampaged past my aunt, bellowing 'Get out the way', almost sending her plunging into the canal as she walked along the tow path to work.
As a pedestrian working in London, I also frequently find myself on the receiving end of cyclists' misplaced sense of importance. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that it's the law to stop at a zebra crossing if a pedestrian has already stepped out. But there must be some new piece of legislation I've missed which states cyclists, white van drivers and people who just don't really feel like stopping are exempt, which would explain my daily brushes with toelessness.
Oh, and fyi, this imaginary piece of legislation that all cyclists now adhere to also means they can ignore red traffic lights, thump and kick the sides of cars that get in their way, make obscene, angry gestures at pedestrians for no apparent reason and veer up on to the pavement whenever they fancy. The other day I actually found myself apologising and hopping out of the way of a Royal Mail man who came speeding along the path towards me. Instead of saying 'No, I'M sorry for riding illegally on the pavement, whilst you, a pedestrian, are perfectly entitled to be here', he merely glared and swerved around me.
So here's a little message for our puffed-up, two-wheeled friends. Cyclists: pipe down. You are nothing special. You are merely slightly speedier pedestrians who have lost the privilege to use the pavement and gained a wardrobe full of unflattering fluorescent clothing. If you smack the side of my car in a temper, I will open the door as you ride past. If you swear at me whilst I'm using a pedestrian crossing, I will stick my foot out in front of you. In either scenario, I can't see me coming off worse. So behave, or on yer bike! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)
14 October, 2010
Hemel's Guide to Developing High Blood Pressure in Half an Hour
Should you ever wish to know how it feels to have your mood in tatters before your day has even begun, take a cruise around Hemel Hempstead at eight-thirty in the morning then try to actually use one of the car parks; that should do the trick.
Take today as a typical example. I am on my way to work. In Hemel. Which believe me is depressing enough. I have been in the car less than two minutes before I fall victim to a Range Rover driver with a complex. Clearly overcompensating for the fact he has a penis the size of a button mushroom by purchasing a large car, he’s practically in my boot for the entire journey, blaring his horn when I have the audacity to hold him up by giving way to the right at a roundabout. (Abusing people for obeying the Highway Code is how they roll here). I really must remind myself to be more enraged at life before getting behind the wheel again.
I swerve into the car park – though obviously not the one next door to my office, which charges EIGHT POUNDS a day – and barely make it to the ticket machine before I’m beeped at again. Seriously, I’m on the path, how can I have committed another horn-worthy offence? Oh. I see. A white van. I should’ve guessed. It is after all an integral part of a van driver’s job description to beep and rev at anyone they’re 90 per cent sure is female. Perhaps I should be flattered. This might be as good as it gets.
So that takes us up to 8:45am. I then spend the next five minutes digging about in my purse, attempting to make £3.50 out of the four 10p’s and two 20p’s I find. Couldn’t I just feed it that nice crisp £10 note I keep stashed away for pick and mix emergencies instead? Or perhaps it prefers plastic? Well in short, no. It’s coins or nothing. Except for 5p’s, which ‘as of the week commencing 25th March’ this machine has also taken an aversion to. Incidentally, it’s not that keen on giving change either, with a sticker cheerfully declaring ‘Overpayment Accepted’. How kind. Where’s all that extra cash going I wonder? To charity? Or towards making the traffic wardens’ Nazi-themed Christmas Party a little bit less tragic? I wonder. Why not just put a sign up saying ‘Thieves Operate in this Area’? Because they certainly do.
Of course, they only make it this hard for us to buy a ticket because they don’t actually want us to. Because if paying to park was made easy, everyone would do it. And then traffic wardens would have nothing to do. They would cease to be sad individuals hiding in bushes with cameras, and would simply become weird individuals hiding in bushes with cameras. Then how will they reap their revenge on the world for dealing them such a shit hand? No, that wouldn’t do at all. Although I suppose there’s always the totally powerless role of Police Community Support Officer to fall back on, should Hemel council ever drag their parking system into the 21st Century. At least then they could continue to exercise their misplaced sense of importance; striding around the town centre, bellowing made-up acronyms into walkie talkies and pouncing on any youth who happens to be in possession of a beverage stronger than Red Bull. But for now it seems their jobs are safe. I suppose I could just walk to work. But then I’d really have something to complain about.
Take today as a typical example. I am on my way to work. In Hemel. Which believe me is depressing enough. I have been in the car less than two minutes before I fall victim to a Range Rover driver with a complex. Clearly overcompensating for the fact he has a penis the size of a button mushroom by purchasing a large car, he’s practically in my boot for the entire journey, blaring his horn when I have the audacity to hold him up by giving way to the right at a roundabout. (Abusing people for obeying the Highway Code is how they roll here). I really must remind myself to be more enraged at life before getting behind the wheel again.
