Tag Archives: travel

I’m already trained to smoke

There are many things wrong with the world that deserve government intervention. Protecting those in care homes and stopping animal cruelty are clearly worthy of the sweat and tears it takes to get anything through Parliament. When it enforces ‘common sense’ or invades my own sense of well being I cannot help but explode in fury.

Instead of educating idiots, the UK is going to bring in a ban that stops anyone smoking in a car containing children. If you happen to own one of these things then you should be fucking responsible enough to know that it’s bad. If you don’t, then do not embark on expanding the species. It is a simple enough thing to understand. Look after your blight on humanity, protect them from danger and illness. Why the fuck does it need a new law and yet another fine structure?

As a hater of children who occasionally has to transport them in my car, smoking is one of the only things that stops me from putting the foot down and driving off a cliff. They can open a window for fuck’s sake, onto all of that good motorway air. I warn any little bastard’s owner that I will smoke; if they allow the thing into my space then fine. The kid is, after all, their responsibility not mine.

Now I face an even more excruciating time getting my lungs ripped out by tedious mirth at the new inability to control my own life. I pay for my vehicle; as long as I’m not transporting another body it is my private world of joy. In my rented flat I’m already trained to smoke leaning dangerously out of a window, paranoid over any smell fouling the walls. Only on the road can I fully let rip, inhaling the little cancer sticks with two fingers up to other people. This is my England; jog on usurpers.

If this law made any sense it would just fine the parents. There’s already enough mollycoddling of these untouchables who choke up hospitals and block pathways. They get paid to have time off to ‘bond’ with a baby. Then there are family credits, free NHS prescriptions and special parking spots.

Despite working I get fuck all. Start piling fines onto these breeders so they consider it before the bloody thing arrives. Make them responsible for how everyone else’s life is puked over. Taking a giant pram on public transport? That is an extra two spaces lost. Pay. Bringing a disease into work from your beloved little shit? Pay for everyone else’s sickness time off. I supporting a ban on children in pubs, especially past 6pm. I’m not there to babysit for you, and the noise is excruciating. My mental health is impacted. Pay.

Needless to say the upshot is all children are now banned from my car. So, actually, maybe it’s not all bad.

A man without a car

Until very recently I hadn’t been on public transport in about 10 years, probably not since I was a student. As a student I had to use trains and buses (oh the injustice, having to mingle with the similarly unwashed) but at that time I had no real concept of the code of public transport.  Well, after 10 pints of snakebite (a drop of blackcurrant juice is one of your 5 a day when you’re a student) you usually don’t understand the code of being human let alone some code of public transportation.

Fast-forward ten years and after working in sales (yes, I’m a wanker) and enjoying company cars for the majority of that time, I find myself without a car. Me? A man without a car? Bollocks.  Starting over again in my career resulted in me having to face facts, one of which was that I was going to have to use public transport – properly this time.

And there is most definitely a code when using public transport. Few people follow it as rigidly as they should. The code goes like this.

One: you turn up at the bus stop or the train station, whatever takes your fancy. Look around and gauge who is there before you. This will come in handy.

Two: the vehicle arrives. It doesn’t matter if the fucking thing stops right by you, rolls out the red carpet and you get piped aboard by the Royal British Legion Marching Band – let those that were before you get on first. You should know who these people are if you’ve taken note of point one of the code. You do this because it’s common, human decency. Do not goose-step past these people in order to get on the train/bus/tube before them. This is neither decent nor humane; it only tells all of the passengers entering the vehicle that you are, in fact, a wanker.

Three: you are on board your chosen mode of public transport. If you are using a mode of transport which allows you to see the human who is paid to be there (the driver of the bus for example), say “thank you” as you get on. Why? Because it is called showing some fucking manners you rude, ignorant pile of goat dung. The driver doesn’t want to be there; no-one grows up wanting to be a bus driver. They probably had dreams of being a sailor or a landscape gardener and here they are, carting about the feral, ignorant and mentally retarded. The least you can do, as a relatively sane member of the public, if you are one, is to say thanks.

Four: find a seat. What this doesn’t entail is walking up and down, stopping by every spare seat, before continuing your hunt for what I can only assume is some of automated masturbating chair.  All seats are created equal, unless you’re on Ryanair, so just pick one.

