The Rucksack Conundrum

There I was, minding my own business, when a complete stranger strolled up to me and put my life in very real danger. He didn’t have a knife, nor did he threaten to nudge me into the flow of oncoming traffic. He did something far, far worse. Quite simply, he uttered the dreadful words no sane person ever wants to hear: “Sorry, would you mind watching my bag for me whilst I pop to the loo?”

What a c**t. Does he have no shame?! For a man who worries as much as I do, this was the verbal equivalent of smashing my face in with fully-grown, adult male grizzly bear. I was right up the shitter and no mistake. The rules of conduct state that there was nothing I could do. You simply can’t say no to that request, no matter how dangerous a proposition it truly is. Better to go down in a blaze of glory than be regarded as a right rotten shit.

So off he trotted, leaving me with his bag, at which point four possibilities started racing through my mind.

1) The bag has a bomb in it and I’m standing here right at the epicentre of the shit storm. Not only am I going to be shortly pulverised into some kind of fleshy soup, but CCTV images will later identify me as the murderer of countless other innocent victims. Of course, the alternative is that I call the police and waste everyone’s time as they shut off the whole of London to carry out a controlled explosion on a bag probably containing nothing more dangerous than an A4 jotter and a flapjack. Ruddy Hell.

2) What if someone takes a liking to the bag and decides to try stealing it? As temporary custodian of said oversized satchel, it will be my responsibility to either give chase or engage the would-be thief in an ugly bout of mortal combat. There’s a very real chance that I’m going to get my face punched off simply because one bag-carrying bastard can’t control his bladder. Awful. £10 says the thief is Jean Claude Van Damme too. Great, now I’m going to get my face kicked to smithereens.

3) What if he never comes back? I can’t leave it now; the verbal man-contract is utterly binding. Will I have to stand here with this distasteful rucksack forever and ever and eternity? Will I slowly ebb away right here in public as some idiot’s backpack stares at me with its zipper like a shit-eating grin? Panic heightens.

4) Of course there’s always the chance he’ll come back in about four minutes time, thank me and head off with his leathery, bag-shaped mistress to torment some other poor bugger. All my worrying will have been for nothing. He’ll have made an idiot and a victim of me in one terrible swoop.

As it happens, he returned quicksmart, thanked me endlessly and was utterly apologetic. So I kicked him in the neck and told him to grow up.

More observations

I'll let you in on a little secret here; when I do these random observation blogs it's because I feel guilty about not having written in a while but have neither the time nor the inclination to construct a well thought out and informed rant right now. Therefore I just write lots of things that I've seen recently that have either annoyed or amused me. Sometimes things amaze me too, but it's quite rare these days. So there you have it. I'm fobbing you off with some lazy verbal toss. Don't hate me too much.

+ It's been one of the most joyously sunny days of the year so far today. I spent most of it indoors trying to make the flat as dark as possible for photography purposes. I suck.

+ That said, I did play 90 minutes of football yesterday in the blazing sunshine, leading to a burnt face and mild sunstroke. The weekend wasn't a complete washout...

+ Icelandic volcano. What a c***.

+ Playing football yesterday also alerted me to the fact that it is possible to be athletic even though your legs are the width of a grass snake. I swear Peter Crouch's skinnier brother was playing against us yesterday. He should have had a pie at half time, not an orange slice.

+ The warm weather really does divide people. I saw someone today wearing a wooly hat and a warm jacket. Shortly down the road I saw someone practically naked. It begs the question, what does the first person do in the dead of winter, and what the hell does the second person do when it's genuinely hot? Some people have messed up internal thermostats. Either that or they're fucking imbeciles.

+ I know it's petty, but I'm starting to consider deleting my Facebook account. It's not because I hate the bizarreness of it all. No. It's not even because I have to constantly see photos of other people in exotic locations clearly having far more fun than me sat at my desk in work. Goodness no. The only reason I'm thinking of leaving the biggest social networking site in the world today is because of the truly horrific standard of grammar and punctuation used by the majority of people on it. Just to clarify, they're, their and there are three completely different words with entirely different meanings. We're and were are not the same thing, and neither are to and too. If a post spans more than six or seven lines it's likely a full stop or a comma were needed in there at some point. I don't think I'm friends with anyone younger than 20 on Facebook. There are no excuses.

Right, low quality rant over. Hopefully I'll think of something more interesting to say soon. Either that or I'll post a photo of my face looking mildly disgruntled. A picture paints a thousand words and all that...

Females = Different

I'll keep this very brief because it's 10:46pm and, quite frankly, I'd much rather be in bed right now. Maybe this should be called "Females = Different: Pt.1" because there are likely to be many more entries on this theme. And before anyone sets fire to a bra and throws it at me, different doesn't necessarily mean bad. Simple observations. I'll leave it up to you to decide the rights and wrongs in this case...

Anyway, the single event that prompted this entry occurred tonight. Quite simply, I handed a ladywoman (who, for the purpose of this blog and factual correctness, will be referred to as my 'girlfriend') a small chunk of chocolate. At this point a male would've said something like, "Cheers mate," before scoffing it without a second thought.

Interestingly, however, the lady in question could only make basic noises as she strolled away to find a comfy chair. I've thought long and hard for a way to accurately put the noise she made into text, and this is the only way I could describe it...

Imagine you're saying something to a small child who is yet to master the art of speech. In fact, "dada" is about the pinnacle of their spoken word so far. OK, now imagine that same, speechless small child agreeing with something you've just said through the power of guttural noises. Now that is the exact noise this chocolate chomping, fully grown adult lady blurted out as she wandered off.

