Fucking bastard

On a Saturday morning I have to go to a place to see a woman. It's a thing I have to do and it costs me a lot of money. For this thing I get the bus.

The thing is situated approx 5 miles away from my house and therefore necessitates a taxi journey costing at least eleven pounds (I was forced to spell that out as, inexplicably, my phone doesn't have a pound sign, bloody anti British HTC), or a bus journey costing 3.50 return. The bus journey is, naturally, tediously slow and covered in chavs, but it is cheap and I would basically travel in an uncovered dung wagon if it was cheap. Which is lucky, judging by the state of this bus journey. It somehow takes the best part of 45 mins to cover the distance and is either 20 minutes early or 20 minutes late.

I mitigate this by waiting at the bus stop for at least 20 minutes before what is laughingly called the 'timetable' says it's due. Irritating but manageable.

This morning all was set. I'm at the bus stop, guardian in hand, best friend on phone. Sure enough 20 minutes later I see the bus. And then I watch it go right past me. I run alongside it waving and yelling and the bovine fuckknuckles just stare out at me, as if wondering what that mad woman could possibly want out of a bus that is driving past her.

It didn't stop.

I got a taxi.

I am 11 pounds down and it's not even 11am. F, as the kids say, ML.

Situation was slightly cheered by the taxi man asking me if I study at York Uni and declaring me as looking 'about 25'.

But still.

I got a feeling

Sometimes people tell me that my blogs are too harsh. That I sound too angry. That they didn't realise how passionate I was about Masterchef/the Olympics/accordionists (delete as applicable).

I mean, do you really care that much, they say? To which I would reply: sometimes yes, I do. I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing to have a passionate opinion about something. And I don't think it's a bad thing to express it. But sometimes, no. Sometimes I'm doing it for comedy effect, or at least exaggerating it for kicks. Or to amuse myself.

The Olympics blog was one such blog. And I read it (I don't read before I press publish as a general rule) and I started thinking maybe I have been too harsh. Maybe it is an event that should instil some national pride in me. Maybe I should try and join in a bit. Maybe the morals of the IOC aren't dictated by filthy lucre after all.

And then I saw this.

I am, of course, vaguely aware that the torch is wending its tortuous way around our fair isle, visiting places as interesting as Folkestone and Taunton. I assumed it was carried by a mixture of competition winners, athletes, ex-athletes, perhaps a high-profile British athlete (maybe David Beckham, our rentasportsceleb on the basis that he is aesthetically extremely pleasing and knows to smile a lot).

I didn't realise that the London Olympics 2012 - which I am led to believe is the most exciting thing for Britain since the first days of the glorious Empire - is being marked by a random pop singer carrying the torch.

Just to be clear. Will.i.am is

a) not an athlete

b) not British

c) responsible for introducing Fergie's voice to the world and

d) spells his name 'Will.i.am'

Two of these are good reasons to deport him, not invite him to represent a country he has no affinity with for an event he has nothing to do with.  

What the living fuck? And then I realised. It's because Coca Cola sponsors the torch carrying malarkey and therefore they say who carries the torch.

For my money, this pisses all over the feel good factor of other torchbearers (I read of one 81 year old who was meant to carry the torch back in 1948 but missed it because of appendicitis and 2012 has given him his chance) That's lovely that is. I would believe in the Olympic 'spirit' if there was a bit more of that going on and a bit less of Will.I.am.

In short, I was right to despise the London 2012 Olympics and everything it stands for. Which is basically money.



My neighbour is a psycho

I don't know whether he actually peels the skin of peoples' faces to wear as masks, or tortures small animals in his spare time. In fact, I'm guessing not. Probably. Quite rare that is, isn't it?

But what he does do is laugh maniacally in short sharp bursts, apparently throughout the day, every day. I think this is unusual, I'm not going to lie. It's just odd. He doesn't appear to go to work. He doesn't appear to go out during the evenings. But he does cackle like some kind of stoner watching Cheech and Chong.

