We’ve already discussed, back in February, that I spent a number of years in the early 2000s where my single most prominent personality trait was that I was absolutely insufferable.
It’s not really necessary to go any further to prove that point, but flogging a dead horse is one of the pillars of this blog and its rampant popularity, so flog a dead horse we will. Please enjoy this further example of my absolute arseholery towards innocent people working in customer service jobs, and please also believe me when I say that I am truly sorry for everything I’ve ever done.
It is unfortunate but true that, for about two years between the ages of 21 and 23, I was an absolutely insufferable tool who would send snotty, condescending letters of complaint at the slightest provocation. This fact was recently brought to light when I raided my correspondence folder for material for a Virtual Winston Pub Quiz and found that almost everything in there was a shameful tirade to one company or another dating from the years 2005 to 2007.
Due to popular demand, I will now open up this archive of horrendous antisocial behaviour to the public for your enjoyment.
In the second installment of Crazy Religos, I’ve decided to bring you the wonderfully insightful pamphlet, “Who Really Rules the World?” from the Jehovah’s Witnesses. If you didn’t think they were a bit odd for spending time going and bothering folks on their doorstep to talk about their imaginary friends then maybe you’ll be fine with the conculsions in here, but for the rest of us…
It’s 6.33 in the morning and I am in an airport. This seems to be a good time for me to tell you some things about airports that I don’t like.
I don’t like having to take my belt off when I go through security because the shorts I’m wearing for this flight are a bit loose and at risk of falling down while I walk through the scanner.
I don’t like exiting security and passing directly through a massive duty free shop before I can do anything else, assaulted from all sides by strong smells of perfume that my nose can’t deal with at this time of day.
I don’t like having to be here two hours before my flight, only to find that having cleared security they won’t even announce the gate number for another hour and a half.
I don’t like spending that hour and a half in a departure lounge that is basically a windowless shopping mall, all brightly lit stores and flashing screens. I don’t like that my entertainment options are a choice between looking around designer boutiques I’d never normally go in, or sitting in an uncomfortable chair in ranks of seats surrounded by screaming children and looking at the same designer boutiques because I’m literally surrounded by them.
I don’t like that all the food on offer is served by places that are chain restaurants that serve sushi or craft beers or sourdough pizza, and that here they also have to serve breakfast, and none of them know how to do that.
In summary, the basic point is that I don’t like this. But in another few hours I’ll be on holiday and too far away for you to hear me complaining, so it’s OK.
In an exciting format twist Ian and Kev are joined this time out by Chris meaning that, for the first time, everyone who actually listens to the podcast was there when it was recorded. They all had a jolly good time discussing:
Having spent a good five minutes looking at this, just what the hell is this?
Truffles I get. Commerce and purchasing items I get. Walking around in supermarkets taking photos of curios and novelties I get. But squiffy truffles? Can you describe a truffle as ‘squiffy’?
Were it not for the fact that my phone recognised the word ‘squiffy’ without much input from me, I would be inclined to start screaming about why such a word should exist and who the Ben Nevis is actually using it in polite conversation or any conversation at all?
I used the word once, maybe twice, in my whole life of lives.
So, after faffing around in the dark for five minutes, I sit down again on the floor and realise I’ve forgotten to get the scissors.
Rewind to five minutes prior to this. At the entrance to the kitchen I forgo turning the lights on, because I’ve lived in the flat over ten years and I know where everything is, and blunder in. In my haste I flap my arms and accidentally knock over the half-filled cup of tea sitting on the side. The tea quickly streams along the kitchen top and filters down through the drawer and the cupboard, before resting peacefully on the floor in a heap. I already feel warm, now my face is positively beaming with embarrassment.
Half an hour prior, Reuben is heading off to bed. As he slips under the covers, I reach over to grab some bags from the floor that need sorting. Something though is amiss; my hands feel wet. I look up and nothing has leaked through the ceiling. “Did you spill your drink?” I ask. “No dad,” he replies. I raise the hand to my nose and sniff. Oh joy, it’s cat piss. The cat has snuck into my room and decided to piss over my stuff, oh, and a brand new pair of school trousers too. Excellent. I’m so glad I had nothing planned for the rest of the evening, now I can put another load of washing to get rid of that oh so beautiful kitty urine aroma. Splendid.