On our way back home from central London yesterday afternoon. Three trains: Bakerloo line, Victoria line, overground.
Bakerloo line to Oxford Circus.
Quite crowded., but got a seat. I was suddenly aware out of the corner of my eye of a bloke three seats down lurching forward. My thought was he's about to be sick. I look over and I see him slumped forward over a huge fastfood container, shovelling in great plastic forkfuls of what looked like white slimy worms covered in vomit, but I suspect was some sort of glutinous noodle dish, into his ravenous and gaping maw, accompanied by loud slurping noises.
There was no pause between mouthfuls. It was a continuous, loud, wet, oderous and messy operation. If he'd crouched on the seat and had a loose bowel movement, it could not have been more disgusting. Next to him was a small companion, I assume his son, who was nibbling unethusiastically on a sandwich.
When he finally finished the last of the noodles, helped down with a wet, gurgling draw on his iced hazelnut syrup frappacino with extra whipped cream and a fried egg, he reached over, again without pause, swiped the remnants of his son's sandwich, and stuffed that in as well.
Mercifully, we reached our station and I was able to bolt from the carriage before he started gnawing on his son's soft body parts.
Victoria Line to Finsbury Park.
So I'm sitting there trying to expunge the horrific pictures from my mind, when I am distracted by the unmistakable sound of crisp bags being pulled open, and see two pasty-faced, blubbery teenage boys sitting across from me, slouched down and legs wide apart, sprawling louchely across the seats. They each have an open sackful of Doritos, a gallon container of some dayglo orange-coloured sports (sports. Ha!!) drink, and a six-inch thick triple decker sandwich that seemed to be filled with mayonnaise, bacon, sausage, egg, and any number of other sloppy, multicoloured ingedients. The smell that enveloped me was reminiscent of my food recylcing bin on a hot summer's day.
The boys then proceeded to throw chubby handfuls of everything in the vague direction of their pieholes, splattering their faces, their clothes, the seats and probably the ceiling with gobbets of tortilla-encrusted slime.
Just as I was about to get up and ram the tips of my fingers in their eyes, we arrived at Finsbury Park. I staggered up the spiral staircase, lurched out on to the overground platform, and gulped down huge grateful lungfuls of (comparatively) fresh air, and eyefuls of (comparatively) bright sunlight.
Overground to Alexandra Palace.
We get on the train and look carefully around. Pretty empty. We go to the back of the carriage and sit as far away as possible from other carbon based life forms and sit down facing away from the doors.
Next stop. Harringey. We hear shuffling, and then someone sitting down heavily in the seat behind us, followed by the sound of something being unwrapped, and then the sound of a huge ravenous sow rooting through pigswill and munching down on a dead rat, all to the accompaniment of the warm, fetid steamy smell of the bins outside a kebab shop. If I had found a used nappy on the floor and buried my head in it, I could not have been more disgusted.
We get up for our stop and I give the abomination troughing down his kebab a filthy look as I pass by. The bull-headed slob raises his dull, unthinking, bovine, malevolent, piggy little eyes to mine. His jaws stop moving, as if the brain activity required to use his eyes and chew at the same time, is too much for the small fragment of brain lodged in his skull. I realise that any comment I might make would probably result in him lamping me, so of course we just scuttle off the train.
And this was all at four in the afternoon. What happened to mealtimes for crying out loud?
When I become Queen, my first decree will be to shove the heads of anyone eating in public on spikes, and put one outside every Pret a Manger in Islington as a warning to others, although I would probably run out of heads before I ran out of Pret a Mangers.
Sunday, 31 May 2015
Monday, 25 May 2015
Treaties
There is a fascinating wikipeadia webpage that appears to list all the treaties from the treaty between the cities of Lagash and Umma in Mesopotamia, circa BC2100, setting a boundary between their two states, up to the rather inneffectual 2015 Treaty of Minsk between Russia and Ukraine.
As I was rapidly paging through the list, various exotic and romantic names flashed past: Byzantine–Bulgarian Treaty of 716...Treaty of Alfred and Guthrum 878...the golden bull of Sicily 1212...Treaty of Nymphaeum 1262...the Compromise of Caspe 1412...the Treaty of Constantinople (1479)...Treaty of Woking 1490...Alliance treaty between Geneva, Berne and Fribourg...the
WHOOOA...hold on there Tonto.
I screech to a halt.
What the,,, THE TREATY OF WOKING???
That's what it says, Kemosabe
Surely I read it wrong. Probably The Treaty of Whoaxshing between the hill peoples of fourteenth century Manchuria and the Nuristani tribesmen of the Hindukush at the very least?
