I now have facebook and that!
I got bored and decided to send an email to my former employer Kaplan, pretending to be a rambling old man making a complaint: (all company email addresses I have erased)
———- Forwarded message ———-
Date: Wednesday, 20 July 2016
Subject: Fw: Mislead!
On Wednesday, 20 July 2016, 18:50, “firstname.lastname@example.org” <email@example.com> wrote:
Dear Kaplan (If that’s what you are really called)
I would like to formally lodge my displeasure with your company.
Recently the wife and I have been having certain marital problems; I won’t bore you with the full details, but suffice to say it is in the bedroom department.
Anyway to fill the long lonely nights, the wife suggested we get a kitten. I wasn’t overly keen at first, I mean, the reason that we didn’t have children is because we didn’t want faeces and vomit all over the house (My stomach turns just thinking about it). But the old ball and chain slowly wore me down and reluctantly, I agreed.
Anyway, my good lady wife had heard your name mentioned somewhere, so we popped into town to see if we could find a feline we liked. Suffice to say you could not begin to imagine our disappointment when we arrived after travelling almost 8 hours from the total paradise that is Nuneaton , only to find you supplied books for accounting nerds. My wife had sworn on her grandmas eyes, that your online ad had said ‘cat land’
My wife was inconsolable at the news. It was particularly hard when you consider the fact that my wife is disabled, she has uncontrollable narcolepsy. I find her condition is particularly bad when it’s time to go see my mother, for her famous Sunday roast (I particularly love her carrots, roasted in butter and chocolate spread, delicious. I had lunch with her recently, during which I tasted the most interesting vegetable, from what I recall its name was ‘sellary’. It was rather unusual, but nonetheless, delicious. I would very much like to procure some of this ‘sellery’ and would be most grateful if you could provide me with a list of stockists)
I myself, also have a serious medical ailment, I have one foot bigger than the other, and I don’t just mean half a shoe size, I mean one is a 5, the other is a 10, The ‘yoof’ of today stare at me, but I am used to it now. It makes it extremely difficult to get life insurance both Lord Telmer and Lady Pelving are at a loss.
I had to take her for a very expensive lunch at ‘restaurant’ called Nando’s just to calm her down and stop the mild panic attack she was having, luckily I always carry a paper bag for such a crisese and I had not budgeted for such an eventuality.
In hindsight, taking her to a chicken restaurant was not the greatest idea as she is one of those vegetabletarians. This ‘Nando’s’really should be more clear in their signage, but that is an argument I will take up with them another day.
Suffice to say I will be sending a bill of expenses in due course. Also suffice to say although my wife’s emotional distress may never disappear fully, thanks to your poor branding; the introduction of Shaniqua the Chinchilla has helped to take the edge off somewhat.
It also gives me space to partake in my passion, table tennis; I am a table tennis nut! I play about 4 hours of everyday of the week, every month of the year (except November), every year. I just love it! It’s such a wonderful little game don’t you think?
I am also looking to go into business. I am planning on setting up a gambling den at my premises within the next few months. I am aware that competition is strong, and have been thinking long and hard as to my ‘way in’ and now I have it! I plan to open a very first gambling den that will corner one area of the market that has been, until now, completely untapped: the under 16s!
On a side note, my cousin Larry is looking for some ‘snazzy’ head gear for his first trip away with scouts. He is utterly convinced that you are a retailer of so -called baseball caps and you are called ‘Cap land’. He has promised to pop in this week. Please let him down gently.
I look forward to hearing from you,
Forget ISIS, forget Malaria, forget global warming, forget Cancer, forget everything you think you know about threats to the world.
These ‘search terms’ below, are genuine search terms. Terms that people have actually, physically, typed into Google and accidently stumbled across my blog. Please just think of the man or woman who has typed some of these search terms in. Realise these are the true threat to the world!
- lesbians fingering
- arse fingering
- vibrating tongue
- 2elephant fucks
- a girl fucked by a bog and later die
- best dear deidre letters
- i want to watch 2 fat lesbian fingering there selfs
- deidrie henry
- flappy cunt
- ghana lesbian fingering
- fingering discreetly
- fingering lesbians
- justin beiber wank
- ugly bus driver
- best looking skanks on jeremy kyle show free porn
- dear deidre, teenager s
- when you wake up and bae text you meme
- deaf bus driver
- kfc employee caught pooing in gravy
- images of middle aged women in tight jeans
- if you hate working 9 to 5
- trakkie wankers
- girls who are to lazy to go to toilet they piss and shit in the office on pornhub
- i hate work
- justin bieber wanking
- bitter truth about women top ten
- bradford tranny jobcentre
- public wanker gets lucky
- short sentence on bitter truth
- bitter truth about modelling
- pornhub hot sex panic,train,shop, male/girl pictures
- baywatch pof
- pornhub she throws his clothes off the balcony while he is in the yard
- bitter truth about sister
- virgin tast taim porn hub bleding grls . hd
- as he burst into tears,he remembered the saying ” crime does not pay”
- prostitutes on buses
- bitter truth friend sex
- “wendy” pof 2015 profile
- long hair prostitutes pictures blogs
- tinder said she was blonde she got off the train ginger liar
- best dear deidre letters
- chantelle gunter tinder
- girls goes nude on public transport services
- justin bieber nude balcony
- fine for prank calling childline scotland
- naija secondary school lesbian fingering and sucking
- virgin pornhub 16 yo
- pof dave f1shf00d9
- roman853 wordpress
- bus travel time rush bus mens girls back fucking
- china baby kindz dole nude
- public transport open dick pand girls look at downloaded
- is arguing healthy in a relationship
- girls fuck on public transport
- woman gives man handjob standing in bus aisle
- quotes on bitter truth about aplayer
- public prostitute in bus used by everyone pics
- hot girls tied boss up
- sex.bottle pregnant.ru
- wankers in publick transport to women
- kylie minague kick my balls xhamster
- pronhub isben girl and grand brather
- porn hd sister fuck school come brader request
- tinder spam messages how many licks does it take
- dreamt that my ex boyfriend was shitting on himself…and even carried a bucket full of shit not knowing <—– **personal favourite**
- twitter coment arriva ball sacks
- crying family in a hospital
- why women love men that say the bitter truth
- arriva bus wanking
- shemale fuck and romance female inside d bus
- kylie minogue coke
- wanking my wanker
So ladies and gentlemen, Something was keeping me awake last night, was it the the thought of world hunger? the plight of the Panda? or the Double Vodka and Redbull i had before i went to bed? (I find alcohol solves all the worlds problems and eases my very small conscience) And so I got thinking about my blog, had I been to harsh on the people I see daily on my commute to work? Then I thought no, they are shit stains on the underwear of life. But I came to the conclusion that no matter what I write nothing could ever do them the true justice they deserve. So I have collected a few pictures, that i believe accuretly represent a good cross section of the people i get on the bus with, so you can make your own judgements ( I am not usually one to fill this ‘blog’ full of pictures, because frankly I am lazy and can’t be bothered, but I decided I would make an extra special effort)…enjoy
I was with my mate who pulled two girls last night.
“They’re like buses,” I said.
“What?” he said. “Because you wait for ages then two come at once?”
“No,” I replied. “They are like buses.”
Well dear readers here I go again. So my last post may of seemed a little bit like it was an attack on the wonderful form of public transport that is buses, and I suppose in a way, it was. I think maybe I was just having a bad day, maybe I was just annoyed at getting constantly raped by Arriva to ride a cattle shed on wheels, with herpes infested seats (if you are lucky to get one that is). Sometimes I feel like I may as well pull my trousers and pants down and just let the driver penetrate me with the thick end of a baseball bat, until he feels as if I have earned my bus fare, then slowly walk back to my seat like John Wayne. Cramped in like sardines, being violated by a big sweaty man stood next to me, every time we turn a corner, like the trains on the way to the concentration camps during the war, safety in numbers, yeah? Try telling that to 6 million Jews!
However, the bus has been a part of my life for more than 15 years, I have been everywhere on the bus, as much as I despise the bus, (I would rather walk to work, dragging my balls through broken glass, while listening to Coldplay) I need it, like the air we breathe, like water, or like seeing an old person fall over in winter, it is just necessary. Even the smell of piss and stale sweat, which first hits you when you climb on board, is starting to smell reassuring and comforting. Like the comforting smell of grandma’s cooking (if that cooking had been eaten by a cat, then vomited back onto a plate). See I can’t swim. I can’t drive, either. I was going to learn to drive but then I thought, well, what if I crash into a lake? Then I’m fucked! So the bus is the only way I can travel around (apart from helicopter, but apparently they are quite expensive to buy, I have checked)
Being a ‘bus wanker’ means that without the buses, I would not have had some of the amazing times, and have some of the great memories I have had over the years, so every cloud and all that. It is fair to say however, that my relationship with the bus is very much a love hate relationship, Ok mainly hate, kind of like seeing your ex girl friend with a new guy, you will automatically think he is a complete fucktard, but you never know why. In fact thinking about it, he is probably a really nice guy, ah I must ask him for a pint sometime (NB invite fucktard for a pint this Saturday). It can be stressful and I see buses as the main reason I am going grey at an alarming rate, also the reason I have more lines on my head than Gordon Ramsey! (I like Gordon Ramsey and I am pleased to hear that he has a new book coming out, ‘Take Two Eggs and Fuck Off!’)
Everyday I get up, get dressed, eat my Frosties (Frosties are just cornflakes for people who can not face reality!) and get on the bus, and the adventure begins for another day, while eating some pork scratchings on the peasant wagon. This year for Christmas I have asked for 400 packets of pork scratchings. When you think about it they are just the skin of the pig. So basically it’s a pig jigsaw. It would be more exciting than the usual Grey socks my mum gets me each year, its not just Christmas either, oh no birthdays are all about the grey socks too!
Everything I have done has started with climbing aboard a bus, I have been angry, happy, sad, amused, I have been abused on the bus, I have met a future girl friend on the bus, I have been dumped on the bus, I have even been dumped because I ride the bus! Yes that’s right, dumped because I ride the bus! I will go into more detail about that later dear reader. I have seen all walks of life on the bus. I love people watching so I decided to write about a few things I have seen on the bus, mainly because I am bored, and I have run out of polo mints, and its too cold to go buy some more! (NB buy a new coat)
I have spent my life travelling mainly in my home town of Leeds, too and from work, or to friends’ houses, how ever I did once get on a bus in Scotland, surrounded by people who could not speak a word of English, yes, I was in Glasgow!
So let me introduce myself first of all, well I am the youngest of 3, both my parents are older, I am not as young as I used to be, although I am younger than I will be!
I’m a man, a friend to animals land and sea, a handsome devil, a connoisseur of fine wines, and the classiest collection of antique hippos anywhere in the world. I can throw a boomerang if I have to but I prefer not too. I like to ride my pet giraffe around my home town while playing the flute. I am a world class water ski instructor. I do not care about the fashion world although they seem to care a lot about me. I smoke a pipe on occasions. I don’t give a damn about broccoli and I believe all men have the right to self pleasure. My favourite drink is Hairy gay lord. I can never tell people what happened in Middlesbrough one night in June. Babies, bless their soul give me the creeps, sandals on another man have been know to make me vomit.
If I had a monkey I would teach it to sing Justin Beiber songs. Then if Justin passed out on stage again I would be able to save the day by having the monkey finish the concert for him. The concert promoters would probably give me free tickets and promotional gifts. Justin would be so thankful that he might send me an autographed photo and I could sell it on eBay for fifty pounds. I would buy drugs with the fifty pounds. Not for the monkey, for me.
So that’s me. Or is it?
I may have told a few lies there, I think they refer to it as using artistic license… I do actually have a twin brother. Which has lead to what I can only describe as ‘awkward’ conversations on the bus. I have had hour long conversations with people, people who I have never seen before, or wish to see again in my life may I add, about how ‘mental’ the weekend was, and about what time I should meet them tomorrow for that 5-a-side tournament. I know what I should of said really was ‘sorry I think you are getting me confused with the wrong person’ but being the overly polite soul that I am, and not really having the heart to tell them that they maybe getting me confused with someone that looks like me, to save their embarrassment as much as my own, I just sit and nod, and try and cobble something together, that vaguely makes me sound as if I know what I am talking about (that’s how I get through work everyday). I think it worked though, and next week I have been invited to a house party with Roo and Finch. I can’t wait; I may have to buy a whole new outfit and everything!
That happens quite regularly, so it is something that I am used to. I also get the regular questions I imagine twins get, such as,
‘if your brother hurts himself do you feel his pain too?’ no.
‘Did you ever swap classes at school?’ no – he was in the thick classes, with the children who bite their own toes and get distracted by shiny things, how would that benefit me?
I was once out in town, having a few drinks quietly minding my own business (I was not on my own may I add, no one wants to be that guy) and a girl approached me, you know that phrase body of Baywatch, face of crime watch… well this girl had a face of crime watch and a body of Baywatch, if that bay was Skegness in the winter…after a nuclear war, and just said ‘you are a cunt’ (apologies for the language dear reader). I was pretty shell shocked and asked her what in hells bells she was talking about. She basically informed me that she had me confused with my brother, who had apparently ‘humped her and dumped her’ a few weeks previously, such is love. To prove she had the wrong person I had to show her some form of ID, even then I still do not think she was fully convinced of who I was. Such is life. I had to treat myself to a polo and a shot of Tequila!
Of course when you get on the peasant wagon as much as I do, and often on the same route, you do get to know the people you are travelling with whether you like it or not. Not through conversation mind you, because the general etiquette of the bus means, headphones in, if there is a free seat you sit on that, and if you have to sit next to someone, you perch on the edge of your seat, do not make eye contact and never, and I mean NEVER try strike up a conversation, if you do you will get looked at like you have just kicked a kitten in the face. Most of the time I talk to myself, and when I do, I find I almost never disagree with what I am saying! Communication is strictly restricted to quick nods and forced smiles.
That said, I did break those rules once, and made a sort of friend. That morning I had just used a new toothpaste, I can not remember the name, however, it was so minty it gave me an invincibility feeling that lasted till precisely 11.33am. Oh how I wish dear blog I could have given it to my new hobo friend, People with bad breath are disgusting. Fortunately I don’t need to worry about that since discovering free chewing gum under desks.