I swerve into the car park – though obviously not the one next door to my office, which charges EIGHT POUNDS a day – and barely make it to the ticket machine before I’m beeped at again. Seriously, I’m on the path, how can I have committed another horn-worthy offence? Oh. I see. A white van. I should’ve guessed. It is after all an integral part of a van driver’s job description to beep and rev at anyone they’re 90 per cent sure is female. Perhaps I should be flattered. This might be as good as it gets.
So that takes us up to 8:45am. I then spend the next five minutes digging about in my purse, attempting to make £3.50 out of the four 10p’s and two 20p’s I find. Couldn’t I just feed it that nice crisp £10 note I keep stashed away for pick and mix emergencies instead? Or perhaps it prefers plastic? Well in short, no. It’s coins or nothing. Except for 5p’s, which ‘as of the week commencing 25th March’ this machine has also taken an aversion to. Incidentally, it’s not that keen on giving change either, with a sticker cheerfully declaring ‘Overpayment Accepted’. How kind. Where’s all that extra cash going I wonder? To charity? Or towards making the traffic wardens’ Nazi-themed Christmas Party a little bit less tragic? I wonder. Why not just put a sign up saying ‘Thieves Operate in this Area’? Because they certainly do.
Of course, they only make it this hard for us to buy a ticket because they don’t actually want us to. Because if paying to park was made easy, everyone would do it. And then traffic wardens would have nothing to do. They would cease to be sad individuals hiding in bushes with cameras, and would simply become weird individuals hiding in bushes with cameras. Then how will they reap their revenge on the world for dealing them such a shit hand? No, that wouldn’t do at all. Although I suppose there’s always the totally powerless role of Police Community Support Officer to fall back on, should Hemel council ever drag their parking system into the 21st Century. At least then they could continue to exercise their misplaced sense of importance; striding around the town centre, bellowing made-up acronyms into walkie talkies and pouncing on any youth who happens to be in possession of a beverage stronger than Red Bull. But for now it seems their jobs are safe. I suppose I could just walk to work. But then I’d really have something to complain about.
14 September, 2010
Shockingly Predictable
Hands up who is shocked, stunned and in total disbelief that Wayne Rooney has cheated on his wife? Anyone? No, me neither. I am, however, in utter astonishment that this hideous gargoyle has actually succeeded in bedding a FOURTH woman (There was that granny prostitute too, remember. The calibre of the man.)
Anyway, every time some high profile footballer does the dirty on his WAG, the tabloids present the story to us like it’s something new and original. ‘Wayne Rooney Scandal!’, ‘Rooney cheats on pregnant Coleen with hooker Juci Jenny,’ and my personal favourite, ‘Rooney – cheating shit!’ are just a handful of the headlines plastering our papers this fortnight. But, thinking about it logically, is this situation really all that shocking? No. Rooney, Crouch, Cole, Ronaldo, Terry, Gerrard (I could go on), are young, testosterone driven multimillionaires with IQs to match your average slug, who have constant streams of girls (whores), hurling themselves at their mercy wherever they go. And these simple creatures simply can’t help themselves. Admittedly, having to actually pay for the sex is a sorry, if inevitable, state of affairs for the likes of Rooney and Crouch, but the cheating itself comes as no surprise whatsoever.
For some unbeknownst reason, most of these footballers seem intent on tying themselves down too young and too early into their relationships. One minute they’ve got a gorgeous woman hanging off their arm to parade in front of the media, and the next that woman has turned into a wife and a couple of kids. And there are baby seats in the back of the Bentley. Definitely not in keeping with the playboy image. So when such a quarter-life crisis of identity ensues, what’s a rich, high-profile, intellectually challenged man to do? Check into an expensive hotel suite and spend the night tapping a couple of grubby prostitutes, that’s what. Then toss them a few grand to keep their mouths shut (because they’re renowned for that in their line of business), and a couple of months later be really surprised that Juci Jenny and co have broken their pinky promise and sold their sordid stories to anyone who’ll give them column inches. I mean, seriously, what the hell made Rooney think he’d get away with these sleazy shenanigans when so many before him haven’t? He can’t possibly have thought he was clever enough to pull off a stunt like this and walk away totally unscathed? A man who’d suffer severe difficulties outsmarting a nit? No. He must simply be even thicker than we thought. Impressive.
Still, if he’s been good for one thing it’s providing Coleen with a leg-up to start her own career and become a household name in her own right – she doesn’t need him anymore. Oh, but what’s that? She’s taking him back? Giving him a final warning? I’m not being funny, but surely partaking in a threesome constitutes two yellow cards already? Possibly even three, seeing as one of them is ginger and they’re both incredibly ugly. By my calculations, he should be right out – condemned to a life of ready meals for one with only his right hand for company. But it is not to be. He will be forgiven, and he will do it again, and so it goes on. So no, footballers being caught with their tracksuits round their ankles is not a ‘shock’ or a ‘surprise’ – it is merely a weary predictability.