It's come to my attention again as I have had a piss poor week in the health stakes, frankly. Really, really shite. I am sick to fucking death of sick. This has meant I have been at home rather more than is usual. And I'm interested to note that his hyena-like braying is not just reserved for evenings and weekends. In fact, it begins pretty early and then comes in staccato bursts of hilarity throughout the day and evening.

I mean, he must be watching something seriously funny on TV. There's literally nothing that makes me emit more than a slight guffaw (New Girl and Grandma's House at the moment). Most comedies I fully enjoy but watch with an almost entirely straight or scowling expression. So what is it that he is watching? Unless he's not watching anything and just sits staring at a blank wall, every now and again bursting with uncontrollable laughter? Maybe he has a sort of tourette's syndrome that only manifests itself through shouts of barking laughter? Maybe he's found god and is laughing with the sheer joy of being? Maybe he's high?

I'm fascinated by this guy. I want to know what he does for money? How does he afford stuff? How does he support himself? Does he ever go shopping? Does he have any friends? What is it he's watching?

In American TV shows people always go and take their new neighbours cookies or some shit. I wonder if I should do that? In this country I spose you're more likely to be stabbed in the face for such a gesture. Maybe I'll wait till the inevitable shitfest that will be some kind of Jubilee 'street party' and then make subtle enquiries.

I don't mind him by the way. This is not a hate-filled rant by any means. I'd rather have him than some dreadful yoof pumping their shitty music through my wall. Much rather. It's kind of comforting in fact, the sound of his crazy giggling.

I'd miss it if it wasn't there.

I should probably get out more.

Finishing the week in style

Oh yes I did. I mean, what could be better on a Friday to be the last one in the office at 6.30pm on the sunniest Friday since records began (probably)? I'll tell you what - doing two weeks worth of timesheets because if you don't things will get sticky on Monday. And not in a good way.

Well, that sounds pretty ace, but what could be better than that I hear you cry? Leaving the office, setting the alarm and then not being able to lock the door for no discernable reason and then standing in abject horror when the alarm blares out? That do you?

But wait. It gets even better than that. The only person I can call is my boss. The alarm is blaring. I am shaking (I do that when around loud noises I have seemingly no control over - see past blogs about The Sozzled Sausage), I call him. He's lovely about it and says he will come and sort it. It sounds like he's in the pub. So basically I've been completely shit and then had to drag my boss away from whatever fun he was having on a sunny Friday evening to come and rescue me.

So I leave and I'm nearly home when the boss man calls me: "The alarm has gone again..."

So I go back to the office, Waitrose bags full of trout and trifle sponge in my weary arms. He arrives and it turns out (much to my relief) it wasn't be ridiculous stupidity after all (I had naturally assumed that he would turn up and with one twisty flourish lock said door).

I slunk home.

And ate trout.

I might have a little weep now.

Back in 'Nam

I was enjoying my regular massage earlier. Since I managed to land myself a job with an actual wage I've eschewed saving money in favour of buying things and having massages. I mean, you can't take it with you, can you? Best to enjoy the now rather than think about the future. I'm pretty sure that's the best way to do things anyway. I'll probably thank my younger self when I'm 80, homeless and there is no welfare system left to look after me. But for now, on with the massages.

So I go to this lass who is amazing. It's a proper deep tissue massage so it's blissfully hardcore. That sounds wrong. But oh so right.

I'm starting to drift off while listening to the music that's always played during massages. I think this is to dispell any lingering sense of awkwardness about lying face down, almost completely naked while a stranger rubs every part of you except your vajayjay.

A few weeks ago it was Enigma's Return to Innocence (remember that?) which pleasantly took me back to around 1994 and the days when I would regularly imbibe something rather stronger than prescription codeine and a gin and tonic. This week it was some classical music.

