The Boob Job

Apologies to Vodka Mom, who has heard this story before, but it always cracks me up so I'll tell it again.

My wife used to work in a nursery that had an almost unnatural attraction to yummy mummies. This was partly due to the nursery's location, and partly due to the fact that yummy mummies tend to hunt in packs. In essence, any mummy that didn't have an astronomical bra size or wear twelve-foot-high heels was the odd one out. When the mummies dropped off or collected their children, boob jobs, tanning shops and beauty parlours were the primary topics of conversation.

On this particular occasion the children were putting on a Christmas performance. By performance I mean the nursery staff were attempting to keep 30 under-twos seated still for five minutes while they were led in song. And of course by song I mean bedlam, the raucous chattering of 30 toddlers drowning out an over-played Christmas jingle.

The performance was ready to begin. The toddlers were "seated" at one end of the room, the parents were waiting with anticipation at the other. A Mercedes convertible pulled up outside. Out stepped a mummy wearing monumental heels and equipped with breasts large enough to cause widespread tidal damage to the south coast. She staggered down the path, as unstable as a newborn giraffe. Her top was so low-cut that there was significant risk of spillage and the crushing of small children.

Anyway, as we all know, babies and toddlers like boobies. Natural instinct, the familiar smell, or maybe just conditioning. Bubba Stoneskin herself will frequently attack the boobies of a strange woman.

The mummy entered the nursery and walked past the children to find a seat. As a group the 30 under-twos experienced a mass cathartic release. Their collective gaze focused on her breasts, their little heads followed her as one.

I'd like to be able to say that what followed was a mass stampede and the mummy was chased out the door by a pack of toddlers, but sadly that didn't happen.

P.S. A couple more awards have come my way. Gaston, gave me the One Lovely Blog award. As I also recieved this a month or so back, and did the honours then, I feel I can be let off the hook. But I'd like to thank Gaston, I really appreciate the award.

Jan of Jan's Sushi Bar has given me a brand new award. If you don't know Jan you should pay her a visit, she is a rarity - both a comedic genius and a culinary wizard. Now apparently "A Sushi Grade Blog is fresh, lively and of superior quality. It is rare, has character and is of good taste." It requires the nomination of 5 blogs. Visit Jan for the rules, but here are my nominations:

Anna Russel of Incoherent Ramblings. This girl is an absolute genius.
Gwen of Everything I like Causes Cancer. Show me a funnier blog and I'll buy you a pint.
Amy of Bitcin' Wives Club. This blog taught me what "mopping" is...
Eric of Bored Neoclassical Guy. Probably the most unique blog I've come across. Wit plus classics = Eric.
The Gun of Currently Untitled...A change of identity is afoot, but that doesn't take away from this blog's brilliance.

The celebrity crush

On Monday nights my wife and I watch Heroes. The last few weeks we've managed to catch the end of the preceding program, a Nigella Lawson extravaganza that I forget the name of.

On each occasion Nigella has been stuffing her cake-hole with some wild, abandoned feast of naughtiness, all the while dressed in a silky nightie. Note, there is not the slightest bit of mess, not a smidgen of chocolate down her nightie.

Last Monday we caught the end of the show again. For once Nigella wasn't wearing her customary nightie.

Me : "How odd, she's not wearing one of her nighties."

Wife : "Disappointed are you?"

Me : "Not at all, I'm just sayin'."

Wife : "She is wearing a remarkably tight top though."

Me : "It's nice."

Wife : "Ha! You have a celebrity crush on Nigella Lawson!"

Me : "No I don't, I just said it was 'nice'."

Wife : "Mo and Nigella sitting in a tree..."

My wife proceeds to mock me, I don't imagine she'll forget this quickly either. The things we men have to put up with. And for the record, I don't have a celebrity crush on Nigella.

P.S. A couple more awards have come my why, but I'll handle those during the week.

The Goats Had Eaten EVERYTHING

My grandparents arrived with my great aunt and uncle in tow. They slowly climbed the stairs to our flat, a dignified procession of four. My great aunt climbed the stairs backwards, something to do with her knee. I doubt I could climb those stairs backwards without falling and breaking my neck, but she managed the climb successfully.

The conversation was lively. My Nana and her sister are prolific talkers. Not even my wife, who has been known to talk hind legs off donkeys, could get a word in edge ways. Grandpa and Great Uncle John barely attempted to speak, they knew it would be futile. Instead, they drifted in and out of sleep. Every now and then Great Uncle John would wake with a start, contribute a few incisive thoughts about the "youth of today" and the "immigration problem", and then nod back off.

There was one brief moment when the conversation reached a lull. Great Uncle John woke with a start, seized the opportunity and without prompting told us the goat story.

