Oblong Scone

I was driving up a one way street – self-limiting myself to one way; my car hemmed in by parked cars on either side just like how it was in the Bible. About a hundred metres ahead a figure was walking towards me down the middle of the road. I was unbothered, I’ve seen people walking before and I was sure he would move onto the pavement when I got closer. This assumption was not worth the paper it was not worth writing such an assumption on; for my closing proximity brought no adjustment to the figure’s walking down the middle of the road.. In fact, the closer I get, the more confident his stride, the more aggressive his posture. I slowed down gradually still believing he would step aside when the realisation that I was in a car and he wasn’t, hit him like a car. The boney young figure, facial hair under various tidal systems, adjusted his NY cap and folded his arms in defiance as he came to a stop in front of me. Who was this sack of nicotine, standing there in rubbish trainers, starin

I was in Weymouth and I was walking. I am a man who can do these two things simultaneously. And even with my concentration focused on juggling this unlikely pairing, a poster in the window of the Spar convenience store caught my attention. ‘Why not come in and ask our staff about our hot soup.’ it said, and just like a man with the emptiest afternoon on record, I felt I was unable not to. I asked as to the temperature of the soup. The girl who I will call Karen (which did annoy her when she insisted her name was Clare) looked at me sympathetically and assured me that it is hot. I already knew this - it’s written on the poster. I was after additional temperature information, not the words of this admittedly striking poster regurgitated to me with a textured broth like murmur. Considering the A4 sheet had pushed me to interrogate on the subject of ‘hot soup’, I don’t think it was unfair that I then pushed Karen for a Celsius figure. 'It's hot', she repeated. Struggling to ret

"I was so sickened last week by a radio programme I didn’t know existed, hosted by two so-called ‘funny fuckers’, that I projectile vomited over a JVC Surround system in my local Currys.digital. Are you going to come and mop-up the regurgitated vegetable soup from their sub-woofer Russell Brand? Or will you let one of those poor employees who pay your wages handle your disgusting orange coloured sick? So further outraged was I by hearing details of these so-called ‘messages’ from my so-called friend Judie when she so-called called me, that I ran-over a neighbour’s kitten in my Range Rover. Is Jonathan Ross going to scrape little Charlie’s remains off the cold concrete and explain to his elderly owners how it happened? I won’t be holding my breath!!! How can Manwell’s granddaughter: a much loved member of ‘The Satanic Sluts’, reputation be allowed to be debased in such a lewd, crude, rude, shoed, mood, dude, poohed manner? Will the BBC take any action? Will they launch targeted pat

She’s always there. The pain in her voice elongating her unsteady words. ‘Biggggg Issueeeeee’ she’ll suggest to each person as the first push of fresh-air excitedly licks them in the face on exiting the Galleries Shopping Centre. Occasionally someone might stop and buy a magazine, hand over some change, or gift a cigarette. But mostly it’s eyes down and apologetic grunting; maybe a slight extra push on the heels to help the guilt melt away that little bit quicker. Except with me it’s different: when I walk past not a word – stony lost silence. It’s not that she’s taken offense to anything I’ve said or done. I’ve never reacted to her or had a reaction from her. Her eyes always look so far through me: a stare that may just circumnavigate the entire Earth. I should be grateful than I don’t have to posture an embarrassed refusal to her sales request, but I feel singled-out - soulless in the centre of Bristol. And it’s not just once. I’ve actually done a circuit - gone back into the centre

I don’t like pushing in the petrol pump trigger anymore – it makes me feel slightly ill. The dizzying spinning of the cost indicator racing ahead of faded former champion ‘number of litres'. Then the anger: An anger born from the creeping sense of throwing away money, amplified by annoyance at the girl behind the counter who still smiles even though she's taking money off me she doesn't deserve. I want an apologetic stance from her; a downbeat glum acceptance of the times we live in. She could wear black to mourn the passing of affordable travel, raising her veil as I approach. She'll look into my eyes and tell me how sorry she is that things have worked out this way. Back in the car, and my post fuel purchase driving is affected by my bad mood. I believe such a sharp upturn in the cost of driving should be compensated by an enhanced experience: Emptier roads; traffic lights who’s green hue stalks me. I want people standing on the pavement clapping and cheering, unfurl

The human brain is an amazing thing it really is.Boffins are still struggling to get to grips with its mechanics and the best they can do at the moment appears to be making a computer diagram of the squelchy thing glow in different locations depending on whether a test-subject is looking at a picture of Beyonce washing a car or Noel Edmonds playing Boggle. Where would the diagram be glowing if a brain probe was connected to the stocky, badly dressed, unshaven, middle-aged Mondeo driver I witnessed pulling over on the side of Zetland Road last night? Out of the car he springs aggressively, a bin-liner clasped into his no-nonsense hands. It would be wrong to say there was rage on his face, but there’s a definite determined aggressiveness. This man wants to dump the bin-liner - for some reason, and I don’t know what it is (he’s not verbalising his internal thoughts the crafty beggar). What ever it is, this man is in no mood to share his battered Ford with this bag any longer. But then he

There’s nothing like sitting back in the old deck chair and listening to a good car alarm. Feeling that carefully crafted tune whistle pleasantly in your ear as the sun gently caresses the scratched horizon. It’s quite clear I’m being sarcastic - especially now I’ve said, ‘It’s quite clear I’m being sarcastic,’ but sarcasm is sooo good I want buy it chocolates; lie on a beach with it; whisper in its ear about the glorious life we‘re going to have together and yes the chocolates probably would melt into a sticky mess in the sunlight.. Bringing chocolates onto a beach would probably have been sarcasm's idea - That‘s SUCH a good idea sarcasm. I don’t particularly enjoy the sound of car alarms and like most people I want to throw a fat tabby cat* at any vehicle whose alarm goes off. An alarm that's usually been activated by the wind from a butterfly fluttering its wings in an obscure village in Belgium where they distress winged insects as part of a fertility ritual. They’re totall