I back up.
And there it is:
"The Treaty of Woking 1490. An agreement developed between England and the nascent Spain. Its provisions accomplished four goals: the establishment of a common policy regarding France, the reduction of tariffs between the two countries, the arrangement of a marriage contract between Arthur Tudor, eldest son of Henry VII of England, and Catherine of Aragon, daughter of Isabella I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon. and most crucially, banning the use of mobility scooters on the Esplanade after 4.00pm between The Golden Cornet Ice Cream Parlour and Beasley's Novelty Rock Emporium."
Bollocks to the Treaty of Woking. I'm off for a Mivvi
As I was rapidly paging through the list, various exotic and romantic names flashed past: Byzantine–Bulgarian Treaty of 716...Treaty of Alfred and Guthrum 878...the golden bull of Sicily 1212...Treaty of Nymphaeum 1262...the Compromise of Caspe 1412...the Treaty of Constantinople (1479)...Treaty of Woking 1490...Alliance treaty between Geneva, Berne and Fribourg...the
WHOOOA...hold on there Tonto.
I screech to a halt.
What the,,, THE TREATY OF WOKING???
That's what it says, Kemosabe
Surely I read it wrong. Probably The Treaty of Whoaxshing between the hill peoples of fourteenth century Manchuria and the Nuristani tribesmen of the Hindukush at the very least?
I back up.
And there it is:
"The Treaty of Woking 1490. An agreement developed between England and the nascent Spain. Its provisions accomplished four goals: the establishment of a common policy regarding France, the reduction of tariffs between the two countries, the arrangement of a marriage contract between Arthur Tudor, eldest son of Henry VII of England, and Catherine of Aragon, daughter of Isabella I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon. and most crucially, banning the use of mobility scooters on the Esplanade after 4.00pm between The Golden Cornet Ice Cream Parlour and Beasley's Novelty Rock Emporium."
Bollocks to the Treaty of Woking. I'm off for a Mivvi
Saturday, 23 May 2015
Clowns
To paraphrase Rajesh Koothrappali, I'd rather swim butt-naked across the Ganges with a paper cut to my left nipple than take part in any kind of audience participation.
Anyway.
Last weekend I went away for 2 and a half days of intense mathematical revision before my exam in a few weeks time. So you're stuck there, in some faceless conference centre in the middle of nowhere with about 250 fellow maths students, and no escape for the weekend. Here is a map of the place.
Now by tradition with these events, there is usually some form of "entertainment" on the Saturday night by way of light relief. In days gone by there has been a live band, folk singing, and they even tried a disco once as I recall. However, the sight of 250 mainly middle-aged maths students, atttempting to emulate scenes from Saturday Night Fever had onlookers frantically trying to scrape the images off their retinas with used razor blades, so that was abandonned on health and safety grounds.
The next logical, some may say obvious, step was a quiz night, and that is what they had. I would have been perfectly happy to sit in the bar and contemplate the metaphysics of non-linear inhomogeneous second order differential equations with the aid of a few Grolsches, but unfortunately the quiz was IN the bar, so I had no choice but to join in.
I skulked around and joined the largest team I could find. In reptrospect, I should have smelt a rat when I saw the quizmaster. He had on a headset and was prancing about like a Butlins redcoat on nitrous oxide.
"ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME????? I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I SAID ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME!!! WELL AWRIIIIGHT!!!!
Question number 3. What was unusual about the 1998 World Scrabble final?
So anyway off we go. First round general knowledge. So far so good. Then he announces the second round with a supercilious smile playing across his thin, cruel lips. "This round is called 'clowning about'", and he proceeds to explain, with mounting horror from the audience (OK, from me), how he requires two volunteers from each team to dress up as clowns, work out a clown routine, and then perform it in front of everyone.
Gentle reader, if there is a word in the english language more likely to loosen the bowels than "volunteer" I have yet to hear it.
I shrank into the fabric of my chair and avoided any form of human contact as my team discussed who should be the clowns. I did everything in my power to occupy a tear in the spacetime continuum. Thank Christ, there were a couple of young gals on our team who took up the challenge, and we all started making jolly hats/bowties/clownfeet/balloon animals from the paper/carboard/scissors/sticky tape/balloons provided.
Tina, I can't thank you enough for volunteering
I then had to sit through AN HOUR AND A HALF of various teams' clowns performing a series of unspeakably embarrassing acts, which were judged by the other teams according to a points system devised by Mein Host, that was so complex it made Godel's Incompleteness Theorem sound like a Lidl shopping list.