He must have been in his 40’s and was ever so grubby, poor wretch, he had the kindest eyes I think I had ever seen in my life so I gave him 50p, he thanked me, took another swig of his special brew (a very cheap beer) and a bite out of an onion. We are now on ‘hello’ terms when ever we are on the same bus, which just so happens to be all the time, as he mumbled to me how he buys a day ticket, loads up with cheap ‘beer’ that smells of paint stripper, and cheap paint stripper at that, and rides the bus all day.
Whilst I am sure that he is very pleasant, he is not the sort of person I would usually choose as my friend, he does have a tendency to be miserable and gloomy, and he seems to be permanently drowsy. My guess is drugs, ones that you can not just buy over the counter. I don’t bother with drugs myself because I’m at that age now; I don’t need to. If I want a rush, I just get out of a chair when I don’t expect it. Forget to give yourself a couple of days notice before you tie your shoes. Whoosh! What a rush!
It reminded me of a headline on the Jeremy Kyle show I had seen a couple of days earlier
Jeremy Kyle headline: “Did my mum try to drown me as a baby?”
No – you might not be used to it, but it’s called a bath.
Some facts about my new HOBO friend:
He always has a runny nose
He has a slight smell of TCP, if some had taken a piss in the bottle.
He has surprisingly nice hair (not a grey insight)
Never wears socks (NB buy some new socks)
We have cooled our relationship some what since I saw him masturbating on the back of the bus, to some picture on his iphone (how did he get an iphone??, I miss the days of pay as you go phones, my Nokia 3210 was still the best phone I ever had, indestructible, and snake was the best game ever, I think I scored 910 once!). Speaking of wanking dear readers, I had a friend who got caught by his mum having a little ‘me’ time once, he had his head phones in (no idea what he was listening to, hope it wasn’t S club juniors) and did not hear her enter his room. Jesus H Christ, imagine that, being caught by your parents masturbating…However, the other way round is worse!
On that lovely theme, I was the victim once of a prank while going for my usual early morning bus, I was running very late, so I had to run for the bus and their was a group of children who thought it would be funny to run 2m ahead of me screaming as though being chased…making me appear, to passers-by like some sort of sweaty paedophile, and prompting an elderly man to yell ‘leave the kids alone’. Well played children, well played.
Recently I was watching the news and a news report said that paedophiles are to be educated to control their urges. What a brilliant idea, send Paedophiles to school.
Speaking of bus pranks never start coughing on the bus and make an Ebola joke, it never goes down well, and I guarantee that somewhere on a bus, is a pregnant teenager who thinks that ‘Ebola’ would be a good name for a child.
Seeing some of the rather large people on the bus everyday (when I say large, I mean people who are large for a human, for what is essentially a land mammal, I am talking documentary fat) prompted me to start going to a gym, I hate the gym, we have always been enemies. I used to Whenever I felt like exercise, lie down until the feeling passed, but now, purely down to peer pressure, I get the bus to the gym – I assume the low qualification requirements of fitness trainers means that there is an over supply of these buffed but essentially otherwise purposeless professionals.
I knew a guy in school who couldn’t talk very well and collected sticks, he used to call the teacher ‘mum’ and during break we would give him money to dance. Then sell him sticks to get our money back.
He went on to become a fitness instructor so I view gyms as kind of like those factories that provide a community service by employing people with Down syndrome to lick stamps and pack boxes. Except with more Spandex, obviously.
I myself am fairly fit due to regularly thinking about jogging and other forms of movement, and I once performed a jumping jack. It was unintentional and involved a spider and a bath mat, but still counts. Apparently the advantage of exercising every day is that you die healthier, I am not so sure that matters.
The gym I go is only a low rent kind of place, but charges about half my monthly wage just to attend. In fact I have just come back from their and there’s a great new machine.
I only used it for about an hour, as I started to feel sick, but it’s great: it’s got KitKats, Mars bars, crisps and everything in it.
The gym is not too dissimilar from the bus as it happens. You walk in, it’s crowded, expensive, and full of fat people who do not know what a bath or shower looks like. You can witness all sorts of people there, from all walks of life. Within the gym is a corner where all the fake tanned, tattoo riddled ‘people’ congregate to lift weights all day, people who I presume do not have a job. People who walk around in vests so tight it must make it difficult to breathe, people who are so far in the closet they are having adventures in Narnia. Then at the opposite end of the scale are the weekly women’s fat club, which is like weight watchers, but only a few pounds cheaper. Middle aged women in full make-up who come for a ‘natter’ with fellow obesesians (my new word for a group of obese people, I think it may catch on!). I tend to find they always go for the exercise bike, mainly because they can sit down, which makes it easier to talk to Rita about the menopause and how they are now sagging in places they did not know could sag. The last group I saw, were all in a row, fully dressed in jeans (rather tight fitting jeans) all doing their make up, because they were going out afterwards. What is the point?? You can guarantee come the end of the week, they will be shocked that they have gained weight.
‘I just don’t understand I have been really good this week, I even went to the gym, these scales must be wrong, I demand a recount’
‘ I had a diet Coke with my Pizza hut yesterday, it had salad on it too, I am so confused’
Nothing to do with the fact you love cake then? No the scales must be wrong.
Sometimes you just want to shake them and say ‘Do you know how fat you are, do you? No, you don’t, ‘CAUSE YOUR FACE IS AN ISLAND TRAPPED IN A SEA OF FLAB! I would stab you to death… but I can’t afford to take the two weeks off work!
FATTIES. Take a tip from smokers and stop your cravings for chips by Cellotaping a crisp to the top of your arm each morning.
I have also read a news article that stated childhood obesity is on the increase and Paedophilia is on the increase, which to me just proves fatties are easier to catch.
Why do we applaud people for losing weight? For only eating as much as they need? They got fat for being lazy greedy bastards, I have never been given a round of applause for never being fat, or running out of breath and being all sweaty just for standing up at my desk. Do they honestly need waiters to come over and say ‘fuck off you have had enough’ when ordering 10 large big mac meals? No one got fat by surprise, no one has broken into there house in the middle of the night and injected their lettuce with a million calories.
I do not make other assumptions about fat people though; I do not judge any other aspects of their life. For example, I do not presume that just because they are fat, that they are jolly….a lot of them are miserable. If I see a fat girl, I don’t say ‘she would be pretty if she lost weight’ that is very rarely the case… a lot of them started eating because they had fuck all to lose in the first place.
Having said that it is true that being fat is mainly a female issue, in terms of, if a man is fat it doesn’t matter, we just think ‘fuck it, all bought and paid for’. So I do feel sorry for fat women, however they do always make and effort, a lot of them have lovely hair…anything but jogging.
I did meet my ex-girlfriend down at the gym. We didn’t workout. (Sorry, must try harder)
I have sat next to many ‘large’ people in my time simply grazing on the bus. This morning their seemed to be many people eating on the bus. A middle aged woman was chomping on a tuna sandwich, my homeless friend was chomping into his daily onion like it was an apple (why an onion? If you can afford and onion, surely you can afford an apple, unless someone is giving him onions, but who would give someone an onion?), and a rotund man, who smelt ‘athletic’ was eating a plastic bag full of Cadburys roses, I wondered what had happened to the original box? (Maybe he had eaten that as well), so I popped a polo mint in my mouth and tried to catch a few Zzzz’s. Cadbury man is one of the regulars I was talking about. For some reason he seems strangely attracted to me. Every time I have to stand up, he seems to stand next to me, maybe he loves me, maybe he wants to eat me, and honestly I am not sure which is worse. I have been lodged up his arm pit many times, almost being violated at every aggressive turn of the wheel from the bus driver. I am starting to think that I deserve a prize for being on this bus; oh I would kill for a noble peace prize!
Now having mocked the slightly larger frame, I may sound very hypocritical here, but the bus has served me well as a late night canteen over the years. Often after a few drinks after work, a few turning into several pints (Timothy Taylors Landlord, possible the greatest beer ever invented!) the natural reaction after drinking is to get food! Beer must be made by food companies. It makes you wander the streets at 3 am looking for things to eat. “What’s that, is it moving, get it!! It’s a nun! FRY HER!! FRY HER! Usually this means popping (staggering) into the train station before my last bus and getting a bargain bucket all to myself, with added gravy (KFC gravy is the best) and some how smuggling it onto the bus, while slightly worse for wear, ready to eat on the back seat of the night bus. The problem is however, I get tend to get eyed up by people envious of my bargain bucket, I presume most of the people who eye my bucket up, are on weight watchers. The last time I did this, I ended up sharing it with a 16 year old girl who had just had a massive argument with her boyfriend. So obviously, beer and deep fried chicken brings out my sensitive side! Who knew that chicken could have such an effect?
That is not the first time I have had to play councillor to a stranger on a bus (but hopefully it will be the last).
I sat on the bus for a good hour next to a woman in her twenties, who all the way home seemed to cry uncontrollably, I am not the most sympathetic of characters (you may of already noticed that dear friends), so I told her that her hair looked nice, just in case she had it done, (she hadn’t but it always works) and offered her a polo mint that had been in my pocket for a good few weeks, and had a slight smell of washing powder, but at least it was clean! I know lying is wrong, but if the elephant man came in now in a blouse with some make up on, and said “how do I look?” Would you say — bearing in mind he’s depressed and has respiratory problems — would you say “go and take that blusher off you misshapen headed elephant tranny”? No. You’d say “You look nice… John””
She seemed to be talking (through a mountain of snot bubbles) about how her boyfriend has not text her back for about 3 hours (it could have been 3 weeks, but I did not care enough to pay full attention, I was playing flappy birds on my phone, possibly the most frustrating game of all time, and it requires maximum concentration)… I offered her another lavender scented polo mint, and discreetly put my head phones back in (I felt guilty lying to her about her hair now). If this is how she acted then I am not all that surprised he was ignoring her (and I was thinking he probably does have someone more emotionally stable), I felt embarrassed just in case someone thought I was with her. Women eh, you cant live with them…cant kill them either, such is life. She seemed to cheer up after that polo mint anyway…Hoorah for polo’s! Another good deed done for the day dear friends.
Later in the journey I realised she must of been a vegetarian, by having a look what she bought from her shopping trip to Morisson’s, you can tell a lot about a person from what they have bought, and I noticed that she had in her possession a bag of Quorn Mince, Hence a vegetarian. I hate Quorn mince, why would I want to eat anything that looks like cat litter? I wouldn’t. She must be crazy, all vegetarians are, it’s just a fact of life, like death and taxes. It must be the lack of nutrients from eating grass all day. And it suddenly explained an awful lot. If animals were not to be eaten, then why the hell are they so tasty?? After that, plus the snot bubbles and the slightly unstable emotional state, I tended to avoid sitting near her from that moment on.
You see a lot of love on the bus if you look closely, I say love because when I see a couple on the bus all I see is the woman disgusted that her ‘man’ has made her get on the cesspit with wheels and has not chauffeur driven her round, like the queen (I saw the queen once) while she shops for shoes and hand bags for hours and hours on end. I once had the great pleasure of being sat in front of a couple who, I could tell had an argument because she ended every (short sentence) to him with ‘pig’, rather aggressively may I add. Such is love. Maybe she did not find the right shoes; I know I would be pretty upset too.
I find the secret of a good relationship is spontaneity – you’ve got to be ready to leave at any moment! There are also two ways to go about arguing with a woman and by far the best way is by text while at the pub
I asked a woman I was with once, simple question; I asked her ‘Have you ever eaten pheasant?’ See, it’s direct, isn’t it?! It’s enclosed; it contains everything that needs to be said! And she said a wonderful thing. She said “Erm…” – she thought about it – and she said “Er, not really.” What does that mean? On any level? I mean did you suck it and throw it away? Did someone drop it in your drink? What happened? Was it a speeding car – one lick? WHAT, WHAT?!?!
Or when people break up, they always use a bunch of lines on each other, you know, terrible rubbish lies, like “It’s not you, it’s me, it’s me.” It’s NEVER you, it’s always them! You should level with these people! Tell them! “You know that strange sound you used to hear when you were going to sleep? That was me CHEWING the bed, out of sheer boredom! OOOOHH, how I HATE you, I hate you so much it gives me energy! I have to get up early in the morning to hate you because there isn’t time enough in the day. Please, GO AWAY!” Or that other BULLSHIT: “I need more space!” People never quantify exactly how much space they really need… do they? But strangely enough, it always seems to be the exact same height, depth and breadth as you.
I have both been dumped on a bus, I have also been asked out on a bus. My last girlfriend dumped me because I used the bus… she also once tricked me into watching the film the Notebook which was about geese. Lots of geese. It also had something to do with an old lady who conveniently lost her memory so she could not remember being a whore through out the entire film.
I got chucked once for not having a car and always having to take the bus everywhere, By a girl called Hannah, We lived in domestic bliss and perfect harmony for …13 days, was it her fault we split? Of course it was, she’s a girl.
Women, you can’t even conceive of the notion, that if we have nothing to say we don’t talk, it’s always ‘you must be thinking something’ nope. Or if we are thinking things it’s usually… I wonder if I strap to fireworks to a tortoise it would fly? That is just unimaginable to women isn’t it?
Women have a different system, a thought occurs, and shit shoots out of their front, literally just spunked out of their face. We are men, we don’t need to talk about our emotions, we don’t care. If we get ill, we just take a couple of paracetemol and get on with it, ok we may mention it once, and then we got on with our day. I mean you never hear men whinge about their periods do you? We just don’t go on about it that’s all, I bet you women never realised we had them did you?
Oh look there is a conversation going on in Ghana…let me get involved, always trying to help…more like interfere.
Hannah was a solicitor, so she was naturally slightly up her own arse anyway, you would be hard pressed to find a Solicitor that was not so far up their arse they have started shitting out of their own mouths. 99% of solicitors give the rest a bad name. What’s the best way to stop a solicitor from drowning? Shoot them before they hit the water! We had been seeing each other roughly 6 weeks, but ‘officially’ going out round about 2 weeks. However, I was never her type dear reader. She was a solicitor who drove a new Audi, who hung around with blokes who had traded their personality for fake tan, fake tans – Because there’s no sunlight in the closet! and a Toni and Guy hair cut, along with a very tight suit, and that’s the type of guy she wanted, and that is never going to be me (I cant afford a Toni and Guy hair cut!)
