I am livid

Living in an area popular with tourists, I tend to see a lot of them as the weather improves. It is a pain in the arse, frankly, but tourists can provide their moments of humour. I very much enjoy misinforming them and it brings a little joy to an otherwise dull day.

“Yes, the queen tends to get her lunchtime cornish pasty from over there, normally between 12 and 12:30. She wears a disguise, so be vigilant. She came dressed as a black teenager yesterday, she is very good.”

There is however one group of tourists that I do not understand, and that is the Japanese. They take more photographs than any other nation on the planet, yet I have never seen any of them smile in a single one of them.

They will readily stand in front of the castle or some famous monument and joke amongst themselves, but the second the picture is to be taken, it is an instant return to stoney-faced silence and a look that suggests an imminent return to Death Row.

Is smiling in photographs a social faux pas in Japan? I do not think HSBC mentioned that in their adverts, so I can not be sure. I will ask them next time I am in the branch.

Or maybe I am wrong and have been a bit of a racist, and it is fact the Chinese that fail to smile? That would be more easily understood if you imagine their return to China and interrogation at passport control.

“Did you have a good time?”

“No. It was rubbish. Look. We were miserable the whole time. We are pleased to be back in the homeland comrade. But, we can go back next year, right?”

After arriving back home in the UK quite late on Saturday evening, I got up early on Sunday to head back to me real home in Northamptonshire to see my folks for Easter. I had no milk, bread or cereal so I decided to skip breakfast and hit the road north sooner rather than later.

I got quite hungry around Oxford, due to my brekky skippedness, so I pulled into the services to get a bite to eat. I browsed around distinctly limited services and decided on a KFC burger, as I quite like the taste of genetically engineered chicken slathered in a breadcrumb covering so secret it makes MI5 look like a Pontins AGM.

I noted that a fillet tower meal was £4.29, but decided to order just a burger and coke, as I did not want to ruin my appetite for the home made Irish roast dinner that was just a few short hours away. I always like to celebrate the death of our Lord the Saviour with a full stomach, and dumplings.

“That’ll be £4.89” said the server with the name Trainee on his badge.

“Oh, you must have made a mistake, I only want the burger and a coke. Nothing else.”

“Yes, that’s right. That’ll be £4.89.”

“But it’s only £4.29 for the whole meal which, includes fries.”

“That’s right.”

“So by paying more, I actually receive less?”

“Well, I guess so.” said the somewhat bemused KFC till operative.

“In fact, you’re paying me 60p to take a portion of fries I don’t want, and have no intention of eating.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“If that’s the case, I’d be perfectly happy to take three portions of fries, if you want to give me £1.80?”

He looked at me for a few moments, unsure if I was serious. I decided to clarify this for him.

“I am serious. If you give me £1.80 I really will eat three portions of fries.”

“I’m sorry, we can’t do that. Do you just want the meal then?”

I said I did, and made a point of removing the fries from the bag and leaving them on the counter. The burger was adequate.

“I am definitely the most heterosexual man in the room!” said The Canary.

The Canary is called The Canary because he tends to be a bit of a mental on the mountain, so when we are off-piste we generally send him over blind horizons and off cliffs to check it is safe for the rest of us to ski and board. Do not get the wrong idea though, as he works in womens clothing, so do not read too much into this foolhardy bravery.  I mean his company deals in womens clothing, I have no idea how he is attired during the working day. I very much doubt he wears the same type of skirt that he wears in the evening.

His outrageous claim led to some vociferous debate over who was the most heterosexual man in the room. I did not contribute to this mass debate however, and I merely let my obvious manliness speak for itself. Very quietly. I believe in the old adage, the louder the voice, the weaker the argument.  I merely sat back and enjoyed my sherry.

Later that evening, when we were sat in the restaurant, and we had consumed the obligatory obscene amount of alcohol, it was decided that the heterosexuality issue could easily be resolved by the table of girls next to us. But, in an alcohol-induced twist we decided that rather than ask who was the most heterosexual, it would be much better to ask them who was the least heterosexual.