Five: if you find yourself in an aisle seat and the person on the inside of you needs to leave before you reach your destination, stand up. Don’t just swing your legs out into the aisle and expect them to squeeze past, even if it’s fucking Twiggy next to you ,and frankly you’ve more chance of sitting next to Shergar than her on public transport.

Six: you reach your destination. Let’s be honest, you know when it is. It’s announced before you reach it, you see others get off before you so you know roughly whereabouts you are on your journey and you may well even recognise the surrounding area. What does all this mean? It means get ready to leave before you reach your destination. Don’t get to your stop and then suddenly have a book, headphones, hand cream, makeup or anything else to pack away – it holds everyone up and is fucking infuriating.

These rules aren’t overly hard to follow. If someone who hasn’t been on public transport in a decade knows them, then you should too.  Read it, learn it and practice it so we don’t end up throwing ourselves and each other in front of the poor bastards ferrying us about the country.

Thanks for helping me check my brakes

Honest driving is a dying art. Not that it was ever really an art, but it’s certainly going to involve some dying if you lot keep it up.

It’s stressful enough driving on Britain’s roads without having to calculate the probability of which direction a driver will suddenly turn without warning. A drive to the shop to pick up some bread suddenly turns into a game of poker, where you have to watch every little movement other cars make. I’ve enough on my plate avoiding reckless cyclists and twats that decide to walk out on zebra crossings without having to make eye contact with every driver on the road.

I’m convinced at least 70% of drivers suffer from broken indicators. Whoever drafted the MOT check-list needs to make sure garages are checking them, because EVERY time I take on a roundabout, there’s some prick going around one without indicating. “Look at me! Where will I go, who knows?!” You’ll be going home in a hearse mate, one that probably doesn’t indicate either.

It’s plain laziness – those who are taking the first exit on the roundabout and feel that it doesn’t justify warning other road users that they are suddenly veering off left. Thanks for helping me check my brakes and whether my daughter’s neck can withstand whiplash. Increasingly, cars will pull up to junctions and just not bother with a left or right signal – you have to assume which way they’ll go by how many degrees their front tyres are turned. Cars don’t need cup-holders these days, they need protractors and a fucking trundle wheel in the glovebox.

I’m just too honest a driver to accept this kind of behaviour. I’ll be the only mug on the motorway indicating when overtaking an artic crawling at 60mph. Everyone else just weaves in and out of each other, like some tarmaced slalom from Mario Kart. Society isn’t legally obligated to just drift between lanes like an episode of Top Gear – tell us where you are going.

It’s not limited to motor vehicles either, with cyclists now deciding to turn 90 degrees without signalling. As if joining pavements, ignoring red lights and failing to wear a helmet aren’t enough of a risk, you’re now throwing suicidal Lycra men at my bonnet? I’m not calling for bullbars to be legalised again, but don’t be surprised if you see a Yaris driving round Bristol with a Dick Dastardly “point” welded on.

The worst offenders make their way in to a little black book; that’s right – I’m taking down registration numbers. Soon I’ll have a list as long as Schindler’s, and they’ll meet a similar fate. If I’m ever struck down with a life-shortening disease, I’ll be the head-case showing up at roundabouts with a sniper rifle.

If you can move your hand to put your wipers on, you can do the same for indicating. Nobody is too lazy to ignore rain on their windscreen, or so self-obsessed that they won’t put their lights on in the dark. It wouldn’t surprise me if most accidents stem from a lack of signalling. Traffic flows through anticipation, made infinitely easier to judge when we all know where we are heading. It’s a virus infecting the UK, and it’s as bad as speeding, if not worse. All joking and violent road rage aside, if you’re guilty of it, please refrain from doing it in future.

Heaven’s in the backseat of my Cadillac

I saw a bumper sticker the other day – yet another fucking attempt by a born-again Christian motorist to convince us to believe in Christ. The sticker said “This car may be unmanned during rapture”.

This only endorses my belief that if God would transcend his cherubic followers to the upper stratosphere, especially when they’re charge of manoeuvring a large motor vehicle, then believing in Him could involve no end of RTAs.