And then Barber's Adagio for Strings kicked in. If you're familiar with this music then you're probably exactly like me in that the instant you hear it you're back in 'Nam with Charlie Sheen. I have seen Platoon way too many times than is good for me and I still cry when Elias is killed. I've a vague notion that Barber wrote the Adagio in the 30s and it was probably inspired by some trauma of his own, such is the pathos and depth of emotion in the music. But for me and many others (let's face it, many others also born in the 70s) I should think it just conjures up Willem Dafoe, slow motion, dropping to his knees while a pre-mental Charlie Sheen watches from a helicopter in anguish.

It's moving, man.

I don't have much time for war films usually. Just Platoon. And Apocalypse Now. Oh, and Kelly's Heroes, The Dirty Dozen and Full Metal Jacket. So quite a few then I suppose. But mostly in that 80s gung ho YooEssAaaa style. When I started watching them I was too young to be disgusted at the USA's dodgy foreign policy and needless meddling in other countries so I kind of missed Stone's rather blatant message, I was just swept away by the emotion of it all. And the fact that everyone really suited the uniforms.

I wrote an A-level essay based on Platoon I seem to recall. I have harboured a life long crush on both Charlie Sheen and Willem Dafoe thanks to this film. And Adagio for Strings always always makes me cry. And it was the full version that played while I was being pummelled by my masseur. I wanted to ask her whether she felt the same way but one look at her young, young face, blonde highlights and fake tan told me that Platoon probably wasn't at the top of her favourite Vietnam film list.

Thankfully there was some godawful version of The Nutcracker with tinny beat behind it that sounded like it was recorded on a Casio keyboard to bring me back from 'Nam into the present.

They really need to pick something a bit less emotional for the soundtrack to my massages. Am hoping Schindler's List's soundtrack isn't on the cards for next time.

RIP Elias. You were really hot.

Shiteous situation

I did a Bad Thing. It was only a minor Bad Thing but it was still bad. And, no, I'm not talking about watching the entire series 2 of Made in Chelsea when I should have been out running/cleaning my flat/ writing my opus.
I'm talking about taking slight advantage of a cab driver. We had a bit of chat. Usually I hate chats with taxi drivers, I don't know why, it just irks me. I always end up asking the same questions as well because it's basically hard to know what to ask someone when you have zero interest in them. Small talk. Has there ever been a more tedious convention?
This one was ok although he made sure to tell me he was single within the first five minutes. I would usually discontinue any conversation along these lines, as it's just weird and presumptuous. Obviously if he was fit then it'd be fine. Such are the vagaries of women.
This time though I smiled and may have even simpered. This is because two minutes into the journey I had noticed the unmistakable smell of dog shit. I looked down and saw a bit on the mat.
After ascertaining he hadn't had any dogs in the car but had had some children, we decided to blame it on them. Then I saw it. All over the heel of my Doc Marten.
I think the last time I trod in dog shit I was was about 9. It's one of those things that instantly makes me feel humiliated and childish. Like a proper grown up person would never have done something as embarrassing as tread in dog shit, bring it into a taxi and then blame a poor innocent child.
He's still flirting with me and I surreptitiously try to wipe it off my boot with my handy emergency tissue while keeping up enough interested-sounding noises as possible. Ohhhhhh you're divorced I trill. Yeah don't have no interest in her anymore says he. That's a shame sez I, trying to chuck the shit covered tissue out of the window without him seeing. As he's watching me in the rear view mirror this is tricky.
My main concern now is not to get it on any other part of me. Which I managed very well, for anyone concerned I might hug them later tonight.
I fail in my mission to clean it off as I hadn't quite realised the extent of the damage. And I thought to myself that a proper grown up would fess up to the taxi man and offer to clean his car mat.
I kept flirting.
As I got out at the station I managed to get some on the car door. I was pretty much hysterical with fake giggling by this point and the added worry of trying to hide my right boot from the taxi man.
Naturally he leapt out of the cab to help me with my bags. As he did so he peered into the backseat and remarked that the child had really trodden it in.
And then he knocked a couple of quid off my fare.
I pretty much ran, presumably trailing yet more dogshit in my wake. Where the fuck had I trodden into this mountain of kak? And how did I not even fricking notice?
I have issues with such situations and asked the cleaning person in the ladies toilets if I could use all his disinfectant and cleaning stuff. And he let me, the little star. So 20 mins of scrubbing later I was ready to start on the obsessive compulsive hand washing. I then bought some of that antibacterial gel which I have applied approx every five minutes for the duration of the journey so far.
I finally feel clean again. I really hope the taxi man does as well...

