Had an encounter with a wanker this morning.
I saw the train pull in at the tube station so as I ran past the ticket window I called out "Can you open the gates please!" as getting the pram through the normal ticket gates can be a bit tricky especially if you are as spatially challenged as I am. Why do you think I don't drive a car.
I will add, that this request was delivered cheerfully and did not warrant the wanker behind the counter shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes! It's OPEN! The gate is OPEN!" So I went to the gate where prams are normally let through and returned to the counter to tell him, very politely, the gates were not open. More shouting. In fact, in case I don't mention it again, can I say that every time this wanker spoke to me, he was shouting. "THE GATE AT THE BACK! IT'S OPEN! OPEN I TELL YOU!" I told him, very calmly, there was no need to shout at me. Then he seemed a bit confused as he shouted "YOU STOP SHOUTING!" So I tells him "I'm not shouting sir, you are shouting. Please calm down."
Now I will add, at this point, never do I normally address anyone as sir, but in my head I already knew I would be making a complaint about this so I thought I'd throw 'sir' in to illustrate how polite and humble I am.
So, continuing to get confused he goes "YOU CALM DOWN! I'M NOT SHOUTING." Then realising he really was shouting he added "I'M SHOUTING SO THAT YOU CAN HEAR ME." Now that's a bit pathetic. Because he was not sitting a mile away behind a concrete wall, he was behind a glass pane with a microphone and I have managed several conversations in this way with no shouting at all. "You have an unpleasant tone" I told him to which he shouted a bit more then stormed off.
I waited a few minutes for the train, got steamed up and went back to the counter and called for him. He eventually came back after trying to ignore me and I asked him for his name. More shouting and confusion. "YES! YES! YOU CAN HAVE MY NAME! WHY YOU WANT MY NAME! YOU CAN'T HAVE MY NAME!" He then shut the blind despite the fact there was a customer waiting to be served behind me, looking flabbergasted. I turned round to tell her the full story, at which point a couple of builders knocked on the wankers door, and upon overhearing my story one of them raised his eyebrow in sympathy, and as the wanker let the workers in I muttered "Someone round here isn't getting enough sex". I didn't say it loud enough for the wanker to hear, I hope, as I wouldn't want it to come up during the investigation. I only said it to make the builders laugh. They did snigger a bit.
After years of letting the wankers get away with, I recently decided that no more Mr nice guy, I am going to complain. So I just have. I managed to email my complaint in precise detail, because I actually went to the trouble of jotting notes immediately after the experience. I was going to record my encounter on my mobile, dictaphone style but even I thought I was now getting a bit carried away.
Which reminds me. How comes I have had no reply to my complaint letter which I submitted about two months ago to the Thomas and Friends merchandisers for the crappy light gadget I bought at the show which fell apart after a slight knock and the helium balloon which only lasted three days as opposed to several weeks? Time to complain again.
Empowering stuff this is. Don't let the wankers get away with it. We deserve more. COMPLAIN.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Friday, 11 July 2008
The Sting Of Disappointment
If there's one thing that annoys the crap out of me, it's adverts for festivals exaggerating the days events so that mugs like me can travel across London expecting something mind blowing and getting something a bit pants instead.
Take Waterloo Carnival for example. Now I'm not knocking it. It was a lovely procession. Schoolkids were involved. That's really nice. But it's the kind of thing that is really only worth it if you are a local with a few hours spare. Now the reason I set aside an entire day, and travelled 45 minutes on the tube is because the flyer said:
Waterloo Carnival, Wizard Of Oz Theme
12 - 6pm - Munchkinland, (now I envisaged proper munchkins, munchkinning about doing munchkin type stuff but there was nothing like it.) special market stalls (there were four market stalls which were anything but special), street performers (you mean the gorilla costumed folk handing out flyers? Yeh ok, one of them did a cartwheel) and Mini Munchkin museums (A big fat lie. Or were they so mini that they were not actually visible to the naked eye?).
1.30 - 2pm - Carnival Procession featuring over 300 performers (now, I wasn't counting but I'm pretty sure it wasn't more than 150 and they were all schoolkids, as in kids that go to school and have had a day to skive off, generally not known as performers).
