Friday, March 14, 2008

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 know that an actual sheep with these attributes would behave in this way. Maybe there’s something to the right that would be of particular interest to sheep and thus if they could drive, they’d be abandoning nine to five drudgery in search of the good shit on the right-side.

Day after day, stuck in that queue on the left, waiting for my turn to do the straight on thing at the roundabout. And there’s nothing more annoying than seeing some twat-faced twat-head drive their BMW down the right hand lane, hitting the roundabout laneage and then cutting in so’s to go straight on. Everyday these people ( and possibly the more career centred of the sheep ) save themselves ninety seconds with their rule-breaking roundabout devience.

And what do these people do with those extra ninety seconds? Do they draw money out of a cash machine and give it to a homeless person called George? Do they write a poem about the Second World War? Do they take an extra moment out of their day, stick on the Princess Diana version of ’Candle in the Wind’ and think about whether they’re living their life in the way in which Queen of Hearts would of wanted? No, of course they don’t; they spend their extra ninety seconds composing an email addressed to ‘everyone_ever’ entitled ’Unacceptable’.

Well at least I can sleep at night. That’s nothing to do with what I’ve just said above. I’m just trying not to take falling asleep for granted.

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Petrol-Eggs

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. And if you’re standing up at the minute reading this, I suggest you sit yourself down and maybe fashion a rudimentary rope out of some old clothing and tie yourself to the chair, because at the bare minimum BP’s generosity is going to make you feel slightly faint. It will most likely make you come:

‘Three Cadburys Cream Eggs for £1’.

Because the fuel prices are so ridiculous at this place, I can only presume there are just two groups of people who would come to this garage. Those, like me, who through their own disorganisation are nearly out of fuel and those who are after big savings on Chocolate full of white sticky stuff. Maybe BP are genuinely targeting confectionary fans with Chocolate Egg loss-leaders, hoping that whilst they’re there they’ll impulse buy exorbitantly priced fuel.

But on entering the BP Shop/payment area, I am drawn towards the Cadbury’s eggs. My earlier dismissing of this offer is beginning to feel premature. These eggs retail at 47p each, and if I were to get three of them for a quid, I’d be saving my self 41p. This may not seem much, but after spending such an obscene amount on Diesel, my soul demands whatever cleansing it can get. If this must come in the form of a misguided purchase of chocolate eggs then so be it

I get back into my car and place the three eggs on the passenger seat. I drive in the direction of home as the chocolate silently melts in the unseasonal sunshine.
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