Fuck You Interrupter Man

Fuck You Interrupter Man

I have no problem with that fact that you consider yourself interesting and important, I am of the same ilk, in that regard. I do however have an issue with the fact that you feel you have the god given, divine right to invade my conversation, in about as subtle a manner as the two planes which invaded two office blocks in America on 9/11, and leave the stench of your completely uncalled for, unwelcome, aural defecation lingering among MY vowels and consonants, like a filthy shit-stained toilet tissue loitering agonisingly close to the stain of the water line in a filthy seldom cleaned public toilet.

Put simply, interrupting is, much like poor spelling for those who’ve read my preceding rant, bad manners. Did your mother not teach you to wait your turn? Have you not worked out, during the many years that your self absorbed, impatient sack of skin, bones, and inappropriately timed verbal outbursts has inhabited this planet, that people don’t like to be spoken over, or interrupted mid flow? If I am saying something, sit and fucking listen. I’ve started a sentence, so I’d like to finish it, if YOU don’t mind.

By constantly hijacking my conversations, you haven’t positively altered my perception of you. I don’t think your more intelligent, I haven’t suddenly heard your bizarre interjection, and thought “Oh wow, that’s a good point”, and simultaneously made a mental note to pay more attention to you in the future. I did write a mental note; It says “You’re a cunt.”

Some things need to be said wholly; stated in full, elaborated on, and points made must be backed up and re-enforced. Had Martin Luther King’s famous “I have a dream”, been interrupted by a barely literate, ill-educated, buffoon with too much to say and too little constraint, it would have made it less memorable, less inspirational, and less historically important. If Hitler’s Reichstag Speech in December 1941 (his declaration of war against the US) had been interrupted, sidetracked, had the driving force of the announcement been deflected, our world might be a very different place. Luther Kings declaration was for good, Hitlers was evil – but the point remains, these are two speeches that changed the world that we live in, and they were delivered in their entirety, and completed without the interjection of fuckwits who don’t know when to stay silent.

If you were welcome in my conversation I would have invited you to it. Through body language or by spoken word I would have made clear your welcome, like a rich gentleman’s member is enveloped welcomingly, like a cold hand into a warm familiar glove, by an amorous, panty-less harridan’s garden of debauch. Alas, I am not a battered vagina, and you are not the penis of a rich man, so please, take a step back and remove your ridiculous insertion from my conversation, at you earliest convenience.

Sorry that you had to see Britneys vagina, it just fitted with the joke you know.

Come back soon. Mister Lean

Awful Awful Trains

I used to work in Customer Services for a Train Operating Company, so I am aware of the work that goes into the train networks and the customer services framework around it. Having read probably 10,000 complaint letters I am aware how much public transports issues irk some people, and that’s part of the reason why I rarely complain about the trains – a good majority of the time, they work OK. Quite simply if I had an appointment I couldn’t miss I’d get the earlier train that is necessary to ensure I arrived on time. I read some cracking complaint letters over the years, and some really shit ones too. I learnt that people tend to whinge about a variety of things, from the painstaking obviously, to the bizarre and wonderful. Lack of seats is one of the is near the top of most peoples list of gripes, however some people will moan about literally anything; a lack of soap in the dispenser on 08:05 Tonbridge to London Bridge service for example, or better still I’ve heard and read complaints that the guard was too cheerful when speaking over the tannoy; there really is no pleasing some people. I never complain to the train companies when something goes wrong simply because having written back to these types of letters I know exactly what my response will contain; a half-arsed self-serving apology, a standard explanation paragraph, and a commitment to perform more satisfactorily in whatever area in the future. So I thought I’d write something for the blog instead, and touch on some of the issues that have affected me on my commute recently.