1pm - 5pm - Witches & Munchkins Family Friendly Zone, (the odd word out here is zone. There were kids and schoolteachers in witches and munchkins costumes, there were familes, some were undoubtedly friendly, but don't call it a zone), mini Munchkins play area (do you mean the small marquee filled with nothing more than a few blankets and some paper windmills planted alongside it?) Witches Tea Party (stall selling flapjacks), kids disco and music performances (they did play a few tunes for the kids and there was one band that played a few tunes).
I remember last year, going all the way to Spitalfields for some fair extravaganza, dragging some friends along the way, which turned out to be an un-extravaganza that was not in the least bit fair. The "kids fun zone" turned out to be a bouncy castle slide at £2 a go and when I read "Lots of clowning mayhem and fun!" I approached two fat old gits in half hearted clowning costumes who happened to be sunbathing at the time, and naively asked them when the performance would be. Well I don't know about clowning, but they could hardly muster the energy to speak as one replied "Weeell, it's not so much a performance really. We've just been walking about doing a bit of juggling and that." I had to try bloody hard not to be bowled over by their enthusiasm I can tell you.
Don't get me wrong, we did have fun today. Ky loved the procession and despite the lack of entertainment at the 'kids zone' he managed to amuse himself by chasing pigeons. Then something happened. Something I have been trying to avoid for most of my life.
I got stung by a bee.
It got trapped in my hair, I removed it (thinking it was a leaf) then I saw the little git insert his sting into my little finger. I panicked and ran over to the nearest person asking him if I could borrow his tweezers. Not, did he have any, but if I could borrow the ones that surely he could not have left home without. He pointed me towards the St. John's crew and I legged it over, seeing their concerned faces as they observed my panic turn into little smirks. If I was looking for sympathy it would not be from them OR my sister who I spoke to immediately after who had only sarcasm to offer me but loads of sympathy to for the poor little bee who is now dead, and I'm sure will be sorely missed by all his friends and family who are all exactly the same as him and don't even know who he is. Anyway, I think it's kind of cured my phobia of getting stung by a bee. Because it didn't even hurt that much. It definitely was no worse than stubbing my toe or treading on a bit of lego which I do several times a day. It was more the emotional trauma, the fact that this creature left his sting in me, without my permission, it just felt so invasive. I felt I had, in a way, been raped by this bee. All that and not even an "I've been brave" sticker from St. Johns.
We then went to the Southbank and watched the skateboarders. Outside the National Theatre there were deckchairs on pretend grass, and we sat about, well I sat, Ky just ran around, chasing thin air this time. Then I got talking to a friendly couple, getting on really well with them and then when the DJ played "Raindrops are falling on my head" they sang at the top of their voices so I thought I'd be up for the laugh and join in. Shortly after, they revealed that this was their first day out on their own after four months on a psychiatric ward.
The journey home involved me trying to keep Ky awake by talking about the one thing that would stop him from falling asleep too early; trains. 45 minutes of train talk. That's even harder than it sounds. In fact, I think I would rather be stung by a bee.
Take Waterloo Carnival for example. Now I'm not knocking it. It was a lovely procession. Schoolkids were involved. That's really nice. But it's the kind of thing that is really only worth it if you are a local with a few hours spare. Now the reason I set aside an entire day, and travelled 45 minutes on the tube is because the flyer said:
Waterloo Carnival, Wizard Of Oz Theme
12 - 6pm - Munchkinland, (now I envisaged proper munchkins, munchkinning about doing munchkin type stuff but there was nothing like it.) special market stalls (there were four market stalls which were anything but special), street performers (you mean the gorilla costumed folk handing out flyers? Yeh ok, one of them did a cartwheel) and Mini Munchkin museums (A big fat lie. Or were they so mini that they were not actually visible to the naked eye?).
1.30 - 2pm - Carnival Procession featuring over 300 performers (now, I wasn't counting but I'm pretty sure it wasn't more than 150 and they were all schoolkids, as in kids that go to school and have had a day to skive off, generally not known as performers).
1pm - 5pm - Witches & Munchkins Family Friendly Zone, (the odd word out here is zone. There were kids and schoolteachers in witches and munchkins costumes, there were familes, some were undoubtedly friendly, but don't call it a zone), mini Munchkins play area (do you mean the small marquee filled with nothing more than a few blankets and some paper windmills planted alongside it?) Witches Tea Party (stall selling flapjacks), kids disco and music performances (they did play a few tunes for the kids and there was one band that played a few tunes).
