I'm going to order a shitload of these and flog them on street corners in the Midlands to the stupid, fearful owners of very friendly cats.
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
What a commute can do...
As soon as I boarded the train, I could hear the distinct and all-too-typical sound of someone who, from within the cocoon of their thumping iPod, was oblivious to the stares and tuts of other commuters who wanted to get to work in peace and quiet.
But something was different this time. The music was louder and clearer. Normally, the hissing “pfft-pfft-pfft” of the beat is the only audible evidence that you’re on the same train as cheapskate who refuses to spend money on a good set of headphones (preferring instead the white ones provided with his MP3 player).
Yes, this one was clearer. Much clearer. A quick scan of the commuters in the carriage was all that was necessary to discover the culprit – a young, lithe man of Asian or Middle Eastern origin.
No-one knew him; he was travelling to work on his own. He wore all the hallmarks of a fashion victim – the ‘big’ sunglasses, skinny trousers, slim tied and mismatching trousers and jacket. Unfortunately for him, he was also losing his hair. I imagined that this would be a great but secret source of distress for him and that no amount of designer clothes and sunglasses would cover the ignominy of having a balding pate.
During this dissection of him I had noticed with great displeasure that the abnormally loud disturbance caused by his headphones was because he had left one headphone hanging free around his neck.
I saw this annoying the lady next to him. She then did something that I’ve only seen done a few times before. She politely tapped his arm and asked if he would turn down his music a little.
The man lolled his head to one side so he was facing her, kept it there long enough for her to see his displeasure and contempt, and then swung his head back to face front. His music and loose headphone remained unchanged.
My rage was uncontrollable, despite the train being packed with tourists, commuters and school-children. I burst through the crowd until I was stood in front of him. His face lifted in his casual, mocking style, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of turning his face back. Reaching forward, I pecked the sunglasses off his face before he’d had time to react, discarding them on the floor and smashing them with my heel.
“What the fuck!” he shouted.
Now furious, I looked up and noticed he was making an effort to stand. Shoving him back into the seat with my palm and almost flooding with incandescent fury, I next reached for his headphone cable and pulled. The headphones came loose and the attached iPod emerged from the inside pocket of his jacket. I flung both of them through the open train window.
At this point, I could tell by his lack of eye contact that he’d accepted that this was a fight in which he was never going to gain the upper hand but his pride wouldn’t let him give up completely.
I wasn’t either.
Grabbing him by the collar and pulling him towards me I fumed and bulged my eyes and him. He went to speak.
“Shut the fuck up!” I said. “You’ve made enough fucking noise this morning!” I gestured to the lady next to him, “this lady politely asked you to turn your music down, you little shit. And what did you do? Nothing! Why not?!”
The question was pretty much rhetorical as no answer other than “because I’m a cunt” would have sufficed.
“You’re a fucking wanker, a little parasite on society. And you’re going bald.”
And with that, I punched him hard in the face sending him backwards into the window with a thump.
At this point, I looked up at my fellow commuters. They all looked like nothing had happened. And they were right. Nothing had happened at all. I was still stood by the door. The man was still listening to his headphones 3-4 metres away. I got off at Hammersmith as usual.
But something was different this time. The music was louder and clearer. Normally, the hissing “pfft-pfft-pfft” of the beat is the only audible evidence that you’re on the same train as cheapskate who refuses to spend money on a good set of headphones (preferring instead the white ones provided with his MP3 player).
Yes, this one was clearer. Much clearer. A quick scan of the commuters in the carriage was all that was necessary to discover the culprit – a young, lithe man of Asian or Middle Eastern origin.
No-one knew him; he was travelling to work on his own. He wore all the hallmarks of a fashion victim – the ‘big’ sunglasses, skinny trousers, slim tied and mismatching trousers and jacket. Unfortunately for him, he was also losing his hair. I imagined that this would be a great but secret source of distress for him and that no amount of designer clothes and sunglasses would cover the ignominy of having a balding pate.
During this dissection of him I had noticed with great displeasure that the abnormally loud disturbance caused by his headphones was because he had left one headphone hanging free around his neck.
I saw this annoying the lady next to him. She then did something that I’ve only seen done a few times before. She politely tapped his arm and asked if he would turn down his music a little.
The man lolled his head to one side so he was facing her, kept it there long enough for her to see his displeasure and contempt, and then swung his head back to face front. His music and loose headphone remained unchanged.