There was much puffy-chestedness amongst the males in the group as the table of girls assessed us carefully. Up an down the table they looked, soaking up the palpable testosterone.

“I think it might be the one with the stripey jumper and white shirt.” whispered one of the girls.

“Hang on! I think you’ll find - technically speaking - that this jumper has hoops, not stripes.” I correctly pointed out, in an extremely masculine and yet supremely confident quiet manner.

I had suspected that making a bit of an effort, sartorially speaking, would count against me. Especially as everybody else had a scruffy t-shirt on.

Still, I am perfectly happy being the best dressed man on the mountain (which is obviously what the women on the next table were really saying anyway), and anyone who says different is a t-shirt-clad Neanderthal.

I have been working from home a lot recently, and as such have decided to replace my knackered old printer. Nothing fancy, just a simple printer for occasional printing. No photos, or glossy brochures. Just printing.

I did a bit of research on-line and discovered that the prices of printers have dropped dramatically in the years since I last purchased one. It is also difficult to actually buy a dot-matrix nowadays.

After visiting the Staples store in Slough I settled on the HP 4300 multifunction device. According the marketing literature it is a printer, scanner, photocopier, sex toy and fax machine.

I carried it to the cash desk and went to pay for it.

“Would you like some extra ink with that?”

“No thanks, it says here that it comes with both a black and a colour cartridge.”

“Yes, but that is generally just enough to test the machine, not enough to do any real printing.”

“Oh, that’s not what it says here. It says two cartridges included. No mention whatsoever of use only for testing.”

“They’re only about 20% full. HP machines are all the same. You’ll probably get through the test pages and then it’ll run out.”

This was disappointing in the extreme. My initial cheer at finding a suitable printer in the sale was now tempered by having to spend an extra £30 on ink. I did not want to come back straight away to buy more ink, so I relented and purchased my ink there and then, at Staples.

Later that evening I set up my new printer, and checked my ink levels. I was surprised to find that both the black, and colour cartridges were almost full.

It is clear that one of two things have happened here. Either I have been extremely lucky and the tight people at HP have accidentally given me more ink with the printer than they had intended, or the staff at Staples lied to my face in order to get me to buy more ink from them.

But which is it?

I have resolved to uncover the ugly truth, and I have begun by writing two letters to the organisations concerned. Stay tuned for the next instalment of the investigation.

Nothing ever happens where I live. Ever.

I know that a passing read of this website would give the casual observer such a magnificent impression of daily excitement and adventure that you and your fellow readers would do well to turn green with envy. But they are just the highlights. Mostly I spend my days looking out of the window waiting for something exciting to happen.

Something exciting like the sound of multiple police vehicles getting closer and closer to my flat.

And then closer still.

Then staying really loud, i.e. not disappearing into the distance like they normally do, but staying REALLY close.

I was starting to wonder what could possibly be happening when a black 4×4, driving way too fast, passed by my kitchen window and into the cul-de-sac court where I live. I wandered through to my living room to see it reappear at the other side of the block, but it did not arrive.

I walked out onto my tiny balcony and looked to the right to see that the 4×4 had mounted the grass and had been abandoned by the driver and passenger after knocking down a fencing post. To my immediate left a police car arrived and skidded to a halt. The policeman looked up at me and spoke to me with both speed and authority.

“Which way did they go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see what they were wearing.”

“No.”

“Can you describe the driver or passenger?”

“They were white, I think.”

Then, without so much as a thank you, or acknowledgement of my help, he went off in pursuit of the fleeing potential criminals.

It is public snubs like this that ensure we civilians feel like we have no rapport with the modern police force. How hard would it have been for him to ask how my day was going? Or whether I was coping all right and dealing with the stress of witnessing a brief moment in a live police chase.  This is how people develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Later I learned that there had been a robbery at a jewellery store in the town, and despite my assistance they have not yet detained the suspects.