But slightly perversely, she was not the brightest bulb in the box, she didn’t know Scotland had a capital city and she often watched TOWIE and Made in Chelsea (There are some people in this world who deserve to be shot. Apparently E4 have found some of these people, rounded them up in one place, filmed them for research purposes and called it Made In Chelsea). I am convinced watching these shows reduces your mental capacity to that of a cabbage, which would explain a lot about her! Oh she also used the phrase “mega LOLz” yeah I know, I should have ended it right there… I have never been the quickest. So next time you find yourself in court, remember, the only person standing between you and being Tony the stranglers bitch, is someone who doesn’t know Scotland is it’s own country!
These days I tend to try a different approach when it comes to dating and all that Jazz, no longer dear readers am I such a soft touch when it comes to relationships, and its all thanks to buses! Treat them mean keep them keen, isn’t that the phrase? But surely if that were the case, wouldn’t the Jews adore the Germans? Anyway let’s see how it works out for me.
A couple of weeks ago, I accidentally sat next to her on the bus, I say accidentally, because I was sticking to the world renowned rules of the bus…head down, no eye contact etc. I only noticed it was her half way through the journey when I looked up briefly to see who I was sat next to. So I did what all good men would do out of shear panic when they realise they have made a grave error, I pretended to play with my phone, until I got off two stops early! But life being life, as soon as I got off that peasant wagon, I thought of some really witty things to say, something about being as shallow as a puddle I think. I will save them for next time, such wit can not go to waste!
On an unrelated note, did you know that 99% of women kiss with their eyes closed? That is why it makes it so difficult to identify a rapist.
At the same time as I just met Hannah, it was Sport Relief, a big charity event which is televised on TV, showing “celebrities” doing sporty challenges to raise money for some cause or other, I think they raise money for donkeys or children or even orphaned snails, I can not be so sure, I really was not paying attention. I’ve done very little to help charities…i’ve done nothing to help, but I look at charity like this…it’s a pain isn’t it? All the effort, all the making yourself look silly in the aid of raising £13.67 pence, here have £15 just to shut up. It’s true that when it comes to charity many people stop at nothing…. And I am certainly one of these. But while at work someone suggested me and a fellow colleague dye our hair red for charity. I wasn’t really listening and just agreed to it, not knowing what I agreed to (I thought someone was offering me a cup of tea). However panic set in as soon as the Dye was on my head, it was permanent! (I had been assured that it would wash out in 8 washes, it didn’t, and it took 3 months to get rid of) How in gods name have I let this happen? Anyway it was too late, it was done, and by the end I looked like someone who was ready to go out raving at the local gay discothèque, I was not happy and needless to say I got a lot of abuse, especially about my hair looking ginger (I just saw that Harry Potter film. A bit unrealistic if you ask me. I mean, a ginger kid with two friends?)
NB: Did you know that gingers are a dying breed? True, in 20 years time no gingers will be born, I suppose it is for the best really. And did you also know there is a national bully a ginger day? When it is acceptable to pick on all gingers? I don’t know when it is, I could have looked it up but I can’t be bothered, I will up date it later. I have no problem with gingers, (the only ginger that I ever really liked was my first pet Zippy, a big fat ginger cat, and he lived till 22! And at least he could go out in the sun!) Some girls can look quite attractive as natural Red heads. I have noticed that there is no middle ground when you are ginger, you are either horrible or attractive, you never walk passed a ginger and just say ‘they look OK’, nope, it is all or nothing if you are ginger!
As it happens earlier on this week There was a ginger guy using the self-checkout in Tesco and the machine said “unexpected item in the bagging area” and I was thinking ‘Condoms’.
We do a lot of fund raising for charity at work…too much if anything, with the amount of money that I give, I will be in need of that charity money soon. I can see myself on the Comic Relief promotional videos now “this is Ben, and last year the bank refused to extend his over draft, meaning he has to live with using an Iphone 5 on O2, the reception is awful, and can no longer write offensive Twitter statuses as quick as he would like…please donate now, Ben really needs your help, thank you” ill be famous woooo! That plan deserves another polo.
Personally, I think Comic Relief is a big swindle. Some of those kids are fatter than I am!
I do not remember getting any help from children in need either, when I was younger I wanted a snooker table, did children in need get me one? No! It’s all a big con! I personally think Lenny Henry keeps all the money for himself, and pays the BBC to get on television, I can not think of any other way he is still employed!
What bounces and makes kids cry?
My donation cheque to Children in Need
The charity of choice at work at the moment is Alzheimer’s, but apparently my idea of telling them we have already given them money and that they must of forgotten, was not funny (I thought it was, I chuckled to myself anyway)
Because of my red hair, I was often the prime target for abuse from the local scrotes on the bus, the phrase ‘look at you you ginger prick’ was often used, and to be honest it got quite tiresome, I did take offense… I was certainly not ginger, a prick however… yes I suppose that is true.
However it is still not the worst chat up line I have ever heard, that award still goes to the Irish gypsy who said he wanted to “kick my cunt in”, oh such is love.
Here is a little game that I have devised for you all just in case you get bored while reading this (I wouldn’t blame you, there is so many better things to do, why don’t you go watch TV? There are some great programmes on at the moment, have you watched Gogglebox? No… Go watch it, its amazing! There are two posh people on there who are permanently drunk!)
So my game goes like this….
Call the ChildLine number and say ‘I’ve just dialled 1471 and this number came up, who is this?’
2. Operator replies ‘you’re through to ChildLine.’
3. You shout ‘TERRY YOU LITTLE CUNT, NOT AGAIN….COME HERE YOU LITTLE BASTARD”. Before hanging up the phone. And let the fun begin!
There are so many charities these days to choose from (including sufferers of obesity, I kid you not ladies and gentlemen) how do you know who is more deserving of your hard earned money? It’s impossible; do you give it to disabled geese or mentally challenged swans? Who knows? My colleagues are currently trying to talk me into doing a skydive for charity, to send children off to America to swim with dolphins; I am not a fan of heights so it will be a big challenge. It’s the same with flying; I am not a fan at all. It is not the flying that I am scared of, it is the crashing in a big ball of flames that terrifies me; the flying is the good bit!
People say that dolphins are intelligent, and that’s true, but only compared to the retarded kids we have them swimming with… so I will keep you posted on the sky dive (I wont).
Having red hair is not the only time I have been abused on the bus however, insults fly around on the bus all the time. Whether it is Chantelle shouting down the phone at Jayden for fingering Chelsea when they were supposed to be ‘Baes’ (what the hell does Bae mean? As far as I can work out it is the most fucking annoying way to say girlfriend, boyfriend, crush, or any other sort of significant other. Commonly used by ghetto folks, swagfags, and annoying fucktards ) calling him a skank, it happens all over the place. The last time it happened to myself I was being called a stuck up t**t on the peasant wagon for reading (yes reading). Slightly unfair to over look my other achievements, such as breathing, sneezing, blinking and waking up every morning. Fucktard is a word that is under used… in this case it is very apt.
I had a mini debate on the bus once with a toothless man probably about a year ago now, he was the was the type of guy you would see on a crimewatch reconstruction, scary looking, someone you would not want to bump into during the day, never mind a dark alley. I knew he was going to be someone that was argumentative, and someone I did not want sitting near me in case he tried to strike up a conversation of some kind. So I did the usual, what any sane person would do in these situation, I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible and stared out of the window, hoping that he would not come talk to me. However what I failed to realise was that the only free seat on the bus was right next to me, brilliant. He sat down next to me in a rather aggressive manor, everything he did was aggressive. I looked at my phone, messing around on twitter as you do, (In light of recent controversies involving Twitter, it’s best to assume that anything written on the Internet can be used as evidence in court. Piers Morgan fucks children.) Then he started speaking, quizzing me about how Twitter makes its money, and I cobbled something together about advertising, although I don’t think he liked that answer. Aggressively he replied ‘if it was up to me I would charge 10p per tweet, that way they would make a shit load of money’. Great advice there, I am sure the inventors of twitter would love the advice of a slightly mentally unhinged man, that is just what they need! Needless to say, yet again, I got of the bus a few stops early.
I had travelled to many interviews via bus, always making sure I was an hour early. Often without success. When I left University, finding employment was difficult, when I first started looking for employment, I aimed high, I was fresh out of university, ready to take on the world and show potential employers just what they were missing, unfortunately that enthusiasm lasted maybe a couple of weeks, after two weeks of getting the bus into town everyday for pointless meetings with recruitment agencies who had seen a million people like me in the past, from handing out my CV to anyone that would take it, even to people who just wanted something to blow their nose on, trekking round in one of my dads old suits, looking like I was trying to dress older so I could buy alcohol underage, I started to get demoralised. I did get one job a couple of months after leaving university… I lasted till 9.30 am, on my first day, I went to the toilet and never came back. I think it was some kind of marketing firm, who basically sold any old shit they were given from little stalls in the local shopping centre, like those orange women in Boots, telling other people how best to apply their make up.
I should have realised what I let myself in for, when at the interview one of the tasks was to draw a dolphin on a piece of paper.
- I did have a temporary job for round about 2 weeks, that seemed to be filing pieces of paper in alphabetical order and the occasional photo copying, before I was politely asked to leave, for answering the telephone in a high pitched female voice and telling the person calling that the boss was taking a nap in her office and changing her email signature so that it said horse whisperer instead of HR manager.
So instead of earning a living I was sitting in my shed searching the job papers, there did not seem to me many positions for a budding lottery winner. I bet David Cameron has never experienced unemployment, he’s never woken up at 3pm and had a packet of flaming hot monster munch for his breakfast. My mum did tear out a ad in the paper for a cleaner in a psychiatric prison, I politely declined. I started to feel positively negative about everything. I had let myself down, worse still I have let my parents down. In fact I would even go as far to say I have besmirched the Cooper name itself. I have become a besmircher, and no one likes a besmircher. I went through a large amount of Polo mints in those two weeks!
Fortunately it all worked out well and now I am the highest earner in my office, Except on Mondays when I am the drunkest. Although I spend most of the day playing a game called ‘staring at the wall wondering what happy are doing’ and answering calls by either ending each sentence with ‘over’ like I am talking on a walkie talkie then making the ‘kchssssch’ noise or pretending to be a confused Chinese woman. Once, I locked my office door and spent the day nude. To be honest I am not exactly sure what it is a do, I turn up, day dream about having my own private island, and then when it hits 5 I run out of the door and head for the bus stop. Speaking of jobs My cousin’s a lazy bastard – sits around all day doing fuck all, drinking, surfing the internet for porn. Jeez, I wish I had an office job too!
As I was getting off the bus on my first day of my new job, I saw what appeared to be a homeless man shouting and waving his arms, he had in his possession a sandwich, I am not sure what type, I didn’t stop to ask. He was being harassed by a pigeon that was trying to steal his unidentifiable sandwich. As the pigeon flew towards it, the homeless man, through his drunken haze, proceeded to land a punch right between the eyes of the pigeon. The pigeon was spark out on the grass, like he had gone a few rounds with Muhammed Ali, after a few minutes and what must of seemed like a life time to poor beaky (I have named the pigeon Beaky, because he had a beak) I am happy to report, Beaky rather unsteadily got to its feet and flew off, and the homeless man ate his sandwich. Alls well that ends well as they say. From then on I knew it was going to be a good day. To this day it has to be up there with one of the funniest things I have ever seen!
On the bus you always get a free paper in the morning (if they have any left), its not a very good paper, and rather like this blog it is very poorly written by someone who obviously doesn’t like what he is doing and could not give ten shiny shites what people think. Bless their hearts though, they do try and write serious articles about war and famine etc but to be honest it’s mainly about gossip and non-celebrities having their dogs hair done, and if they have a new line on their face or some other utter crap. This morning I noticed that there was an article about Justin Bieber spitting of a balcony. I can’t believe all this fuss about Justin Bieber spitting off the balcony. It fucking shocked me. I was sure he was a swallower.
On that very same journey dear friends two ‘girls’ (use that term very loosly) on the bus seem to be giving blokes marks out of ten for looks. I get a 2. Which according to them means I’m not quite in the same league as the elephant man, but I’m still ugly. So that’s some positive news! Hoorah! Every cloud and all that, Although, they do look like two failed abortion attempts after their mum found out Steve was not their dad after doing a DNA test on Jeremy Kyle. Excuse me while I go cry. You no you have hit rock bottom, when a fat chavy bint asks if you have a girlfriend, and when you say “no” she tells you to take more pride in your appearance! Such is love. It is true what they say Women are like fair ground rides, fucking mental. For now I am more than happy living by myself with my single freedoms. I have learnt some of lives most valuable lessons living alone, when you live on your own you learn Lurpack spreadable, is unspreadable.
The next week I was sat on the bus going to Bradford for some god knows reason, maybe it was some sort of charity mission, we have seen the lengths I will go to for charity…have you ever been to Bradford? If you want to see what down town Baghdad looks like, go visit Bradford, but please, please, please what ever you do, go to the doctors and get all your injections first! The Government have gone way over the top with job cuts, Bradford has been especially hard hit, I’ve just heard three prostitutes have been axed in Bradford already!
sat on the bus, while I was on my way to Basra, sorry I mean Bradford, was a middle aged man sat right in front of me who was obviously watching a porn film on his mobile, it probably would of helped him if had turned the sound off, or at least used head phones, right in front of the whole bus. He was holding his phone with one hand, I could not see what he was doing with the other. It was a pretty grim sight I tell you. Anyway I have noticed that Pornhub titles always seem to lack depth and imagination, yes we know college girl is trying anal for the first time, but what’s her degree in? Her dreams? Her ambitions?
He was sweating like…
a dyslexic on Countdown
a paedo in a playground
a fat man at a buffet
a nun at a cucumber stall
Gary Glitter in Mothercare
a fat bird at a disco
Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah
Vanessa Feltz on a treadmill
Michael Barrymore at a pool party
a Scouser in Dixons
a Geordie in a job centre
a dog outside a Chinese restaurant
a priest at a boy-scout meeting
Fred West’s babysitter
Michael Jackson on a bouncy castle
Hitler at a Bar Mitzvah
a Scotsman at a charity fund raiser
Joseph Fritzl at a family reunion
like a Jimmy Savile in a morgue
you get the idea.