It would mean killing dozens of road-users and pedestrians for the sake of one person ‘living’ at the right hand of God. We can only hope we spot the little fish decal on the back of their car in time, before drivers start dematerialising and a vacant car causes untold havoc.

Bloody born-again Christians only go to prove there is one ‘born’ every minute. The seventies pop group Hot Chocolate had a song called “Heaven’s in the backseat of my Cadillac”, the lyrical content of which suggests that the car should be stationary before any kind of rapture takes place.

If you are about to be raptured, check your underwear frequently to see whether you have been ‘washed clean of your sins’. My mother insisted if I was to be found dead at the scene of a car accident my underwear should be spotless. No skidding while skidding, as it were.

Obviously God prefers no laundry issues at St Peters Gate. Otherwise a lot more fucking shit might go down.

True sacrifice

A holiday abroad does so much more than just give your body and mind a well-earned break. You find yourself thinking about the more important things in life, rather than fixating on how quickly people will work out it was you who fucked up their macro, or hiding in the toilets for two hours fretting about whether or not the person you sit next to saw you slagging them off on instant messenger.

You probably take yourself off to a much poorer country for a beach holiday, because you want your money to go as far as possible. You might go somewhere in Asia. Sure, the flights will cost you a pretty penny, but you’ll struggle to spend more than the cost of a Pret salad on most three-course meals, so you can square it away in your mind. And once you’re there buying cocktails for the same price as a packet of Hubba Bubba, your body starts to relax and your mind starts to find that peace and calm you’ve been searching for in the months since your last sojourn.

All the while you’re in a bubble, cut-off from reality with no idea what’s going on at home. So imagine the horrifying, falling sensation that overcomes you when you return to London and read the biggest story of the past fortnight.

All the benefits of every single four quid, hour-long relaxing massage I had undergone were reversed when I got home and read – and believe me I am still ashen-faced with shock as I write this  – about the Back to the Future Secret Cinema catastrophe.

For the blissfully ignorant, let me fill you in. The biggest immersive cinema event in the history of big, immersive cinema events was called off with – oh god I think I’m going to be sick again – merely hours’ notice. Some people were actually on their way to the event when they found out. Some people had taken time off work to attend it. Everyone had put their money and their faith into the belief that they would get to watch an 80s classic in dress-up, with some real life actors thesping about the place, whilst also being able to get bollocksed in the process.

One account I read, in amongst so many harrowing details of devastation and loss, was written by someone I consider a modern day Joan of Arc. Not only had she arrived early, but someone she was meeting there had almost boarded their train to meet her. Suffice to say she was distraught, but showed supreme strength and dignity in not allowing her companion to make a wasted journey. That’s true friendship. That’s true sacrifice.

And of course there’s a backlash.

Supposedly they’re a pampered bunch of spoilt film nerds with too much money, an unhealthy obsession with mediocre 80s cinema and an unfulfilled need to raid the dressing up box, harking back to a repressed and lonely childhood.

Or are they just serious, hard-working people, with realistic expectations that, when they’ve paid over the odds for organised fun, have meticulously selected something to wear that says “I’m wacky, but I also like to get things right *points and winks*” and have arranged their diary accordingly, they will be able to embark on their organised fun in a punctual and efficient manner?

Well you show me the father of four selling tat on an Asian beach for pennies who wouldn’t sympathise with these poor sods. Do you honestly expect me to believe that a family of six living in a shack who sell their ancient, healing and holistic massages for less than the cost of a bag of Butterkist wouldn’t break down on hearing about Secret Cinema’s recent atrocity?

Just because they don’t have money doesn’t mean they don’t have feelings.

All I can hope now is whatever has brought about this disaster is resolved by the end of August, in time for the date on my ticket. Or I’ll be shaking like Michael J Fox and weeping into my three quid, hand woven, silk pashmina.

Corpses on the commute

Dodging traffic isn’t one of my favourite hobbies, nor is counting cars or observing Britain’s pollution in full effect. Traffic lights exist not only to control traffic and reduce how often we witness fresh corpses on our commute, but also allow us to access other areas of the country without drilling under the road or attempting the world’s most dangerous long jump.