What happens if you label automatic sliding doors of a supermarket ‘Entry’ on the outside and ‘Exit’ on the inside? Tesco is obviously keen to find out, and thus have done exactly this at their Tesco Extra in Eastville, Bristol. ‘Yes but if they’ve only got one set of sliding-doors then they don’t have much choice do they?’ you might argue. Well don’t argue that; a) because you’ve probably never been there, b) because I can’t hear your argument, you’re essentially attempting verbal discourse with a disinterested computer monitor, c) I really believe putting the word ‘Entrance’ on sliding doors should imply its primary purpose is for people to enter. Wouldn’t not saying anything at all at least prepare someone for the possibility that it may have a dual role? d) There are two sets of sliding doors very close to each other that could easily be assigned a directional flow each. Inexperienced Eastville Tescoers often give me a death stare and a whispered complaint as I squeeze my exiting

If there’s two lanes, and you want to go straight on at a roundabout, you should be in the left lane. Those are the rules, or rule as probably a singular one of them is called. Like with most roundabout approaches, the roundabout I'm going to talk about today( in what may very well be the first in a series of roundabout anecdotes that may later turn into a book and possibly a feature film starring Cher ) never has a queue in the right-hand lane. I don’t have the first idea as to what you'll see or experience if you take the right hand turn at the roundabout. What I do know is that it isn’t attracting the kind of crowds that straight on is. So in effect every work day, I like most others, am dismissing the ever present opportunity of turning right. Like a sheep, my only priority on my journeys to work is heading towards the office I work in. I say ‘like a sheep’, I’m of course referring to a sheep that can drive and hold down a job at an engineering firm; and to be fair I don’t

I was left with no choice but to purchase fuel from a motorway service station on the M25 . And thus, being on a motorway, the price of fuel is considerably higher. Probably due to the difficulty of transporting petrol to places along a motorway, compared to say, obscure villages in Cornwall. I pull into BP and am rather horrified to see that Diesel is going to set me back 114.9p per litre. This is over seven pence more per litre than I have even spent on fuel. This is, without doubt, a complete fucking con. Those of you thinking that BP hadn’t predicted their customer’s annoyance to outrageously priced fuel would be wrong. One of the world’s most profitable companies are all too aware of the hardship their prices are putting on the average Lionel in the street and thus as a sign of goodwill, are willing to practically throw free money at their customers. So when I pick up the nozzle, my eyes are drawn to their big promotion, their giving back proudly plastered all over the fuel pumps

They know when the line is to be delivered, and demand a subservient silence from the waiting throng. If there’s a raised platform nearby they will quickly scramble to it, demanding any available lighting be concentrated on their primed and dignified face; a face ready to the deliver the line they are certain will elevate their social status to someone who could call the Queen their bitch. And then it comes: ‘I don’t watch soap operas’ they announce, back straight, eyes into a distant, better horizon. Usually they’ll further punctuate this by appending words such as ‘they’re all a load of rubbish anyway.’ It isn’t the fact that someone doesn’t like soap operas that annoys/amuses me. That is a perfectly sane and valid opinion to hold. It’s the insistence of some individuals to use their dislike of this genre of television as a boast and calling card. As if on hearing this startling insight, the recipients are suddenly going to reassess their opinion of this person; realise they’re deal

There I was sat at my desk looking in the second drawer down, trying to cope with the realisation that I had run out of apples. One of which I would normally consume for a mid-morning snack. I think it was either Jesus or Father Christmas who said, ‘Apples are great’, and who am I to argue with such pithy truth from magical people. As another hour passed, I learned to live as a man without apples. By eleven, it was fair to say I had adjusted, was making the best of things. I even felt strong enough to make a humorous and unnecessary remark about Devon. I took a walk down to the canteen to purchase a cup of tea. Standing, ready to pay, I took an unscheduled glance towards the exit and noticed a bowl of fruit by the door, a bowl which contained a number of apples. With 35p racked up on the till, I asked that the price of an apple be added on so I could pick one up on the way out. This was done bringing the total up to 75p. My walk to the canteen exit was swift and untroubled. I approache

There's a concerned, faintly embarrassed look on the barmans face as he comes back holding a still seeled bottle of lager and a half pint glass. 'I'm aftaid we don't have a Leffe glass is that OK?' he says, holding an identical unbranded glass up to the artificial light. His customer looks momentarily disorientated by the news, struggling to understand the implications of this announcement; slowly the awful reality dawns: This brave man, who's probably been slaving all day in the office; shaking people's hands, pressing 'Page up' on his keyboard; maybe even 'Page down'; faces the prospect of sitting drinking Belgian beer from a glass that does not advertise its contents. His right shoulder drops for a second as he analyses thoughtfully the substitute glass. He looks momentarily as if he's going to start negotiating a discount. Afterall, someone might later ask what he was drinking, causing him the indignity, not to mention waste of valua

Shabby clothes hide dirty skin His eyes wont focus on anything. He holds the keys. Supervising nothing. Spouting advice. No one acknowledges him. He explains disapprovingly. That from the beginning of next week. A single lousy cycle. Will cost an extra thirty P. With his stained expression. He demonstrates piety. To the church of dissatisfaction. Of British society. And when we've all gone. Left him mumbling alone. He'll spring into action - lock the door. Never get home.