I wish I could of changed seats but alas there was no where to go, I was trapped watching a second hand porn film! Talking of not being able to change seats, apparently there are certain rules when you are on the bus that means, if you are a man in his twenties (which I am, just) you have to be the first one to give up your seat, should anyone who is not in that category require it. Apparently this is just fair, in a equal society, us men in our early 20s to 30’s are just expected to give up a seat, no questions asked, seats which we have paid the most for, to anyone else that wants it, no matter what condition. Now being the reasonable and tolerant person that I am, I accept that if I pregnant woman gets on (even though its her fault she is pregnant) or an elderly person gets on, and they are a bit unstable on their feet (kind of like me after a few pints of Landlord) then it is probably right that I give up my seat, however begrudgingly. However, on my bus there is a regular battle axe that gets on only a few stops after me, who for some reason, only known to her, thinks she is the master of all things bus. We all know the type, someone who has a face of a bulldog licking piss of a stinging nettle.
So one evening, happy to be on my way home so that I could finish off watching Breaking Bad (I had been up till 4am the previous morning watching it, I became quite the addict, and it took me two weeks to adjust to normal society again, I did briefly think about going into the meth business, but I decided start up costs maybe a little to high, I may start saving though so watch this space) the bus was full, but I managed to claim a seat! I was rather smug about this fact, however battle axe had other ideas, and seeing a young(ish) man sit down must of angered this old crow, who preceeded to tap me on the shoulder and ask me to get up, so the woman stood next to her, in her early 30s, not pregnant, no visible sign of disability could sit down, purely I assume just because she was a woman. I don’t understand why women want to be equal when they could be better. That shows a lack of ambition to me. This is why men are better. (only joking ladies)
So I did what all self respecting people would do in this situation, I said ‘no’, put my head phones back in, and logged on to Facebook! I could see the woman who was going to take my seat was clearly embarrassed that a strange woman was trying to get her a seat. So daily me and this feminist Nazi bulldog have our seat battles. And I am glad to say dear reader I am winning 24-5 wooo, time for another polo!
But I find that happens more with the new mums, ahh new mums. The worst kind of bus passenger, people so dull that when they turn around you forget what they looked like, the ones who will bore you with 20 minutes of bullshit about how difficult it is to get a kid into a school, the ones who feel they have a god given right to do, say and sit where they want, because they have a child, and of course as all childless people will know, if we do not have a child we do not understand! New mums did you know Your house is a medley of disgusting smells, there’s nothing to eat, everybody’s wearing bathrobes, there’s no bar, I can’t fuck anybody. Why would anyone come round?
The most arrogant of the human species, it can turn the friendliest down to earth women into complete and utter arseholes in an instant. Bags and pushchairs taking up 3 seats at rush hour, making everyone play musical chairs because your bag of nappies needs a seat too, constant screaming from your little bundle of joy, that everyone can hear apart from the new mum, because after all, being a parent is the most difficult job in the world apparently, and I just don’t understand. What I do understand however, is that we have been having children for thousands of years, and I am sure there was not this much fuss all that time ago. It seems to be a relatively new thing. I am sure it does hurt, however people keep on having children, I got hit in my balls once, and I never want to do that again, so you tell me which is more painful? I blame the invention of Facebook, where you can tell the whole world that your new ticket to a flat screen TV has had its first shit, or you can tell us all how you love your child. Here’s a radical idea, why not go look after your sprog, instead of telling me all about it? Or those people who put ‘full time mummy’ as their Facebook status, unemployed, you are unemployed! It is your child, and if we are being brutally honest, no one actually cares but you! If I am being polite and ask how old your kid is, I don’t need to know in months. “27 Months.” “He’s two,” will do just fine.
He’s not a piece of fucking cheese. And I didn’t really give 2 fucks in the first place.
I have another game for you all dear readers (I should work for Waddington’s!)
Next time you’re on a beer run to your local supermarket, add nappies and baby food to your trolley. When you get to the till, empty your wallet to reveal only enough cash for the alcohol. The look on the cashiers face as you tearfully ask them to cancel the baby products from your bill is priceless!
Are you having trouble finding your kids’ name’s on bottles of Coca Cola?
Then I bet you wish you’d given them proper names instead of thinking you were clever by calling them Lake and Destiny.
Children are very overprotected now, in lots of ways. We’re very nervous about them. You know, people go, “Don’t go outside! Or inside! Get into the cupboard with some spinach!” When I was a child they’d kick you out and you weren’t expected to come back until there were bats!
You ask women, “You know how painful it is? What are talking about here?” And you don’t get an answer, you get anger…and it always starts with the melon…“IMAGINE A MELON!…COMING THROUGH YOUR FACE!…fuckin’ stay there, I’ll get a melon!”
We are going through a period in our office at the moment where everyone seems to be having a baby, which inevitable means that they are going to bring it into the office, its torture, I can not go near it for fear that I may offend the parent, and no doubt that parent will be my boss, which makes it doubly tricky! I find it hard when someone does bring their sprog into the office to not act like it doesn’t look like a potato.
And remember new parents, it does not take that much effort to be a good mum. Remember Katie Price and Kerry Katona have both won mum of the year! I read in the free news paper once that Apparently Jordan and Peter Andre are fighting over which one of them gets custody of Harvey, although I imagine eventually one of them will lose and have to keep him
I was once on a bus in Newcastle, I do love Newcastle (I once got called a puff for wearing a coat in December while I was there) and that was something else altogether. Just the bus on the way up there had fights, between women (orange women), between women and men, and the women and the bus driver, then people passing out in there own vomit, and the men in tight T-shirts trying to split them up, it was a right laugh, but made acceptable because the Geordie accent some how made it less threatening!
That was a pretty eventful weekend it itself, we went camping somewhere outside Newcastle, there were four of us in this tent, in the arse end of nowhere, one friend had drunk three litres of cider (only cost £2.85 though, what a bargain) and he proceeded to throw up inside the tent, and I am talking serious projectile vomiting! So the other three of us had to sleep outside with just one sleeping bag between us (not in a broke back mountain kind of way though, it was freezing). Needless to say we were not happy, so I proceeded to let the tent down and let my sick smeared friend role about in his own vomit all night. The next morning we woke up and had to crawl back onto the bus, freezing cold, but still not quite as bad as our friend, who got on the bus covered in dry vomit. The next Monday at school he still had some of his sick on his back. We have not spoken since!
Other things I have witnessed on the bus that I can not think of anything to write about, or cant be bothered to right about because The Apprentice is about to come on.
- A religious god botherer trying to recruit me to her church while on my way to work – Christianity: One woman’s lie about having an affair that got seriously out of hand.
- Seeing just how far old people can travel on 30p (not worked it out yet, but it seems a long way)
- A woman with a ferret.
- The same woman with a parrot
- A clown with a broken leg
- My next door neighbour kissing a man that’s not her husband
- My old boss dressed as a very convincing woman (I promised not to say anything and so far I haven’t!)
- Man with 2 guide dogs, not really sure why
- Woman having a panic attack
- Man or woman dressed as a Teletubby
- Woman going into labour
- A girl and her dad going shopping too Ann summers, very sinister
I read a blog once by someone who had bought a scarf and he went on for about three hundred paragraphs about his scarf and where he bought it and how it made him feel. The last time I bought a scarf I wore it. End of story. I didn’t write a novel about it.
I got on a bus the other day and the driver said to me.
“Going any where nice sir?”
I reply “does it look like it? I’m getting on a fucking bus
You know what they say about buses, you wait for one bus…. And you wait and you wait, and you wait a bit more, and the case of Arriva Yorkshire you carry on waiting till hell freezes over or at least Men in vests become morally acceptable, and you never have any clue what time the bus may turn up, often just when that fat tattoo riddled bus driver can be arsed ( i am not the fittest but I am fairly fit due to regularly thinking about jogging and i once performed a jumping jack. It was unintentional and involved a spider but it still counts) or what time he finishes screwing some hooker he picked up in some dark alley on one of his rounds.
Isnt evolution amazing! One minute they’re swinging through the trees, the next they’re driving buses. I have heard that People who drink on buses will be barred from using them again. All very good in theory but eventually they’ll run out of drivers.
Now most people would say it is men that drive too fast, and women are the careful and considerate drivers, that may generally be true, but I tell you, in my experience it is those scary lesbian looking ‘women’ that are the worst! They look at you like you broke into their house on Christmas day and pissed on their kids, every time you set foot on the bus; they look like you are putting them out in someway, like it is a big chore to open the door to a paying customer! And seriously do not get me started on actually trying to paying for your Delightful journey. Is their anyone who actually knows how much their fare is supposed to be? It is pretty much different every time I step on that bus, like a shit game of Russian roulette, don’t have the correct fare and you die, another reason why I really need to start learning to drive.
Jesus and if you have not got the exact change, bloody hell you are basically in the shit, they look at you like you have just drowned some kittens! You may have a fiver, and your bus faircould be £2.80, oh but that is not good enough for Wendy the semi-professional wrestler behind the wheel. Despite not ever knowing how much the fare is, you MUST have the correct change or there is literally no chance of hopping on the over crowded, flea pit, surrounded by people who look like they have just escaped from Chernobyl. People who look like they have just eaten Greggs, i don’t mean a few pasties, i actually mean Greggs, the whole shop, bricks and all
While I am on the subject,
Curvy girls think that they’re fat?
Fat girls think that they’re obese?
And Obese girls think they’re fucking supermodels?
People who between them have as many teeth as I do in my whole mouth, whose teeth decided to abandon ship, in anticipation of the large amounts of special brew that they were likely to be drowned in, and those few who are lucky enough to have 3 teeth or possibly even more, look like the teeth are writing the suicide note, after all no one else on the cesspit of a bus can write. People who count as benefit day as ‘payday’
After 17 years out of work, I’ve finally got an interview next week.
Me and the wife are guests on an episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show called “My Husband Is Britain’s Laziest Scrounger.
These people need putting down but I was taught never to make a threat unless you are prepared to carry it out, and I am not a fan of carrying anything. Even watching other people carrying things makes me uncomfortable. Mainly because of the possibility they may ask me to help.
To give you an idea of what Yorkshires ‘Bus Operator of the year 2012’ clientele actually are like, imagine the scene, It’s a dark stormy night, Doctor Frankenstein is desperately trying to get his hideous and chilling monster right, he has raided the local cemetery of dead bodies, he has chopped them up and sewn body parts together in the hope of creating a living thing. Mean while next door, there is a big fuck off explosion in JD sports, and all the cast off’s get cover in Addidas trackie pants, and Reebok classic shoes. Then a Farmer comes in and spreads cow shit all over them… and you are somewhat close to the type of people I am talking about.
Anyway as you can imagine getting on the bus at least twice a day is always a thrill, seeing all those happy smiley gums, who could want anything else in life. In fact it may not really surprise you to know that I have had my fair share of run ins with bus drivers, one rather jumped up meff actually took my lunch off of me once, I am deadly serious, I had a salad from Morrison’s which was just across the road from my stop, and he refused to let me on in case I ate on the bus! Now I understand not eating, but it was not even open, because I could not be arsed actually trying to communicate with the bald chimp, I just gave him it and sat down. So I stumbled to the back of the bus as he set off rather quickly (he did that on purpose too) to find a guy genuinely injecting something into his arm!
‘Excuse me you can not come on this bus with a salad you might spill it and get a slightly unripe tomato on the floor’
‘Nah mate it’s just a bit of smack, i’m gonna get of me fuckin tits man’
‘Ah no problem sir, have a lovely day’
Is there any other profession in the world where you can basically turn up anytime you like and it does not matter?
Now the amount of times that these particular buses,i say buses, it’s the 229 from Leeds (sue me Arriva), either are late or do not bother to turn up at all, really takes the piss, it is not just occasionally, it is everyday without fail. The bus turning up on time is rarer that a unicorn or a 12 year old girl who did not meet Jimmy Saville. So I have come up with an idea, you tell me if this is fair… for every minute those miserable cock gobblers do not turn up we can deduct 20p off (our often made up) fare? Sound reasonable? I thought so too!
So with an idea worthy of dragons den in my head, I went onto the Arriva website, I was genuinely shocked to see that if a bus is 5 minutes late, or even 1 minute early then you can get on for free!! Seriously have a look at the bottom of this laughable customer mission statement
Arriva customer promise ‘We value your custom and welcome customers from all communities that we serve. Here we have outlined the quality of service that we promise to deliver to you:
• We aim to ensure that you have a safe, comfortable journey on a clean, well-maintained bus
• You will be able to identify your Arriva bus by its distinctive turquoise and cream colours• The route number and destination of the bus will be clearly displayed• Your bus will be driven by a professional wearing a uniform• We will always endeavour to be helpful, courteous and treat people with respect
• We are committed to providing a range of good value tickets, so that you can choose the one that suits you best
• Information about the times of Arriva buses is available from this website from traveline on 0871 200 22 33 If you wish to be kept up to date with information about your local bus service, including any promotions, please let us know via the ‘talk to us’ section on this website
.• We will make it easy for you to tell us what you like or don’t like about our services via our customer services hotline 0844 800 44 11. This number will be displayed on all our vehicles. Feedback can also be provided in writing: please refer to the Talk to Us section for further contact details
• We will respond to comments made within 10 working days of receipt and will keep you up to date on progress in the meantime
• We try to run all buses on time. However sometimes things outside our control, like traffic congestion or road works, might affect your journey. We will work with others to reduce the impact wherever possible
• If your bus leaves early or is more than 5 minutes late and we are to blame, we will offer you a future journey free of charge. Should this be the case please contact our customer services on 0844 800 44 11
Now the important bit here is ‘if we are to blame’ the greatest get out clause in history ‘no it was not my fault, the hooker I paid for was shit at blowjobs so I took ages to finish, and I spent £5 on that’
Anyway…there is a point to all this, I was sat on the bus (which makes a change as usually I have to stand) on the way to the White Rose shopping centre, and I was thinking, seriously why is there no strict rules about who and who can not get on the bus? Why do normal people, well relatively normal ones who don’t drag there knuckles along the floor, or tuck their pants into their socks, have to put up with listening to bloody Rhianna on the bus at full blast, while some thirteen year old girl takes a break from telling her friend ‘Chardonnay’ how she got fingered at Steve’s house, to sing along to her favourite part of the song? like she is one of those fruit loops on X-factor (what is with all those sob stories! a friend of mine once auditioned for the X-factor, so to give him a better chance i flushed his fish down the toilet and shot his mum)
So I came up with a few rules which I thought I would share with everyone, and who knows, if people like it we could change the world!! To day the 229 service, tomorrow the world! Ok maybe a bit too much there, but as Martin Luther King said ‘I have a dream today’ although I was a bit Adolf Hitler ish in my dream just then… That’s a name that has died out…Adolf, weird.