Pedestrians lose all logic when arriving at an obstacle that messes with their complex plan to put one leg in front of the other for five minutes straight. They’ll stop immediately in the middle of a busy high street when deciding they are going in the wrong direction, then moan when the pram I’m pushing takes the skin off their legs. Oh I’m sorry, next time you want me to predict what you’re thinking, weld some fucking brake lights on to your back.

These people will walk in groups of four, but in a sort of hand-in-hand fashion that means you have to either walk up the wall of the adjacent building, or break through them by initiating an informal game of Red Rover. Worst of all, these pricks feel the need to press buttons, like those twats who call all five of the lifts just to go up one floor in the bloody car park.

The worst offenders are the cocky late arrivals at pelican crossings. You know the crossings, where you press the button and wait for the green man to appear, so that when you cross you don’t end up looking like the red man. A great piece of kit that’s present on the pelican crossing is the red light that turns on, or the yellow “Wait” wording that lights up when the button is pressed. Yet, no matter how many times I arrive first at a pelican crossing, some dickhead will appear shortly after to press the button.

Now look, I’m not one to have a go, but what you just did there was treat me like this is my first time crossing a road. Up to this point I was fine just working my way through the underground sewage network to get across Bristol, but you’ve opened my eyes to a whole new world. You mean to tell me that I’ve been stood here, expecting the hundreds of cars on this road to somehow simultaneously grind to a halt just for me? I ought to kiss you for enlightening me and my journey from here on in.

But I won’t, because I really want to grab you by the groin and remind you that you that all you’ve done is wasted two seconds of your life by going to press that button. Two seconds risking your life by touching a button that’s gone unwashed for years, having been used by thousands upon thousands of commuters. I had to touch it, because I was here first, but you didn’t need to – you didn’t just lose two seconds, you also gained germs and the disbelief and disgust of everybody else patiently waiting for the lights to change.

You’re an idiot. And next time I might be eating Wotsits, or sticky toffee, or I could have been playing with dog shit, and you’ll be none the wiser.

Medical assistance and a witness statement

I do not delude myself that I am a writer. I am a writer only inasmuch as I am a marine biologist on the grounds that I keep a few guppies. Writing does not make me. It does not sustain me. I write only in the vain hope that I might one day earn enough from it to lock myself away forever on a small, forgotten peninsula and there be left alone until my time comes to descend into the great black nothingness of death.

Some people just want to go out and travel, some people want to leave and pretend they’re doing something worthwhile with their lives. They want to go to Africa and there strut nobly like a great white god, amongst the smiling brown natives running beside them with wide smiles and happy laughter.

“But we built a school, dontchaknow?”

Never mind that two weeks later the iron faced jihadists rolled in with their tanks, dragged the girls out of the building, forced them into burkas and underage marriages, then used that same educational establishment to promote a doctrine the harshness of which hasn’t been seen since the dark ages.
“I’m making a difference!”

Don’t get me wrong, I hate England. We English are, to paraphrase Jonathan Swift; “The most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth.” The World Cup sums us up. They should put a statue of Rooney up in every school and we should exalt him as the symbol of our nation just as years ago the downtrodden of this land used to look up with doe eyes at Kitchener, who was at that moment sending millions of them into the mincing machines of the trenches.

Summed up in Rooney is the very essence of what’s wrong with us as a nation; the moderate ability dressed up as genius which inevitably fails to produce even the smallest spark of talent when up against those who actually know what they’re doing. When faced with a real challenge, a real opportunity to make a difference, Rooney, like everyone else in England, bottled it. The relentless excuses, the self-pity, the twin obsessions of obscene wealth and then afterwards squandering that wealth on destroying yourself and your family, the few good things that actually meant something in your life. Above all the laughable false positives.

“At least we’ve got some hope for the youth of the future.”

And yet everywhere you go the rights of the isolationists are being eroded. Nowadays it isn’t even possible to go and drink yourself into oblivion alone in the pub without some cunt coming up and asking if you’re okay. I go to the public urinals and there are signs staring down at my dick warning me not to engage in non-consensual sex (Well, it’s been a lovely evening. We went out to dinner at the Crown, to the wine bar afterwards and then back to hers for coffee. However for some reason I get the feeling there’s something amiss. Of course! I’m raping the ever-loving shit out of her!)

