Anyway, it decided to fly away when I was right over it, straight into the drive shaft. Feathers everywhere. Hey ho ... It probably had bird flu anyway.
Now all I can hear is this bloody tweeting going on. Must get my ears syringed.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
One Blackbird RIP
I killed a blackbird on the way to the station this morning. Stupid thing just sat in the middle of the road and wouldn't move ... So I drove over it, taking care to keep the front wheels either side of it.
Monday, 28 January 2008
Go Before You Leave
OK. I understand the time pressures on commuters first thing in the morning. But, please, please, please, try to have a dump BEFORE you leave for work in the morning.
This morning I was idly having a wee in the gents at work when some guy (I've no idea who it was - he just silently came in and closed the cubicle door behind himself) started doing a poo at work. And my god, what a poo!
I swear that in one swift movement he'd dropped his trousers, sat down and emptied the entire contents of his bowels within 15 seconds flat.
As if the sound of faeces hitting water weren't bad enough, he insisted on grunting like a Russian female tennis player throughout, and the smell was bloody sickening!
Don't even ask me why the action of wiping ones arse needs to be done so rapidly, nor why it takes several minutes, followed by even more grunting.
And for god's sake, why do blokes insist on sitting there with their trousers right down round their ankles? There's no need for it! It's no sodding wonder there's so many scruffy bastards at work.
Come on guys. Do us all a favour. Go before you leave home in future.
This morning I was idly having a wee in the gents at work when some guy (I've no idea who it was - he just silently came in and closed the cubicle door behind himself) started doing a poo at work. And my god, what a poo!
I swear that in one swift movement he'd dropped his trousers, sat down and emptied the entire contents of his bowels within 15 seconds flat.
As if the sound of faeces hitting water weren't bad enough, he insisted on grunting like a Russian female tennis player throughout, and the smell was bloody sickening!
Don't even ask me why the action of wiping ones arse needs to be done so rapidly, nor why it takes several minutes, followed by even more grunting.
And for god's sake, why do blokes insist on sitting there with their trousers right down round their ankles? There's no need for it! It's no sodding wonder there's so many scruffy bastards at work.
Come on guys. Do us all a favour. Go before you leave home in future.
Friday, 25 January 2008
Lift up Fatty Man
Lifts, right. Why is it, when you work on the 5th floor of a 6 storey building, that some people (usually the fat ones) insist on using the lift to go up just one floor. God it makes me mad!
Every morning it's the same sodding routine. The lift is packed. No-one's looking at anyone else. Everyone's just staring at the ""Max Persons 10 or 1,000 kg" sign waiting for the doors to close (it's a shit old building with a crap lift and it takes forever). Eventually the doors begin to close, slowly, all too slowly. And another thing, why is the Otis head office in a single storey building?
Just before the doors shut, a bloated fat hand pokes through the slowly closing gap and pulls them apart. It's Full Fat Dave from Finance and he's late so he's been running (well, a fat bastard's excuse for a run, which is really a walk instead of a taxi). Still he had time to buy a latte and a muffin from Starbucks I noticed.
He pushes his way in to the lift, even though we're full, drags his bags inside (God only knows what's in them) and starts panting and sweating amongst us. I briefly imagine what his cum-face must be like (I'm sick like that), but end up fighting back the nausea. And he smells. Oh, and guess what, he pushes the button for floor 1 with a stumpy fat finger. The lazy fat bastard!!!
Fat people ... Do us all and yourself a favour. Eat less, move around a bit more, and use the bloody stairs if you're only going up one floor!
Every morning it's the same sodding routine. The lift is packed. No-one's looking at anyone else. Everyone's just staring at the ""Max Persons 10 or 1,000 kg" sign waiting for the doors to close (it's a shit old building with a crap lift and it takes forever). Eventually the doors begin to close, slowly, all too slowly. And another thing, why is the Otis head office in a single storey building?
Just before the doors shut, a bloated fat hand pokes through the slowly closing gap and pulls them apart. It's Full Fat Dave from Finance and he's late so he's been running (well, a fat bastard's excuse for a run, which is really a walk instead of a taxi). Still he had time to buy a latte and a muffin from Starbucks I noticed.
