This is one awkward social situation. You’re out on a date, or even worse at a family gathering, and you can feel your nose tingling. You’re going to sneeze. You might be able to stave it off for 30 seconds, a minute tops, but this sneeze will not be silenced for long. The worry is of course, that it’s a wet sneeze. Because if it’s a wet sneeze, and you’re tissueless, what exactly are you going to do with the contents of your hand once that sneeze has broken free?
It’s early. I don’t want to be awake. I don’t want to be on a train. I don’t want to go to work. But that’s where I am, and that’s where I’m heading. Before the start of the working day I just want a little peace and quiet. Some silence if you will. What I really don’t want is some suited and booted idiot screaming into a mobile phone to some equally irritating city twat, discussing everything from share options to that day’s scheduled meetings.
These people are so irritating. Like the staff of Disneyworld they’re all smiles when you get to the counter, overly joyous and nice. SO SMUG AND PLEASED WITH THEMSELVES. Why? It’s not like they’re serving me a cure for cancer or a winning lottery ticket. I’m buying a coffee, stop smiling at me! I hate fake American nice.
In a world where mobile phones have made the landline almost redundant, it’s actually pretty exciting when you do receive a call on your house phone.
Who could it be, you wonder? A friend? A family member? Oh no. It’s some chirpy automated American tit telling me I can go to Disneyland for free if I press the hash key. Fuck off.
I can see beauty in art. I love pop art. I can accept that the Mona Lisa is worth a look. I don’t have an issue with Banksy. But why would I want to pay to go to an art exhibition only to be confronted by an all white room with a bucket of black paint spilt all over the floor. This is not art – this is a decorating accident.
I don’t enjoy exercise. I do not enjoy the gym. The only reason I exercise and go to the gym is because I hate my body and am sick of staring down at a podgy pale stomach and something akin to tits. I am desperately trying to avoid the onset of middle-aged spread.
So what I really don’t need when I have just exercised for 40 minutes and am tired and puce is to go into the changing room and be confronted by sweaty blokes with their cocks hanging out like it’s perfectly normal to be naked in front of people YOU HAVE NEVER MET.
Is there anything more painful on the eyes than seeing some fat, middle aged man wearing a t-shirt with a sex-based slogan on? My retina’s are burning just at the thought of it. It’s bad enough seeing some spotty runt wandering around with an arrow pointing down to his pants with the words “It Won’t Suck Itself” emblazoned above it, but when you see someone old enough to be your dad wearing a top with “I’m Not A Male Chauvinist As Long As She Fucks & Cooks”, it’s enough to make you vomit up a decade’s worth of Loaded Magazines.
People who work for mobile phone companies should be treated the same as rapists, murderers and bankers because – like them – they are the absolute scum of the earth.
They charge the skies for phone usage, tie you into long term contracts on the promise of first class service should anything go wrong, and then when something does go wrong they treat you like a leper who’s riddled with sexually transmitted diseases the likes of which not even Russell Brand has experienced.