Is it any wonder the youth of today do not feel like helping the police?

At my local gym the new year resolutionists are now slowly drifting away, thankfully. But two guys in particular, who almost seem joined at the hip, have stayed.

They are unusual amongst the resolutionists in that they were not carrying a few extra stones worth of various turkey-based delicacies when they joined. In fact, they did not look like they needed to go to the gym at all.

On the occasions I have seen them, they have been distinctive in their dress. One guy wears a white vest, white tracksuit bottoms and white trainers. The other wear a black vest, black tracksuit bottoms and black trainers.

Oh, and the guy all in white is, well, a white guy, and the other is black.

It is almost like one of them had a life-size photo taken of themselves and the negative came to life and started stalking them at the gym. They look completely and utterly fucking ridiculous.

I have been so tempted to go up to them and say, “Hey, I see what you did there, what with you being the ‘white’ one, and you being the ‘black’ one. No-one will ever get you mixed up now. Right on!” but talking to two men dressed like that in a gym is not the done thing for a straight guy, plus I do not want to get accused of inciting racial hatred or get beaten to within and inch of my life.

Do not think I am being racist. I am not. I would poke just as much fun if I saw a Chinese person all in yellow, or a Scot all in blue.

I do wonder if they planned their outfits for the first time they visited the gym, or if they consider it a lucky coincidence that they have now decided to perpetuate. Whatever it is, they show no signs of adopting what you or I might consider more acceptable gym attire.

So, if they are still in attendance when the summer months come round I will spend more time outside so I can don a brown vest, tracksuit and trainers, and join their gang of absolutely positively non-racist gym-goers.

I spent last weekend enjoying a traditional English break by the sea. I went to Bognor. More specifically, I went to Butlins in Bognor. For those of you that have not been to Butlins before, it is little bit like Guantanamo Bay, if Guantanamo Bay had been used as a detention centre in the 1950’s and the ‘residents’ were given a slightly wider selection of outfits to wear.

As we made our way to our Gold Standard Chalet I took in our surroundings and realised that I was essentially going to have to spend the next two days completely drunk in order to have a good time.

I dropped my bag on my single bed, and heard the crumple of waterproof mattress. Always a good sign. I then wandered to the living area where the Butlins staff had left us a welcome message.

“Dear Guest,” it began earnestly, “Welcome to Butlins!”

This was a good start. Positive and upbeat and full of the promise of wonderful seasidey things to come. Then it got straight to the point.

“We realise that most residents are here to enjoy themselves and will make all efforts to respect their surroundings. However, we would appreciate it if you could note the following charges will be applied to any damage caused during your stay.”

“Internal Door - £55
Television - £150
External Door - £90
Microwave - £30
Replacement Carpet - £120-£500
Chair - £30″

I have to admit that this was a first for me. The list continued like a rental property inventory, but the items above were the highlights. I have stayed in some truly god-awful shit holes over the years, but never have they provided a shopping list of things I could steal or damage beyond repair. The list said a great deal about the type of clientèle they had sought to attend the weekend party I had found myself directly involved in.

I was sure that the list itself would read like a challenge to a properly motivated individual. I can imagine a group of ASBO-wielding weekend release teenagers pooling their cash just to see how much damage they could afford to cause. Picture the scene, it is 3am after a drink-fuelled evening and Tyrone is about to throw a microwave out of the window, “Stop! That’s thirty quid! Do you know how much Buckfast we can get with £30?!”

I briefly considered throwing a microwave out of the window myself. It was only £30, and how often do you get to do that? Unfortunately we were on the ground floor and essentially dropping a microwave three feet to the floor is not worth £30. With hindsight I could probably have done it and then put it back in place as I can not imagine a three foot drop is fatal to a microwave.

In truth, I am sorry to report that I broke nothing, and stole even less for the rest of the weekend.

