Monday, 31 October 2011

Stags and Hens and Wallys and Bellends

On Saturday night I was unfortunate enough to take a train from Newbury to Reading. The train was, myself excluded, entirely populated by 20 year old bellends in costumes. I am not saying that being a 20 year old in a costume makes you a bellend by the way. That would make Jedward bellends which is absurd. I am saying that the people on the 9.05 from Newbury to Reading were bellends. Consider the evidence;

About 70% of them (honest guess) were dressed as Wally from Where's Wally? There were three separate groups of Wallys. Nothing says 'I'm wacky and crazy' like being in a group of 25 all wearing exactly the same outfit (sarcasm). I don't get why groups all wear the same costumes. It seems so depressing. It was like a Hitler Youth night out. I'm not sure if they were stags and hens or just off to a party. Either way they, to me, they were just a giant globule of shouty Jagermeister vessels in red and white. At one stage one of them turned to me and showed me a picture on his phone, asking if I thought it was funny. It wasn't funny but was horribly racist. It showed a black child in a supermarket trolley with the caption 'Get used to the bars little nigga'. If you're ever in any doubt as to whether racism still exists in Britain - just take a trip to a small town. The fact that he didn't think twice about showing it to a stranger and was surprised when I pulled my Guardian reading face of disapproval says it all.

Slightly related question - what has happened to stag and hen nights in the last few years? If early Neighbours is anything to go by a stag night used to just consist of a night at The Waterhole, a stripper who Des will marry and die in a car crash (don't they all?) and then the stag getting tied naked to a lamppost. Now everyone has to go to fucking Prague. Stags and hens of the world! It is not fair to essentially force your friends (and your fiance's brother) to spend their holiday money at a destination of your choice. I am lucky enough not to have any real friends but everyone I know at the moment seems to spend every other weekend doing massively expensive activities miles away from where anyone taking part actually lives. All this simply because an old school friend who they no longer have anything in common with (hence the fucking hat making weekend) has found a mate.

Stags and hens! I understand that it is your 'special day' but does it have to be your 'special four day weekend' and does it have to be in fucking Krakow and do we really have to drink shots at 7am before we go fucking paint balling?

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

A visit to the nurse.

Last night I couldn't get to sleep until about 4. This is not unusual for me. A couple of weeks ago I had a night in which I couldn't sleep till 7.30 in the morning. That is proper bullshit. That night went something like this; Lay in bed for an hour, get up and go to the toilet, lay in bed for another 40 minutes, get up and watch some baseball (!), lay in bed for another hour, get up and flick between baseball and Fox News, lay in bed for another hour, get up and go to the toilet, lay in bed for another 40 minutes, wake my girlfriend up to tell her I can't sleep, get up and watch Daybreak for the first time ever, go back to bed and watch my girlfriend get up for work, fall asleep. Your sympathy is gratefully received.

In other news my 81 year old Grandad phoned me up on Monday. Something had happened to him on a trip to the hospital which he thought I could use in my 'comedy'. Amazingly he went to the trouble of writing the whole story and emailing it to me. Can your Grandad use email? No. He can't can he? Gutted.

Here's the story he sent me, word for word. If you're at all unclear, the implication is that it sounded like he and the nurse were having sex. As far as I know, they weren't...

A visit to the Nurse

The waiting room was full as usual with a mixture of retired pensioners and young mothers with their offspring creating the usual mess on the floor with all the toys.

I took my place at a convenient seat near the door I was going to be called into.

In due course the door opened and the nurse called me by my Christian name “William” and I rose from my seat and went into her treatment room, without any apprehension, as it was only a breathing test I was having to check my lungs were functioning properly.

The nurse prepared me for the test by explaining in hushed voice what she would be applying to me in order to get the best test results.

She explained all the graphs on a screen like a T V which would record all the efforts I was capable of achieving, each one had a significance to some part of my Bronchial efficiency.

