I Am Livid

I do hate it when people look at you like you are a proper window-licking mentalist. Particularly if you are minding your own business and not licking any windows at the time.

Last week I ventured into London to undertake some Very Important Business, and boarded the train for the journey into Waterloo. To pass the time I had downloaded a couple of podcasts to my iPod. This was very easy for me as I am extremely technologically capable, and also very hip and ‘with it’.

As I took my seat and pressed play to listen to the ramblings of Russell Brand and friends, two suited gentlemen took their places opposite me. I registered a small amount of disgust on the face of one of them, I assume because I was listening to a tool a mass disruption, an iPod.

I recognise the fact that when you look at someone with an iPod on, you might expect to see a little bit of rhythmic swaying, perhaps a bit of hand-based percussion, or even the odd mouthed lyric. What we must all learn to expect, as an accepting society, is that you are going to see, from time to time, grown men crying.

From laughing. I am not a manic depressive.  Or a woman.

As the podcast weaved its way through stories of Edinburgh festivals, previous drug addictions and giving up womanising, I chuckled merrily away to myself to the increasing consternation from the gents opposite. Why could they not understand the humour of the situation? Would they rather I had thrash metal coming out of my ears polluting the carriage?

Eventually I had to let out a proper laugh, but my explanation that “Russell and his mates are discussing begging on Oxford street dressed as posh people” was not enough to placate them and they remained stern-faced.  Whoever said that laughter was contagious was a lying shit.
Some people just have no sense of humour you know.

There is a knock on the door.

“Hello, you don’t know me, but your great great great great grandfather both picked on, and was thoroughly mean to my great great great great grandfather. He may also have been responsible for his untimely death.”

“Oh. Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. He was.”

“That is a shock. How unfortunate, and a little embarrassing for me if the truth be told.”

“Indeed it is. I would like to know what you are going to do about it?”

“Do about it?”

“Yes, I feel that I am owed some monetary compensation for the behaviour of your great great great great grandfather, and I expect you to pay up.”

“Really? That seems a little unfair. I never knew my great great great great grandfather, in fact he sounds like a bit of an arse, but if you think I’m about to offer you compensation for his behaviour, then you are sorely mistaken.”

“If you were really sorry you would throw lots of money at me right now.”

This is an unusual conversation, I’m sure you’d agree?  Yet this is essentially what the Pan African Reparation Coalition are asking for after hearing of Tony Blair’s ’sorrow’ over Britain’s history in the slave trade.

Is the history of the slave trade - and our country’s involvement in it - something to be ashamed of? Absolutely. The thought of something like this happening in this day and age is totally abhorrent. It is a shameful episode in our country’s history, but ultimately that is what it is, history. The people who directly suffered are no longer with us. The people who directly perpetrated these crimes against humanity are no longer with us.

So why then, do these distant descendants deserve monetary compensation? Frankly, they do not.

I am not responsible for the behaviour of people who lived 200 years ago.

There is a whole can of worms waiting to be opened if they are given any compensation whatsoever. Trust me when I say that if one single penny of my tax revenue goes towards that organisation, and in doing so denies the NHS or other vital public services necessary funds, then someone is going to get seriously hurt.

It happened, and it was truly terrible, but the people who are to blame are long gone. Get over it.

The new-fangled machine beeps loudly in a tone that shrieks “Look at me! I am new and I am fangled!”

“Place your item in the bag please.” says the nice computer lady inside the new-fangled machine to the elderly human lady in front of me in the queue.

My local Tesco has introduced some self service tills in order to speed up the buying process and to employ fewer till people. I am all in favour of introducing technology to make our lives easier, and cannot wait for hover-boards and x-ray spectacles, but in the meantime I will make do with a machine that scans your shopping. This is a good thing.

“Please scan your next item”, it continues, prompting the elderly human lady into action. Politely.

She then picks up a tin of fruit and turns it over in her hand. It appears she is reading the label and contents. She turns it over again.

“I don’t think this has a barcode on it?” she says looking at me.