I have always been in favour of the smoking ban. Not to the Draconian extent it has been implemented in some places, but I do want to be able to enjoy a pint without inhaling the contents of someone else’s lungs, unless they have been smoking the delicious crack.

Anyway, last week I went out with some friends to my first gig since the ban came into force. I went to see The Charlatans (or ‘The Charlatans UK’ for my US reader) at Shepherds Bush empire. I have been there a few times before, but not for many years.

We moved our way into the crowd to position ourselves just far enough back to avoid any potential moshing (I am twenty-twelve now, and so bouncing around with young people is strictly a weekend only activity). We found a good spot and I took a swig from my Guinness-in-plastic. Then I noticed it.

Fart.

And not the sort that makes you go, “You smelly bastard!” and then lets you get on with your day. I mean the sort that makes you wretch until a bit of sick comes up into your mouth, and makes you hold your nose, but that makes it worse because then you know that microscopic bits of poo are getting into your mouth so you are sick even more. It was like they had spent the day wolfing down dogshit sandwiches. Honestly, I have never smelt anything quite so bad.

Others agreed with me, and the drunk ginger bloke in front us became the favourite for the phantom farting crown.

Then I smelt something else.

B.O.

Again, not the minor whiff of a passing pedestrian who has forgotten to shower, but the stink of someone who has been living in a metal drum in the Sahara whilst being force fed Indian food and limited to washing in elephant dung.

I had never noticed it before, but the general public fucking stinks. Really. You do. For years the odour of Benson & Hedges has clearly covered a multitude of sins. No wonder you were so against the ban. It wasn’t the thought of giving up smoking that got you all complaining. It was the thought of all that money you were going to have to spend on soap.

It is almost enough for me to join the ‘bring back smoking’ brigade.

As I dried myself after having a shower I noticed the big A4-sized sign next the sink.

“Do your bit…” It began in large, bold letters.

“Each year the hotel industry wastes millions of litres of water and many tons of detergent on the unnecessary cleaning of towels. You can help us to help the environment by putting the towels that require cleaning in the bath, and those you can use again onto the towel rail. That way we can both help to reduce environmentally damaging waste.”

I had to hold the A4 laminated notice, made from actual previously alive trees, at a strange angle in order to read it. This was due to the seven spotlights burning down on me from the bathroom ceiling, and the eight further spotlights glaring at me from the circumference of my two meter square heated mirror. I had to continue reading it in the bedroom as the underfloor heating was a little on the warm side for my delicate toes.

I contemplated this gesture on the part of the hotel as I lay back on the freshly starched sheets of my bed, well technically it was my spare bed, as I had two doubles to choose from, despite booking a single room.

I picked up the phone.

“Hello Reception, how can I help you?”

“Hello, I have a question regarding your environmental policy, and the towel cleaning.”

“Yes Sir?”

“I was just wondering if the fifteen spotlights in my bathroom were those low-wattage environmentally safe ones?”

“Oh, I’m not sure Sir.”

“And is the bathroom mirror heated from energy created from from renewable sources?”

“Err, I don’t know.”

“And what about the underfloor heating. There is a wind farm somewhere powering that, right?”

“Again Sir, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“So actually, your environmental policy extends to not washing towels that customers are happy to use again, and only if they make the effort to single them out for you?”

“Amongst other things Sir.”

I did not want to listen to stories of recycling office supplies or staff using bicycles to get to work, so I hung up at that point. I duly put my used towel on the heated rail, and went out for the evening.

The following evening I returned to my room to find all my towels had been replaced with fresh ones. I did not think I had particularly soiled it, and had only used it twice, but obviously the cleaner determined that it was so dirty it was worth killing the planet to ensure I had a new clean one to go with the other three that I had not used.

The planet is dying (allegedly), but at least I had nice clean towels.

