Years ago, I used to have a list of people I’d love to get pissed with. It was a thing of pure beauty; full of tummy-scratching dreams of dazzling my new bezzies with a selection of vodka-dribbling techniques. Maybe the lobster joke.
But being a twatess of the fickle variety, this list was fluid and prone to changing each time I spotted a new fucker of interest on the TV.
‘I LOVE that fucker!’ I’d bellow out to the old man with a dewy tear in my eye and balled fist pressed to my chest. ‘What I wouldn’t give to get pissed with him/her!’
As I try to live my life swerving humourless fuckers (traffic wardens, poets, clipboard botherers and the like), the vast majority of said list would be made up of comedic characters with Graham Norton, Kathy Burke and Frank Skinner often vying for top spot.
Doubtless, the more alert of my avid readers will note the flaw in my cunning plan: Frank Skinner has been teetotal for many years, having ‘let himself down’ in earlier adulthood.
Unlike my mate, Frazza, Mr Norton is more than happy to get his face in the trough. And then some…
As I sadly can’t indulge in a quaffathon with Frank Skinner (although I’m positive he would have been up for it had things been different), I thought I’d pay homage to the great man by doing my own version of Room 101 and lobbing half a dozen things in there.
Here goes….
1.
There have already been enough exasperating words on the interweb about ditherers at supermarket checkouts; confused by the concept of payment being forthcoming at the end of the transaction and all the bumfuckery malarkey that ensues as purses are delved for, cards are fumbled and dropped, pin numbers forgotten and confusion reigns.
Yada yada.
So, my Room 101 gripe is the new torture of chirpy cashiers scanning a particular item and asking, ‘Is that what you’re having for your tea?’
Look! This one’s at it! Whilst the rest of queue buckles under the weight of their baskets, ol’ chummy’s trying to ascertain if the bloke at the front will be having cereal tonight. I can faithfully report that moments later, chummy duly got his lights punched out to roars of approval.
In summary, I like to think of myself as a warm, fluffy and tolerant person…but supermarket shopping fucks with my pleasure buttons. And anyone or anything that delays a speedy exit (particularly if it is accompanied by an excess display of teeth and a sing-song voice) deserves to be nutted.
My ‘tea’ is my business. And my business only. And such things must remain private.
After all, I don’t go around asking cashiers if they had a favourable shit that day or if they’re planning to ‘push on’ with their hairstyle.
Just let me purchase my provisions in a timely fashion and fuck off home.
I thank you.
2.
Films where the driver of a car takes his/her eyes off the road for extended periods as they face and talk to whichever berk is in the passenger seat. I’ve even seen films where ‘mom’ is driving her brood to a gummy family vacation and she’s happily yakking to Offsping the Eldest in the front seat for yonks, whilst the car magically keeps to its lane. Or maybe Mom/Dad is reminiscing with Mom/Dad about a, ‘Honey, do you remember the time…’ time, as Bruce Springsteen wails from the car radio. There they are, exchanging sighs, glazed looks and pre-brood bunk-up memories for a good 20 seconds or so on a busy highway. Try that kind of caper on the M25 and you’ll soon be on the teatime news.
These berks take things a step further…whilst the ‘kids’ busy themselves with lines of coke and online gambling in the back seats, this duo croon to a bit of Tammy Wynette as mom jerks off dad. As fate would have it (or as every film would lead us to believe…) their vehicle stayed true to its course throughout…..even during the vinegar stroke…
BUT (and here’s the thing) you don’t see us Brits do it in films. Nah. We’re far too downtrodden for any of those high jinks.
YET…stick someone like Nicholas Cage behind the wheel and you’d be hard-pushed to see the fucker even glance at the road. Nah. He’s far too busy detailing his plans to save the world/do the heist/stop the heist/BE the heist/catch the prisoner/leg it over the boarder/generally look dopey throughout the film. Etc.
3.
Film re-makes of classics.
Just…don’t….
Right then. I wish it to be known I am a HUGE fan of musicals. Cabaret. Oliver. Sweet Charity. All that kind of caper.
And I rate West Side Story as my all-time favourite. I’ve repeatedly been known to wear out carpets when trying to be both the Sharks and Jets in the pre-rumble version of Tonight. AND I’ve got ALL of Tony’s ‘Something’s Coming’ down to a fine art: one-handed catches; crouches, and bit of whistling down the river.
So when I discovered there was a remake of West Side Story, I tussled with my inner ball bag for days about whether I should score some pop corn and go see it…
Sacrilege. And lessons learned…
…or to translate from the Greek; you can’t improve upon perfection.
Granted, Riff and Anita tried to make a fist of it – but on balance, the only carpet action from that film was me hot-footing it over the cinema’s swirly red offering as I pegged it out the doors to cries of, ‘Fuck that!’
Sometimes, inner ball bag knows best.
Just…just leave the classics alone.
As we’re on the topic of all-things-carpet…here I am, feeling a bit frisky, with some like-minded chums and a reliable chair, as we rip up the remains of my front room flooring.
4.
People who sign emails with the initial of their first name.
Aaaaaaagh!!!!
Why is that?
If I know you, I’ll know the email has come from you. Am I not deserving of a grunt of your name as you sign off? (Shortened versions, nicknames and pet names all happily accepted.) Would you be busy finding a cure for cancer in the time it takes to tap out the extra characters that complete your name?
Even a twat like myself can muster an ‘Ang’ or ‘Angie’ if I’m swerving from my default of just putting a few xxx snogs to those I know the best (and will happily receive in return and therefore, prefer to the lone ‘fuck you’ initial).
I dunno, but it all seems rather pretentious. Particularly if someone is signing off with a ‘P’…
…actually I’ve known a few ‘Ps’ who couldn’t/wouldn’t stretch to their name. Aside from thinking ‘P for pretentious’ I used to get jocular and further think, ‘P for prick’. Which naturally made the sender suddenly become a ‘pretentious prick’. This sentiment was most strongly felt when I once received a text from an unknown sender saying sommat like, ‘This is my new phone number, P’.
I rest my case, M’Lud….
She looks overly pleased with herself – and no wonder – she’s just discovered a way of signing off an email with a smudged initial. ‘That’ll learn them!’ The swine…
Pfffffffffft!
5.
Slack bar staff
As a grubby ex-pub manager, this can drive me to despair. Especially as I normally have an urgent need to get my face in the vodka trough. Slack bar staff are prone to huddling – and therefore, ignoring your flapping arms as you seek attention. They are also prone to serving customers in the wrong order. And the slackest have to ask you a number of times how you want your drink (ie: did you want lemon? Was that regular or diet coke? Etc etc…) despite the fact you’d already given your order in clear, bit-sized increments.
No wonder I drink (given the chance)….
Check out this poor bugger. Tired of waiting to get served, he thought, ‘fuck this for a lark’ and instead embarked on a pilgrimage to The Holy Vodka Dispenser. He may have fallen short by a few feet, but had he stumbled on, he would have secured his quaff quicker than if he’d stayed perched on that bar stool…I know how you feel, mate…
And finally….
6.
Reality
Nuff said.
Right, that’s my lot for Room 101. For now…
Have you got anything you’d like to lob in there?
No?
Oki-dokey.
So that just leaves me to say ta-ta for now.
A
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