I do not look like I work at Tesco so this question is clearly a cry for help. “Yes it does, it is right there on the back, look.” I add, pointing at the barcode right there on the back.

Beep.

“Please scan your next item.”

This time it is a bottle of detergent. Again she can not find the barcode. She turns it over in her hand. Then back over again.

Beep.

The clever computer registers the item. She still continues turning it over in search of the barcode. “You know, I don’t think this has a barcode either?”. I point out that it does, and it has already been scanned.

“Really? Isn’t that clever. I didn’t even show it the barcode. It has better eyesight that I do! Wonderful!”

I decide to time her. It takes her four and a half minutes to scan and pay for 12 items. Like I’ve heard said elsewhere, and I think this case proves it, if you invent some idiot-proof technology, then someone will just invent a better idiot. Plus the chances are she’ll be about 80 years old and shopping in my local supermarket.

“Great rates for Regular savers!” reads the ATM outside the Abbey on Saturday morning.

“Ask inside for details.”

I do not want to ask inside, even though the town centre is in the midst of a downpour reminiscent of that scene in Hard Rain when it looks like Christian Slater is about to get off with Minnie Driver. I get my cash card from my pocket and on the third attempt, the machine accepts it.

“Please wait while we check your card.” it politely requests. I agree to do as it asks as willingly as anyone would do, to a machine that had your cash card in its possession. I assume that my approach is unusual and people were putting their cards in and walking off all the time, hence the machines polite request.

The rain begins to seep into the top of my jacket and down my neck as I am reminded to “Keep my PIN safe!”. Thank you machine. That is excellent and timely advice in this weather.

Once my card has been proven to be a valid one, I am prompted for my PIN number, which I enter with the dexterity of concert pianist whilst also looking over my shoulder for potential PIN snatchers. You know who you are.

“Please wait.”

So I do. Again. And still the rain falls.

Approximately three days later, and after about a gallon of water has made its way down my back, I am asked if I would like any ‘other services’. This is unusual. It is a step in my regular ATM / human interactions that I am unfamiliar with. Until I notice the sign at the top saying, “I’m sorry, this machine has no cash available”.

Excellent.

How hard would it be for Abbey to put a notice on the front screen saying, “I realise it is pissing down outside, so please don’t waste your valuable time getting soaking wet as we don’t have any cash to give you. Sorry about that.”

Useless twatting ATMs.

As I walk off the “Great rates for Regular savers!” advert reappears waiting to catch out its next unsuspecting rain-soaked victim.

“Bandy legs am I disabled” asked someone from Doncaster of MSN Search.

Well, this one kind of writes itself doesn’t it?

I guess it depends on just how bandy we’re talking here? Are we talking, “difficult to make the knees touch when standing up straight”, or are we talking, “Dogs could jump through the gap”?

Alternatively perhaps animal experimentation has advanced more quickly than I thought, and this was actually from an ape in Doncaster Zoo wondering if it was normal (Doncaster has a Zoo right?)  If I am wrong, and there aren’t Apes in Doncaster, then it is a little worrying to think that an Ape would escape from a Zoo and travel all the way to Doncaster to log onto the Internet in order to find out if it was normal or not.

That would be stupid.

Buying flowers? Do not buy Serenata Flowers.

I don’t do flowers. Obviously. But for those of you that do I’d like to bring your attention to a little experiment over at Peters place.

He has had a number of bad comment spamming experiences with the above company (as described at that link and the story above it). I fucking hate comment spammers but generally they are transient websites and hard to pin down as genuine businesses, so revenge is both difficult and essentially pointless. This case is different however.

Peter seems to think that if enough of us link to the above post, then when potential customers are searching for them on Google, they will see the really shite reviews first. Hence using the Internet for what it was intended, i.e. mass protest for people like me who do not want to actually leave the sofa.

At least, I think that is what he is doing.

If this is all some elaborate extortion racket then I will not pleased. Not without a cut, anyway.