Having arrived on an unusually punctual train, we had spent the day in dull meetings at a hotel in Manchester city centre. The only thing that had piqued my interest during the morning was the brief mention of a nice bar in the hotel on the 23rd floor.

“It has a great view!” said one of the locals.

“Of Manchester?” I queried.

“Yes, at night it could be any city in the world, I guess.”

It was interesting that the best thing he could say abut the view was that in poor light you could possibly be looking at somewhere else entirely.

The day finally drew to a close and my colleague and I fought our way through throngs of late check-ins up the other 21 floors to sample this famed view, and enjoy a few cheeky post-work drinks.

As we exited the lift on the 23rd floor, the bar was not signposted, so we tried a door which led to a bar area with floor to ceiling windows looking out over a twighlight Manchester city centre. It was all right to look at I suppose.

“Can I help you?” asked the lady who came up to us in a flash.

“Yes, we’d like a seat over there I think, and a look at the drinks list please.”

“Are you residents?”

“No, we’ve been in meetings here all day.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, this is for residents only I’m afraid. You need the bar on the other side.”

“Right. Just through that door is it?”

“Yes.”

I began making my way to the door.

“But you can’t go through there. You have to use a different lift in the foyer to go directly to the 23rd floor bar.”

This was a little perplexing. I could not only hear the bar, but also see the lights between the crack in the two doors.

“It is right there though. Are you saying that we can’t get through that locked door, to the bar that is literally five feet away without fighting our way, with luggage, through 46 floors of rush hour elevators?”

“Yes, I am afraid so.”

“What would happen if we just forced it open?”

“I would have to call security, and you would be ejected from the hotel.”

Grateful for her clarification on the issue at hand, we chose to fight our way through 46 floors of rush hour elevators to spend sixteen pounds on two overpriced cocktails whilst looking at a city that could have been anywhere in the UK.

The game reserve Ranger had challenged us to ask him more questions, as we had been in quiet awe of our surroundings since the safari began.

“What does that dung belong to?” asked the Claw, clearly unaware that dung becomes a shared resource once it is out of the animals bottom.

“I think it is the dung of an Oryx, let me check.”

With that the ranger got off his quad bike and rolled a piece of dung between his fingers.

“No, I am wrong this dung belongs to a Giraffe.”

He then put the dung in his mouth and bit it in half. As he did so, a little bit of sick came up into my throat, and yet he continued on.

“Yes, look. The grass is finely ground, a good sign that this came from a giraffe.”

“But…but…you just put giraffe shite, from the arse of a giraffe, into your mouth?!”

“Yes, it is not a problem. We had a dung spitting competition amongst the rangers a couple of weeks ago.”

“I am going to assume you were REALLY bored that night.”

“It’s fine, it’s dry to begin with, but when a bit moist you can spit a long way. I did feel a bit nauseas towards the end though.”

“Yes, I can see how it would take four or five dungballs to make you feel sick.”

We pointed out the next dung pile, but thankfully he recongised it as belonging to a White Rhino, without having to force the loaf of bread sized dung ball into his mouth.

“You can expect a fruity sensation at the front of your mouth, but for it to seem a little drier when it reaches the back. It is not unusual to smell berries and chocolate as this is quite a rich red.”

I am beginning to see double.

I have never been wine tasting before, and I think my lack of experience is beginning to show. I have yet to spit anything out, or in fact pour anything away. Along with my friend the Claw, I am also gratefully accepting the remnants of my other friends glasses.

“I can smell burnt toast and, err, BMX tyres?”

My incisive comment is not as well received as I had hoped. They are not amused.

“Dog Biscuits? Anyone else getting dog biscuits?” I plead with the group.

I am informed that I have a poor nose. It is no Brad Pitt nose, I will admit, but I am happy with it and that is all that matters. It has served me well and rarely bleeds.