...so that's 3.1415 marks for artistic impression then...
I have to say, our team's "turn" which consisted of the two clowns miming to a spirited reading of french poetry in French, raised the tone of the whole evening, and lowered the sleep threshold, if that were possible.
Suffice to say, the bastard quizmeister continued with further rounds until the whole audience was in a soporific torpor.
"OK are you ready to rock? I said ARE YOU READY TO ROOOCK??? In this round, we need each team to create a tableau vivant re-enacting the signing of the 1474 treaty of Utrecht, dressed up as seahorses"
Look at me!! I'm the hanseatic city of Lubeck!!
Anyway.
Last weekend I went away for 2 and a half days of intense mathematical revision before my exam in a few weeks time. So you're stuck there, in some faceless conference centre in the middle of nowhere with about 250 fellow maths students, and no escape for the weekend. Here is a map of the place.
Now by tradition with these events, there is usually some form of "entertainment" on the Saturday night by way of light relief. In days gone by there has been a live band, folk singing, and they even tried a disco once as I recall. However, the sight of 250 mainly middle-aged maths students, atttempting to emulate scenes from Saturday Night Fever had onlookers frantically trying to scrape the images off their retinas with used razor blades, so that was abandonned on health and safety grounds.
The next logical, some may say obvious, step was a quiz night, and that is what they had. I would have been perfectly happy to sit in the bar and contemplate the metaphysics of non-linear inhomogeneous second order differential equations with the aid of a few Grolsches, but unfortunately the quiz was IN the bar, so I had no choice but to join in.
I skulked around and joined the largest team I could find. In reptrospect, I should have smelt a rat when I saw the quizmaster. He had on a headset and was prancing about like a Butlins redcoat on nitrous oxide.
"ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME????? I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I SAID ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME!!! WELL AWRIIIIGHT!!!!
Question number 3. What was unusual about the 1998 World Scrabble final?
So anyway off we go. First round general knowledge. So far so good. Then he announces the second round with a supercilious smile playing across his thin, cruel lips. "This round is called 'clowning about'", and he proceeds to explain, with mounting horror from the audience (OK, from me), how he requires two volunteers from each team to dress up as clowns, work out a clown routine, and then perform it in front of everyone.
Gentle reader, if there is a word in the english language more likely to loosen the bowels than "volunteer" I have yet to hear it.
I shrank into the fabric of my chair and avoided any form of human contact as my team discussed who should be the clowns. I did everything in my power to occupy a tear in the spacetime continuum. Thank Christ, there were a couple of young gals on our team who took up the challenge, and we all started making jolly hats/bowties/clownfeet/balloon animals from the paper/carboard/scissors/sticky tape/balloons provided.
Tina, I can't thank you enough for volunteering
I then had to sit through AN HOUR AND A HALF of various teams' clowns performing a series of unspeakably embarrassing acts, which were judged by the other teams according to a points system devised by Mein Host, that was so complex it made Godel's Incompleteness Theorem sound like a Lidl shopping list.
...so that's 3.1415 marks for artistic impression then...
I have to say, our team's "turn" which consisted of the two clowns miming to a spirited reading of french poetry in French, raised the tone of the whole evening, and lowered the sleep threshold, if that were possible.
Suffice to say, the bastard quizmeister continued with further rounds until the whole audience was in a soporific torpor.
"OK are you ready to rock? I said ARE YOU READY TO ROOOCK??? In this round, we need each team to create a tableau vivant re-enacting the signing of the 1474 treaty of Utrecht, dressed up as seahorses"
Look at me!! I'm the hanseatic city of Lubeck!!
Thursday, 21 May 2015
Theydon Bois
So I got my Old Geezer Free London Travel permit the other day and true to my belief system, took myself off to Theydon Bois.
Lovely day. Here we are
What the HELL am I doing here?
Rush Hour
Walked up from the Station
Impressive
to the High Street
It's all go
Place seemed to consist almost exclusively of Hairdressers and Poodle Parlours, so it is THE place to go if you want a hairdo or your Schnauzer trimmed (although I wouldn't ride a bike straight after).
Lovely day. Here we are
What the HELL am I doing here?
Rush Hour
Walked up from the Station
Impressive
to the High Street
It's all go
Place seemed to consist almost exclusively of Hairdressers and Poodle Parlours, so it is THE place to go if you want a hairdo or your Schnauzer trimmed (although I wouldn't ride a bike straight after).