The procedure had 3 bouts of breathing activity I would be asked to follow.

The nurse was very enthusiastic in going over all the details of how I was to respond to her instructions.

She told me to take a very deep breath and in a loud instruction she encouraged me to take more and more and kept saying “more William more” and “don’t stop, don’t stop”, then the instruction changed and she exalted me to push harder into a tube in my mouth, “push William push harder” repeating it over and over. Then she said, “ When I say start I want you to give it all you’ve got and force as much as you can”. “ Right start now, More William don’t stop keep going keep going, that’s lovely, keep going, don’t stop your doing very well, very well.” “Now I want you to do it all again only this time push harder”. “ Wait until I say start, right start now, fill it up as much as you can and then push with all your might William, don’t stop that’s wonderful, give it all you’ve got, don’t stop William, your doing so well its brilliant, don’t stop William.” “I want you to push as hard as you can William. “I’m so pleased. “O yes you have reached the right mark William, I’m so pleased.

I relaxed for a moment or two and then had to start the procedure all over again. This time with even more encouragement and with all the enthusiasm and words of praise as to my performance.

Just then the door to the treatment room opened and the doctor came in and asked “what is going on “ but saw the equipment being used and understood and said “I see” “But could you keep your voices down as The patients can hear what you are saying”.

When he left another nurse came in, who usually took my blood for tests, and said, “ What are you doing to my William, He’s my patient” and laughed.

As I left the surgery I got some very mixed looks from many of the waiting patients, some of envy and some of disgust

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

Near death experience.

Last night I was approached by a man outside my house. I instantly knew that he was going to ask me for money and I also knew that I wouldn't give him any. He was pretty dishevelled and only one tooth had bothered to stay in his mouth. In a sense I shouldn't be judging him on his appearance but, you know, so would you.

In London I am frequently approached by people asking me for 'money for the bus'. These people always look like alcoholics or crack heads. Either alcoholics and crack heads just love riding the bus or they're lying. It is a sad state of affairs when my instant response to a stranger in need is an immediate 'no'. Especially considering their stories are often quite elaborate and believable. What if they're true? What if one day I end up getting beaten up, losing all my money and need to get the bus back to Penge to see my sister who's sick? And what if that all happens on a day I have chosen to dress like a crack head? Then I will have to hope that I find someone nicer than me.

What was interesting about last night's guy was his method. He played a genuinely startling mind trick. He starting by taking an i.d card out of his wallet. My first thought was that he was trying to prove that he was a responsible member of society in a fix by showing me that he had a normal job. Instead the card was from Brixton prison. He told me that he'd just left there. He then showed me cuts on his wrists which he said were from recently applied handcuffs. I ruled out inviting him in to watch Dragon's Den with me. He explained that he needed money for the bus (don't we all - thanks BORIS!) and that he didn't want to reoffend to get it.

Ahhhh. So that's the trick. For a second I considered giving him it because I was so bamboozled. Not least by the fact that they give you an i.d card when you leave prison. What possible circumstance would that be useful in other than... I don't know... applying for a job at News International?! SATIRE!! Then I figured that if he really needed the bus then he could just hop on a fucking bendy one. I said 'no, sorry' (always polite) as I was walking into my house and then he said 'that's a nice house you've got, I might have to reoffend and burgle that'. Well, just as long as you only burgle £2.20's worth for bus fare and not a penny more.

This is the sad thing about the city. We don't trust anyone and we're right not to. If I ever ask for directions it always starts with the person looking away in fear at first and I look like a sick school boy.

Here is something I can't be arsed to fit into the structure of the blog post. Consider it a bonus feature; There's another guy on my street who frequently asks me for money. Each time he has a bloody mouth and says he's just been punched in the face. First off it's sad that he is so desperate that he regularly punches himself in the face to try and get what he needs. Secondly, it's sad that he's stupid enough to do it on the same street, to the same people every night.