After a few hours I come to the conclusion that I will never be a wine ponce. We are drinking a £45 wine called “Ernie Els” in the personal vineyard of one of the worlds best golfers - I am not sure which one - and yet I can not tell the difference between it, and a bottle of wine I would buy in Sainsburys for five pounds. This is, I am reliably informed, a “bad thing”.

I can not see this though. I can get as much enjoyment from a five pound bottle as someone can get from a forty five pound bottle. How is this a bad thing?

I continue to drink everything put in front of me and completely forget what happens in the second half of the day.

After three days of golf, our group decided to have a day off. So all twenty six of us decided to go sailing. On actual boats.

I had not sailed before and my requests to use terms like front, back, left and right fell on deaf ears. Honestly, boat people use an entirely different language!

We were divided into three crews (that is special sailing terminology for ‘teams’ for the land lubbers amongst you) and set off from Cape Town harbour.

The sails were raised and the engines turned off, and we waited breathlessly to begin the first race.

The flag was dropped and we were off!

Fifteen minutes later, as we sat on board chatting idly to the other two boats either side of us, we agreed that this would be a much better activity if there was any wind whatsoever. According to our ’skipper’ (this is more boat-speak) it is unusual to have so little wind. And trust me, there is not a fart joke we did not come up with in that fifteen minute period.

I am not sure you can actually still call it ’sailing’ when you have to consider getting out oars to help you along. Even with all the pulling of sheets (translation: ropes) we were not really moving. I honestly felt that we would be better off all getting in the water, pushing it from behind, and treating the boat like the big floats they use in swimming lessons. My suggestion was not well received.

Eventually, we powered up the engines and headed back to the harbour to celebrate our success in drifting the furthest.

I went to west London on Saturday after an aborted picnic was relocated to the basement of a pub. As you do. Much fun was had and I met some funny, nice and actually-quite-fit people. And some other bloggers (ha, I am funny).

As midnight approached I left a group who were heading for a curry as I needed to make my way back to Paddington to get my last train home. It was probably no more than a twenty minute walk, but I was a bit drunk so decided to get the tube. I headed to the platform as I fiddled with my new phone, and continued to do so in the near empty carriage.

The train reached its first stop, which I had expected to be Bayswater, but to my surprise, I was definitely looking at a sign that read High Street Kensington. This was either the most elaborately planned practical joke anyone has ever played on the tube, or, like an utter twat, I had gone the wrong way.

If only this were to be the only time I would call myself a twat in the next few hours.

The tube trains had now stopped in the other direction, so I headed towards the surface aware that I now had forty-five minutes to complete a probable thirty minute walk to Paddington. At this point in the story it is probably worth pointing out that I do not have a very good sense of direction. Before the advent of Satellite navigation I would regularly get lost on simple journeys, so my decision to head off on a brisk walk in the ‘general direction’ of Paddington was, in hindsight, not my best.

As the rain came down, and not a single sign-post mentioned Paddington, I started looking out for a cab, but none were forthcoming. I tried to look at a map on my phone, but it would not load. I continued to walk, now slightly concerned about missing my train. After what felt like a few days I reached a place called Princess Gate on Hyde Park, and finally had success in loading the map on my phone. I let out a slight whimper when I realised I was absolutely fucking miles from where I thought I was.

I figured I had about two miles to cover in the five minutes before my last train left the station. For some reason I began to run, but then I worked out that all this would mean is that I’d arrive sweaty, and still miss my train. So I walked instead.

An hour later, when I was still walking round in the rain, with a dead phone battery and no idea of my location, I finally admitted defeat and asked for directions. It was a humbling moment, and a pretty unpleasant one when it became clear I still had a good half-hour of walking to do, most of it back in the direction I had just come from.

When I finally reached Paddington, I checked the timetable and learned that it would be four hours before the next train left. I hailed a cab and was told it would be about sixty pounds to take me home. I am not made of money, so I resigned myself to a four hour wait at Paddington.

It was not very cold, and the station was quiet, so nothing else could go wrong, surely?

(Continued tomorrow)