For years he worked as an engineer for British Telecom. One day he was called out to a house in a quaint middle-class area of Weymouth. A problem with the wiring, he told us. He was met at the door by a lady that was a bit "out there". We asked him what he meant by "out there". You know, he said, shawls and things. I asked him if he meant she was a hippy. No, no, no, he said, not a hippy, just a bit "out there" you know, shawls and things.

The house was a cute little two-up-two-down. The family lived upstairs. The downstairs was populated by goats. The goats were everywhere, he told us. The nanny goats (there were fifteen of them) lived in the front room. The billy goat lived in the back room. What carpets and furnishings there were downstairs had been ravaged. The garden was bare. The goats had eaten everything, including the telephone cable.

The family was happy, the goats were happy, he didn't want to make a fuss. What did he know about the delicate etiquette of household goat-rearing? So he replaced the telephone cable and filed it under "problem with the wiring".

Shortly after this our guests left. My great aunt, of course, went down the stairs backwards. Something to do with her knee.

I will kill you

My alarm went off at 5:45am as usual. The window was open, seagulls were squawking and rigging was tinkle-tankling. I looked out of the window, it was a beautiful Spring morning. Crisp air, clear blue sky, a slight breeze. Sunlight dazzled on the water, combining wonderfully with the boats' reflections. A family of swans swam gracefully about the quay. Time for my coffee, should I go for Australia Skyberry or Sumatra Lingtong? Cafetiere or stovepot? Small things like these are the secret to a happy and successful life.

My wife stirred. "If that alarm clock goes off again I will kill you," she said.

My Dignity Was Traumatised

Monday morning was all going swimmingly. Not that I was swimming, or even particularly enjoying work - it was completely crazy that morning - but I was busy and fully occupied, and on a Monday that's a good thing.

And then I needed a wee, and my zip jammed. Not a problem, I thought. In these situations you can always "go over the top".

30 minutes later the zipper completely died. A humdinger of a crisis. I did what any man would have done. I rummaged around in my drawer to find some paper-clips and attempted to rectify the situation. My attempts were futile, I'd have had more chance of crossing the Atlantic in a paper cup than of successfully fastening my flies with some paper-clips.

I decided to hold out until lunch, then I could nip out and buy some safety pins. Tell you what, it's torture to have to walk round a busy open-plan office knowing that you're flying low. I reasoned that by walking really fast, no-one would get a chance to notice. I also found by walking while barely moving my legs I could just about hold my flies together by sheer will power. It completely spoilt my walk. I was basically shuffling around at high speed, almost gliding.

Over lunch I bought a pack of safety pins. For the rest of the day my dignity was preserved entirely by two expertly-fastened safety pins. My Dignity, on the other hand, felt traumatised by their proximity. Especially when I had to run for a train.

The Battle For the Rear-Facing Seat (part 3)

Well, I was right. My adversary is now getting to the station at least fifteen minutes earlier just to get his favourite seat. If you haven't been following this adventure then you may want to read parts one and two.

My readers had provided some hilarious suggestions which I chose to ignore, but here are a few of the funnies:

Cowguy said...Fake vomit dropped in the other choice seat would be nirvana...

jpooh said...You now need to enlist the help of your fellow commuters, and ALL of you take ALL of the rear-facing window seats.

chris hale said...Perhaps you should engage him in conversation, thus: Hello. Will you be my friend? I haven't got any friends. I had one once, but then I had to put him under the ground. They made me do it.'

Sassy Britches said...To make it extremely well-played, you must give him a Doc-Holiday-at-the-O.K.-Corral-type of wink. Now THAT I would pay to see.

Scope said...Commuters are such creatures of habit. I used to ride a long distance commuter train, and would get pissed if someone was in "my seat." (My manager is so bad, having her seat taken ruins her day.)

Instead of the seat war, I suggest doing the more infernal and totally against the rules thing: talk at him.

Not "talk to him" like you are actually engaging in conversation, but make general comments to him that are mindless and insipid. Make him choose. His seat, or quiet.

Yeah, I'm evil.

Oh, and pinching one off while sitting next to him would be perfect. "Jostled a little one out of me there, old boy. Sorry 'bout that."

Tristan Robin Blakeman said...I suggest winking, smirking, and handing him your phone number, preferably while wearing a pink dress shirt. He'll probably change jobs so he doesn't have to ride that train any longer.

Cameron said...Take a little satisfaction is knowing that you've forced him to alter his schedule by 15 minutes. You may have skipped coffee once, but he's going to have to hurry up for the rest of his days, knowing that if he is lax, even a little, you will pounce.

Mr London Street said...
1. Turn up 20 minutes early.
2. Put chewing gum on "the seat".
3. Leave train.
4. Get on train 10 minutes later.
5. Convincingly feign disappointment that he has yet again nicked "your" seat.
6. Feel smug all the way to work.

