A man in his late fifties with more to the right of his bald patch than the left, remonstrates persistently with the bouncer whose head’s a pumpkin. ‘But it’s a bridge,’ the man argues hoping that in light of this new information the bouncer will relent and let him through. To this man wronged, with his most inconsistent hair, this temporary arrangement is a sick perversion equivalent to the cross-breeding a spaniel to a photograph of a spade. The long suffering target of this man’s anger opens his arms as only bouncers can and spots his favourite cloud – ‘there’s nothing I can do.’. He’s right: his only job is to stop people walking the wrong way over a bridge; to let one man through would be as unprofessional as Wogan screaming ‘Fucking tune!’ over a fading Will Young track.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Bridges Today
Monday, July 06, 2009
'They can try'
Gloucester Road and a plump, pale, middle-aged man, his shirt bleeding the hungry sweat of a late Thursday afternoon pulls over his weathered BMW sharply and parks on one of those damn yellow lines with a sign above that said you really don’t want to be parking here at this time of the day.
On my walk to the shops to get a few essentials, I passed two traffic wardens aggressively pumping tickets at any car that dared to so much as whisper. They'd quickly be upon this BMW, sloshing their foamy penalties over its dirty dirty windscreen.
To all intents and purposes the driver appeared to have the arrogance and badly worn aggression that is prevalent in those that choose BMWs. He walked up towards me; nose high in the air allowing the nostril creatures to see the smug cloudless sky. My emotions should have been swaying to satisfaction - this bluster of paunch was to have the nasty shock of a sixty pound fine waiting for him when he got back. But for some reason, just as he was about to pass, a little fountain of virtue started sprinkling raw compassion all over my insides. I decided that it should be me to reach out the olive branch; to try and bring BMW and non-BMW owners to, if not friendship, at least an understanding. To break the chains of hate with the…
‘You don’t want to park it there mate,’ I said, my voice lowering in tone, my words littered with the word ‘mate’ (two things that always happen when I am forced to have any discussion involving cars), ‘wardens just up their mate’ I added.
‘And?’ he replied, stomach wobbling in sympathy to his incredulity.
‘Well they’ll give you a parking ticket mate’ I replied, stating the obvious to the oblivious. I thought that perhaps he hadn’t realised what traffic wardens did. BMW drivers do seem to have huge gaps in their knowledge; most look upon traffic lights are some pointless roadside lightshow they're not invited to and see ‘giving way’ ss some strange religious ritual practiced by non-German cars.
‘They can try!’ he countered, as if a traffic warden’s attempt to place a parking ticket on a stationary unoccupied car had a ridiculously low percentage chance of success.
Into Somerfield I went. Into the heart of maverick convenience store eccentricity. I emerged twenty minutes later with a bag in each hand and started to walk back down the road noticing the BMW still parked. Its owner stood next to it on his mobile gesticulating, poking the parking ticket in his right hand skywards – telling whoever it might be how unfair it is that he should have received a parking ticket for parking illegally, for parking illegally.
Could I dampen the smile that is forming on my face? Could I halt its inevitable progress into bearing teeth? I tried, I really did. I looked away from him as I approached but he clocked me and said, ‘just a minute’ into his phone before covering the mouthpiece. ‘Did you do this?’ he shouted nodding towards the ticket in his sweaty stupid hand. I came to a stand still. Me, the single person in the entire fucking universe that had tried to stop this happening now stood accused. ‘Well?’ he continued, eyes widening, body rigid in flab.
There is no common ground, there can be no understanding. We’re two distinct groups, always
destined to exist separately. Me trying to bring us together is as unnatural as cross-breeding a pig with a wooden spoon. They have a BMW, we don’t; there’s no middle-ground in which we can all go for a picnic.
‘Yes’ I said, ‘It was me.’
On my walk to the shops to get a few essentials, I passed two traffic wardens aggressively pumping tickets at any car that dared to so much as whisper. They'd quickly be upon this BMW, sloshing their foamy penalties over its dirty dirty windscreen.