Anyway, every time some high profile footballer does the dirty on his WAG, the tabloids present the story to us like it’s something new and original. ‘Wayne Rooney Scandal!’, ‘Rooney cheats on pregnant Coleen with hooker Juci Jenny,’ and my personal favourite, ‘Rooney – cheating shit!’ are just a handful of the headlines plastering our papers this fortnight. But, thinking about it logically, is this situation really all that shocking? No. Rooney, Crouch, Cole, Ronaldo, Terry, Gerrard (I could go on), are young, testosterone driven multimillionaires with IQs to match your average slug, who have constant streams of girls (whores), hurling themselves at their mercy wherever they go. And these simple creatures simply can’t help themselves. Admittedly, having to actually pay for the sex is a sorry, if inevitable, state of affairs for the likes of Rooney and Crouch, but the cheating itself comes as no surprise whatsoever.
For some unbeknownst reason, most of these footballers seem intent on tying themselves down too young and too early into their relationships. One minute they’ve got a gorgeous woman hanging off their arm to parade in front of the media, and the next that woman has turned into a wife and a couple of kids. And there are baby seats in the back of the Bentley. Definitely not in keeping with the playboy image. So when such a quarter-life crisis of identity ensues, what’s a rich, high-profile, intellectually challenged man to do? Check into an expensive hotel suite and spend the night tapping a couple of grubby prostitutes, that’s what. Then toss them a few grand to keep their mouths shut (because they’re renowned for that in their line of business), and a couple of months later be really surprised that Juci Jenny and co have broken their pinky promise and sold their sordid stories to anyone who’ll give them column inches. I mean, seriously, what the hell made Rooney think he’d get away with these sleazy shenanigans when so many before him haven’t? He can’t possibly have thought he was clever enough to pull off a stunt like this and walk away totally unscathed? A man who’d suffer severe difficulties outsmarting a nit? No. He must simply be even thicker than we thought. Impressive.
Still, if he’s been good for one thing it’s providing Coleen with a leg-up to start her own career and become a household name in her own right – she doesn’t need him anymore. Oh, but what’s that? She’s taking him back? Giving him a final warning? I’m not being funny, but surely partaking in a threesome constitutes two yellow cards already? Possibly even three, seeing as one of them is ginger and they’re both incredibly ugly. By my calculations, he should be right out – condemned to a life of ready meals for one with only his right hand for company. But it is not to be. He will be forgiven, and he will do it again, and so it goes on. So no, footballers being caught with their tracksuits round their ankles is not a ‘shock’ or a ‘surprise’ – it is merely a weary predictability.
29 August, 2010
The Hospital - Liver Livid
I realise that so far this blog has been populated entirely with posts about The Hospital and that this a. makes me look NHS obsessed and b. makes me look crap-tv obsessed. Only one of these is true. Anyway, this will be the last hospital-based post because, well, the series has ended and also because I really should at least emit the illusion that I have a life. Once I’m done poking fun at this last set of patients, I’ll move on to whining about the myriad of other people-related irritations I encounter on a daily basis, such as ignoramus companies who don’t bother acknowledging the job application you spent all day on, as well as exploring the best methods of punishment for insane people who put cats in wheelie bins. Things like that.
But for now, let us focus our attention on the King’s College Hospital liver unit. It seems the majority of patients featured on the programme are relying entirely on ignorance to ward off their fatty liver disease, which incidentally has been brought on by their reckless, greedy attitudes towards alcohol and fast food. My heart bleeds. So, the less you know, the less it matters? Sophie from Gosport seems to think so. Having previously collapsed with kidney failure after a night of binge drinking, you could be forgiven for thinking she’d have taken the doctor’s advice and laid off the Lambrini for a while. But what do they know? So the next weekend she’s back out on the town. Who knew Portsmouth held such allure. ‘I don’t even know where my liver is, and seeing as I don’t understand it, it’s not something I need to worry about. Anyway, I’m not a binge drinker because I drink all week,’ she declares. Well, I’m certainly glad we cleared that one up.
This warped sense of perspective is shared by an obese, peroxide loudmouth (I don’t remember her name, but you can’t miss her), who remains in denial of her fatty liver disease for the entire episode, pitifully blaming her friend’s birthday and the world cup for her excessive boozing. ‘I drink what I want, when I want and I enjoy it. I am a binge drinker, but it’s not affecting my health.’ Yeah, not much love. Although admittedly, those ten kebabs a night she puts away also share a portion of the blame.