Fascinating. Clearly I'm not exactly breaking any new ground here, but I thought I'd share it with you nonetheless. Just cup your ear next time you see a female ladyperson grabbing some chocco. Truly fascinating.

Just some stuff

Think my train hit a bird this morning on the way into Waterloo. Either that or a pillow. With jam in it. Not sure which is more likely.

Saw a guy with so much toothpaste around his mouth that he looked more like a fully made-up clown who had missed a bit.

Waterloo stunk of faeces this morning. I thought you weren’t supposed to flush the toilets whilst the train is in a station? I don’t make the rules. Who poos on a train anyway?

I’m noticing that many of my posts are train-related. Given the amount of time I spend on them I guess it’s understandable. Doesn’t make it right though. You don’t see Wayne Rooney blogging about lawns.

I’ve been listening to the Ricky Gervais podcasts quite a lot lately. It’s made me want to team up with a very tall Bristolian and write an award-winning TV series. I’ll settle for the West Country though if Bristol is too specific. If you’re out there, get in touch.

There is currently a small group of ladybirds (correct collective noun for a group of ladybirds, anyone?) squatting in my bathroom. When I say squatting, I mean they’re living there without permission. They’re not crouching in unison. Anyway, whilst I initially found this quite charming, it has now become something of an annoyance. Nobody needs a small, spotty beetle flying around their head when they’re trying to put a contact lens in their eye. I might kick them all in the teeth.

Pigeons

We’ve all seen them. Chances are, each and every one of us has a close encounter with one every single working day. The dictionary calls them ‘pigeons’. Others call them ‘flying rats’. Some refer to them as ‘grey feather buggers’, ‘swooping doom shits’, or ‘evil beaky helmets’. They’re everywhere. They watch us with their beady little eyes, scuttling around like big ruddy ants. They wait until the very last second, scampering quicker and quicker until finally – WHOOMPH – they flap their feathery little arms in your face. They’re a bunch of unsettling gits and they know it.

The comparison with rats is not far wrong. Both wander the city streets searching for scraps of food, both look decidedly dirty if left to their own devices and both are usually unwelcome guests. The difference is that pigeons rub our faces in it. They don’t have the common courtesy to skulk in the shadows, using stealth and cunning to keep alarm at bay. No, they like the look of terror on our faces as they swarm around our dropped buns and discarded beef patties. Sit still long enough and one is almost guaranteed to try punching you. What’s more – perhaps their most potent weapon in this assault on humanity – they are capable of defecating on our faces from great heights. Next time you’re uttering a sentence that requires you to open your mouth wide for an extended period of time (such as “I haaave the powerrrr”) just bear in mind that an opportunistic pigeon could bullseye your epiglottis with a bum-flavoured torpedo. Savage.

There once was a tale that pigeons can’t pass wind. They are entirely unable to emit a pant ripper. “Pop a water-soluble aspirin in a chunk of bread and watch the plumed goon explode!” they said. “It’s the next logical step in our war on flappers.” Such claims fell on deaf ears. The mere suggestion that such wicked creatures cannot fart is desperate optimism. More likely their anal expulsions are the very poison destroying our ozone.

Most terrifying is their wanton disregard for their own health in this attack on mankind. Through a combination of cuts, grazes, disease and faeces, pigeons often lose toes or even whole feet. Quite simply, they are willing to shit their own feet off to win this war.

There is little we can do in the face of such extremism.

Brief

Two things:

1) Either my blog has recently received a lot more traffic, or the counter's gone nut-nut. I want to believe the first, but I'm fairly certain it's the latter.

2) I've finally decided how best to deal with annoying pikey shits who play rubbish music out loud through their phone. Approach in a pleasant, non-threatening manner and say, "Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice, either your phone is ringing or you're a c**t." Should do the trick. Now all I've got to do is buy a stab-proof vest and a gun. Should be fine.

Wasps vs. Bees

Yeah, like there's really any competition. Let's face it, wasps are the evil scum of the insect world. If they were human beings they'd be evil dictators or serial killers. I'm serious. You check out a wasps nest. They've probably got dead ants hidden under the floorboards. I'm 73% confident I've seen a wasp trying to buy a gun outside Kings Cross station.

Bees, on the other hand, are the Jean Claude Van Dammes of the insect world. They're happy to go about their business, collecting pollen in the sacs on the back of their legs (admittedly, I can't confirm JVCD does that...) without harming a soul. But step into their back yard with some unnecessary attitude and they will be prepared to open a sweet can of sting face. What's even more admirable is that once they've dealt their pointy brand of justice, they fall on their sword and bite the bullet. Such honour. JCVD has the same code of honour, albeit he only promises not to cheat, and doesn't actually go so far as to die after dishing out a series of improbable roundhouse kicks straight into his enemy's neck.

Such a shame then, that wasps are built like missiles. When they spot their prey, there is virtually no stopping them. A well-aimed chop can knock their nasty little faces off, but you need the speed and accuracy of a seasoned lumberjack. A colleague of mine bore the brunt of a stripy-tailed bugger just the other day. We were happily strolling to the Tesco garage to purchase some lunch (classy) when one of the little winged bastards swooped down and stung him right on the ear! No warning, apparently no motive and certainly no need. Rotten.

So there you have it. Wasps are ruthless shits, whereas bees are gentle, but hard as nails Belgians.