To all intents and purposes the driver appeared to have the arrogance and badly worn aggression that is prevalent in those that choose BMWs. He walked up towards me; nose high in the air allowing the nostril creatures to see the smug cloudless sky. My emotions should have been swaying to satisfaction - this bluster of paunch was to have the nasty shock of a sixty pound fine waiting for him when he got back. But for some reason, just as he was about to pass, a little fountain of virtue started sprinkling raw compassion all over my insides. I decided that it should be me to reach out the olive branch; to try and bring BMW and non-BMW owners to, if not friendship, at least an understanding. To break the chains of hate with the…
‘You don’t want to park it there mate,’ I said, my voice lowering in tone, my words littered with the word ‘mate’ (two things that always happen when I am forced to have any discussion involving cars), ‘wardens just up their mate’ I added.
‘And?’ he replied, stomach wobbling in sympathy to his incredulity.
‘Well they’ll give you a parking ticket mate’ I replied, stating the obvious to the oblivious. I thought that perhaps he hadn’t realised what traffic wardens did. BMW drivers do seem to have huge gaps in their knowledge; most look upon traffic lights are some pointless roadside lightshow they're not invited to and see ‘giving way’ ss some strange religious ritual practiced by non-German cars.
‘They can try!’ he countered, as if a traffic warden’s attempt to place a parking ticket on a stationary unoccupied car had a ridiculously low percentage chance of success.
Into Somerfield I went. Into the heart of maverick convenience store eccentricity. I emerged twenty minutes later with a bag in each hand and started to walk back down the road noticing the BMW still parked. Its owner stood next to it on his mobile gesticulating, poking the parking ticket in his right hand skywards – telling whoever it might be how unfair it is that he should have received a parking ticket for parking illegally, for parking illegally.
Could I dampen the smile that is forming on my face? Could I halt its inevitable progress into bearing teeth? I tried, I really did. I looked away from him as I approached but he clocked me and said, ‘just a minute’ into his phone before covering the mouthpiece. ‘Did you do this?’ he shouted nodding towards the ticket in his sweaty stupid hand. I came to a stand still. Me, the single person in the entire fucking universe that had tried to stop this happening now stood accused. ‘Well?’ he continued, eyes widening, body rigid in flab.
There is no common ground, there can be no understanding. We’re two distinct groups, always
destined to exist separately. Me trying to bring us together is as unnatural as cross-breeding a pig with a wooden spoon. They have a BMW, we don’t; there’s no middle-ground in which we can all go for a picnic.
‘Yes’ I said, ‘It was me.’
Friday, July 03, 2009
I shopped at Waitrose
Yes me, myself did so last night, just to see what it was like. I’m normally a Tesco man (or for laugh Sommerfield), so in effect I’d jumped straight over the orangey head of Sainsbury’s into the arms of this John Lewis off-shoot.
The first thing I noticed is that you had to be quite near to any of the women to tell how old they are. All alone, painfully thin, with skirts just above knee height, whispering angrily at rows of expensive canned food. In fact that seems to an unwritten rule at Waitrose – you must not under any circumstances shop with anyone else. This is solitary shopping, the quiet area in the library where the slightest beep from a mobile phone could mean someone challenging you to a duel.
This silence does not spread to those that 'work' there: Unlike staff of lesser supermarkets, employees do not appear to see it as their responsibility to actually do any work. The students with name badges, stand in groups of two, unapologetically discussing in booming spooned voices about how smashed they got last night on Pimms whilst rotating a can of pees lazily with their non-gesticulating hand. Ask them politely to move so’s you can, I don’t know, maybe get something off the shelf, and they’ll shuffle along without acknowledging your existence, and continue their work-related chatter. ‘I fucking told Rachael he’d do that.’ she enthused at her best friend’s naivety.