Let us briefly recap on these public information adverts. We warn people not to drink and drive because a lot of people might be tempted to do it and not see the harm. We all drive whilst tired, right? The adverts make us aware of a danger we may not see. Rapists don’t read signs, they don’t respond to adverts. Why? Because they’re fucking rapists, that’s why. You don’t go appealing to their sense of common decency.

Meanwhile the grass and the snitch are lauded like never before. The other day I witnessed a minor car crash between a young chap and a rotund, balding executive. The youngster wasn’t looking where he was going and hit the exec on a roundabout. Not content with the youth facing higher insurance premiums the fat cunt decided to give the youth a piece of his mind. The youth broke his nose and left him puking in his own blood, smashed his windscreen for good measure then drove away. Afterwards I walked past, laughing heartily whilst ignoring the fatster’s pleas for medical assistance and a witness statement. Previously this was my God-given right as an Englishman as defined by Magna Carta and the countless wars we fought for freedom. Now, by definition of the law, I’m the cunt.

I really hope Scotland votes for independence in September. When that happens I think I shall move to the Highlands in the hope that the independent government is a damned sight more fuck-off friendly than Westminster. It is fitting that the final, stubborn rebels retreat to the mountains to continue their cause. Soon I fear I shall be forced to make my final stand.

Waiting for a potato

“Are you okay, Love?”

Oh, so now you finally recognise my look of disdain.

That horrible bastard who is apparently incapable of carrying his coin purse above ground level has rolled its giant wheels all over one of my smallest toes – so no, I am not okay, Love.

Now feel free to continue telling me which platform we’re on and what is about to arrive, every two minutes, because I’m sorry, I forgot why I was here. I thought perhaps I was waiting for a potato to shoot out from that dark hole in the distance. Please remind me to stand behind the yellow line, because I don’t know where to stand. I need you to SHOUT that at me.

What you should actually use your megaphone to shout about is the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, tube carriage space runs out. I know that’s obviously a completely unreasonable idea for me to throw out there, because of course space is a relative concept, “Move down, Love” and space is only what you perceive space to be, “Move down, Love” and space is infinite and space only ceases to exist when you stop thinking “MOVE”. And if you demand, once more, for me to move down so you can fit yourself into the 250mm of space left next to me, then you will cease to exist.

Because sometimes, just sometimes, when I have formed a perfect face print onto the back of Nigel’s suit jacket, maybe, just maybe, there’s not enough space left for you to join us on this glorious journey. No, we can’t move down, you ignorant bastard, so why don’t you take two minutes out of your precious time and wait for the next ride?

That never-ending two minutes, hey? Don’t worry, there are endless activities to fill that wait – write a sonnet, knit a jumper, start a family, roast a hog. Just do not attempt to stand next to me.

Oh, so you’re going to consume a whole apple as you stand next to me, are you?

I’m sure it’s severely important you crunch your way through a whole piece of fruit during the 12 minutes and 37 seconds that you are underground, because you know, you couldn’t possibly wait to bite once you’re back in natural light. Go ahead and gyrate your teeth against its green skin. And, please, slurp your apple.

What are you going to do with that core then? You have a whole core to dispose of there, what are you going to do with it? Okay, there’s a Tupperware box. You have pulled out a Tupperware box out of your rucksack. Of course you have, because you have 6 minutes and 22 seconds remaining, you must fill that with some fruit. You’re basically halfway through your journey, it’s half time, so that must mean you deserve a slice of orange or two.

You’ve stood in your kitchen this morning and sliced up an orange. You’ve sliced up an orange and you’ve placed the slices into a Tupperware box. You’ve placed the box into your rucksack. You’ve consciously sliced up an orange and placed it in a Tupperware box and into your rucksack – your emergency half time fruit.

And you are sucking it, sucking the flesh, pulling at the skin. Slurping.

Now that baby over there is looking. He wants some. He’s clapping. Why are you clapping, Baby? You’re applauding me? You are staring at me and applauding me? So what do you want me to do? Clap? Bow for you? Smile? Expose my tongue? Now the mum is looking at me. She’s looking down at the baby, and looking at me, both of them expectantly, desperately willing a reaction.