Anyway as I was doing some shopping, not in the same way ladies do their shopping, mine was just walking past the shops, having a look in the window and quickly deciding there was nothing in the shop that I liked, to be perfectly honest I think that I only went there for the Nando’s chicken! Arghh the perks of no longer dating a vegetarian. It reminds me of a joke I heard from a really rather sick friend of mine, now apologies in advance…
Women are like buses. You often get funny looks when you wank on ‘em. (Sorry mum)
I do feel sorry for the Guys in here. They all look exhausted, from being dragged round every shop by their Mrs, constantly having to lie, and say that their significant other looks fabulous in everything they try on, even if they look like roadkill. You can literally see them all stood outside the shop looking at their watches, getting more frustrated by the second, I mean it is dinner time on a Sunday, there is 4 hours of football on, its super Sunday for gods sake. All the blokes give each other either a knowing nod or a forced smile, they are all in the same boat.I sat down and had my chicken, just people watching, I do love people watching, I can never tell what people are saying but I like to make up my own back stories for them.When a good looking girl walks past a group of maybe 4-5 girls, they suddenly all stop what they are doing, like a group of Meercats, and just stare, they look her up and down to try and find fault with her. Then as soon as the pretty girl is out of earshot they embark on a massive bitch fest. It’s just the way with girls, it is like a drug to them, they have to bitch it comes as naturally as breathing. The amount of times I have sat with girls who are quite happy to slag off friends and work colleagues, then as soon as they see them it is like nothing as happened, like they are best pals. Now be careful here men a strong word of advice here, just because your Mrs will slag off her friends over and over again, in no way make the mistake that you can join in! oh no, you cant, she is quite happy for you to listen to her tell you how her friend looked like a pig in a blanket at that wedding, but if you say anything at all in agreement prepare for a barrage of abuse! Prepare for the ‘she is my friend not yours’ speech It is the greatest hypocracy in the world and there is nothing you can do about it. That’s the thing with you women, you are a mystery, and you say that men do not understand you! No you are right we have no fucking idea! None what so ever! Now girls is there a right answer to the question that every man dreads… and I mean every single man in the world…. Do I look fat in this? This is a trick question gents, refuse to answer it, do not go down that road, and do not even attempt to answer. It can only end badly. And trust me, if you get stung by this question once, you will never in your life make the same mistake again. If you say no, she will think you are ‘just saying that’ and she will just go get changed anyway thinking that you lied to her, so now she thinks you are a liar. If you say yes, well basically prepare to have your balls stuck in a vice and be castrated with a rusty spoon.Us men need to accept we will never win, it is like the war in Vietnam, winning is just not an option, it is best to roll over and play dead.
Now as I was sat at that table, this is truthfully the conversation I over heard, now I can guarantee any man who reads this will have had the exact same conversation, it is guaranteed, it went something like this…
‘Are you ready to go home babe we have been here 5 hours’‘But I have not got anything yet’‘But we have been into every shop’‘Can we just go back to the first shop again; I think I want to get that dress’
Amazing, there are just no words sometimes ladies.
Anyway, I made a few rules for the bus, she if you like them…
1. All passengers should be sniffed before coming on board – if you can not be arsed to get your self in the shower then you should not be allowed on. Why should I have to sit gagging at the back of the bus because you smell like your dogs ball sack?
2. Men with long hair just get off the bus – if you are a bloke in his 50s and you have long hair, you need to have a long hard look at the life you are living. Until you get it cut you are not stepping foot on this bus. If you are going bald as well cut off that little rat’s tale! You are not fooling anyone! you look like you touch young boys… Jimmy Saville had long hair..
3. If you do not have the money to get on the bus do not haggle- this is not a market in Morocco, you can not barter with the bus driver. Would you go into Tesco’s and haggle over the price of a can of coke? No, now fuck off you tight c**t
4. A bag is not a passenger – if you have a bag, do not put it on a seat, especially during rush hour. A bag is an inanimate object; it will not mind being put on the floor. Get it off the seat and let someone sit down. Did you buy the bag its own little bus pass? No, no you didn’t.
5. If you are lucky enough to get a seat on the bus, sit on the seat nearest the window – if you are lucky enough to have the 2 seats to yourself, do not sit on an isle seat, I will ask you to move, and I will deliberately brush up against you all the way home.
6. Being a woman does not entitle you to a seat – I know it is controversial ladies, but unless you are so old you can hardly walk and no longer in charge of your bodily functions, being a lady is not a reason you have to ask me to leave my seat. It has happened a few times and I will continue to refuse. Its just equal rights ladies, you wanted the vote, and equal pay, well then you have to give up some privileges. After all I would rather see a pregnant woman standing on a bus, rather than a fat woman sitting down crying
7. No prams or pushchairs at rush hour – if you have had a ‘happy accident’ and need to take the bus, then there are plenty of hours in which to take your delightful daughter or son on the bus. If little baby Chlamydia (it sounds strange, but genuinely one of my friends who is a nurse had to stop a parent calling her daughter that. The ’mother’ said she thought it sounded exotic I kid you not) push chair takes up 3 seats then you will be kicked off the bus. But you will probably not notice, because you will be to busy playing candy crush on your brand new iphone that i have paid for
8. If your baby screams shut it up – if your child, your little bundle of joy, or your ticket to sky plus, however you want to look at them, cries and screams on the bus, do something about it. The amount of times these so called young ‘rough as a badgers arse’ mothers just ignore a crying child, while they talk to their friend Britney on the phone, describing in painful detail have they got gangbanged in a field, or just gave a hand job to the guy in the job centre to get a bigger house amazes me. My ears are bleeding shut the thing up! On a side note to that, if you have a babies ears pierced you should be thrown of the bus by your pubes!
9. Do not talk to me – I have my headphones in for a reason.
10. No music – I do not mean people with headphones, I mean those complete tossers who think it is cool to put there speaker phones on and sing at the top of there lungs? What’s the best that could happen? You think Simon cowells car has just broken down and he has decided to take the bus? No he hasn’t so shut the hell up!
11. if you are really fat buy two tickets – I am sorry but being fat is not and excuse, why should I have to sit with my head up your sweaty armpit and facing your ‘Moobs’ just because you say you are partial to a bit of cake ‘now and then’? I feel sorry for fat people on buses though sometimes they put the widest seat right at the back.
My mate pulled two girls last night.
“They’re like buses,” I said.
“What?” he said. “Because you wait for ages then two come at once?”
“No,” I replied. “They are like buses.”
Another rant over with,
“I’ve got a real problem. You know those women you’d give anything for, but you know you can’t have? Well, I’ve got it really bad for one right now. Worse thing is she knows I’m into her and that just turns her on more. I can’t stop thinking about her. But I know, I KNOW it’ll only end in tears. So I told myself the next time I saw her I was going to resist.
Right so, I have been missing for a good while again, and it is simply because I am the king of laziness, I have found myself watching lots of children’s TV, especially Peppa Pig. I especially like the episode where mummy pig, gets all dressed up special for her Birthday. when I grow up, I am going to be like mummy pig. She is very talented and never gets cross, even though her children frequently come home all soiled in mud from jumping in bastard puddles. Her husband is an overweight fool with a serious superiority complex. I suspect she self medicates with quite a lot of wine in the evenings. I am sure parenting is a hard job, However whoever invented a way for mums to get together on the internet is on a par with the person who invented the atomic bomb. They have unleashed a force upon the earth so awesome and dreadful, that it threatens the whole of humanity. Mums should be kept in isolation as far as possible and never given access to social media. We should stop worrying about Trident and seal Mumsnet in a bunker instead of nuclear waste. As we speak, there is a guy in this coffee shop, sitting at a table, not on his phone, not on his laptop, just drinking coffee like a psychopath. But if the truth be told, I have not really had a lot to moan about since my last post. That doesn’t mean I do not hate everything, and that things don’t annoy me any more, because they do. They really do… like feminists, people who walk and text, people who chew too loudly or constantly sniff when they are sat next to me on the bus. Because things like that really boil my piss. Like recently when I got told to give my seat up on the bus for a middle aged woman, by a guy who was lurking around like a big hairy rapist at a coach station. And when I say middle aged, you would expect her to be going on 60 or 70ish. But no, this woman was in her forties at the latest. Of course I refused, which generated a fair amount of staring and loud tutting noises from a woman who looked like a Nazi Julie Andrews; she didn’t get off her arse and move though!
Anyway, all of these little things are not good enough to write a whole blog post about. It would be pointless, I just told you them!
It is hard to be sarcastic and bitter when things have been going pretty well of late. But I knew I needed to write something, so to get me in the mood I punched a kitten in the face and that made me feel much more like my normal self.
“God, she was all over me as soon as I stepped in the door, kissing and touching me. Then she suddenly cools off with no warning. A total cock tease. She’s always dressed immaculately, and today was no different. She was wearing this breezy little floral number, down to just below her knees; minimum jewellery – just a bracelet and a simple necklace. Real classy.
We talked for a bit, and she made us some lunch. Then, as she was clearing away she “accidentally” dropped a knife. Fuck me; she bent down SO SLOWLY, letting out the sexiest little groan you ever heard. As I was sitting there in the chair, taking in the view, all I could think was:
“Shit…if you weren’t my grandmother you would be in SERIOUS TROUBLE right now.”So agony aunts why them… well why not? I hate the filth pigs. I’d love to stuff so much cotton wool down their throats that they would be shitting it out of their arse till they look like the fucking Easter bunny. They are as credible to me as psychics, mediums, Kim Kardashian (so Kim Kardashian’s arse is huge and has a lot of oil… I wonder if America will invade it? Oh wait, my bad, half of America already has), or those weird people who go on about horoscopes; it’s all just a big con. They are the equivalent of a 99p store called ‘Value Bastard’ that sell lighters cellotaped to bottles of bleach. To me, they are making a living off mentally ill people, the metally ill people who write to them. I mean who in the name of sweet baby Jesus would write to them? Well I know… lonely people! I am lonely, and I am always looking for affection, my only requirement would be that we keep the lights off as imagination has its limits. I have had worse of course… my last girlfriend was the poster girl for ‘love is blind’ and my current partner is overseas at the moment so the only intimacy in my life involves a stick of salami and the neighbours dog when Glenda & Frank go out Tuesday nights. Once when they arrived home early due to an argument between themselves regarding Frank’s internet usage, I hid in their wardrobe for four days. I could see Frank using his computer from my hiding position, therefore, I can vouch for his denials to Glenda’s accusations that he was “looking at girls on the internet”. He was looking at photos of her. No, not really, it was men.
Young lonely people tend to be the main culprits. I don’t even see young people on the street anymore. I see youths. You know, how they’re described in police radio reports… slumped S-shapes in their hoods, beside their harrowed dogs and a bin full of burning grannies, all texting each other because they’ve given up on speech, and plotting something terrible like how to make cider out of blood
Often the things that the agony aunts discuss are deeply personal, stuff that you would find hard to talk about in front of friends and family. Yet the morons that write in are happy to let some middle aged woman (who’s only qualification for the role as far as I can tell is being able to read and write) give you life advice. It’s like having Stevie Wonder judge Miss World. In its simplest terms it is basically your nosey neighbour next door who can not keep her big fucking nose out of other peoples business popping over to tell you your tax disc is out of date. Except this time you have the added pleasure of it being published in a national newspaper. I am sure that their intentions are honourable, and that in a past life, the aim of these wank biscuits was to truly help people. There are so many serious issues, which simply can not be solved by two lines in a newspaper column. They will argue that it is just to provide guidance for small personal matters, but its not. People write in about all sorts. Some guy this one time, was so concerned that he had an attraction to children he wrote into a national newspaper, and Deirdre genuinely tried to get him help! Question: Does the new paedophile in town approach the older paedophiles and ask them – ‘Where’s a good place to track down kiddies? Do you know a good place?’ ‘Well, it’s swings and roundabouts, really.’ I will not say his name, because I can not remember, but what I do know is that he was from Wales. Wales is a strange place. Every 20 years or so, anthropologists attempt to coax the islanders from their hostile reception of outsiders by leaving leeks on the beach and waving from boats anchored just beyond spear throwing distance. Sometimes the native’s wave back and the anthropologist’s encouraged approach for them to come close enough to be speared.
The most popular example of mentally challenged (or Jeremy Kyle viewers as I like to call them) being exploited for other peoples amusement in this country is in a newspaper called ‘The Sun’ (I say newspaper; I mean it’s for idiots, or used as a back up for toilet paper). It has a daily column called ‘Dear Deidre’. Deirdre is now a household name in this country like ‘Vanish’. I do not know if the woman’s real name is Deirdre or not, and I do not give a flying goats shit enough to find out. All I do know is that she is a big frumpy woman who has a 1980’s style perm. And the most unbelievable thing about this is that people actually write in to her and ask deep personal questions! (Personally, I just think that somewhere in the cellar of the Sun HQ is a load of 16 year old media studies students who are made to work 12 hours a day with no break, thinking of different ways to word ‘my husband is having an affair what should I do? balls to aspiration, it’s a tosser’s mirage. Oh it is of course anonymous, with the exception that they put there name, age and where they are from in the article. “The next query comes from Armando 30 in Littlehampton” the height of discretion the sun. (As a side note: I love the fact that the ‘photo’ story on agony aunt pages always has fit girls in their underwear. Don’t fat ugly girls ever have problems?)
“I’m beginning to think I’m not normal; I’m still a virgin at the age of 11.
Sally from Liverpool”
There are so many problems in the world today, and most of us have a skeleton in the cupboard. David Beckham takes his out in public. There are so many problems with Britain, and it is such a strange country. I mean you have to be 16 to join the army, but 18 to play call of duty. You can vote at 16, but you have to be 18 before politicians can stop finding you attractive. Like I say, odd. Occasionally you will get some serious questions from people who are genuinely looking for help, and not just to see if they can get in the paper. Often these are teenagers struggling with their sexuality, and struggling with how to tell their friends and family. Of course these kind of queries need a real and deep response, not just a couple of sentences in a newspaper, and then a premium rate phone line to call afterwards. Personally I do not care whether a person is gay, straight, or Australian. I personally don’t think I could be gay… I just don’t have it in me.