The girl at the checkout smiled as she rhythmically swept the goods across the bar-code reader, launching them into her own clouds dreaming of a better place to be. Maybe Asda, Tesco, Morrisons, Sommerfield, Aldi, that shop on the corner that smells funny.
The first thing I noticed is that you had to be quite near to any of the women to tell how old they are. All alone, painfully thin, with skirts just above knee height, whispering angrily at rows of expensive canned food. In fact that seems to an unwritten rule at Waitrose – you must not under any circumstances shop with anyone else. This is solitary shopping, the quiet area in the library where the slightest beep from a mobile phone could mean someone challenging you to a duel.
This silence does not spread to those that 'work' there: Unlike staff of lesser supermarkets, employees do not appear to see it as their responsibility to actually do any work. The students with name badges, stand in groups of two, unapologetically discussing in booming spooned voices about how smashed they got last night on Pimms whilst rotating a can of pees lazily with their non-gesticulating hand. Ask them politely to move so’s you can, I don’t know, maybe get something off the shelf, and they’ll shuffle along without acknowledging your existence, and continue their work-related chatter. ‘I fucking told Rachael he’d do that.’ she enthused at her best friend’s naivety.
The girl at the checkout smiled as she rhythmically swept the goods across the bar-code reader, launching them into her own clouds dreaming of a better place to be. Maybe Asda, Tesco, Morrisons, Sommerfield, Aldi, that shop on the corner that smells funny.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
More Door Hardcore
I’ve already previously covered the social goat spoon of how far behind a stranger has to be before there is no need to hold a door open for them. This point was SO well made by me even Jesus took time out from being back alive to tap my head and tell me what a good little creation I was. His dad thought it was shit though – miserable bearded…The whole door thing came back into my thoughts again today whilst following a stranger through a large office block. I was troubled as to how many times I should thank the person for briefly holding each door open for me to grab after they went through first. Every door? A selection?
Obviously the first door is a given. You have to say thank-you. This person has put himself out for 1.4 seconds, which could have been used being 2.8 metres closer to his final destination. But then the second door, a brief almost embarrassed ‘cheers’? The third, the fourth? Try not saying anything and the dead air starts to twist its bony fingers around your ungrateful neck.
I think the trick is to say something new every door:
1st Door: ‘Thank you’
2nd Door ‘Cheers’
3rd Door ‘Got it.’
4th Door ‘ahhhh’
5th Door (OK you can keep this one silent but make sure your extra proactive in grabbing that door as quickly possible)
6th Door to the car-park ‘THANK YOU’ (Give it large on this one – it’s a kind of summary thank-you, one that fills in the gaps for any slips on the previous five.)
Once you’ve been following strangers through doors for a while, you may even like to experiment with saying nothing until the final door. Yes, the door holder may be a little peeved before you come to hit your one line, but if you append your ‘Thank-you’ with a ‘very-much’ (with the ‘very much’ executed with a tone of suprise and delight normally reserved for someone buying you a bike) then they will go away possibly more satisfied than if you’ve struggled through all six separately. But don’t try this one thank-you technique until you really have had lots of experience in following people.
I know what some of you are thinking: ‘I’m not up to it Matt – it’s ok for a social God like yourself - but I just can’t face wading through this social stew. Well OK, I’d reply looking at you sympathetically/contemptibly before I chucked up my kebab of problem-solving. Try this: Get in front of the target as soon as possible. Put them on the back foot, make them face the minefield of following you. Please be aware this can end in dirty back-fire, I’ve seen two social inadequates simultaneously attempt to use this technique, thus creating a door-social-discomfort-race-condition. I’ve seen two gingers literally sprint past, hitting each other with floppy-disks in an attempt to reach the door first.
As in all cases of walking towards doors, let common sense guide you and the voices in your head tell you that it’s ok if you do THAT!