I remember last year, going all the way to Spitalfields for some fair extravaganza, dragging some friends along the way, which turned out to be an un-extravaganza that was not in the least bit fair. The "kids fun zone" turned out to be a bouncy castle slide at £2 a go and when I read "Lots of clowning mayhem and fun!" I approached two fat old gits in half hearted clowning costumes who happened to be sunbathing at the time, and naively asked them when the performance would be. Well I don't know about clowning, but they could hardly muster the energy to speak as one replied "Weeell, it's not so much a performance really. We've just been walking about doing a bit of juggling and that." I had to try bloody hard not to be bowled over by their enthusiasm I can tell you.
Don't get me wrong, we did have fun today. Ky loved the procession and despite the lack of entertainment at the 'kids zone' he managed to amuse himself by chasing pigeons. Then something happened. Something I have been trying to avoid for most of my life.
I got stung by a bee.
It got trapped in my hair, I removed it (thinking it was a leaf) then I saw the little git insert his sting into my little finger. I panicked and ran over to the nearest person asking him if I could borrow his tweezers. Not, did he have any, but if I could borrow the ones that surely he could not have left home without. He pointed me towards the St. John's crew and I legged it over, seeing their concerned faces as they observed my panic turn into little smirks. If I was looking for sympathy it would not be from them OR my sister who I spoke to immediately after who had only sarcasm to offer me but loads of sympathy to for the poor little bee who is now dead, and I'm sure will be sorely missed by all his friends and family who are all exactly the same as him and don't even know who he is. Anyway, I think it's kind of cured my phobia of getting stung by a bee. Because it didn't even hurt that much. It definitely was no worse than stubbing my toe or treading on a bit of lego which I do several times a day. It was more the emotional trauma, the fact that this creature left his sting in me, without my permission, it just felt so invasive. I felt I had, in a way, been raped by this bee. All that and not even an "I've been brave" sticker from St. Johns.
We then went to the Southbank and watched the skateboarders. Outside the National Theatre there were deckchairs on pretend grass, and we sat about, well I sat, Ky just ran around, chasing thin air this time. Then I got talking to a friendly couple, getting on really well with them and then when the DJ played "Raindrops are falling on my head" they sang at the top of their voices so I thought I'd be up for the laugh and join in. Shortly after, they revealed that this was their first day out on their own after four months on a psychiatric ward.
The journey home involved me trying to keep Ky awake by talking about the one thing that would stop him from falling asleep too early; trains. 45 minutes of train talk. That's even harder than it sounds. In fact, I think I would rather be stung by a bee.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Magnificent Guilfest
Last weekend I headed off to the Guildford festival, with my sister and Ky. Despite several weeks of trying to prepare Ky for sleeping in the tent, when it came to it, when he realised it wasn't some hilarious joke and that the tent we had arsed around for ages trying to put earlier, was in fact, really really for sleeping in, he screamed the field down. No way. No way, was he actually going to sleep in that sleeping bag that I clearly must have bought for him for a laugh, no, he was demanding to go home. Thankfully, he kicked up such a fuss he wore himself out and fell asleep.
Well hands down to Guilfest....best festival toilets I've ever experienced. Toilet paper AND soap AND paper towels! All that was missing was the perfume lady....must complain about that actually.
The stewards there were bloody wristband mad. I think they all had some kind of OCD where they have the need to keep checking your wristband anytime you wanted to go anywhere. And I mean a whole of army of them at a time. Ridiculous. And even more ridiculous, despite their obsessive compulsive wristband checking tendencies, they didn't realise until about midnight Saturday night as we tried to enter the campsite, that we had the wrong wristbands which did not entitle us to camping. Fortunately, the 'baby in the pram so therefore we are not liars' trick worked. When we told the manager we had been issued the wrong wristband his exact words were "Well you have a baby in the pram so I believe you're not lying". Obviously we were not lying. Not because we had a baby in the pram but simply because we were telling the truth.
Blondie were FANTASTIC. Even if she did refuse photographers at the front, one of them being my sister's friend, for fear of anyone catching her wrinkles in the wrong light.