In the end I ignored all of these. My plan was to lure him into a place of complacently by letting him have his seat unchallenged yesterday, then today I would pounce. My train gets into the station fifteen minutes before our connecting train and sure enough, as I alighted from my first train I could see the fella, anxiously waiting on the other platform. Goodness knows how long he had been there. I kept my distance. He kept looking furtively up and down the platform. When the train arrived he scurried to his usual seat. I calmly waited a few more minutes before getting on and nonchalantly strolling past without so much as a glance in his direction.

The plan worked. This morning he was complacent. I was on the platform long before him, waiting in his exact spot. Literally as our train pulled in he materialised and scampered down the platform. I was waiting right at the "about to open" train door along with a crowd of other passengers.

[wait for it]

As the doors opened he barged in front of us, literally elbowing his way through the crowd and forcing himself onto the train and taking his seat. I suppose I could have grabbed him by the coat and held him back, but (contrary to popular belief and general public opinion) I am a gentleman, so I let him take his precious seat. I think, after all that I will let his keep his seat. Captain Dumbass will no doubt lambaste me for being a sissy, but that's a risk I'm willing to take.

On a different note, Psuedo has kindly nominated me for this fantastic Zombie Chicken Award. It comes with the description:

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all..."

I had a tough time picking only 5, but didn't want to list a million, so I've picked five bloggers that are simply exceptional. My definition of exceptional in this case is this. They make me buzz when I see a new post from them in my blog list, I feel excited to go read and comment and want to rush to their place RIGHT NOW DAMMIT. Am I the only one who gets a buzz with these guys? I don't know if these five are the types to necessarily put the award up, or pass it on, but seeing as it is such a damn fine one I thought it worth a try. Here are my five:

Sass
Andy
C.B. Jones
Mr. London Street
Jay

If you choose to ignore the award then that's fine by me, but take it as a compliment, your blog is a beauty.

Galumphing Donkeys (by the way I'm not a misanthrope)

In case you're kicking your little legs about with excitement, desperate to read the next chapter in the incomparable saga "battle for the rear-facing seat", there'll be more of that soon. But in the meantime...

The train was packed. To be fair the train is always packed. But this time it was heaving. I was in the twelfth (and rear) carriage. I always sit in that carriage on the way home. Not because of some obsessive-compulsive tick, but because for no apparent reason it tends to have the most free seats (yes I have slowly tested each and every of the twelve carriages, and no I'm not a monomaniac on the subject of personal space).

Anyway, the train has twelve carriages, and I was in the one at the back. Some of the stations on route have tiny platforms which are only long enough for four carriages. Each evening on the way home the following happens:

1) Every 2 minutes an automated announcement is broadcast. It says "Passengers for stations X,Y and Z need to be in the front four carriages as these stations have very short platforms."

2) A bunch of half-wits in the twelfth carriage completely ignore the two-minutely broadcast for their entire journey. Just as the train pulls in to their short-platformed station they curse, panic, and attempt to run through eight crowded carriages in the remaining twenty seconds before the train stops.

3) The motley group of commuters in the twelfth carriage enjoy a sweet piece of camaraderie, snickering, laughing and deriding. Not that we take any joy from the misfortune of half-wits. None whatsoever.

On this particular occasion a smooching couple were in the same seating area as myself and four others. Every two minutes the broadcast came over the intercom.

"Passengers for stations X,Y and Z need to be in the front four carriages as these stations have very short platforms."

After about half an hour the train pulled into station X. The smooching couple jumped with a start, swore so violently that even a chav would have covered his ears, grabbed their bags and stampeded down the aisle.

The girl next to me snickered. "They've not a chance in Hell," said the man opposite. I didn't say anything, I was too busy tapping away on my Blackberry trying to catch up on ol' blogroll. It's a tough life being a blogger.

As we watched them charge into the distance, galumphing down the aisle like a pair of crazy donkeys, the man tripped and went sprawling to the ground. We could see him on the floor, writhing and kicking, tangled in bags, struggling to get free and apparently still believing he could get up and run through eight more carriages.

Carriage twelve erupted in laughter. Full, raucous, hearty laughter. It was a precious, precious moment. I, of course, took no joy from his misfortune.


P.S. In my defence, and to preempt any accusations of misanthropy, I would have been the first to help him if he had been hurt!


P.P.S. Many thanks to Comedy Goddess and Sassy Britches who both gave me this award. I'm going to give it to two bloggers whom I have only recently discovered. To be fair, they discovered me.

1) Girl Interrupted, a brilliant writer who always makes me laugh. The first post I read of hers was "The True Version" of Snow White, a post so classy that I had to read it twice. Make sure you pay her a visit.