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Shut-it sunshine with your big ideas and stupid shine
I’m looking at the sun out of the office window. I can hear it chuckling, barbing ‘Look what I’m doing out here with ‘heat’ and ’light’ whilst you’re stuck in there typing various combinations of keys in vain attempts to produce words on your television.‘It’s a monitor’ I argue but the sun isn’t listening anymore. It’s laughing with the kids playing football, with jumpers for goalposts and a football for football. It’s studiously serving the slaves to sunburn who lie static along sandy beaches reading novels written by Jade Goody, stuffing greasy chips up their cracks. It’s playing peak-a-boo with the pale, who hide under parasols outside cafes, sucking then end of their beer bottles, re-hydrating their indifference to the rest of the world.
I wonder outside at lunch for a walk and the sun notices me again. ‘Ah, there you are, decided to join us again have you?’
‘Just for half an hour.’
‘See that’s the problem with people like you,’ the sun says flashing angry hot claws only visible to Hubble, ‘you complain when I’m not here, and then when I put in the effort you hide away in shirts and ties doing ‘work’’.
‘I have to earn a living,’ I argue half-heartedly but the sun doesn’t buy it. He’s sceptical about everything I say because I never look him in the eye. The fear of him burning through my retinas, into the darkest recesses, means I stare downwards defeated at the ugly pavement as I walk back.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
110%
I’m in a spinning class ( group of people on exercise bikes following instructions of instructor whilst music popular exactly four years ago plays loudly in the background. Some times referred to as RPM or ‘why don’t you just go out for a ride on a proper bike’ ). This particular instructor, his name Dave, is very keen on announcing percentages indicating the effort level you should be putting in. ‘We’re going up a hill and I want you all at seventy percent’ he announces. I turn the resistance on the bike up and speed up my legs movement. My effort is more or less at seventy percent I believe, though I’m sure none of us know quite what that really means. I expect to be chastised at any minute for running at seventy-two. Gradually there are further calls – eighty, ninety percent, then in a voice reminiscent of Braveheart with a recently stubbed-toe, ‘ONE HUNDRED PECENT – SPRINT!’
I close my eyes summoning every bit of energy I can find. That last flake of pastry from that dodgy sausage roll, those last millilitres of orange juice from that glass that was too warm; all of it burning in the furnace of my tired body, accelerating my pale legs into a milky blur. Sweat throws it self violently off me’ there’s steam rocketing skywards towards the dirty air-conditioning units as all of us push and push and push.
Dave maintains control, cycling hard but with poise in his smug dead eyes. ‘OK – right, really go for it…FASTER’ he suddenly shouts.
I try to push it harder, to go faster, but my body refuses – in fact it informs me quite forcefully that ‘I must be having a fucking laugh.’ It’s right of course – I’m already going at one-hundred percent. This leaves me exactly zero percent available for increase. I look around and I can see that many of my fellow classmates have actually upped their level. I feel cheated – the bastards, they weren’t going at one-hundred percent. My legs are slowing. ‘Keep up the speed’ barks Dave, and I’m sure he must be referring to me.
I want to explain how I was previously one of the small sub-group of the class who were actually going at one-hundred percent. I want us to be recognised as heroes, talked about in pubs, discussed in GCSE history classes. I want to shout and scream at the dirty cheating ninety percenters scum who laughed as we gave it our all.
‘OK ease off’ Dave says finally, twisting down his resistance and we all follow suit.
‘What back down to one hundred percent’ I almost say before realising I don’t have the physical energy to say anything, or in fact even think up the line.
‘Right in the next track I want to see every one upping it by a notch’ Dave calmly announces, as the Artic Monkeys start their song. ‘Time to take it to the next level!’
I close my eyes summoning every bit of energy I can find. That last flake of pastry from that dodgy sausage roll, those last millilitres of orange juice from that glass that was too warm; all of it burning in the furnace of my tired body, accelerating my pale legs into a milky blur. Sweat throws it self violently off me’ there’s steam rocketing skywards towards the dirty air-conditioning units as all of us push and push and push.