So, Serenata flowers, they’re a bit naff and that.

Buying flowers? Do not buy Serenata Flowers.

I don’t do flowers. Obviously. But for those of you that do I’d like to bring your attention to a little experiment over at Peters place.

He has had a number of bad comment spamming experiences with the above company (as described at that link and the story above it). I fucking hate comment spammers but generally they are transient websites and hard to pin down as genuine businesses, so revenge is both difficult and essentially pointless. This case is different however.

Peter seems to think that if enough of us link to the above post, then when potential customers are searching for them on Google, they will see the really shite reviews first. Hence using the Internet for what it was intended, i.e. mass protest for people like me who do not want to actually leave the sofa.

At least, I think that is what he is doing.

If this is all some elaborate extortion racket then I will not pleased. Not without a cut, anyway.

So, Serenata flowers, they’re a bit naff and that.

I receive a Christmas Card.

“Dear Mr Angry,

Best wishes to you and your colleagues for this festive season!

From,

City Conference Centre”

This is a bit like those people who leave comments on other blogs going “Hurrah!! I am first!! Yay for me!!” (OK, no-one does that one here, thankfully, but that is because you are all intelligent and discernible blog readers, obviously).

Best of all, it was sent via 2nd class post, so they are both thoughtful and full of the season of goodwill to all men, but not to the extent of spending 32p on all those men.  It also implies that in order to reach my in-tray today, I would conservatively estimate that it was posted in mid-September. Unless of course it is actually 11 months late. Which is a distinct possibility I suppose.

In fact, it is a damning indictment on their behaviour that that this card makes more sense when I assume that it has been delayed for nearly a year, rather than arriving as intended.

I am not ungrateful however. Oh no. I am sending them a reply today.

“Dear City Conferences!

Merry Easter and all that to you and your colleagues!

May all your eggs and crucifixes be of the chocolatey variety.

Mr Angry”

I expect a Happy Summer Solstice card by return.

“A pint of the usual please.” I say slapping my hand down on the bar at the local.

“I’ll get that Angry!” shouts Fat Jim across the Pub.

“Why are you so chipper Fat Jim, it usually takes a verbal berating or being dragged to the bar by your hair for you to get a round in.”

“Well, you see Angry, I am going to be rich. Rich beyond my wildest dreams!”

“Oh this is going to be good, I can just tell. Tell me Fat Jim, how exactly are you going to become rich?”

“OK, picture this. What do you do every single day without fail?”

“err, I wonder how it is that I am an acquaintance of yours?”

“No, no. Not that. In the mornings. You shave of course! It is the bane of every man’s life, and so I have invented a new way of shaving!”

“Oh aye?”

“Yes, it is truly revolutionary. I was watching TV last night when an advert came on that inspired me. Gillette are launching a new razor that is a combination of some special green and orange fusion technology. According to the advert it was forged in the chamber of some sort of nuclear reactor. They claim it reduces friction because, get this, it has FIVE blades. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Not really, Fat Jim, no.”

“Well that’s not the best bit. Do you know what would be more revolutionary than a new five-bladed razor? Yes, that’s right Angry, it’s a SEVEN blade razor. Just going for six blades would be a little bit obvious. So I am thinking outside of the box and going for the element of surprise. If five blades reduces friction, can imagine how smooth a seven blade razor will be? You will barely even know it is touching your face! I am going to call it the Super Duper Power Gliding Sensory Mach 7!!”

“I see what you did there Fat Jim, but what makes you think people will just go ahead and buy it, and more importantly why would they believe that it is better than the last razor that was released just because it has more blades?”

“Because Angry, that is what I will tell the people in my adverts.”

You know, sometimes I think that Fat Jim might just be an evil genius.

“A pint of the usual please.” I say slapping my hand down on the bar at the local.

“I’ll get that Angry!” shouts Fat Jim across the Pub.

“Why are you so chipper Fat Jim, it usually takes a verbal berating or being dragged to the bar by your hair for you to get a round in.”