Wednesday, 13 May 2015
Millionaire's Shortbread
It has been pointed out to me that Twix is just a poor man's millionaire's shortbread
I'm sorry. I'm far too rich and luxurious to have anything to do with the likes of you. Clear orf or I'll set the dogs on you
How dare you? I've got just as much right to be here as you. Look everyone! See the exploitation of the proletariat!!
I would concur. Sure, the basic constituents are the same but that is where the similarity ends. Your average millionaire's shortbread is far larger, and the layers of caramel usually much thicker. The shortbread is also of a better calibre. The experience is completely different. It is a luxury. It is delicious. A wonderful, rich and indulgent treat.
I absolutely love the stuff.
It is also a nightmare to eat, because the shortbread is not entirely enrobed by the chocolate, meaning you cannot help but get crumbs down your front, and then the missus comes in, and you try to cram it all in your mouth before she sees what you are eating, but the crumbs give it away and she looks accusingly at you and says, "do you really think it's a good idea to eat that stuff right now? You know damn well we are about to go out to dinner" and you say "well if you think that pile of slop that we'll be given by a couple of pasty faced VEGANS is dinner then you're as mad as a shithouse rat" and she says "you've never liked Jasper & Poppy even though they are my oldest friends!" and then storms off in tears and I don't really know what to do so now I'm looking forward to a night of boiled courgettes AND a sulky missus.
And it's all the fault of that bastard millionaire's shortbread. I HATE the stuff
I'm sorry. I'm far too rich and luxurious to have anything to do with the likes of you. Clear orf or I'll set the dogs on you
How dare you? I've got just as much right to be here as you. Look everyone! See the exploitation of the proletariat!!
I would concur. Sure, the basic constituents are the same but that is where the similarity ends. Your average millionaire's shortbread is far larger, and the layers of caramel usually much thicker. The shortbread is also of a better calibre. The experience is completely different. It is a luxury. It is delicious. A wonderful, rich and indulgent treat.
I absolutely love the stuff.
It is also a nightmare to eat, because the shortbread is not entirely enrobed by the chocolate, meaning you cannot help but get crumbs down your front, and then the missus comes in, and you try to cram it all in your mouth before she sees what you are eating, but the crumbs give it away and she looks accusingly at you and says, "do you really think it's a good idea to eat that stuff right now? You know damn well we are about to go out to dinner" and you say "well if you think that pile of slop that we'll be given by a couple of pasty faced VEGANS is dinner then you're as mad as a shithouse rat" and she says "you've never liked Jasper & Poppy even though they are my oldest friends!" and then storms off in tears and I don't really know what to do so now I'm looking forward to a night of boiled courgettes AND a sulky missus.
And it's all the fault of that bastard millionaire's shortbread. I HATE the stuff
Tuesday, 12 May 2015
How to spoil a perfectly good evening
Went to IKEA last night: my daughter is moving into a new house with friends, so we all go to Ikea to buy her some cheap tat.
Starts off not too bad. Monday night quite quiet,
I have a good look round the kitchen dept,
Kitchen Department
... which I actually quite like, being food related. My slight bonhommie lasts six minutes, until we get to saucepan choosing. Non-stick or stainless steel? Double or single handle? Enough for one, or will you be cooking for guests? Separate frying pan? Even the subject of Woks I believe was mentioned. I did point out that everything was sold out apart from a twenty foot mound of scrap metal masquerading as a pile of paella pans, but it fell on deaf ears.
I wandered round the corner into the bedding department.
Bedding Department
Gentle reader, if there is anything on this planet duller than the bedding department of Ikea, I have yet to see it. I was so bored I wanted to eat my own face.
I stroll on, determined to keep the red mist at bay. I recall the conversation earlier that evening
Mrs “Do you really want to come?”
Me “Yes, I might find something useful” (why did I think this??)
Mrs “You won't get bored and make a scene?”
Me “When have I ever made a scene?”
She lowers her chin, raises her eyebrows, and stares me down
Me “I'll be fine - really. Let's go”
I wander into the bathroom department and study the toilet brushes. They are called Nodd or some such. Everything has a name in Ikea. That's a job I wan to dot. I want to be paid to name toilet brushes. I can do that.
No sign of my family. I start examining the toilet seats:
Ikea's spring collection - just in
...stacks of wooden and plastic two-part toilet seats called Nargg. I pick one up and put my head through the hole. Tee hee this is fun. With my head poking out between the seat and the lid, I retrace my steps, looking for my family. I plan to surprise them. Aha! There they are in bedding, comparing relative duvet Tog ratings.