These people are quick enough to pitch up at the hospital and demand treatment when things start to go awry, but they’re not so keen to admit they actually have a problem, and some even have the audacity to get shirty with staff when questioned about their lifestyle choices. ‘The doctor raised his voice to me in there, and I didn’t like it,’ huffs one 27 year-old male who had just tittered his way through a consultation, admitting he is currently consuming A PINT of vodka a day. Oh, I’m sorry that we’ve failed to see the funny side of you abusing your liver and expecting another courtesy of a generous donor. How unsporting of us.
‘Who gets to play God and decide who deserves a transplant?’ asks Michael, 30, who is now on his second donated liver due to drug abuse. Oh I don’t know, the donors perhaps? Or their families? Maybe people should be given the option of specifying whether or not they want their organs donated to somebody who has deliberately abused their own bodies. I’m on the organ donor register and would be pretty horrified if my body parts were being inserted into Mrs Obese Peroxide Loudmouth when there are innocent people waiting for a transplant through no fault of their own. (And yes, I realise I wouldn’t know either way. But still.)
You may think I’m being unfair – everyone deserves a second chance don’t they? Well yes, but to say the self-abusing patients on this programme still aren’t taking their conditions seriously would be a massive understatement. For instance: ‘I’d have to be told to stop drinking completely for me to change my social life. I think there’s worse people out there doing things that have a bigger drain on the NHS than me.’ (Another gem from Mrs Peroxide), and ‘I’m just glad I’m getting treated now, before the rush comes on.’ (Some bloke who appears to be likening his liver transplant to purchasing goods in the Christmas sales). But he’s right. Currently, 9,000 people a year die from liver disease in the UK, with just 700 transplants performed annually. Clearly there’s already a shortage of organs, and thanks to our fatty liver friends the situation is set only to get a whole lot worse. Yes, there will be a rush – I just hope they’re at the back of the queue when it happens.
But for now, let us focus our attention on the King’s College Hospital liver unit. It seems the majority of patients featured on the programme are relying entirely on ignorance to ward off their fatty liver disease, which incidentally has been brought on by their reckless, greedy attitudes towards alcohol and fast food. My heart bleeds. So, the less you know, the less it matters? Sophie from Gosport seems to think so. Having previously collapsed with kidney failure after a night of binge drinking, you could be forgiven for thinking she’d have taken the doctor’s advice and laid off the Lambrini for a while. But what do they know? So the next weekend she’s back out on the town. Who knew Portsmouth held such allure. ‘I don’t even know where my liver is, and seeing as I don’t understand it, it’s not something I need to worry about. Anyway, I’m not a binge drinker because I drink all week,’ she declares. Well, I’m certainly glad we cleared that one up.
This warped sense of perspective is shared by an obese, peroxide loudmouth (I don’t remember her name, but you can’t miss her), who remains in denial of her fatty liver disease for the entire episode, pitifully blaming her friend’s birthday and the world cup for her excessive boozing. ‘I drink what I want, when I want and I enjoy it. I am a binge drinker, but it’s not affecting my health.’ Yeah, not much love. Although admittedly, those ten kebabs a night she puts away also share a portion of the blame.
These people are quick enough to pitch up at the hospital and demand treatment when things start to go awry, but they’re not so keen to admit they actually have a problem, and some even have the audacity to get shirty with staff when questioned about their lifestyle choices. ‘The doctor raised his voice to me in there, and I didn’t like it,’ huffs one 27 year-old male who had just tittered his way through a consultation, admitting he is currently consuming A PINT of vodka a day. Oh, I’m sorry that we’ve failed to see the funny side of you abusing your liver and expecting another courtesy of a generous donor. How unsporting of us.
‘Who gets to play God and decide who deserves a transplant?’ asks Michael, 30, who is now on his second donated liver due to drug abuse. Oh I don’t know, the donors perhaps? Or their families? Maybe people should be given the option of specifying whether or not they want their organs donated to somebody who has deliberately abused their own bodies. I’m on the organ donor register and would be pretty horrified if my body parts were being inserted into Mrs Obese Peroxide Loudmouth when there are innocent people waiting for a transplant through no fault of their own. (And yes, I realise I wouldn’t know either way. But still.)
You may think I’m being unfair – everyone deserves a second chance don’t they? Well yes, but to say the self-abusing patients on this programme still aren’t taking their conditions seriously would be a massive understatement. For instance: ‘I’d have to be told to stop drinking completely for me to change my social life. I think there’s worse people out there doing things that have a bigger drain on the NHS than me.’ (Another gem from Mrs Peroxide), and ‘I’m just glad I’m getting treated now, before the rush comes on.’ (Some bloke who appears to be likening his liver transplant to purchasing goods in the Christmas sales). But he’s right. Currently, 9,000 people a year die from liver disease in the UK, with just 700 transplants performed annually. Clearly there’s already a shortage of organs, and thanks to our fatty liver friends the situation is set only to get a whole lot worse. Yes, there will be a rush – I just hope they’re at the back of the queue when it happens.
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