I left my things on the table, went up to the bar, then returned with my pint and sat down. A chap nearby turned to me. "I wouldn't leave your phone lying about round 'ere," he said. "Don't worry, " I replied, "I was keeping an eye on it from the bar. And besides, I thought you looked pretty trustworthy."
This was a lie. Probably in his late 60s, by his appearance it was clear he was a perpetual adolescent. Tracksuit bottoms, rugby top stretched over his belly, a JD sports bag - the sign of the Chav. Shoulder-length grey hair held back with a pair of shades. In front of him sat a pack of B&H and a pint of Carling.
He winked, pulled out a cigarette, and used it to point across the room at a rowdy bunch of low-lives. "It's not me you should be worrying about, it's that bunch over there." He started for the door, then turned back. He wasn't finished. "I own the barber shop next door, know everyone in this town. I HATE this town. People always bothering me. 'Can I have a fag?', 'Could you lend me a quid?', and worst of all are the charity collectors. Every damn Thursday they plague the streets."
I agreed with him. The town where I work is without a doubt the most miserable place in England. Surrounded by estates, filled to the brim with drunks, chavs and charity collectors. I glanced out of the window. One of the local fruitcakes walked by. An old man wearing red trousers, a long fur coat and a black fedora with a yellow ribbon. A Gandalf-like staff completed the look. I have seen him before, always wearing a hat of some form. Sometimes a bandanna, sometimes a fedora, once in forester's hat with a large red feather. The barber rolled his eyes. "Don't get me started," he said.
Turns out the barber (like me) supported Spurs. Best start to the season since '61. We had plenty to talk about. Football unites like nothing else. We couldn't remember all of last week's goal-scorers. "Oi Phil!" yelled the barber, "who scored Spurs' goals last week?" Phil only drinks Newcastle Brown Ale, a cheap and pikey drink if there ever was one. Phil only wears one shirt, blue-checked. A man of routine. This town may be a dive but it certainly has character. He grabbed a copy of The Mirror and gave it to the barber. "It's all in there," he said.
The barber was looking out the window. He whistled softly. Two girls walked past. Short skirts, tanned legs, high heels. Three Harleys whizzed by. Three Harleys, three horns sounded. If there had been three girls the scene would have been perfect. I took my leave, already late back to the office.
On my way back a drunk approached me. "Do ya have a spare fag?""
Showing posts with label laptop old men. Show all posts
Showing posts with label laptop old men. Show all posts
Monday, 31 August 2009
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Lead Zeppelin Bladder
I'm standing up in a cramped sardine tin of a train which is stationary outside Gatwick Airport due to "severe weather conditions". We've been here for half an hour. My knees hurt, I'm late for my routine second coffee, I'm absolutely busting for a wee and I really, really need to poo drop off the kids. I also have a toothpaste situation to sort out.
Of course by the time you read this I will no longer be on the train. I hope I will no longer be on the train.
When I arrived at the station this morning there was the stench of death, the delicately detached air of a hopeless situation. Desultory groups of commuters were moping about whinging. The 7:01 had been cancelled.
Ice on the line apparently. Apparently a train broke down on the fast London line because of icy conditions. Ice? It is possibly the mildest day of the year so far, a crisp, sunny, ice-less Spring morning. I would have worn shorts if I wasn't working.
Ah well, I won't complain, a break in the mundane commuting rigmarole is always welcome. Yeah right. Basically what they are saying is that a decrepit, fag-packet-of-a-train broke down because of a splash of cold water from a puddle, and the South East has ground to a halt.
I caught the following train, an old man sat opposite me. He had a huge beard and an even bigger laptop. One rule of thumb is that the bigger the beard, the bigger the laptop. Another rule of thumb is that the older the man, the bigger the laptop. It's a tenable theory anyway, old men LOVE huge laptops. I guess they have a warped sense of perception. To them, their huge laptops are actually tiny, ultra-portable devices. If you're gonna lug a laptop around of that size why not just drag a couple of IBM mainframes onto the train.