My rage was uncontrollable, despite the train being packed with tourists, commuters and school-children. I burst through the crowd until I was stood in front of him. His face lifted in his casual, mocking style, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of turning his face back. Reaching forward, I pecked the sunglasses off his face before he’d had time to react, discarding them on the floor and smashing them with my heel.
“What the fuck!” he shouted.
Now furious, I looked up and noticed he was making an effort to stand. Shoving him back into the seat with my palm and almost flooding with incandescent fury, I next reached for his headphone cable and pulled. The headphones came loose and the attached iPod emerged from the inside pocket of his jacket. I flung both of them through the open train window.
At this point, I could tell by his lack of eye contact that he’d accepted that this was a fight in which he was never going to gain the upper hand but his pride wouldn’t let him give up completely.
I wasn’t either.
Grabbing him by the collar and pulling him towards me I fumed and bulged my eyes and him. He went to speak.
“Shut the fuck up!” I said. “You’ve made enough fucking noise this morning!” I gestured to the lady next to him, “this lady politely asked you to turn your music down, you little shit. And what did you do? Nothing! Why not?!”
The question was pretty much rhetorical as no answer other than “because I’m a cunt” would have sufficed.
“You’re a fucking wanker, a little parasite on society. And you’re going bald.”
And with that, I punched him hard in the face sending him backwards into the window with a thump.
At this point, I looked up at my fellow commuters. They all looked like nothing had happened. And they were right. Nothing had happened at all. I was still stood by the door. The man was still listening to his headphones 3-4 metres away. I got off at Hammersmith as usual.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Pseud Builders
I'd like to wager that this is the only local tradey in Britain who has given his company a Latin mini mission statement. I think it's brilliant but don't think it's accurately written (having done a rudimentary translation online). I'll give them the benefit of the doubt just because they had the balls to do it in the first place.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Court short
In the first UK scheme of its kind, children as young as three are to act as judges in cases involving other pre-teens who have behaved anti-socially. Crime reduction charity NACRO welcomed the move, claiming that peer panels would help young people to understand the impact of their actions.
The scheme has been piloted successfully for the last six months in the Preston area, where young children have been overseeing cases involving bullying and vandalism. Peter File, head of the Kidz for Juztice plan, described it as “like, rad, dude!” highlighting a dramatic reduction in reported instances of dead arms, headlocks and name-calling.
The first child to be tried under the new process was Danny Champion (10) of Theworld (near Chorley), who was grassed up to ‘Miss’ by notorious snitch Jimmy Blower (11) for writing on the toilet door. Graphologists confirmed that the message ‘Jenny Grant sucks tramps’ cocks 100% true’ did indeed match Champion’s handwriting, and a forensics team matched samples to his maroon wax crayon. Though Champion went on to drop his allegation against Miss Grant, libel charges were pressed and he was sentenced to fourteen noogies and a bog-washing.
The case of Billy Nomates (8) proved more controversial. Accused of piddling against the school tree and, when confronted, of calling the headmaster ‘Mr Wee-Wee Water’, Nomates was found unanimously guilty by six children in a playpen at Brindle Kiddies Kourt (no girls allowed). When Judge Tommy Trundle (6) announced the verdict, Kourt was delayed for 12 hours by Nomates’ continuous repetition of the words “I know you are but what am I?” Nomates eventually received one bundle for his illegal micturation and two Chinese burns for wasting the court’s time.
Serial bully and ne’er-do-well, Wayne Scrunt (5) of Wightmans Burden, was the latest conviction for replacing the Nutella in his sister’s sandwiches with mud. Judge Suzie Simpkins (nearly 3) sentenced Scrunt to do PE in his pants for the rest of term, before noisily soiling herself to the hysterical amusement of the jury. Scrunt retaliated by stating that he would wait outside the inflatable courthouse with the intention of administering a ‘kicking’ to his accusers, before being dragged out by the court bailiff. The judge and jurors were all comforted and given squash and biscuits while their parents were called.
The Lord Chief Justice, Lord Nightmare of Elmstreet, called the Kidz for Juztice system a “bloody shambles” and questioned the efficacy of presiding judges who were not yet toilet-trained, but the Home Office cautiously welcomed the development – Home Secretary John Reid pointed out during parliamentary questions that, on average, even the youngest children shat themselves considerably less often than current High Court judges.
The scheme has been piloted successfully for the last six months in the Preston area, where young children have been overseeing cases involving bullying and vandalism. Peter File, head of the Kidz for Juztice plan, described it as “like, rad, dude!” highlighting a dramatic reduction in reported instances of dead arms, headlocks and name-calling.