Seating is clearly an issue; I don’t even think the majority of the Train Operating Companies (TOC’s) would deny that, so it’s a good starting point. Invariably, at peak times there’s not always seat for you. It’s not the end of the world. But then Hitler’s occupation of most of Europe wasn’t the end of the world in a literal sense either, but it was, like the state of our public transport, pretty fucking bad. And so we are forced to stand. I wanted to write “packed in like cattle” but I have a big issue with this particular metaphor, its a pretentious, self-righteous, over the top thing to say, and I always reckoned that the people who wrote this in their complaints were big and fat, and had udders for breasts. Ridiculous assumption perhaps, but no-one can prove me wrong at this point, so it’s staying in. Also usually, I imagine cows are only really carried in large numbers “packed in like cattle” when they are being moved to an abattoir. A journey to Lewisham these days can be a bit dodgy, but 8 times out of 10 it won’t lead to a lethal bolt through the back of your skull, killing you instantly, although I would reserve this punishment for those people who see fit to reference our bovine friends in their poorly written letters. Back to the matter at hand, people lack the common sense to move down the carriage and stand in the aisles, for a reason unbeknownst to me and so regularly my 400 fellow commuters and I find ourselves standing, one arm raised to steady ourselves on what feels like a rollercoaster ride through Hell, in an area no bigger than a chess square. This unique positioning that we momentarily share has the knock on effect of putting faces IN armpits. The sheer volume of bodies, and raised arms creates an effect which is not recreated anywhere else in nature OR in science. Perhaps it’s the electricity from the tracks, creating some sort of polarity, but as soon as the journey beings the space between ones chest and arm becomes magnetised; much like the safety harness mechanically lowering and clipping down like at Alton Towers, our faces are pulled into our neighbours arm pit, and so it becomes a physical impossibility to remove your cranium from the personal space of your new neighbour. Obviously when I paid £380 this month for a set of thirty ninety minute journeys the train company concerned didn’t tell me about this added extra, but surprisingly it’s a welcome addition: Holding back a gut full of vomit, induced by having my nose 1mm away from an overweight, underdressed commuters sweat gland in the heat of the summer, for an hour took my mind off the fact I couldn’t get a seat, so perhaps it’s not all so bad.

On some days you will make it into a carriage, and see one last seat. A gleaming beacon among the dull grey faces, traipsing their sorry selves to their place of work for another 8 damned hours of whatever it is the people in suits, with grey faces do. The spare seat calls out to you. You want that seat, but so does the other 200 people who just piled in. It’s a difficult call, politeness, or a desire for comfort. I can tell you now I will kill your grandmother, and perhaps even my own for that seat, so don’t test me. I couldn’t give a fuck if you are pregnant, I will drag you off the seat by your hair, to avoid the armpit thing again. Oh god I hate those grey faces though. Their conformity, mixed with their aura of sadness is oppressive; I can feel it dead-arming my soul like playful newly pubescent school boys. Perhaps I should have stayed over there by the door after all.

Considering most TOC’s have a monopoly over realistic travel options in their local areas, you might hope that the tickets would be reasonably priced. I use the price of Space Raider crisps to judge the relative state of our economy. Not only are they a delicious wheaty snack, with a hilarious joke on each packet, but they also serve as a barometer for the work of our chancellor and the state of our national finances. I’m sure the more astute of my readers will be aware, Space Raiders are no longer 10p. (That’s a joke in itself, but I’ll save that for another rant/blog.) Based on the price of my favourite snack, I know that things are going to have a slightly inflated price. That’s fine, I am grown up enough to understand inflation is rising quite fast, and that the rate of pay across the country as a whole is not rising at nearly the same rate. Five thousand pound sterling however, is a considerable sum of money however you consider it. You could actually purchase 33,333 packets of Space Raiders for the price of my cramped journeys, where I’m regularly spoken to like detritus by an oaf in a poorly fitting, poorly made suit, who apparently works on behalf of the shysters providing this “service”,  Saffron is supposed to be one of the most expensive items, for its weight, in the world. That’s incorrect. I have it from a good authority that it is infact the paper my ticket is printed on. I surely haven’t swapped 33,333 delicious snacks to stand, head in armpit, in stifling hot conditions, which I am pretty sure will be a direct factor in me taking a knife to work and either killing myself, or a fellow commuter, just outside London Bridge; where we would most likely be sitting stationary “due to congestion” Congestion, you fucking pricks? You made the timetable, make sure it works properly, no?

