I was going to start this post by referring to my blog, but in the style used by Russell Brand in the title of his autobiography My Booky Wook. Before it was too late I realised that this would inadvertently lead to my using a racial slur; a shortening of the word that got Carol Thatcher into so much trouble (watch Richard Herring give her a telling off for her stubborn stupidity, here – skip to 3.30). Phew, I got out of a scrape there. To add to my problems while watching that YouTube clip I heard the phrase bite the bullet, and immediately began imagining literally doing it. The hard metal cylinder pops between my teeth, sparks and ignites the gunpowder, blowing off half my jaw and sending shrapnel through my palate and into my brain. It hurts a little. Best stop dwelling on it.
On the bus home last night my fellow riders and I had the uncomfortable displeasure of being cooped up next to a noisy twat with a mobile phone. This arrogant loudmouth bastard rabbited and bellowed into his phone, about his stupid company’s cock-up with a printer. I gather his company was called RSS, although googling it briefly I can’t find any likely contenders. “John... nah, John, the way I see it is... as I see it John... the way I see it.” Just spit it out; how the fuck do you see it. Basically they had had something printed at a cost of three thousand pounds (I believe it was a magazine of some description) and not got a hard copy of a proof made. They only got a digital copy of the proof which appeared fine, however when they took delivery of the finished product the € symbol had mysteriously vanished.
The twat attributed this to someone forgetting to properly embed the font into the document, and was attempting to pass blame from himself onto someone who had not OK’d the budget to get a physical proof. I understood the problem and the causes of it about fifteen minutes before the cloth-eared bellend on the other end of the line grasped it. The details were repeated over and over, with no increase in clarity or significant rephrasing; just pure repetition, peppered with meaningless listen John, the way I see it is, etcetera, etc, &c.
I was sat on the high seat near the back; the one that sits above the rear wheels. On the seat in front of me was an old lady who, due to my elevated position, was low down relative to me. She was clearly just as annoyed by the twat’s twatty twát-à-twát on his mobile twattophone. I watched her sighing at her reflection in the window, rubbing her palm against her forehead in overt exasperation, and trying to surreptitiously cover her ears. Eventually she gave up and lolled her head back against the seat, eyes closed. Just as I looked down at her face she opened her wrinkly eyelids and we made momentary eye contact. My gaze darted to the window, and her head jerked back into the upright position. Although our momentary communication was tempered by embarrassment we both knew that we were both fed up with Twatty McTwatt, RSS and their fucking stupid Euro-less twat-mag.