Archive for February 2010
The general elections are looming and, as a nation, we appear to have bent over in reluctant submission in preparation for a Tory government, fed up of Labour’s style of loving after thirteen years.
Personally, I’m not overly excited about the prospect of a country run by a man who wants to overturn the ban on fox hunting (good to see where David Cameron’s priorities lie as we struggle out of a global recession) and won’t be voting Tory. I’ll be ‘wasting’ my vote on Lib Dems instead, in the faint hope that maybe they’ll have some influence in the unlikely event that there’s a hung parliament.
I should say at this point, by the way, that my knowledge of politics is ill-informed and limited at best. So, if I’ve got anything wrong here, feel free to let me know. If I don’t like it I’ll just ignore it, obviously.
On that note, I think I should stop talking about things I know very little about, and move on to what the Smellmycheese Party could offer the country, were it in any way real.
- Some kind of force field around train doors that stops passengers slowly edging forward, as if no one else can see what they’re doing, before everyone has got off the train. The force field would have a movement-triggered sensor which, upon activation, would announce “WAIT YOUR TURN!” in Brian Blessed’s voice. Because Brian Blessed is brilliant.
- A similar system in coach toilets, or any public conveniences, which detects people pissing on seats. Instead of Brian Blessed’s voice, Gok Wan’s, shrieking “It’s all about the confidence!”, will be broadcast around a three mile vicinity, along with a projection of the offender’s image, caught mid-piss.
- Air conditioning in doctor’s surgeries. Seriously. If you weren’t ill going in there, you’re sure as hell going to be ill after waiting for twenty five minutes in an unvented room reaching temperatures of approximately 40 degrees Celsius, while pensioners and small children hack up their phlegm in your direction.
- Three year henna tattoos on the foreheads of cheats, reading “I’m diseased, have bad breath and definitely won’t make you come, so I really wouldn’t bother if I were you love”, or words to that effect. On reflection, that’s quite a lot to fit on a forehead. “Twat” will suffice.
- Self checkouts that shut. the hell. UP. No, I don’t have a ‘clubcard’, yes I have placed my item in the bag and, yes, I have already inserted cash you cocky little shit, and, in a minute, I’m going to insert an ‘unexpected item’ somewhere else. Like my foot in your stupid smug face. Ha! Face, screen, whatever…
- A nationwide ban on people wearing pyjamas to the shops, unless you live in a shop or you’re a homeless person with a mental illness. Yes students, I’m talking to you. If you’ve had time to tuck your pjs into your UGG boots, you’ve had time to put a pair of fucking jeans on. Oh how avant-garde you are with your devil-may-care attitude to clothing and your tramp chic, as you drive two metres to the Co-Op in the car Mummy and Daddy bought for you.
Right, I’m bored now and can’t be arsed thinking of any more today so I’ll continue this party political broadcast at a later date (maybe). As it stands I’m pretty sure my maifesto pisses all over Cameron’s anyway.
…or is that methane? It’s hard to tell. Both are overpowering, overwhelming, and closely associated with the rectal arena. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like anal intrusion, after all.
Anyway, in case you’d somehow missed it, it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. And what better time than this, the weekend of love, to reflect on something that brings us all together - religion.
Obviously it only brings together the people that happen to believe in the same God, otherwise it tends to cause a few problems. Little fall-outs throughout history, like wars and so on. But other than that, it’s most definitely a cause for good.
Of course, your God is the right one. Of course it is. How could it not be? There’s irrefutable proof for it, right? And the other ones are just stupid. I mean, not stupid, because that would be offensive. Just wrong. Although, not actually wrong, because that would be offensive too. But they must be wrong, else how can you be right? You’re not going to base your morals, values and way of life on something that’s ‘wrong’ are you? So they are definitely wrong. But not stupid. Just not as enlightened as you.
Another fantastic thing about religion is the way that you can pick and choose the bits that apply to you. People used to believe in the Garden of Eden and Noah’s Arc quite literally. But then science happened and we all realised that was slightly far-fetched. So it’s just an allegory now. The God stuff’s definitely still true though. What’s far-fetched about a ‘higher being’ that lives on some other dimension and sent down his son (who wasn’t really his son, he was sort of himself) to emerge from a virgin’s vagina, do some Derren Brown shit and teach us all about redemption? Nothing.
I like to think of religions as being like sport. There are rules in place, but you obviously don’t have to follow all of them. You just pick the ones that make the most sense to you. Football is still football even if you pick up the ball and run with it, isn’t it? You probably don’t even need a ball, or to run. You could just stand there and say you’re a footballer. What gives anyone else the right to judge you? If you say you are, you are. Just like Catholicism is still Catholicism if you don’t actually use contraception, hate gays or believe in the Holy Trinity.
Hell, even if you’re not sure about the God bit, that’s okay too. As long as you get really offended if anyone questions your faith, then you’re off to heaven. If there is one. And, when we say heaven, we’re not talking about people sitting on clouds with angels playing harps. That would obviously be ridiculous. No, we mean the sort of heaven that you can’t see and that isn’t really ‘there’ in a physical sense, but is definitely still there in a metaphysical sense.
I can’t wait.
I stole that title from this site, which is very funny.