The first child to be tried under the new process was Danny Champion (10) of Theworld (near Chorley), who was grassed up to ‘Miss’ by notorious snitch Jimmy Blower (11) for writing on the toilet door. Graphologists confirmed that the message ‘Jenny Grant sucks tramps’ cocks 100% true’ did indeed match Champion’s handwriting, and a forensics team matched samples to his maroon wax crayon. Though Champion went on to drop his allegation against Miss Grant, libel charges were pressed and he was sentenced to fourteen noogies and a bog-washing.
The case of Billy Nomates (8) proved more controversial. Accused of piddling against the school tree and, when confronted, of calling the headmaster ‘Mr Wee-Wee Water’, Nomates was found unanimously guilty by six children in a playpen at Brindle Kiddies Kourt (no girls allowed). When Judge Tommy Trundle (6) announced the verdict, Kourt was delayed for 12 hours by Nomates’ continuous repetition of the words “I know you are but what am I?” Nomates eventually received one bundle for his illegal micturation and two Chinese burns for wasting the court’s time.
Serial bully and ne’er-do-well, Wayne Scrunt (5) of Wightmans Burden, was the latest conviction for replacing the Nutella in his sister’s sandwiches with mud. Judge Suzie Simpkins (nearly 3) sentenced Scrunt to do PE in his pants for the rest of term, before noisily soiling herself to the hysterical amusement of the jury. Scrunt retaliated by stating that he would wait outside the inflatable courthouse with the intention of administering a ‘kicking’ to his accusers, before being dragged out by the court bailiff. The judge and jurors were all comforted and given squash and biscuits while their parents were called.
The Lord Chief Justice, Lord Nightmare of Elmstreet, called the Kidz for Juztice system a “bloody shambles” and questioned the efficacy of presiding judges who were not yet toilet-trained, but the Home Office cautiously welcomed the development – Home Secretary John Reid pointed out during parliamentary questions that, on average, even the youngest children shat themselves considerably less often than current High Court judges.
Monday, 7 June 2010
The Sting vs The Guardian
The first thing that annoyed me this morning was the realisation that I'd missed The Sting on Friday night. Bah! A great film and an even greater soundtrack, tunes which I like to butcher on my piano most nights. What rubbed salt into the wound was the fact that the Guardian summarised the soundtrack as "Scott Joplin's ragtime piano tickles up the period feel (of 1930s Chicago) and the whole is performed as professionally as the sting itself".
So what's wrong with that? It's ignorant of the facts, that's what! 1930s? Bollocks. Scott Joplin was born in 1879 and died of some kind of mental collapse in a New York sanitorium in 1917 after the failure of his life's work, Treemonisha, an opera about slaves or something. Not his fault, there are some nice pieces in Treemonisha, all of which would knock Phantom or Les Mis into a cocked hat, that's for sure.
Anyway, I digress. This rant is for the lazy journos who can't be bothered with the facts and spend their time regurgitating the same old mis-informed shit they whip off other movie reviews or, even worse, Wikipedia.
For the record, Scott Joplin's musical career spanned from 1899 with the publication of the Maple Leaf Rag (although he's had a hand in Original Rags before that) to his death in 1917. Although, I appreciate that his music was probably listened to a little later on but the musical feel in the 1930s was far more aligned with Jazz and swing. Ragtime? Pretty much dead and buried until resurected in the late 1960s, early 70s by the performer Joshua Rifkind and the eventual release of The Sting.
So what's wrong with that? It's ignorant of the facts, that's what! 1930s? Bollocks. Scott Joplin was born in 1879 and died of some kind of mental collapse in a New York sanitorium in 1917 after the failure of his life's work, Treemonisha, an opera about slaves or something. Not his fault, there are some nice pieces in Treemonisha, all of which would knock Phantom or Les Mis into a cocked hat, that's for sure.
Anyway, I digress. This rant is for the lazy journos who can't be bothered with the facts and spend their time regurgitating the same old mis-informed shit they whip off other movie reviews or, even worse, Wikipedia.
For the record, Scott Joplin's musical career spanned from 1899 with the publication of the Maple Leaf Rag (although he's had a hand in Original Rags before that) to his death in 1917. Although, I appreciate that his music was probably listened to a little later on but the musical feel in the 1930s was far more aligned with Jazz and swing. Ragtime? Pretty much dead and buried until resurected in the late 1960s, early 70s by the performer Joshua Rifkind and the eventual release of The Sting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