When I got off the train I marshaled my thoughts. No need to let this spoil my day. My thought stream ran something like this.
Gosh, I can't wait for another coffee, and what do I have for lunch? Oh yeah, bacon sandwiches, wow I'll bet they'll be gone by 10, and don't I look dapper today, crisp white lightly-striped shirt, finely ironed (thanks to lovely wife), dark pinstriped trousers, I love these trousers, wait, what the dickens is that? Toothpaste?
There's only one place on a man's dark trousers where, at all costs, he does not want to get toothpaste. I couldn't exactly clean myself there and then, I had to get another train. The train I'm on now. I shuffled onto the train embarrassed beyond belief, doing my best to subtly hold my coat and bag in a strategic position.
And here I am, standing in the packed vestibule area, busting for a wee with toothpaste on my crotch. The man next to me is attempting to use his laptop standing up, twisted over it like a crab, the cacophonous tapping is driving me mad. A lady nearby has a coffee which is making me CRAVE. No, don't think of coffee right now, with a bladder like a lead zeppelin that would be suicidal. The last thing I need is a bladder malfunction. Not on a crowded train.
If I ever make if off this train I will do the following, in this exact order:
1) Go to the toilet
2) Clean my trousers
3) Get myself a coffee
If I don't make it off the train I'll post this from my Blackberry device and you'll never hear from me again, I'll be wasting away in a stinky mess somewhere outside of London.
Of course by the time you read this I will no longer be on the train. I hope I will no longer be on the train.
When I arrived at the station this morning there was the stench of death, the delicately detached air of a hopeless situation. Desultory groups of commuters were moping about whinging. The 7:01 had been cancelled.
Ice on the line apparently. Apparently a train broke down on the fast London line because of icy conditions. Ice? It is possibly the mildest day of the year so far, a crisp, sunny, ice-less Spring morning. I would have worn shorts if I wasn't working.
Ah well, I won't complain, a break in the mundane commuting rigmarole is always welcome. Yeah right. Basically what they are saying is that a decrepit, fag-packet-of-a-train broke down because of a splash of cold water from a puddle, and the South East has ground to a halt.
I caught the following train, an old man sat opposite me. He had a huge beard and an even bigger laptop. One rule of thumb is that the bigger the beard, the bigger the laptop. Another rule of thumb is that the older the man, the bigger the laptop. It's a tenable theory anyway, old men LOVE huge laptops. I guess they have a warped sense of perception. To them, their huge laptops are actually tiny, ultra-portable devices. If you're gonna lug a laptop around of that size why not just drag a couple of IBM mainframes onto the train.
When I got off the train I marshaled my thoughts. No need to let this spoil my day. My thought stream ran something like this.
Gosh, I can't wait for another coffee, and what do I have for lunch? Oh yeah, bacon sandwiches, wow I'll bet they'll be gone by 10, and don't I look dapper today, crisp white lightly-striped shirt, finely ironed (thanks to lovely wife), dark pinstriped trousers, I love these trousers, wait, what the dickens is that? Toothpaste?
There's only one place on a man's dark trousers where, at all costs, he does not want to get toothpaste. I couldn't exactly clean myself there and then, I had to get another train. The train I'm on now. I shuffled onto the train embarrassed beyond belief, doing my best to subtly hold my coat and bag in a strategic position.
And here I am, standing in the packed vestibule area, busting for a wee with toothpaste on my crotch. The man next to me is attempting to use his laptop standing up, twisted over it like a crab, the cacophonous tapping is driving me mad. A lady nearby has a coffee which is making me CRAVE. No, don't think of coffee right now, with a bladder like a lead zeppelin that would be suicidal. The last thing I need is a bladder malfunction. Not on a crowded train.
If I ever make if off this train I will do the following, in this exact order:
1) Go to the toilet
2) Clean my trousers
3) Get myself a coffee
If I don't make it off the train I'll post this from my Blackberry device and you'll never hear from me again, I'll be wasting away in a stinky mess somewhere outside of London.
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