“Well, you see Angry, I am going to be rich. Rich beyond my wildest dreams!”

“Oh this is going to be good, I can just tell. Tell me Fat Jim, how exactly are you going to become rich?”

“OK, picture this. What do you do every single day without fail?”

“err, I wonder how it is that I am an acquaintance of yours?”

“No, no. Not that. In the mornings. You shave of course! It is the bane of every man’s life, and so I have invented a new way of shaving!”

“Oh aye?”

“Yes, it is truly revolutionary. I was watching TV last night when an advert came on that inspired me. Gillette are launching a new razor that is a combination of some special green and orange fusion technology. According to the advert it was forged in the chamber of some sort of nuclear reactor. They claim it reduces friction because, get this, it has FIVE blades. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Not really, Fat Jim, no.”

“Well that’s not the best bit. Do you know what would be more revolutionary than a new five-bladed razor? Yes, that’s right Angry, it’s a SEVEN blade razor. Just going for six blades would be a little bit obvious. So I am thinking outside of the box and going for the element of surprise. If five blades reduces friction, can imagine how smooth a seven blade razor will be? You will barely even know it is touching your face! I am going to call it the Super Duper Power Gliding Sensory Mach 7!!”

“I see what you did there Fat Jim, but what makes you think people will just go ahead and buy it, and more importantly why would they believe that it is better than the last razor that was released just because it has more blades?”

“Because Angry, that is what I will tell the people in my adverts.”

You know, sometimes I think that Fat Jim might just be an evil genius.

I am buying petrol at the local BP garage on my way to my weekly football match on Saturday lunchtime. Along with a full tank of petrol, I am buying some water, some sports drinks and a couple of energy bars for me and my fellow team-mates.

I place them on the counter and give my pump number to the youth behind the counter, who looks for all the world as if he has been undertaking some sort of sleep deprivation experiment. Three weeks without sleep would be my guess if asked.

He rings through the items and totals it up. I think I see some drool escaping from the edge of his down-turned mouth.

“£57.84” he says without looking at me.

“Thank you? Can I get a bag please?” I reply.

He pushes a plastic bag onto the counter with complete disdain and leaves it right next to my goods. I hand him my credit card. He looks at me, and then at the drinks and energy bars. I look back at him. He looks back at me. Our staring competition is interrupted by the till beeping.

“It needs your PIN.” he explains in the tone you would use if explaining to your Grandma how a DVD player works.

“OK. Shall I put the items in the bag myself then?” I continue.

He looks at me blankly.

“Your PIN?” he repeats.

“The bag?” I counter.

Silence.

I briefly relent and enter my PIN as he continues to ignore me, and more crucially, continues to ignore my purchased items and the bag he has thrown down next to them.

We wait for my PIN to be approved. Neither of us is looking at my goods. The tension is palpable.

It takes a few seconds for the approval, and whilst waiting we continue our staring competition and I can feel the surface of my eyes drying out. It beeps again and he hands me back my card and a receipt. I put them in my wallet without taking my eyes off him. I am sure I have put the card back in the wrong place, but he can not be allowed to win again.

There is a stand-off. I will not put the items in the bag, and he is looking at me like I want something else.

“The bag?” I add helpfully, in case he was a little confused by what was happening around him.

“Right.” he says huffily, as if I have asked him to tidy his bedroom. He slowly puts the things in it.

I take my bag of goods and exit the petrol station. The more observant among you will no doubt have noticed that at no point did he say Please or Thank You, or even offer so much as a smile. I do not mind packing my own goods, and in fact I do it regularly in Sainsburys and Tescos, so I have proven I am not averse to hard graft.

It is clearly his fault for bringing out the worst in me.

“Coochy – Coo”

“Arrhhhhhhh”

“Peep–o!”

“thrbrbrbrbrbrbrrbbrbrbrbrbrbrb”

That last one is a Raspberry being blown, obviously.

No, I have not become an affiliate site for C-Beebies, and this is not some new-fangled technique for effective brainstorming being adopted by Captains of Industry such as myself.