Another huge and current issue in this country is the issue of immigration. Everyone has an opinion whether good or bad it doesn’t matter. Everyone has an opinion. I have a mix of nationalities living on my street. Ones English, ones Chinese, ones Indian…it’s like the Olympic village here. But that’s OK.
I am not talking about the big issues in the world, the issues that really matter, the issues that we should all take an interest in, the issues that really affect us everyday, i.e. Terrorism, hunger, disease, immigration (it’s a hot topic in the country, and no doubt all over the world now is immigration, but what can you do? Build a wall around Britain? Who the fuck is going to build it?) I am talking about the crap you read in everyday rags like the Sun, or the free crap you get on the bus in the morning; the one that the man next to you has used to blow his nose (at least he is not sniffing constantly). But why concentrate on the major issues, when Candice from Essex thinks she has caught a sexually transmitted disease off Abdul from the kebab shop, and now can not stop itching and has a burning sensation when she goes for a piss behind the bins. I know A joke about Essex girls, I apologise in advance …
An Essex Girl enters a sex shop and asks for a vibrator.
The man says “Choose from our range on the wall.”
She says “I’ll take the red one.”
The man replies “That’s a fire extinguisher.”
The news is full of disadvantaged people who have problems – they say disadvantaged on the news because they can not say “fucked” on the news. Look at Heather Mills, at one time she was the most hated woman on the planet. I mean if anyone could have used a bit of advice then it would have been her. The only way Heather Mills can redeem herself now is to find Madeleine McCann. Bless her little wooden leg, she is not the only celebrity that could of done with a bit of advice from our favourite old hag Deirdre… Michael Jackson (god rest his soul) could of done with her help, or at least one of her fabulous glossy leaflets (if you call a premium rate number and get put on hold for 30 minutes, she must be rolling in it the greedy bitch). Mind you, he had so many problems that he would have needed her whole range of leaflets. It would be a whole novel. Jackson’s family say AEG and his doctor ignored all the warning signs regarding his health, little tell tale signs that showed he was ill, like his face falling off!
You can almost guarantee that in Germany there are no such things as problem pages….want to know why? Because things work there.
There are so many amusing ones though, and you can only imagine what the person writing in must look like. I imagine it is not to dissimilar to Jackie Stallone, after an acid attack. One that I unfortunately found myself reading was about a young girl who was worried that she was not a good kisser. Deirdre’s amazing advice? Practice on her pillow. I shit you not. So next time she kisses someone, she will expect to smell like sweat and taste like cotton. All I could think of is what that that kiss must be like. I imagine it’s something like trying to siphon petrol.
I phoned the agony aunt this evening incidentally. That’s what I call her anyway – my uncle beats her regularly
“I have trouble making friends, what the fuck is you going to do about it?”
Kids are also a big problem today, an example of this would be when I was at the bus station once, and there was a girl with her parents, she was 11 (I will explain how I know that she was 11 shortly) and she had one of those pink fluffy tracksuits on, ones that look like someone made it out of a towel that has been left in your schools lost property, and now smells damp and musky like an old ladies house. Stitched on the arse it said ‘gorgeous’. The dad came over and for some reason started talking to me (which I hated), he had a strange oder to him and came over smelling like a pissed seaside donkey. He started talking about his daughter, and mentioned she was 11 (see nothing dodgy). I couldn’t help mention the tracksuit she was wearing, and asked if he thought it was a tiny bit inappropriate for an eleven year old to have ‘gorgeous’ plastered across her arse! All he could say was it’s ‘the fashion’. But she was a minger! Certainly not gorgeous! Surely that falls under the trade description act somewhere!
It tends to be women that write into these columns of sorrow. Generally, men’s biggest worries are either getting fat or going grey, either way the solution is the same – diet (dye it). I had a think about what problems I have that I could write to Deirdre about for guidance, however the biggest worry I could think of is making sure that I have matching socks in the morning. Occasionally I do get a little worried when my bus is 5 minutes late, which would cause me to be late for a job that I hate… but to be honest I soon get over that. Sometimes I also here voices in my head, but I just ignore them and carry on killing. I didn’t write a stupid letter to some bimbo.
“I’m leaving you”
Women are the main culprits, it has to be said, for keeping these problem pages going. I mean women’s magazines are just one big problem page. I will never understand women, so sometimes these columns will give you an insight into the warped female mind. All I know is there are only two conditions where you’re allowed to wake up a woman having a lie-in. Either it’s snowing, or the death of a celebrity. It’s basically simple to work out a woman. “What do women want?” As though it’s really mysterious. As though it’s a big deal. All that women want is what anybody wants. You know, friendship and companionship, respect, a certain amount of leadership with submission, and a kind of cooperation at all times, and pre-emptive empathy and you know, general telepathy. It’s no big deal, is it? Traditionally, women have been attracted to uniforms. So it’s not difficult to know what women want. Fascists – that’s really what they’re all after!
How women think is completely different to men. Only a woman can coin a phrase ‘dream cheating’.
When I woke up before my last girlfriend, usually to let the dog out so it doesn’t take a dump on the kitchen floor, I made her a coffee and took it to her in bed whispering, “Time to wake up, you have to get ready for work,” or “Time to wake up, the dog took a dump on the kitchen floor and it isn’t going to clean itself up.”
On one occasion, I whispered, “The police are here. If they ask, I was home last night and you don’t know anything about Mr O’Brian’s cows.”
On a Sunday morning, she woke me up by punching me in the neck.
Thinking that someone was attacking me, perhaps a burglar or an evil doll that had come to life, I rolled away from the blow and out of bed yelling, “What? What’s happening?” she, stared at me from in bed, said, “I had a dream you had sex with Liz McDonald from Coronation Street.”
Groggy, and still puzzled as to what was happening, I asked, “Who the fuck is Liz McDonald?”
“She’s the lady that lady that works behind the bar in the Rovers,” she replied, “I dreamt you were having an affair with her and I came home and she was wearing my clothes.”
“What the fuck?” I asked, “She’s in her eighties.”
“So if it had been someone younger that would be ok would it?” she demanded. “No,” I replied as I dressed, “but if I am going to get punched in the neck because you have a dream about me having an affair, I would rather it be with someone born after the Second World War”
“Like Kate Beckinsale? You love her don’t you,” she accused. “What?” I responded, “I’ve never even met her.”
“Yes, well,” she continued, “You’ve never met Liz McDonald either and that didn’t stop you.”
Making my way out of the bedroom as quickly as possible, I walked downstairs to make a much needed cup of coffee and discovered the dog had taken a dump on the kitchen floor.
I rest my case
These so called ‘experts’ advise people on relationship issues, lots of them are to do with men lying to their partner or wife. The truth is, we all know that relationships are basically apologising for saying something hilarious. Men tell such lies, like when we say you are our best friends, we don’t mean it, and we only say that to make you happy. After all, you can’t have 14 pints with your wife. Men are just simple, when you are born, we have one finger on our nose, the other hand on our dick, you get taller, and that’s really it. But in the main, the general theme is to do with affairs; it is pretty much always an affair of some kind. Some of the things are truly sick, and I mean sick. Sicker than a mouse downing a bottle of white lightening. My girlfriend is always saying I’m a terrible liar. Several affairs and a secret love child says different.
I once read a line from one of these help columns – it was about a woman who had just got married, but her husband was having problems in the bedroom department shall we say. The phrase she used was ‘I have had muggings that have lasted longer than that’. Amazing, truly amazing. Poor guy. I mean what a catastra-fuck for him that must have been. If it’s not ‘arriving’ too quickly when things are getting hot and steamy, then it’s the husband who has problems getting the little fella up. The advice is always drink some wine, relax. But surely the last thing you want is to drink wine? As if being drunk has ever helped a bloke get it up? If worst comes to worst, Viagra is always suggested. What great advice, thanks Deirdre. Of course, this has never been a problem for women, female Viagra has been around for years… its called money.
“My girlfriend asked me to knock something up in the kitchen, now my cleaner is pregnant”
These columns span a range of mainly women’s issues, including problems such as weight. One column I read included a woman who wrote in to say that the ‘problem is she can not stop buying cakes’ and the agony aunt went on about changing her lifestyle, substituting cake for something else, doing exercise blah blah blah. But surely the problem was eating the cakes rather than buying them? Unless I have missed the point completely, there is no harm in buying cakes; it is eating them that will cause you to get fat. But I suppose I am not the expert, and hey, if you were not meant to eat at night, why put a light in the fridge?
To do these columns must be similar to being the GP after Harold Shipman, a piece of horse piss. I once helped an “over weight” colleague with her problems, although she didn’t know it. You know those bath bombs that make the water smell nice, that generally come with a bar of soap in the little wicker basket wrapped in cellophane that people who you couldn’t care less about are given as presents? I once received one as a staff ‘secret Santa’ and it still had a little tag attached with gold ribbon that read “To Sarah, Merry Xmas 04”. This annoyed me somewhat as I actually put some thought into my gift. Louise, who is quite fat, seemed quite over whelmed with her trial subscription to Weight Watchers Online.
Binge drinking features a lot in these columns too. Many are worried about it, and the effects it has on the economy and our healthcare system. The advice is always the same, go seek help. But I think they have completely missed the point on this one. No one ever says anything good about binge drinkers, its like farting in a cheese shop; it’s not the main problem. As a binge drinker I suffer abuse, I have been for job interviews and I know the only reason I didn’t get the job was because I was hammered. They couldn’t see behind the drink, they couldn’t see the real person. Before I go out binge drinking I always eat half a pound of butter. It doesn’t actually do anything … I just make fucking poor life choices. I have recently started drinking whiskey, which is probably due to my age, it turns you into two people: one of you is very nice, you’ll go up to total strangers and say, “Come in, come in, sit down, for God’s sake, have something. Have my bed.” And then you’ll go up to people you’ve known and loved all your life and say, “Get the fuck out of my house! Go on, get out! And leave a tip!” The most dangerous drink is gin. You have to be really, really careful with gin. And you also have to be 45, female and sitting on the stairs. Because gin isn’t really a drink, it’s more a mascara thinner. “Nobody likes my shoes!”, “I made… I made fifty… fucking vol-au-vents, and not one of you… not one of you… said ‘Thank you.'” And my favourite: “Everybody shut up. Shut up! This song is all about me.”
Top (Bad) Deirdre headlines
- Rape Pornography
- Wanking glove
- Weight gain
- Constant googling, ‘does this make me gay?
- Fear of buttons
- Constant fear of cancer
- Dreaming of swimming with dolphins that at best will feel complete in difference towards you
- Tutting at the news
- Books pretended to read
So with all this in mind, the reason for this post is simply this… over the next week I am going to set up a new blog, and twitter account in the pretence that I am a budding therapist called Jen. I will be encouraging people to tweet/post there problems to Jen. Jen will then give them relationship advice, or what ever it maybe, in the only way Jen can. Any replies will be responded to and posted on my blog; keep posted, and let the fun begin!
(I promise it will not just be “she was ugly and fat anyway, I don’t even know how you could kiss her”)
So I have not written anything for a while, despite numerous promises because I have been drunk mainly, but also because I am just lazy, I actually won an award for laziness last week, My mother picked it up on my behalf. Lets be honest no one reads my blog anyway, so really I am not sure why I am writing anything, in fact why bother? Oh I may as well carry on with it as I have taken the week off work on ‘sick’ so I may as well fill my time some how.
A guy phones up his workplace on a Monday morning… “Sorry Boss, I can’t come in today, I’m sick” “Dave this is the third Monday in a row you’re had off. Just how sick are you?” “Well, I’m in bed with my little sister at the moment if that’s any help?
I don’t usually take many ‘sick’ days but I did once skip work because I had the mother of all hangovers, the next day my boss stormed up to me in the office and said, “You missed work yesterday, didn’t you?” I said “Not particularly,” that was another verbal warning.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you: this is not writing. I have absolutely no idea how this blog or even this sentence I’m currently writing is going to finish. When and if it does, I can only hope it makes some kind of coherent ceramic pineapple.
Loosely speaking of work, it’s a big commitment isn’t it? It’s 50 years of your life given away to someone else. The only commitments I generally make are concerning events at least a week away, which gives me time to think of a way of getting out of them. I would kill to have David Attenborough’s job, I have to confess that I am slightly in love with Mr Attenborough. Not in a gay way you understand. I just like the idea of visiting all these exotic places, visiting animals in their natural habitat, teaching Amazonian tribes who cant not speak English to say hello, (which is ‘hello’ in English..)
The problem is I don’t like the general public, I do have a job of my own, but I don’t like it, and I don’t really have a lot else to say about my normal daily routine without depressing myself. However recently I did go over to Afghanistan to entertain the troops. They love a good laugh, the Taliban.
I have never been good at being told what to do, it really riles me, and I like to almost rebel against anyone that tells me what to do, like a rebellious teenager, but I have never really grown out of it! That’s why I could never be a butler, one arm butlers – they can take it but they can’t dish it out. I loathe being told what to do in general, but I hate being told what to do by a Hitler wannabe who thinks they are better than me just because they get 50p more an hour than I do. One of my old bosses had short man syndrome. I knew my first boss was going to be trouble as soon as I met him. He was small, and short men are almost always angry, horrible things. A woman being short is seen as cute, but a short man will never forgive the world for such a cruel blow. Small men hate normal sized humans. They wish them cancer and car accidents. They dream about being the size of an office block and stomping on all the normal sized people. Small men have fat wives with tight curly hair, and they are angry about that as well. I am sure there are many advantages of being so small. ASDA has and excellent range of boys clothing at competitive prices. If I was small I would buy a cat and ride it. He was a pretty shitty boss in all honesty; he was about as useful as goggles made of bees.
Bad things to hear at work
- “Well you have shown me the ware house and the restroom, where do I masturbate?”
- “Sod the tea break, where’s the bar?”