I’m not writing about fire engines though, or children’s drawings. Although both are subjects close to my heart. No, today we’re going to talk about coach journeys.
I say that now, but most likely I’ll digress into a series of rants and side-splittingly funny anecdotes about a variety of loosely-related topics.
My blog is a bit like a coach ride actually: unexpected twists and turns, a ‘journey’ and a driver with a moustache.
One of the things I hate most about ‘people’ is how they look at me. I mean, I really, really hate it. It makes me feel angry inside and a little bit violent. Although I never actually get violent (I’m not working class).
To clarify, people looking at me when I’m talking to them or they’re talking to me is acceptable. Polite, some might say. That kind of looking is fine.
The kind of looking that really gets my goat, however, is when I’m not talking to someone or in any way inviting them to look at me for longer than a cursory glance.
Case in point: girl sitting opposite me on the recent coach journey I took. I got something out of my bag, she looked. I adjusted my cardigan, she looked. I picked up my phone, she looked. I started taking a dump on the coach seat, she looked.
Okay, so the last one is fair enough. And I know I’m extremely fascinating but, really, there’s no need. I could have said something witty and urbane such as “take a picture, it’ll last you longer, a ha ha ha” but I refrained. And she got off halfway through my trip, thankfully. Leaving me free to move, fart and scratch myself, without all the ‘looking’.
Speaking of farts. The coach toilet situation needs addressing.
Despite my hilarious references to farting and dumping earlier, I am able to use a toilet. I’m also able to operate a simple flushing system and aim my ‘toilet parcels’ into the relatively large hole provided. I never realised what a talent this was until recently, when it dawned on me that in fact it must be, seeing as no other fucker who uses public toilets seems able to.
First toilet trip on coach journey: textbook. Clean toilet, plenty of paper, no worries. Second trip, by which time several people had used the facilities: more like a fair ride. The kind of fair ride where, if you don’t hold on whilst maintaining a hovering position, you’re going to fall into a mass of strangers’ urine. So kind of like Alton Towers on a budget. But with slightly less queuing and a lot more faeces.
And before anyone thinks the toilet mess situation must be down to the unisex nature of coach toilets. I’m sorry ladies, but it’s not.
Here’s a tip girls: stop squatting to piss on public toilets. You know why they’re minging? Because you squat to sit on them. Thereby missing the massive hole and pissing on the seat. Therefore encouraging others to squat. Get it? Wipe the toilet and deal with it. You’re not going to get AIDS.
(Well, you might, but it won’t be from a toilet seat.)
On that note, stay safe and rubber up kids.
I like nachos.
I had some the other day that were top-notch; piled high with chilli (veggie, of course), salsa, sour cream, guacamole, chillis and cheese. Awesome. They made my mouth so very happy and went so very well with lots of red wine. As all things should.
This is in stark contrast to disappointing nacho experiences I’ve had in the past. The worst of which took place in Cairns, Australia (did I mention I went to Australia last year? It was great). Instead of the aforementioned delights, I was presented with tortilla chips, topped with pasta sauce, diced carrots, and peas. Yes, that’s right folks, you read right, PEAS. ON NACHOS. The sick, sick, bastards.
If I’d wanted Doritos with Dolmio and peas, I’d have cooked for myself.
Nachos aren’t nachos if they don’t have all the correct ingredients; they’re just tortilla chips with some crap on them. It’s like sticking a hot dog on a plate next to some ready salted Walkers, and calling it a Sunday Roast.
The point being, some things need all the correct ingredients to make them work. Which leads me to the main thrust of my post (PARDON THE PUN, HA HA HA): nachos are not like sex.
Granted, both involve peas and diced carrots more often than not. But that’s where the similarities end.
Unlike nachos, sexual intercourse (to address it by its full name) can incorporate all the correct ‘ingredients’ and still be a disappointment, leaving you wishing you’d ordered something else entirely.
To clarify; I don’t pay for sex. I’m just running with the whole nachos-in-a-restaurant analogy. Keep up.
So anyway, sex. You could be given a generous portion, eat with a fantastic technique (this analogy’s totally messed up now, I’ve lost thread of who’s eating what, or whom, but I’ll battle on regardless) and you’re still left unsatisfied.
On the flip side. A potentially less ‘obvious’ choice from the menu might turn out to be the BEST fucking meal you have ever eaten and my god, you just want to tell everyone about it. In a “hey, I had an awesome meal last weekend and, no, you bloody well can’t have any” kind of a way.
When you try to put your finger on what made it so damn tasty, you just can’t. Suppose it’s a secret ingredient that some dishes just have.
In an ideal world, of course, we’d be able to bottle this secret ingredient and carry it with us at all times, for ‘emergencies’. For those occasions when all the main ingredients are there but it’s just a bit, well, bland.
We’d also be able to carry around guacamole, salsa, sour cream, melted cheese and chilli, for those Dorito-with-Dolmio catastrophes.
I already do that, obviously, but it’s pretty messy; I keep getting salsa in my make-up bag and sour cream in my diary. And I smell of Mexico.
So someone needs to invent all those things together in one non-messy formula. We could call it Nachos-on-the-go!
You make it, I’ll name it and make us rich.