It is what happens when a baby is brought into the office. The screetching and wailing and jostling for a better look was reminiscent of a dog getting loose in the playground at school.

Debra is a girl from our office. She has been off on Maternity leave (paid) for what seems like an age, whilst the team have been left to jointly pick up the excess workload, sales targets etc.. (that is another story for another day).

Debra is back. With a pram. With a ‘baby’ in it.

“Hi Angry, I have brought baby Johnny in to show the office!” she gleamed holding her bundle of joy out before her.

“Maybe your husband should have worn one in the first place“, I muttered under my breath.

“Pardon?”

“Lovely to see you, cute kid,” I replied. I then made my apologies and scuttled away on the pretence I had something terribly important to attend to.

Now, I know that everyone says that their child is beautiful, but seriously, there are some truly horrendous looking babies out there. And this was one of them. I did not know whether to offer my condolences or call NASA and let them know the invasion had begun. Perhaps they could try and return it to its home planet?

Then there is the random baby paraphernalia like the Pram, blankets and bottles and stuff. Whenever I see these things I cannot help but envisage them directly underneath some large fluorescent signs flashing “long term” “commitment” “in-laws” and other terrifying phrases.

For some unfathomable reason it is also considered ‘bad form’ to make it clear that I am not interested in the alien baby, even though a locked office door does nothing to drown out the violent shrieking of a child kidnapped from its home world millions of light years away.

In the midst of the pandemonium I consider how to make the most out if this horrendous situation.

The cluck (for this is the collective noun for broody women) is now about fifteen strong and I sense an opportunity. I can practically hear the clucks egg being produced as their reproductive organs kick into ‘ovary-time’. I open my desk top draw and after searching my emergency office survival kit I offer my neck a quick squirt of expensive cologne. I stroll into the crowd of women and dust off one of my favourite ever lines.

“Children are so rewarding, I would love to have them one day.” I say earnestly with a sigh.

“Oh Angry, I didn’t know you like children?” responds attractive office girl number 1, as she places her finely manicured hand on my arm.

This line never fails.

Perhaps baby space aliens do have a part to play in modern society? However, I will not be making the same mistake as Debras husband and will be ‘wrapping up’ well at the Christmas party in a couple of weeks.

There is nothing wrong with feeling a little off-colour.

It could be anything from a headache, or runny nose, to a dose of the ‘can’t be arsed to get out of bed’s’. None of which is what I would call a proper illness.

Which is why I am bemused when people desperately seek an ailment to which they can themselves when they are feeling less that 100%. It appears that it has become completely unacceptable to be a little bit ‘poorly’. Without the appropriate illness, your sickness remains unvalidated.

The Interweb can take its fair share of blame for this. If you Google a random set of ailments, it will take just seconds to convince yourself that your headache is a brain tumour, or your runny nose is Bird flu.

With the aid of Dr Internet, a simple stomach-ache soon becomes Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The “Can’t get out of bed’s” becomes Seasonal Affected Disorder and a midnight puke instantly becomes Gastroenteritis.

It is all getting a little bit silly.

Everyone knows that there are some minor sounding illnesses that are, in reality, seriously life threatening. Illnesses like Man-flu. But mankind is fortunate that these harmless-sounding killers are few and far between.

All this crying wolf over exotic sounding diseases is only serving to create problems for when you really are ill, because nowadays you need more than a note from your Mum to get a day off work.

So, this weeks genuine winner goes to the person looking for “Dogshit from my carpet”. I have been in this situation myself and I know the sheer panic that sets in when you realise you’ve trodden dog excrement into your shag pile.

What I don’t understand however, is how that panic leads to an urgency to get on the Interweb in order to look for a solution? I use the Internet and I know how distracting it can be, so while your there checking your email and your favourite blogs, Fidos butt baguette is drying into the rug.

For all I know, it might be dried into a poo crust by now?

Surely you’d have been better off with soap and water?