- “Right, which one of these chairs do I sit in; I have never flown one of these big planes before”
- “I don’t much like the look of this dump, still ill be moving on soon anyway”
- “I thought seeing as they are dead, it didn’t matter what we did with them”
- “And remember, you wipe the old ladies bottoms from north to south”
- “Mind if I pull the blinds down, the sunlight is going to keep me awake”
- “And if any chickens come along the conveyor belt and they are still alive, well that’s where the mallet comes in”
- “My wife can’t make the shift tonight so ill be doing the poll dancing”
- “Being an electric chair operator does have its fun side as well”
Work, it’s essential to live, a necessary evil. No one really likes it, but we have to do it, and those very few morons that do like it, tend to be the most boring people alive, everyone knows the type, the ones who have about as much personality as swamp water, the type of people that slow down when they see a car accident on the motorway, the type that have pictures of their cats on there office desks, all they can talk about, in any social circle, is what happened at work that day. I had friends like that once; needless to say we no longer keep in contact. Some people have brilliant jobs though, some footballers earn a fortune. 30 grand, 40 grand, 90 grand a week, some of them. And then they say stuff in interviews like “I’m not really enjoying the football at the moment.” Not enjoying the football? 90 grand a week? I’d be fucking delirious with it! I wouldn’t just hug somebody for scoring a goal, I’d shag them. As well as some mind numbingly tedious jobs there are also some strange jobs that you can not believe exist. For example, I could never work in the Jobcentre. Imagine if you got fired! You’d still have to show up the next day! Who discovered we could get milk from cows, and what did he THINK he was doing at the time?
I have had a fair few jobs, none I have ever taken seriously and certainly none that I ever considered as a ‘career’. My first proper job I had when I was 16 was in a supermarket. It was my job to hand out samples of things for people to taste. However, I was asked to leave after the little cups of bleach incident. When I was younger I did have some ambition believe it or not, I wanted to be an accountant or a solicitor, but then as I grew up I quickly came to realise that they are some of the worst human beings imaginable! If you ever need a cure for insomnia, talk to either a solicitor or and accountant, you will either be fast asleep or be suddenly wondering if your belt could take your body weight if you tied it around your neck and tied the other end round a tree branch. How many accountants does it take to drill a hole? None, the hole is already bored.
I once told a joke to a solicitor I knew, and the response sums up everything that you need to know about them…
Me: ‘why did Emma fall off a swing?’
Hannah: ‘who’s Emma?’
Me: ‘that does not matter it is a joke, why did Emma fall of the swing?’
Hannah: ‘why you asking me? I don’t know anyone named Emma, probably because she was being stupid and not holding on, is she alright?’
Me: ‘no she’s dead’
Hannah: ‘are you making this up?’
Me: ‘yes, just say I don’t know ok?’ ‘Why did Emma fall off a swing?’
Hannah: ‘I don’t know’
Me: ‘because she has no arms hahaha’
Hannah: ‘so you think people with no arms and no legs are a joke? Its not! You are not funny!’
I hated the idea of working when I was a kid (and I still do now), I just didn’t see the point; I hated the person who invented the idea of work he must have been a twat bag. Both my parents were hard workers, my mum worked as an estate agent, including weekends to pay for my brother and I, My dad was a dustman. I didn’t like him coming to collect us from school though. It’s not that I was ashamed he was a dustman; it’s just that you never knew which day he was going to come. When I was young the only work that I did was trying to get my badges in scouts,but unfortunately I got thrown out of scouts for eating a brownie.
However I have since reconsidered my stance, I think it’s a brilliant idea to make kids work, they could be so useful for cleaning behind my fridge, with their small hands, I could pay them a wage of Haribo Starmix and cans of Tesco’s own Rolla cola, they could also use this to clean the drains. (its incredibly dusty behind my fridge, to be honest its becoming a health hazard, I really should clean it, but I am scared about what I my find, there is probably a whole new eco system behind there now)
I had a wonderful childhood, which is tough because it’s hard to adjust to a miserable adulthood. The careers teacher told me I had a clear choice: if I didn’t end up going to university I’d end up robbing post offices, id certainly be better off if I had robbed that post office. I suppose that is still an option, I will not rule it out just yet, although balaclavas are not to flattering on me, I think they make me look at least a stone heavier. I never really new what I wanted to do in all honesty, except not go to work. I hated the idea that I would just turn up at the same place every day and eat sandwiches in the same canteen, with middle aged women moaning about their alcoholic ex-husbands, even though it was clear to see that they were the ones that drove them to drink. I am still not sure what I want to do with my life, apart from have a long lie in. There was one job I was interested in, as it was working with a children’s charity, and I applied for a job at Childline Apparently, “I like listening to children’s rape stories” is not an acceptable reason for employment.
The sound of your alarm on a Monday morning is like a knife to the gut, it is like having your balls cut off with a rusty spoon. Basically, Mondays suck way more than the fucking girlfriend. Mondays have always been bad luck for me, my granddad died of the blues on a Monday morning. Technically it said ‘hypothermia’ on the death certificate, but it was still a Monday. But the feeling of dread doesn’t start on Monday morning, oh no, the feeling of dread starts round about dinner time on a Sunday. As a kid as soon as Heartbeat came on the TV and you were marched upstairs to have your bath on a Sunday night, you knew the weekend was over. Sundays are a nothing kind of day, as Alan Partridge famously said “Sunday Bloody Sunday. What a great song. It really encapsulates the frustration of a Sunday, doesn’t it? You wake up in the morning, you’ve got to read all the Sunday papers, the kids are running round, you’ve got to mow the lawn, wash the car, and you just think ‘Sunday, bloody Sunday!’”
As I have got older I have realised that having a job that you loath, is still slightly more preferable that being unemployed. There is nothing worse than being ‘dole scum’; I have suffered a period of unemployment, after I left university, I couldn’t find a job anywhere, although I did learn Going around a council estate on a weekday morning dressed in a suit pretending to be a bailiff is a great way to get free blow-jobs. The biggest challenge I faced when I was unemployed was trying to piss the skid mark off the side of the toilet bowl, I didn’t get dressed for two weeks in a row! My day consisted of Sitting alone watching the shit daytime TV, eating a Pot Noodle for breakfast, and chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle for Lunch and a chow Mein Pot Noodle for Dinner (Pot Noodles. For best results, put back on the shelf). I was trapped in a shitty little flat that was not big enough to swing a dead mouse let alone a cat. I had all the time in the world to clean the flat but had so many things on my ‘to do’ list that I decided to treat them all equally and draw pictures of fish instead. It was a hovel of a flat I resided in, nothing worked the way it was supposed to. The light fitting was the victim of a toy light sabre being swung in a space too small to do the same with a cat. I dodged a leaping double handed overhead attack and the fitting, being fitted, didn’t. The smell people mistook for cigarette smoke was probably just from the fog machine. Each Tuesday I held a disco in my bedroom with strobe lighting and special guest. As my wardrobe door has a large mirror on it, it looks like someone is dancing with you. I once dressed as a lady and it was almost exactly what I imagine dancing with a real lady would be like. Unfortunately, I kept worrying about falling, hitting my head and being found dressed that way so she left after only a few dances and a brief kiss.
After being unemployed for a while I had developed a severe case of agoraphobia and residing in a flat where I could reach all four walls while standing in the one spot brought me a feeling of security and the daily culling of plague proportion cockroaches gave me something to do in my spare time. Anyway, I have a job now, and have had jobs previously and it is fair to say that I have been sacked or politely asked to leave from pretty much everywhere I have been, with the only exception being the job that I am in now, and I can assure you that wont be long! There are only so many times you can get warned for making the fat girl at work cry. Every office has the resident ‘fat girl’ the one that all day insists she just eats a salad leaf all day, but you know as soon as she gets home, as sure as night follows day, shoves her face in a large cake. To be fair on her she has a condition that means she can’t lose weight. Laziness. This was the joke that made her cry: I’ve just seen an advert in the lonely hearts column, “I’m a curvy girl with a bubbly personality.” Yeah, the only thing bubbly about you is the Aero in your back pocket, you fat bitch. Ok so it is harsh, admittedly, I admit, but it was just a joke! I can assure you dear readers that In no way was it aimed at her, in fact I was not even talking to her, it was a conversation that she over heard. To be fair she had a voice like a goose farting in the fog anyway, so I won’t lose too much sleep over it. She had been in the office 2 days! 2 whole days and she cried! It is a record I am proud of and that was my second ever warning. The third was making her cry again for rearranging her filing so it was no longer in alphabetical order, And because of this she couldn’t find some form she needed. On a side note, when people say ‘it’s always the last place you look’. Of course it is. Why would you keep looking after you’ve found it? She is a kill joy of the highest order, she has a personality of a wet fish, the type of person who could walk into the best party in the word and kill the atmosphere, just like OJ Simpson did with his ex wife (allegedly). Her eyebrows look like two slugs fucking, so she is quite annoying to look at as well as listen too. I decided to keep my distance after she burst into tears and got me into trouble, never pick a fight with an ugly person; they’ve got nothing to lose. She has the habit of posting everything her and her boyfriend do on Facebook; my theory is its all just to prove he is real, because it is like the 8th wonder of the world that anyone would ever put up with her. She is, to be fair, in the interests of balance, always smiley, but it’s easy to smile when you have a squirrel’s intellect. I am aware of the hypocrisy in what I just said, I can’t talk, if I had a pound for every girl that thought I was unattractive, they would eventually find me attractive. She is also a vegetarian which is an instant dislike from me, I’m a vegetarian, well I’m not hardcore because I eat meat, but only because I like the taste, and I hate vegetables on a personal level so I’m not too good! She finally did say something to tweak my interest a couple of weeks ago, she was talking about the possibility of moving to Wales, which is good news and even better news she is taking her ginger and personality less boyfriend with her. As I said to her, Wales is perfect for gingers as it is so grey and cold, and they can actually leave the house without fear of the sun, in Wales they worship the sun like it’s a god. The last time it was seen in Cardiff was 1982; I got that fact from Wikipedia so it must be true. I would make a welsh joke at this point, but I am above making jokes about sheep, it’s not funny, so I am inflicting silence of the lambs (I am really sorry about that joke, I have been ill)
Obviously first, before you have the joy of getting to sit in a stale office, where disease spreads like wild fire, you first have to get through he dreaded interview. Ah yes, this is the bit that everyone hates, anyone that says that they like interviews are liars. Big fat stupid liars! No one likes sitting in front of some random strangers, who are sitting there judging you deciding if you are good enough for sitting on your arse 8 hours a day staring at your computer screen, and keeping that smile on your face, even if you hate the people that you are working with, and you stare out the window wishing you were one of the happy people sitting outside in the sun, trying not to catch the eye of the office pervert. My friend recently had an interview with some firm. After an entire 30 seconds he decided the job was not for him, and not one to mince his words, this happened: Interviewer: ‘What would you consider to be your main weaknesses and strengths?’ My friend: ‘Well my main weakness would be my issues with reality, telling what’s real from what’s not’ Interviewer: .And your strengths?’ My friend: ‘I’m Batman.’ Admittedly I made a big mistake when I first left university, I was honest on my CV, I thought that was what you were supposed to do, and I could not have been more wrong. So now I am a qualified brain surgeon, I am learning Latin and on my evenings I fly to China to help save the Panda.
Real things that have happened in interviews in places I have worked
- Said he was so well qualified [that] if he didn’t get the job, it would prove that the company’s management was incompetent.
- Brought her large dog to the interview…
- She wore a Walkman and said she could listen to the music and me at the same time.
- Balding candidate abruptly excused himself. Returned to office a few minutes later wearing a hairpiece.
- Applicant challenged interviewer to arm wrestle.
- Asked to see interviewer’s resume to see if the personnel executive was qualified to judge the candidate.
- Without saying a word, candidate stood up and walked out during the middle of the interview.
- Said if he were hired, he would demonstrate his loyalty by having the corporate logo tattooed on his forearm.
- Interrupted to phone his therapist for advice on answering specific interview questions.
- Wouldn’t get out of the chair until I would hire him. The police were called.
- During the interview, an alarm clock went off from the candidate’s briefcase. He took it out, shut it off, apologized and said he had to leave for another interview.
- An applicant came in wearing only one shoe. She explained that the other shoe was stolen off her foot in the bus.
- He took off his right shoe and sock, opened a medicated foot powder and dusted it on the foot and in the shoe. While he was putting back the shoe and sock, he mentioned that he had to use the powder four times a day, and this was the time.
- Candidate said he really didn’t want to get a job, but the unemployment office needed proof that he was looking for one.
- She threw up on the desk, and immediately started asking questions about the job, like nothing had happened.
- Pointing to a black case he carried into my office, he said that if he was not hired, the bomb would go off. Disbelieving, I began to state why he would never be hired and that I was going to call the police. He then reached down to the case, flipped a switch and ran. No one was injured, but I did need to get a new desk.
My first job was a paper round, ok admittedly it’s not a job as such, but it paid money (not a lot), and it was the first time I had money that my parents didn’t give me. Apart from when I was at school I got EMA, but only because my parents told the council they had divorced (they hadn’t) and so I got £30 a week just for turning up (which I didn’t) who says that crime does not pay? I got £8 a week to walk with my little trolley and post the free local rag though peoples door… (I didn’t). The paper I was delivering mainly contained articles about missing cats, church bake sales and had a weekly guest columnist who appeared to be a militant feminist who hated men. How many feminists does it take to change a light bulb? 12. One to screw it in, one to excoriate men for creating the need for illumination, one to blame men for inventing such a faulty means of illumination, one to suggest the whole “screwing” bit to be too “rape-like”, one to deconstruct the light bulb itself as being phallic, one to blame men for not changing the bulb, one to blame men for trying to change the bulb instead of letting a woman do it, one to blame men for creating a society that discourages women from changing light bulbs, one to blame men for creating a society where women change too many light bulbs, one to advocate that light bulb changers should have wage parity with electricians, one to alert the media that women are now “out-lightbulbing” men, and one to just sit there taking pictures for her blog for photo-evidence that men are unnecessary. I suppose one day it would be nice to know what I actually do as a job, what my role is, I am sure I will find out one day, but I am too scared to ask. All I know is becoming dumber by the day because of the crowd of idiots I work with. On my first day in my current job and after 8 hours of solid accountancy qualification studying, I could safely say that I still had no idea exactly what my new company actually did. The office was all ‘open plan’ with everyone working from what my boss called ‘workstations’, these are sort of private dens measuring 8ft by 8ft. In my den was a chair (to small) a desk (too high) a pen holder, a phone, with a sticker that said ‘internal calls only’, strangely two waste paper baskets and a computer. There was also a tea and coffee machine which I was to scared to use due to the abundance of buttons (26). I spent the day filling in data forms, what the data forms mean I do not know, maybe it is a complete mystery, but as all the staff were working so hard, I felt that it was unwise to ask them what we were actually doing. I got emails every 5 seconds, but I am not exactly sure what they all meant, and who it was that was sending me them. Many seemed to be spam. I hate those e-mails where they try to sell you penis enhancers. I got ten just the other day. Eight of them from my girlfriend. It’s the two from my mum that really hurt. I did consider asking my boss what we did, but his moustache had grown considerably since my interview and it scared me.