I do understand that delays are inevitable to an extent. There is a massive amount of rail infrastructure across the country and much like our roads, this needs regular repair and maintenance. That doesn’t stop the delays ruining my morning/day/week/life. Time spent stationary just outside London Bridge, or any station for that matter, can be useful for reflection at least. For the first 15/20 minutes of any delay I am a little put out, but understanding. I often consider the polarity issue discussed earlier, other times I play a fun game with myself called “holding my breath till I nearly pass out”, and sometimes to put it simply I scan the carriage for low cut tops and camel toes, obviously the bigger and more obvious the better – on both counts. (Don’t judge me, you’ve all done it.) However, as soon as I am left in a state of solitary reflection for 30 minutes upwards , it becomes all too evident that my life is shit (for a number of varied reasons – and yes the fact I am scanning this carriage for camel toes is one of them). My idle brain becomes filled with interesting and inventive ideas on how I can end my miserable existence on this planet. I have decided that when my shit job/house/friends combo becomes too much, I will be committing the despicably cowardly deed on a train. Had I not been sat stationary due to allowing a freight train through at Hither Green for fourteen consecutive mornings, I would never even have considered performing an emergency tracheotomy on myself with a blunt table knife, and then pouring a mixture of gravel, sand and ketamin into the now gaping lesion in my Adams apple. Were it not for the broken down train in the tunnel at Sevenoaks, I doubt I would have been led to plan my demise; by injecting a potent mixture of strawberry jam and peanut butter directly into my pituitary gland. Similarly, if the offending train company had not left their “rolling stock” (trains) to fall into such a state of disrepair it could simply have rolled over, or blasted through the body of the last poor soul who sat in one too many delays and decided to hari-kari off the bridge, onto the tracks at Hither Green. See it’s a chain. That selfish soul’s suicide might well lead to mine.

So once I’ve re-mortgaged my property, and sold my car, and my neighbours children so I can afford a season ticket, having spent 14 hours on a journey I can have walked in 15 minutes, upon arriving at my destination I am confronted with a rugby teams worth of ticket inspectors. Sometimes there are literally 25 of these usually burly dickheads, which is approximately how many people pass through my station in a day. (An awesome use of resource of course). Because I am under the age of 25 (barely now) I am less likely to have a ticket, says the look in the eyes of the first inspector to approach you. Fuck your mother. I can see the look of – “please don’t have a ticket”. Sadly, for you, and your revenue inspection team, and actually, sadly for me I do pay nearly £5000 a year to be spoken down to by you and your motley crew of school bullies. I can imagine that you carried on stealing lunch money and pulling peoples pants down at the urinals, when most of us had reached the age of 16, left school and found girls, drugs and football. You failed your police entrance exam, probably due to an old unspent ABH conviction, or for possessing the IQ of a slug, and so now here you are: Strong arming kids for £20 fines, and barking orders at scared old ladies, who in all probability couldn’t tell you the difference between an Oyster card and the delicious aphrodisiac meal prepared at French eateries across the world. And do you have to be so fucking cheerful when you announce those delays?

Once again thanks for reading my nonsense. Come back soon for more. Mister Lean

Fuck You Boris

Fuck You Boris

Since Boris Johnson’s epic failings as London mayor are now staring us in the face more so than at any other point in his reign, I have put together a list of 10 more suitable candidates for the role:

Big Bird: the big yellow Ostrich from Kids TV programme Sesame Street is in many ways similar to our capital cities illustrious leader. Stupid voice, unkempt appearance, and a large rotund belly are just a few of the parallels that can be drawn. Big bird however would be much better for London. He has a focus on education, on equality, and on keeping his friends and allies working together in a unified fashion, are all qualities Boris sadly lacks. Boris, in true Sesame Street fashion today’s rant is brought to you by the letters C, U, N, and T.

Scottish Trevor from “Eastenders” circa 2000: Basically Boris is a laughing stock. In parliament, on the streets, and online; everyone loves to cuss “BJ” (How did I never notice this before? I know which I’d rather have). Why? Because he is a limp fish, floating atop the dirty water filled political tank. What we need is a real man. A presence in our society who will bring law and order to our streets. If Trevor was in charge, I for one would be shit scared to step out of line, and so would our nations collection of rowdy scrotes. Just ask Little Mo; Trevor doesn't fuck around.