I creep up, leap out from behind a huge mound of pillows called Gorfff, and roar loudly at them. I am met with complete and stony silence. They are not my family. There is a woman and younger lady who look a bit like them. I remove my head from the hole and back off, examining the seat intently as if sizing up its suitability for some depraved purpose, and leg it into the lighting department where I hide for twelve hours, next to some desklamps called, I think, Arse.
Starts off not too bad. Monday night quite quiet,
I have a good look round the kitchen dept,
Kitchen Department
... which I actually quite like, being food related. My slight bonhommie lasts six minutes, until we get to saucepan choosing. Non-stick or stainless steel? Double or single handle? Enough for one, or will you be cooking for guests? Separate frying pan? Even the subject of Woks I believe was mentioned. I did point out that everything was sold out apart from a twenty foot mound of scrap metal masquerading as a pile of paella pans, but it fell on deaf ears.
I wandered round the corner into the bedding department.
Bedding Department
Gentle reader, if there is anything on this planet duller than the bedding department of Ikea, I have yet to see it. I was so bored I wanted to eat my own face.
I stroll on, determined to keep the red mist at bay. I recall the conversation earlier that evening
Mrs “Do you really want to come?”
Me “Yes, I might find something useful” (why did I think this??)
Mrs “You won't get bored and make a scene?”
Me “When have I ever made a scene?”
She lowers her chin, raises her eyebrows, and stares me down
Me “I'll be fine - really. Let's go”
I wander into the bathroom department and study the toilet brushes. They are called Nodd or some such. Everything has a name in Ikea. That's a job I wan to dot. I want to be paid to name toilet brushes. I can do that.
No sign of my family. I start examining the toilet seats:
Ikea's spring collection - just in
...stacks of wooden and plastic two-part toilet seats called Nargg. I pick one up and put my head through the hole. Tee hee this is fun. With my head poking out between the seat and the lid, I retrace my steps, looking for my family. I plan to surprise them. Aha! There they are in bedding, comparing relative duvet Tog ratings.
I creep up, leap out from behind a huge mound of pillows called Gorfff, and roar loudly at them. I am met with complete and stony silence. They are not my family. There is a woman and younger lady who look a bit like them. I remove my head from the hole and back off, examining the seat intently as if sizing up its suitability for some depraved purpose, and leg it into the lighting department where I hide for twelve hours, next to some desklamps called, I think, Arse.
Monday, 11 May 2015
How to make a good impression
Went for my first job interview for 38 years this morning.
Actually, it wasn't really a job interview. It was to see someone about the possibility of applying for some part time consulting, but it was a big deal for me, and I had to go to a proper office in the City and everything.
So I put on the Good Shirt. Filed my nails. Trimmed my nose hair.
That's more like it.
The whole nine yards. I looked...presentable.
Hell, more than presentable.
Ermmmm...
NOW you're talking
So off I go, shiny shoes, decent coat.
I'm sitting in the foyer, and the person I am supposed to see comes over. I get up, big smile. I grab my coat.
By the bottom
And the following items spill out across the highly polished marble floor
About £20 in small change, echoing across the atrium like a Vegas slot machine paying out top dollar
I am going to need a lot more than this to make me look attractive
A used kleenex
Classy
A chewing gum wrapper, wrapped poorly around a huge lump of gum I had been chewing
lovely
A pair of sunglasses which I promptly trod on
Oh Joy
...and a lipstick. Actually, it was a Lypsyl, but it looked like a lipstick.
Arse
Actually, it wasn't really a job interview. It was to see someone about the possibility of applying for some part time consulting, but it was a big deal for me, and I had to go to a proper office in the City and everything.
So I put on the Good Shirt. Filed my nails. Trimmed my nose hair.
That's more like it.
The whole nine yards. I looked...presentable.
Hell, more than presentable.
Ermmmm...
NOW you're talking
So off I go, shiny shoes, decent coat.
I'm sitting in the foyer, and the person I am supposed to see comes over. I get up, big smile. I grab my coat.
By the bottom
And the following items spill out across the highly polished marble floor
About £20 in small change, echoing across the atrium like a Vegas slot machine paying out top dollar
I am going to need a lot more than this to make me look attractive
A used kleenex
Classy
A chewing gum wrapper, wrapped poorly around a huge lump of gum I had been chewing
lovely
A pair of sunglasses which I promptly trod on
Oh Joy
...and a lipstick. Actually, it was a Lypsyl, but it looked like a lipstick.
Arse
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