Why would I want to clap along with your baby? WHY? Why are you actively encouraging me to stare at your child? You will tell that baby in the near future “never talk to strangers” but right now you’re encouraging it, willing it, willing me to begin interaction. Sorry, I was told never talk to strange babies.

And yes, it’s a baby, well done. I too am blessed with the ability to produce one of those. It is quite possibly the least thing you should be proud of – oh let’s be proud of something that 78% of this tube carriage can achieve. Shall I count up to 10 for you, shall I? Look at me, I can count up to 10, just like you, just like her with her face in the Tupperware box. I can count up to ten. Look at me counting up to ten. 1…2….3…4,5,6…7..8,9…

“Are you okay, Love?”

Rear-ended

Driving is undoubtedly one of the most frustratingly enjoyable things to do in life, right up there with anal. Amazingly fun for you, the driver; perhaps less fun for the person in the seat beside you.

I love driving fast. I love taking a sharp corner at just the right speed so you don’t roll over, feeling just a touch of a rush. Passing that car in the 200m straight with a semi barreling down on you in the other lane. Just because I can. Like anal, it’s pretty great, almost all of the time, for one of us.

As with the other thing though, people inevitably have to go and ruin it. For every great story about anal, you’ve got 10 friends that tell you about the time they got shit on their dick and it was gross, the girl just wasn’t into it, you didn’t know how to prep an anus, and she cried, or you cried, or you both cried together.

You then never want to even try anal, and that’s a shame because it’s really quite great. Sure it takes some doing, but trust me, you’ll love it, she’ll love it, and your landlord who finds the tape when you moved out will love it most of all. It’s the same with motherfucking driving. You’re just dealing with a lot more assholes.

And that’s aside from the fuckers on the road, we’ll get to them in a minute. You’ve got to deal with all the motherfuckers at home, or at work, in your family, and worst of all in the passenger seat telling you what the fuck to do. “Hey I saw you leaving work yesterday, you just blew through that yellow, it’s much better to just stop and wait for the light.”

It doesn’t ever fucking stop. Everyone and their mother is a great driver, they all know what’s best. Why then does your car have a dent in the rear bumper? Oh, you got rear ended? Was it because you stopped for the fucking yellow? It was! Really not your fault you say, it was the asshole in that black M3 who was going too fast. Oh I see, he thought you’d run the yellow and you didn’t because you can’t fucking drive.

Seriously, get a fucking bus pass. You can’t park, you can’t signal, your car’s so shitty you can’t even get up to speed to merge into traffic properly. It doesn’t corner well so you go slow as fuck on my nice mountain roads. Maybe it does play the latest Skrillex song well since you dumped your welfare into a “Sick fucking sub brah”, but you still can’t fucking drive.

Yes mom, I’ll drive home carefully. Yes mom, I wear a seat belt. Yes mom, I use my lights at night. Now really those things are just common sense – it’s dark, you need to see, turn your goddamn lights on. I like being alive, so when that other asshole hits me I want to be strapped in.

This is what gets me though: drive carefully. Okay yeah, I’ve made mistakes on the road, though not many. Never crashed, never injured anyone, myself included, never caused a wreck and left before I saw any damage. Of course I drive carefully, because I fucking love it.

I do go fast. Really fast. I’m always at the speed limit, and sometimes I’m over it. Usually. Because of this speed though, I have to pay even more attention to the goddamn road and the assholes on it than you sitting in the left lane going 60 when the posted speed was 80.

And please learn to deal with rain. I live in a city that sees a solid six months of very cold winter, every year. We deal with snow, ice, and Asian drivers constantly, and yet rain turns the biggest man in his new Merc into a blubbering baby. Ice scares me so much more, as does snow, yet rain is what makes my city crawl. It’s just water. If you know how to drive, which since you’re on the fucking road you should, you can deal with a little hydroplaning.

So as far as I can tell driving is amazing, the same as anal. It’s great for you, most of the time. Everyone else is just out to ruin a good bit of fun for you. So drive, as fast as you want, in whatever lane you want, with or without familial advice and fuck that asshole, ‘cause fuck you.