2) Harmony, another talented writer who has also done me the honour of slowly (well, quite quickly really) working through my back-catalogue. Her recent "had to be there" post is absolutely sublime.

The Battle For the Rear-Facing Seat (part 2)

[You'll have had to have read yesterday's post to get this]

It didn't quite happen like the picture suggests (and please, don't hold back in your praise of my phenomenal artistic talent). I sacrificed my precious coffee in order to get down to the platform early. Now that is dedication for you. I am normally on the platform a good five minutes before my adversary. Sometimes the train is already there, in which case I'm typically in the carriage five minutes before him. This morning the train was already there. In theory I would have been there ten minutes before him. Ample time to settle myself in his seat, patiently waiting for him to rush on and then meander away like a diffident sheep.

[wait for it]

He was already in his seat. The rear-facing window seat that he holds so close to his heart. He looked pretty settled, coffee on the table, bag on the rack above his head. I don't like to brag, but I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur of commuting body language, a true authority on the subject. I reckon by his settled appearance he had been there at least five minutes.

He had got on the train close to fifteen minutes earlier than normal in order to claim his seat. He looked up at me as I got on the train. A smug smile adorned his face. An expression of seamless, triumphant victory. Defeated. It was a genuine feast for the eye, he had got there fifteen minutes early! I, on the other hand, had skipped my caffeine fix and was left with the damp disappointment of failed chicanery.

I'll let him keep the seat.

Messing with minds is the secret to a happy and successful life

Walking down the platform I spotted my adversary, standing in his usual place. I'm speaking of the protocol violator that chose to sit directly opposite me the other week, ignoring thousands of other free seating areas. Now I know why he did that. Every morning we get on the same carriage and he always sits in the same seat, facing away from the direction of travel and taking a keen interest in anything the commuters around him do. He'll read their papers, scrutinise the covers of their books, watch them tap away on their laptops, gaze lustfully at their mobile phones.

This guy really irritates me, I've seen him every day for the last few weeks, and I've had enough. This morning I decided to get in the next carriage so that I wouldn't have to put up with him, even though it is not in the perfect position for my stop (i.e. when the train stops the doors are not directly aligned with the platform exit). I simply had to take decisive action. Witnessing him daily inflicting misery on his fellow commuters is slowly driving me mad. Proper mad, not Jord mad.

For some reason our train stopped a carriage-length further up the platform than normal. This meant our usual carriage was directly in front of me, and my adversary had to scurry up the platform. A light bulb dinged above my head, a beautiful thought came to me, angelic voices in my head sang songs of unalloyed celebration. I would steal his seat. He deserved it. It would be a crime not to pounce on this perfect opportunity, mess with the mind of this heinous villain and inject some excitement into my monotonous commute. I did have some doubts, it could go horribly wrong, what if he flung his coffee at me in a caffeinated parabola of destruction? Imagine the headlines.

"Train rage strikes again, man douses fellow commuter in coffee".

Ignoring the doubts I stole his seat. He rushed into the seating area seconds later. He looked at me sitting smugly in his seat, blinked and looked again. He had the dejected expression of a child that was expecting a mountain bike for Christmas, but had instead received an extra-large knitted jumper adorned with a reindeer. He wandered reluctantly into the next seating area and sat in the equivalent seat - this guy loves his backward-facing window seat and he found a seat that was as identical to his usual one as possible. I could feel his glare penetrating my skull.

When I got of the train I stole a glance in his direction. I couldn't resist. He glared at me menacingly. A look like that could kill a thousand cats. Tomorrow I'm going to get down the platform early and steal his seat again. The fight is on.

RTT : Don't come here unless you are crazy as a mouse that thinks he is Long John Silver

Unless you're as crazy as a mouse that thinks he is Long John Silver, you really shouldn't be here. In fact you should leave now. If you are as crazy as a man who bounces down the street on a pogo stick thinking he is a golden goose and yelling "the goat cometh!", then this is exactly the right place for you. Let me just say that I had some really crazy random content to post, so I've decided to justify my rampant insanity by posting it under the excuse of 'Random Tuesday Thoughts'.

When I was young and foolish, me and my adolescent cronies had a number of bizarre and insane little stories, sketches and scenes that, well, that speaks volumes for our puerile minds, and probably explains a lot. Anyway, two friends, Steve and Mike, used to tell the "Jord story", which is a crazy dialogue between two characters which (bizarrely) are both called Jord. Possibly there is only one Jord, who is a schizophrenic.

Anyway, I played football with the lads on Saturday and Steve was there, so I got him to tell the Jord story once again. And I recorded it for you all to hear. If for some reason you can't hear the thing (it was a bit fiddly to get it in a post), then please forgive my incomparable ineptitude. Oh, and you may need to pump the volume up to hear it properly!

If this is the last straw, and you decide to never come here again, then I'll set Jord on you.