He pushes his way in to the lift, even though we're full, drags his bags inside (God only knows what's in them) and starts panting and sweating amongst us. I briefly imagine what his cum-face must be like (I'm sick like that), but end up fighting back the nausea. And he smells. Oh, and guess what, he pushes the button for floor 1 with a stumpy fat finger. The lazy fat bastard!!!
Fat people ... Do us all and yourself a favour. Eat less, move around a bit more, and use the bloody stairs if you're only going up one floor!
Thursday, 24 January 2008
Garlic
Garlic stinks. Fact. When you've had it for dinner the previous evening and then you board a packed commuter train, you stink. Fact. It doesn't matter how well you brushed your teeth this morning, or how mush parsley you munched on last night. I can smell it on you. All your fellow passengers can smell you. Its stench oozes from everyone of your pores. When you get to work your colleagues will smell it too. So, please, do us all a favour. Don't eat garlic on a work night. Read the bloody label on your sad ready meal for one before you stick it in the microwave. If it says "garlic" anywhere on the label (including "garlic puree" or "garlic extract") don't eat it, because you will stink tomorrow morning, and won't get much sex ... just like the guy sat next to me.
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Old People with iPods .... NO!!!
Why do they even bother. I'm 41 and can't work one, so why on earth does you're average 59 year old commuter even try?
I've just watched some poor old sod opposite me on the train this morning trying to get to grips with one of the damn things (I suspect it was a present from his middle class, 30-something daughter, who broke free of her Stockport roots, married a has-been footballer, moved to Alderley Edge and never looked back). Doesn't love the old boy enough to drive him to work in the morning, though. Bitch!
Anyway, back to the old bloke. First he opens his Roy Cropper bag and retrieves the thing with all the care, precision and sloth of an archaeologist. This is infuriating to watch.
Then he spends the next 10 minutes trying to untangle the headphone wires with his twisted, bony, pre-arthritic fingers. I'm reminded of Mr Bean for some reason.
A few moments of light relief follow as he carefully places an ear bud into each ear. He repeats this several times because they fall out with every twist, turn and jolt of the now busy Crewe to Manchester Piccadilly commuter train. OK, he's probably just heeding the standard doctors advice ... "Nothing smaller than your elbow should go into your ear" but COME ON!! Just shove the damn things in properly so I can go back to sleep.
That's it. They're in. a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. Now begins the search for the on off button. This is painful. Found it! The thing comes to life with a satisfying glow that lights up his face, haggard from the stresses of life. I briefly think they had it right in Logan's Run where everyone dies at 30 to make way for the next generation.
He's just about to search for that familiar Perry Como album artwork when we arrive at Piccadilly. The bloke next to him shoots up, yanking the earphones out of his cauliflower ears.
Give up old man.
I've just watched some poor old sod opposite me on the train this morning trying to get to grips with one of the damn things (I suspect it was a present from his middle class, 30-something daughter, who broke free of her Stockport roots, married a has-been footballer, moved to Alderley Edge and never looked back). Doesn't love the old boy enough to drive him to work in the morning, though. Bitch!
Anyway, back to the old bloke. First he opens his Roy Cropper bag and retrieves the thing with all the care, precision and sloth of an archaeologist. This is infuriating to watch.
Then he spends the next 10 minutes trying to untangle the headphone wires with his twisted, bony, pre-arthritic fingers. I'm reminded of Mr Bean for some reason.
A few moments of light relief follow as he carefully places an ear bud into each ear. He repeats this several times because they fall out with every twist, turn and jolt of the now busy Crewe to Manchester Piccadilly commuter train. OK, he's probably just heeding the standard doctors advice ... "Nothing smaller than your elbow should go into your ear" but COME ON!! Just shove the damn things in properly so I can go back to sleep.
That's it. They're in. a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. Now begins the search for the on off button. This is painful. Found it! The thing comes to life with a satisfying glow that lights up his face, haggard from the stresses of life. I briefly think they had it right in Logan's Run where everyone dies at 30 to make way for the next generation.
He's just about to search for that familiar Perry Como album artwork when we arrive at Piccadilly. The bloke next to him shoots up, yanking the earphones out of his cauliflower ears.
Give up old man.
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