Posts Tagged ‘toilets’
I took a trip to the cinema recently and it reminded me why I hate people.
When I say ‘people’, I don’t mean me. And I don’t mean you, if I like you. (If I don’t like you, I definitely do mean you). No, I mean the ‘general public’.
Before we get into why people are rubbish however, I’d like to address the issue of why cinemas themselves are rubbish. Beginning with the fact that there is nothing to drink for under £2.50. Nothing, that is, other than tap water from the urine stained toilets or cartons of juice, which are about £1.80 and, on this occasion, had sold out. Naturally.
The only other place to get a drink from at this time was the Starbucks across the road, which, as we all know, charges approximately eighteen pounds for some Kenco tarted up with syrup and served by alternative student types who are smiley and ‘happy’, presumably in some sort of an ironic fashion.
The handy thing was that it was around thirty five degrees Celsius in the cinema, seemingly in order to speed up the spreading of as many different types of cough and cold virus as possible. As a result, I was forced to buy an overpriced drink. But you can’t beat me that easily. I purchased a small Diet Coke, with no ice. Thus maximising liquid to cash ratio. Hell yeah, sticking it to the man.
After all that slowly sipped small Diet Coke, the inevitable happened: I instantly needed the toilet. Which were located a corridor and two flights of stairs away. How convenient. Seriously, can these places not cater for those, such as myself, who are cursed with the bladder capacity of a pensioner? And indeed, pensioners themselves! Although, you never really see old dears at the flicks do you? Why is that? Maybe it all went downhill once ‘talkies’ were introduced.
Actually, after seeing The Ugly Truth not so long ago, I’m almost inclined to agree.
The Ugly Truth is a Gerard Butler/Katherine Heigl film and literally one of the worst things I have ever done with my eyes. Buy it on DVD for someone you really hate or watch it if you’re bored of your brain and want to kill it slowly with terrible acting, shit stereotypes, crap clichés and horrendous dialogue.
Anyway, I digress. Back to why I hate some other stuff.
Oh yes: very overweight child eating various packets of noisy food ALL the way through the film. What a marvellous way to occupy your obese infant; give him several packets of junk food to ‘keep him going’ for a strenuous two hours of sitting.
I’m being terribly judgemental of course. For all I know, they could have been off to a badminton class afterwards. Or KFC.
The man three seats away from me was a particular joy too. The way his phone kept lighting up like a fun little torch when he checked it for texts every fifteen minutes really added to the plot of the film and enhanced my viewing experience no end.
His too, I would imagine. What better way to really get involved in a film that you’ve paid nine pounds, yes, that’s NINE English pounds, to see, than by texting your friends all the way through it?
All of these factors conspired to bring me to the realisation that the cinema has the potential to be a very stressful place for a person like me. If someone so much as touches my chair or whispers too loudly, that’s it. I’m then on edge, waiting for them to do it again, totally distracted from the film.
Quite what the answer to this is, I don’t know. I could watch DVDs from now on and never go to the cinema again. Or I could not let other people bother me…
Obviously what I’ll actually do is carry on getting very annoyed at people and life and let all the irritation build up inside like a healthy volcano of rage until I explode and suffocate someone with their own Haribo Tangfastics.
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.