Worrying email subject lines
- RE: your impending death
- Re: last night – I’m really a man
- Could you look at this picture of one of my poos?
- I’ve given you Chlamydia
- Re shadow on your lung
- I think you sexually assaulted me last night
- That was your last warning
- Re: those priceless vases you asked us to look after
- Re: picture of me shagging your mum
- Re: ooops I hope I am not to late, take one pill, not ten!!!
- From: NORTH KOREAN SECRET POLICE
- Subject: BADLY JUDGED ‘SHORT-ARSE’ JOKE YOU MADE IN THE PUB LAST NIGHT
The rest of the week was spent filling in lots of data input forms (87). I can not tell if that is a good or a bad thing, but I am still in my job, so I must be doing something right what ever that maybe. When I finished on the Friday, I told my mum I had no idea what it was that we did, she told me to just concentrate on not getting sacked (again)
Bad things to hear on your first day at work
- I don’t like the look of this dump, still ill be moving on soon anyway
Things not to say on your First day at work
- I’ve been mashed off my face all week, but I should be able to fly the plane ok
- Is this how we put holes in donughts?
- Well, it’s a tricky one isn’t it? I mean, define paedophile?
- So who’s the office bike then?
- I’m guessing it’s you who makes the coffee around here then love?
- I’ve just seen your stationary cupboard and it’s like an Aladdin’s cave in there
- Hi I’m coco the clown, I expect I have some big shoes to fill
- It’s the first Monday of the month-how come I am the only person who has blacked up?
- Just because I am the new boy in the mortuary does not mean I’m having anyone’s sloppy seconds
- I suppose the perk of working down the sewers is that you can take a shit anytime?
- Its and easy mistake to make – I had no idea I was meant to be here a pheasant plucker
- Ten minutes early, but I like to have a really big shit before I start cooking
After 2 weeks I did finally pluck up the courage to use the complicated tea and coffee machine at work, I could not find the tea button so I made myself a cup of hot water with milk, it was surprisingly nice. Things recently have been getting very exciting, as I appear to making a and impression, the boss said I am shaping up to be a fine employee, so I gave myself an imaginary gold star! I remember I was in the car with a colleague, I can’t remember where we had been, something to do with work but it was probably a waste of time, like all trips we take with work. They are mainly for managers and they just take us along to make it look like we are included, we are always promised will get given lunch, which usually involves being given scraps of sandwiches that they didn’t want, and we will all fight over the one sandwich that looks edible, like a group of angry pigeons fighting over bread. However on this journey home, my colleague turned to me and said something incredible. “Ben” she said “yes” “Can I ask you something secret?” “Yeah sure” “Promise not to tell anyone” “Of course” “What does the company we work for actually do?” I could not believe it! There was I thinking that I was the only baffled employee, now I have a fellow co-baffledee! With that we burst out laughing, we laughed so hard that we missed our turn off on the motor way and got completely lost! (NB after that incident with my female colleague, I Started up a website for women drivers only. Bloody thing kept crashing…) When I first started my latest job, we had a really bitchy receptionist called Laura, she constantly had a face like a bull dog licking piss of a stinging nettle, and she was a little troll. Laura had worked for my company since 2009 as a potted plant. Popular with the men, Laura enjoyed knitting scarves for her cats and performing dance extravaganzas for her mother. Her best friend is a dead bee that she found of the windowsill in 2011, which she named Laura. She was a receptionist, but always told people she was a ‘front desk manager’. I often asked what the difference was, but her face just got red and she would storm off muttering ‘you sarcastic c**t’. I once told my colleagues that I had seen her snorting cocaine of a hookers tits, I got an email the next day that just said ‘you fucking liar’ in bold red letters. She was there for a good 6 months after I started, that was right until the ‘incident’. Instead of selecting her boyfriend Steven, she accidently clicked staff. Laura sent a picture of her in just leather boots to the whole building. Being ‘curvy’ as fat people prefer to be called I was surprised with her flexibility. There is no way I could get my legs behind my head, even with a cushion under my back like she had, I have tried. When I was growing up, selfies were accidental Polaroid’s of our thumbs. I understand Laura’s decision to leave without notice after that; however what was more embarrassing than the subject matter was where the picture was taken! It seemed to be in the office buildings own shower room. You could see the lockers and the people’s towels hanging up in there. Who does this? If it was up to me I would be crying as I splashed petrol all over the walls with a lit match in my hand, not taking nude selfies! I was glad when she left, not just because of her prickly nature (she was like a bear with a sore arse) but mostly because she suffered from irritable bowel syndrome. It wasn’t so much the noise, which was like trying to squeeze the last bit of ketchup out of the bottle, but the fact that she would leave the door open after finishing, leaving the toxic dust cloud, similar to that of Chernobyl wafting through the reception area. Now I am sure if I were to look up the symptoms I doubt it would include the inability to shut doors. I am sure that dropping the faecal equivalent of Hiroshima has more to do with diet than disorders. I once saw her eat a whole cake for lunch. Not a cupcake, a whole cake. Of cause I did confront her on this although I admit my wording could have been better ‘Could you close the door and not subject everyone to what smells like a large pile of dead cats, dead cats covered in shit’. The ‘fresh linen’ fabreeze does not mask the odour, it just makes it smell like a large pile of dead cats covered in shit with a dryer sheet stuck on top’. That I am proud to say was my first complaint in that job. It took me 6 weeks, a new record. The stress of this obviously got too much for her when she shouted out one morning “I can’t do this anymore,” and left. Her dramatic exit scene was diminished somewhat when, despite having opened and closed the reception door hundreds of times, she pulled and shook the handle for several seconds yelling, “what the fuck is wrong with this door?” before remembering it swung outwards
Complaints I have had at work:
- I stole my colleague diet coke and replaced it with a shot of sambucca, they had no idea who it was until I said, ‘right I think it is time for a diet coke break’.
- Replacing the line ‘customer service manager’ with horse whisperer on my bosses email. He didn’t realise for a week. – written warning
- Photo shopping Jimmy Savilles head on to all my bosses wedding photos on his PC while he was on lunch
- While my boss was in a meeting with the CEO I painted his white iPod black using a permanent marker because he kept complaining that he wanted the black iPod.
- Changing the picture of my bosses husband to a picture of BA Barracus from the A team.
- Moving my boss’s desk an inch forward every hour till by the end of the day he was almost in the storage cupboard.
- Moving the keys on my bosses keyboard so that every time he typed ‘the’ it spelt ‘tit’
- Changing my bosses home page so instead of Google it loads to that squirrel being kicked of the Grand canyon
- Sticking all my bosses stationary down with super glue and laughing so hard I had to open the window for fresh air.
- Talking about Breaking Bad in the office. Not realising my boss was on the phone with a client, I yelled “We should build a Meth-lab in the back room.”
- Answering every question in my annual appraisal using a magic 8 ball.
Most of these complaints were against one manager at one of my temporary jobs, but not all. His name was Tom (he gave himself the nickname of ‘Thommo’ I refused to call him that) I don’t really have anything against Tom apart from the fact that he likes the band Coldplay and Never trust a man, who when left alone with a tea cosy… doesn’t try it on. I have no idea what his problem with me is, as I’m pretty sure I am an absolute pleasure to work with. My very first run in with Tom was when he blamed me for stealing pens from his desk, which I vehemently denied. He then proceeded to point out the tiny engraved words ‘Tom’s Pen’ he had done on all eight of the pens currently on my desk. It was so small he had to point them out to me with the aid of a magnifying glass. Each two-millimetre high letter was meticulous. When I asked how he had managed to get the letters so perfect, he told me that he had a headset at home with a light and magnifying glass on it. When I asked why he had a headset with light and magnifying glass on it he replied, “For painting collector figurines.” When I was temping at a local college (yes I passed my CRB check, so I am living proof that police checks cant catch everyone) I always had to fill out timesheets, with my hours that I had worked, although my hours were set and a simple 9 till 5 so I did not see the point in this, most of the time I decided not to do time-sheets anymore. I’m not a robot. There was an old woman who’s token responsibility as time-sheet collector was essentially the office equivalent of placing an OCD child in charge of equally spaced fridge-magnet distribution to keep it occupied while the x-factor is on. It was actually good this year, there were so many applicants that they had to split it into three categories: Dead Dads, Teen Mums and Bullied Kids. While I generally avoided going anywhere near her cubicle of sorrow, lest the lack of atmosphere suck me in and cause my eyes to pop out like in that Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. My time sheets often went like this….. MONDAY
- 9am Arrived at work. Considered staying home in bed but, with the boss being away this week, there is no real reason to be absent. Checked schedule. Completed my work for the week.
- 4pm cleaned my mouse.
- 5pm Left for the day.
- 10am Arrived at work. Answered the phone on Rita’s (my boss’s name) desk with “Hello, this is Rita speaking. How may I be of help to you?” Told student I would have an email ready to send them “as quick as a flash.”
- 10.30am Accessed Rita’s computer using her secret password ‘smudge’ (her cat) in order to locate and send requested email to student. Sent. Read Rita’s emails. Replied to her mother regarding her question about what to get Auntie Maureen for her birthday. Recommended bouncy castle.
- 11.30am Attempted to log into Rita’s Facebook. Logged into Rita’s Facebook.
Changed status to single. Sent Geoff a message saying “Ignore the status change. We haven’t broken up. I just don’t want anyone to know I have a Husband
- 4pm Left for the day.
- 11am Arrived at work. Read about wombats on Wikipedia while having a large cup of green tea at the boss’s desk. Drew pictures of wombats. 11.30am Realised the permanent marker I was drawing with had penetrated the paper and Rita’s desk now had 9 wombats saying ‘Hey’ on it. Hunting for something to clean it with, I used the key Rita hides behind the framed photo of her other cat Lady Forteskew to unlock her top drawer. Found Star Wars Lego. Recreated the scene from the movie where, during a light-sabre duel, Vader cuts off Luke’s right hand, reveals that he is his father, and entreats him to convert to the dark side so they can rule the galaxy as father and son. Lost Luke’s hand behind Rita’s desk.
- 12.30pm Chased and killed a bee in the office with Rita’s mouse pad rolled into a tube while making light-sabre noises. Closed Rita’s window. (I would never condone cruelty, violence or torment to animals, that’s what red haired children are for)
- 12.45pm Thought about the bee’s family waiting expectantly at home for his return. Gave them names. Imagined Bradley rushing into his mother’s outstretched arms, bewailing, “I miss him so much” and Brenda replying, “I know Bradley, I miss him too.”
Performed ceremony. There was cake. Constructed a small funereal pyre on Rita’s desk out of a paperclip, placed Ben’s small lifeless body on top, mentioned his selfless determination to provide for his family, and set it alight. Unfortunately, I was only into the first verse of Bohemian Rhapsody, the only church song I know, when Ben’s body popped like a corn kernel and flew behind the desk. Unsure if he was still alight, I poured coffee down after him. Realising nobody has ever been behind the desk due to its size and position against a rear wall; I also dropped the remains of the cake and the plate down the back to save me having to walk into the kitchen. Accidently knocked Rita’s pencils down there as well. And then her mouse pad.
- 3pm Left for the day.
- 12pm Arrived at work.
- 1pm Sat in Rita’s chair without my pants on.
- 2pm Left for the day.
- Called in sick. Went shopping. Bought a Nintendo DS
- 9am Arrived at work. I feel it is important to set a good example for the other staff through promptness.
- 11.30am filled out these time sheets as it is part of the job and allows the college to bill correctly. Finding it difficult to concentrate on job priorities today due to the negative environment Simon has created after accusing me of changing is background on his computer to Justin Beiber in a bikini so will be leaving at lunch time.
I have been dragged to 1 work function that wasn’t my own, it was with an ex girl friend, she worked in a estate agents, but not one of the big ones, a small independent one, and they obviously had no money left for the annual party, where all staff members are made to attend and forced to have ‘fun’. I was my girlfriends plus one, I had never met anyone from her work before, and quite honestly I had no intention of ever meeting them. I was forced to get up really early and take her shopping for a new dress, There are only two other conditions where you’re allowed to wake up a woman on a lie-in. It’s snowing or the death of a celebrity. On this occasion I was forced with a mixture of blackmail and threats of violence, so I went. The only way you can enjoy yourself at work functions and especially other people’s work functions, is if there is a large supply of alcohol, and hoping that someone embarrasses themselves so much that they have to resign stating family reasons. However, being that my girlfriends company was small and, if the rumours were to be believed, on the verge of going bankrupt, the bar had a two drink limit. The bar tender was a weird little man who had retired many years before and had nothing else to do, and no one had the heart to tell him to ‘fuck off’. It was the saddest event that I had ever been to and that included funerals and Christmas at her parent’s house. I was given strict instructions by my then girlfriend to behave, and to ‘just try act normal for a couple of hours’. As they were giving certificates for staff who have given more than 20 years service (yes just a certificate, it was framed though so that’s ok then) my girlfriend left me to use the bathroom, left alone to my own devices I was pounced upon by some old lady. She asked me if I was enjoying the party, I asked her if she had ever seen two fish kiss. When my girlfriend came back I told her about this little encounter and she stayed glued to my side all night, occasionally pinching me in the ribs when she thought I was about to say something inappropriate, not said something inappropriate, but when she thought I was about to say something inappropriate. Later on that evening the same woman approached me and my girlfriend and said to my girlfriend that she thought I would have been better looking to make up for the fact that I was not as funny as I thought I was. I asked if she had ten cats, and when she said no, I mentioned to her that she not judge a book by its cover then. I went to the bar and asked for another beer, where I was told by the little old dwarf that I had already had two and I could not have another. We had an argument for a good few minutes about why it was necessary for me to have some more alcohol. It mainly involved the premise that it was medicinal and that with out it I become a homicidal maniac with a thirst for blood. I got a swift jab in the ribs from my girlfriend, so I excused myself and ran across the road and bought a cheap quarter bottle of vodka that I safely stored in my pocket.
Ok so I have no ending to this. Here is a picture of a cats