Dave maintains control, cycling hard but with poise in his smug dead eyes. ‘OK – right, really go for it…FASTER’ he suddenly shouts.
I try to push it harder, to go faster, but my body refuses – in fact it informs me quite forcefully that ‘I must be having a fucking laugh.’ It’s right of course – I’m already going at one-hundred percent. This leaves me exactly zero percent available for increase. I look around and I can see that many of my fellow classmates have actually upped their level. I feel cheated – the bastards, they weren’t going at one-hundred percent. My legs are slowing. ‘Keep up the speed’ barks Dave, and I’m sure he must be referring to me.
I want to explain how I was previously one of the small sub-group of the class who were actually going at one-hundred percent. I want us to be recognised as heroes, talked about in pubs, discussed in GCSE history classes. I want to shout and scream at the dirty cheating ninety percenters scum who laughed as we gave it our all.
‘OK ease off’ Dave says finally, twisting down his resistance and we all follow suit.
‘What back down to one hundred percent’ I almost say before realising I don’t have the physical energy to say anything, or in fact even think up the line.
‘Right in the next track I want to see every one upping it by a notch’ Dave calmly announces, as the Artic Monkeys start their song. ‘Time to take it to the next level!’
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Proudly Spaced Patriotism
We brave misunderstood balding English, standing in battered bus stops under angry regimental downpours. This courageous underrepresented British minority desperate to reassert our identity against all that…you know…stuff. Them dragons…them dragons…THOSE WELSH ARE STEALING ALL OUR JOBS!Anyway, let me tell you - there was no way I was going to miss out on celebrating St Georges Day like THEY want us to. Them…you know the ones with their ‘Political Correctness’, their endless bullying that tries to curb our lazy hate. And there I was on the great day itself realising well over a minute before half seven in the evening that it was actually St Georges day (I’d walked past a pub that said ‘It’s St Georges Day’ on a sign [it also said ‘Why don’t you come in and slay a dragon?’ which didn’t so much make sense as rather not make sense, but look at me mum I’m using square brackets(probably haven’t done it correctly though[I’m so out of my deapth])] ) I stopped for a minute, watching a Y-reg Nova sub-woofer its bored moulds towards me, its special blue light illuminating the under-car - its spoiler increasing its aerodynamics intangibly.’Boom, boom, boom’ it argued as it passed And I stood there entranced as the big spoon of patriotic pride forced love for my country into my smiling English mouth. It tasted like Rosemary.
That said, (what said?) I was just popping out for a little emergency convenience shopping. All my big words and xenophobic attitudes and I was unable to actualise my love for England’s ( and Aragon’s, Catalonia’s, Ethiopia’s, Georgia’s, Greece’s, Lithuania’s, Palestine’s, Portugal’s, and Russia’s, and the cities of Amersfoort’s, Beirut’s, Bteghrine’s, Cáceres’s (Spain), Ferrara’s, Freiburg’s, Genoa’s, Ljubljana’s, Gozo’s, Pomorie’s, Qormi’s, Lod’s, and Moscow’s) patron saint due to it being 7:30pm and not really having anything planned. THAT’S JUST WHAT THE NANNY STATE WANTS!
But then on my casual evening wander across England’s green and pleasant land I walked into the shopping sensation Sommerfield. And this haven of Englishnessnessness had patriotically produced a little St Georges day display so that disorganised people short of milk could enjoy a brief little reflection on how great it is to be a citizen of here.
A single table: tableclothed with polyester English flag, brown with the labour of hanging on to some disinterested Corsa during the 2006 World Cup. And on it, a display of proudly spaced objects (And if you do not believe that you can proudly place objects then you know not pride) with a handwritten sign, ‘Celebrate St. Georges day with us!’.
The objects: white sliced loaf, six pack of scones. 12 white sliced sandwich roles, Jacobs cracker selection. Two litre bottle of Blackthorn Cider, Bag of carrots. Bag of purple headed broccoli…… Remember they were proudly spaced!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