Marge Simpson: She’s intelligent, witty, articulate, and let’s be honest secretly quite fit. We’ve all smashed one out over Marge at some point, which is certainly less than can be said about Boris, and for that reason, she goes into the list. Bart is at some points as unruly as our nation’s looters, but Marge, with massive hindrance from Homer (think budget cuts & generally pathetic governance) still manages to teach the boy a lesson in the end. Boris, are you watching – and not in the wanky sense!

Chris Akabusi: In short, he’s a legend. Why though? He was shit at athletics, had an uneventful stint in the army, was a shit TV presenter, and if wasn’t for the semi-autobiographical (disclaimer: that’s a lie) erotic stories about him, he would have completely disappeared into obscurity by now. But any man worthy of this genius line, is in my opinion good enough to lead London through our troubled times: “Before Akabusi left he wiped his now dying cock on Harvey's afro, bent down to the prone Jordan, who lay liked a painter's radio in the moonlight, and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.” Nuff Said.

Arsene Wenger: London in places can appear bland and colourless. A bit of French flair and flamboyance might brighten the place up a bit. He has other key skills and attributes too: He’s frugal with the purse strings, and keeps an unparalleled and unjustifiable amount of faith in the youth. Finally he clearly, as in the case of Nicolas Bendnter, has the ability to deal with people who harbour massive delusions of grandeur – should be helpful for his day to day work with David Cameron & that Clegg bloke. Mind you the particularly French “white flag approach” displayed by Mr Johnson didn’t really work – so perhaps it’s not such a wonderful idea after all.

Roy Keane: Just ask Alf Inge Haaland if he thinks Roy Keane would make a good mayor. Actually he’d probably weep at the mention of the Enforcers name, and that’s good enough for me. Constant confrontation with Old Trafford’s “Prawn sandwich brigade”, Mick McCarthy, and any journalists who came within 6 foot of his Labrador has prepared Roy for a potential rough mayoral campaign, and I’d wager that Roy would either get “down with the kids”, or just beat them.

 Frank Gallagher: Hate him or love him? Frank is a fictional character, but actually really does exist on Council Estates from John O Groats to Landsend. The perennial dole sponger, drug addict, absent father, and general ne’er-do-well is actually probably better placed than Boris and co to commentate on, and suggest a remedy to the problems faced by those on inner city, underdeveloped estates.

If you have never lived the life of someone at the bottom of the hierarchy, how are you going to understand the issues faced by these people? Plus he probably scrubs up better than our current blonde haired portly oaf.

“Cheaper Drugs Now” taken literally isn’t the answer, but honestly and truthfully it’s a lot better than the current suggestions to engage our youth, and our benefit generation.

The Genie out of Aladdin: He’s a dappa, there can be no denying that. He has everything Boris doesn’t. He’s charming and witty, can engage an audience and makes a difference every day. Just because he’s made up, doesn’t mean he couldn’t fulfil a meaningful political role. We have members of parliament lying, and stealing every single day of their lives, and the vast majority of the public just swallow it, so let’s just go the whole hog, and employ a team of 10 cartoonists, and we’ll pay Robin Williams to sit in the studio recording himself saying every political sound bite he can think of, and Robert is your fathers brother, (and the genie is our mayor). Lets also bring back Jasmine, she’s blatantly a dirty little minx.

Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God: We need help, and badly. Who better to help us in our time of need than a completely fictional character, created to keep the sheep sheeping. Oh wait. Well either way I thought of two Jesus jokes, so he’s going in the list. Jesus is omnipotent, and Boris is politically impotent; what’s the difference! If Jesus can feed the thousands with a loaf of bread, a fish, and a bottle of wine, could he clothe the ghetto from one branch of JD Sports?

Robert Mugabe: Apparently before the mass murder, crushing opponents, and this dictatorship issue Mr Mugabe has a proven successful political background, which is more than can be said for Boris. Some leaders inspire by fear, as opposed to our current leaders; I fear Boris might be re-elected. The “big society” is clearly a bag of shit, but if Robby M says it’s a great idea, it really is. I wouldn’t be man enough to disagree, and nor would our disenfranchised youth. Perhaps a reign of terror might be what London needs. Mugabe has my vote….Who gets yours?

Thanks for reading more of my nonsense. Londoners I feel your pain. Let’s all club together, chuck in 50p, and we should be able to fly Mr Mugabe here/hire the cartoonists & Robin Williams.