We spent a lot of time in the kids Zone, or shall we call it the very difficult to re-enter without a child after you've just nipped out to get the coffees zone. The thing Ky liked the best about the kids zone, was not Mr Magnificent, or the clowns, or the funfair rides (definitely not, nearly didn't get my £2 back after Ky chickened out after 15 seconds), nor the fancy dress parade or the talent show, but it was the sandpit and the wooden train set, which is exactly what he likes to do at home; play in the sandpit when it's sunny and play with his train set when it's cold. Mr Magnificent was true to his name during his cheeky acrobatic juggling routines. Mr Magnificent gave Ky a free copy of his DVD, which I would like to say is because Ky is so irresistibly cute, but the real reason is because he had the hots for my sister. I do think she owes him at least a snog in return for the DVD but maybe I'm just too polite.
Well hands down to Guilfest....best festival toilets I've ever experienced. Toilet paper AND soap AND paper towels! All that was missing was the perfume lady....must complain about that actually.
The stewards there were bloody wristband mad. I think they all had some kind of OCD where they have the need to keep checking your wristband anytime you wanted to go anywhere. And I mean a whole of army of them at a time. Ridiculous. And even more ridiculous, despite their obsessive compulsive wristband checking tendencies, they didn't realise until about midnight Saturday night as we tried to enter the campsite, that we had the wrong wristbands which did not entitle us to camping. Fortunately, the 'baby in the pram so therefore we are not liars' trick worked. When we told the manager we had been issued the wrong wristband his exact words were "Well you have a baby in the pram so I believe you're not lying". Obviously we were not lying. Not because we had a baby in the pram but simply because we were telling the truth.
Blondie were FANTASTIC. Even if she did refuse photographers at the front, one of them being my sister's friend, for fear of anyone catching her wrinkles in the wrong light.
We spent a lot of time in the kids Zone, or shall we call it the very difficult to re-enter without a child after you've just nipped out to get the coffees zone. The thing Ky liked the best about the kids zone, was not Mr Magnificent, or the clowns, or the funfair rides (definitely not, nearly didn't get my £2 back after Ky chickened out after 15 seconds), nor the fancy dress parade or the talent show, but it was the sandpit and the wooden train set, which is exactly what he likes to do at home; play in the sandpit when it's sunny and play with his train set when it's cold. Mr Magnificent was true to his name during his cheeky acrobatic juggling routines. Mr Magnificent gave Ky a free copy of his DVD, which I would like to say is because Ky is so irresistibly cute, but the real reason is because he had the hots for my sister. I do think she owes him at least a snog in return for the DVD but maybe I'm just too polite.
Acting Up
My drama group's performance of "The Open Square" last week was received very well, and according to my drama teacher, audience members found it ‘poetic’ ‘moving’ and ‘profound’. Bearing in mind that almost all audience members were friends or relatives I wonder if this translates as 'confusing and absurd' but I like to think not. I even got a gushing fan come up to congratulate me, who blushed, stammered and went back to his friend who was waiting to pat him on the back for taking the plunge. The after show party was great, my cousins who had come to watch made up for not drowning me in roses when I took my bow by drowning me in vodka instead.
I do remember letting one of the other drama students showing me how to throw a good punch. Why is it that everytime I get drunk, I always end up in a punch throwing demonstration? It's getting ridiculous, and everytime I look back at that same old scene, someone holding out their hand for me to punch, me concentrating with all my might, to punch in the correct angle, whilst trying not to spill my drink, well....it's just getting a bit cringeworthy now. Why does it always happen? Note to self; DO NOT, in future, after a few drinks, ask anyone if they know how to punch properly, or flex your arm muscles whilst boasting how you could punch really well if you wanted to, or randomly announce that no-one knows how to throw a good punch these days or anything else that might lead to you taking part in a punching demonstration.
I do remember letting one of the other drama students showing me how to throw a good punch. Why is it that everytime I get drunk, I always end up in a punch throwing demonstration? It's getting ridiculous, and everytime I look back at that same old scene, someone holding out their hand for me to punch, me concentrating with all my might, to punch in the correct angle, whilst trying not to spill my drink, well....it's just getting a bit cringeworthy now. Why does it always happen? Note to self; DO NOT, in future, after a few drinks, ask anyone if they know how to punch properly, or flex your arm muscles whilst boasting how you could punch really well if you wanted to, or randomly announce that no-one knows how to throw a good punch these days or anything else that might lead to you taking part in a punching demonstration.
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