Citius, Altius, Fortius

Ahhhh, the Olympics. Or should that be the London Olympic and Paralympic Games 2012? Or was it London 2012 Olympics and Paralympics? I can't remember. As a magazine editor I've found myself writing this revered branding a lot recently. I say revered as the IOC is incredibly specific about how one writes it. I have no idea why. It's not like you would get it confused with the other biggest every sporting event ever to be held in London ever in the world ever.

We've been watching that fucking clock ticking down for what feels like centuries. And the excitement should probably be ramping up right about now.

The Olympic creed is thus:

The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well. 

That's nice, right? And I do admire the athletes (not our athletes; I don't think the country of their birth marks them out as anything more special than any other fast runner, jumper or hopper) who have dedicated their entire lives to the single purpose of jumping a millimetre higher than someone else over a big horizontal stick. I mean, I don't claim to understand why they'd want to do such a thing. Seems an awful lot of effort, but whatever gets you through.

I've read about patriotism and nationalistic pride in books, so I sort of get that people get excited about various competitions where people kick things and hit things and run around in circles and swim up and down and that. It's a weird thing to get all pridey about. It's absolutely no reflection on a country if someone runs slightly faster than someone else. None. At all. Nada.

But why all the fricking hooha? Why do we have to have it thrust down our gullets that 2012 is the MOST EXCITING YEAR EVER FOR BRITISH SPORT. I mean, it doesn't have much competition does it? What's it going up against? The one time we won the World Cup (which, by the way, is seriously too long ago to hold onto as anything special now)? Or how about that time the nice bald swimming chap won a medal? Or there's always Wimbledon - two weeks of tedious disappointment and posh people rahhing into their strawberries.

What with the fucking JUBILEE - it's the JUBILEE you know. You might have missed this fact. It's easy to miss what with no news channel/newspaper/rmajor retailer banging on about it all the fucking time. The Queen is bloody ancient now, and to mark the fact that a family with all the money in the world seemingly live for-fucking-ever, we all get to buy Union Jack branded shite and eat cakes in the street with the neighbours we never talk to. Not long, mark you, after said old, rich Queenie took her seat under a million quids worth of jewels to tell us all how we should live like paupers for a few years on account of the fact that the government gone done fucked up the economy again. What does she care? She's seen it all before. Loads of times. She's been on the throne since 1902. So what with the Jubilee and then the Olympics and then apparently some football shite, I might beg my doctor to put me into an artificially induced coma until September and everyone shuts the fuck up.

But my point, before I started ranting like a good 'un, is that this Olympic ideal, this bastion of good sportingness and honourable valour we're constantly told to look up to and admire is funded by possibly the most evil conglomerate of massively corrupt multinational corporations you could think of. Seriously. Think of the five most unlikely and soulless, morally corrupt corporations and you'll find them as either a sponsor or a partner of the Olympics.

You may have also noticed that everything you buy is apparently endorsing, sponsoring or otherwise spunking over the Olympics, from cake, sweets and burgers (I'm sure they tie in with the Olympic ideal somehow) to haircare and sanitary towels. There's probably some Olympic branded condoms so people can literally spunk themselves silly with excitement, and yet stay safe.

It's all about the fucking money. So they can stick their greatest show on earth rhetoric up their fucking arse. Just about the only thing I'm looking forward to is watching them flounder when London inevitably grinds to a halt with its shiteous public transport system.