Friday, 27 July 2012

50 Shades of Rage

Well, I thought I might as well jump on the '50 Shades' bandwagon seeing as every other bugger has done it.  And no, I haven't read the books because I have read all those blogs like 50 Shades of Suck and the excellently funny if extremely rude Bizzybiz blog whose authors go there so I don't have to. 

Nope, my 50 Shades of Rage took place in Tesco (a large supermarket chain for the benefit of the non-Brit readers) yesterday.  Unfortunately, that exercise in utter pointlessness known as the Olympic Cycle Race is coming round our way over the weekend so many roads will be shut. See what I said there? MANY roads will be shut.  Not ALL of them, you morons.

But no - the great British public is behaving as though the Millennium Bug is about to strike once again and they are stripping all local food sources of their products as if their very existence depended on it. Consequently, what should have been a quick in-and-out to pick up a few ingredients for a BBQ turned into an hour and a half of moving round empty shelves at a snail's pace, dodging the various gits, chavs, dolts and goons who had the same idea.

So infuriated was I that I took to Twitter half way round to vent my spleen, suggesting that the job description for a post there should include the words "Needs to be an almighty prick to work here" as the staff variously got in the way, barged me out of their way and stood around discussing their holidays, viz:-

Chav1:  Where you goin' fer yer 'olidays?
Chav2:  Faliraki!
Chav1:  Ace!
And that exchange tells you all you need to know about the staff.  For the uninitiated, Faliraki is a shithole on the Greek island of Rhodes. Largely populated by the very worst kind of British Tourist, the streets run with blood and vomit once the bars and clubs reach chucking-out time and the customers reach chucking-up time.

And my tweets generated a rush of response from friends and colleagues, so obviously I am not alone!

How I experienced my 50 Shades of Rage - 

Trolley Rage - if you leave yours blocking the aisle and wander off in search of more junk food, I WILL BASH IT OUT OF THE WAY AS HARD AS I CAN.

Pensioner Rage - if you have to meander round the store as if you have all the time in the universe (and I know you do, but I don't) then please tuck yourself to one side of the aisle, don't stop in the middle or I WILL BASH YOU OUT OF THE WAY AS HARD AS I CAN.

Toddler Rage - For the love of all that's holy, find someone to relieve you of your screaming brats before you come down to the supermarket.  I was, well, entranced isn't quite the right word but horribly fascinated by the woman who had five children variously sitting in or hanging off the trolley, all of whom seem to have been named after footballers or footballers' offspring.  Or Pop Stars or Pop Bands. Or something.  So we had Rio, Destiny, Kai, Brooklyn (yes, really!) and Chelsea.  And I'm not making this up, I had to follow the silly cow round for all of 5 minutes until she had screamed at all of them by name.

There were so many other instances - at one stage, I even got Baked Bean rage as Tesco is doing some stupid offer which means that if you buy your body weight in Baked Beans, you get a couple of pence off a litre of fuel, so the aisle was blocked by squawking, morbidly obese idiots grabbing multi packs of tins. The Unspeakable in pursuit of the Uneatable as Oscar Wilde once said.

Big Fat Hairy Deal. Frankly, I'd have paid extra to be allowed out via some express shopping lane - like the Olympic Lanes now populating London roads and holding up the traffic horribly.

Now there's a thought!  Specially marked-out shopping lanes in supermarkets with no pensioners, toddlers or chavs allowed in them....must go and write a letter to the CEO of Tesco...

Monday, 23 July 2012

Sibling Rivalry - a Drama in 3 Acts


There is a cry from the kitchen.  It is a child.  Well I say 'child'.  What I actually mean is 'Seventeen Year Old Daughter Without Shrinking Violet Tendencies'

'IT'S NOT FAIR!' cries the voice.

Luckily, I am well used to such shenanigans and drama queenery and just roll my eyes and sigh a bit.  This, after all, is the child who was captured on video (Video!  How quaint) at the age of 3, hanging on to my leg for dear life, and beating off her brother with her spare fist  whilst  roaring 'MY Mummy, not YOUR Mummy!'  In other words, she can take care of herself.  However, this is clearly something grave and serious and highly significant.  I compose myself and rearrange my features into a mask of gentle concern (ie I stop rolling my eyes).

17YoD approaches, bearing laptop.

Me:  What is it, my angel?
17YoD:  Mum!  Like, seriously?  Like WTF?
Me:  Er, language Timothy...
17YoD:  Mum!  You've put a picture of HIM (waves arm in general direction of brother) on your blog!
Me:  Erm, yes?  (desperately trying and failing to read the situation and suss out exactly what it is that I have done so wrong).

Enter Son, stage left, who has been earwigging.

Son:  That's because I'm the favourite and she loves me the most.

(to allow for fisticuffs)

17YoD: (dusts self down after inconclusive punch up with sibling):  I want MY picture on your blog!
Me:  Oh, er, right - that's no problem.  We'll take one of you with the car tomorrow to celebrate you passing your test - I did mention that, remember?(desperate attempt to regain brownie points which fails thanks to re-entrance of Son).

Son: Yeah but Mum forgot to mention that you're a shit driver and you stall every five minutes and I'm the best.

(to allow for further fisticuffs, a side order of hair pulling and unholy screeching)


Okay - photo taken - peace restored.  Here she is in all her glory.  Her friend Sophia was in the back seat, desperately trying but failing to get her face in the picture too.  No doubt I'll have to do a whole other post about her.  I should be flattered really.

Daughter in car.  Sorry about the phallic handbrake...

Monday, 16 July 2012

Hello, it's me!

If you walk through my living room to the tiny room that the Shah and I call an office but which is actually a cupboard with ideas above its station, you may hear an eerie rattling sound.  If you are brave enough to step through the door, the sound becomes louder.  Is it a death rattle?  Not quite.  Is it a rattlesnake? WTF?  This is suburban Surrey not feckin' Arizona, you plank.  Nay, it is the dusty bones of what once was a loved and cared-for Blog which has been left to rot, fed only the occasional lazy titbit of cartoons and the like.  I approach and poke it with a stick.  'Get up you idle sod!' I cry.  Blog looks at me with hatred in its eyes. 'Make me' it croaks.

Okay then.

So where was I?  God knows.  I seem to have lost the thread....the main reason for it is lack of time and total absence of energy - both of which have been caused by WORK.  Work has been all-consuming and life-sapping and has made me variously want to gnaw off my right leg so that I'd have a good excuse not to go in and, once there, to run at my colleagues with a pikestaff. But now it is the HOLIDAYS!  And I have been let out for a bit.  Huzzah!

So woss been garn on? NB - I have to write it like this because of a long-ago conversation with my children whom I caught watching Eastenders.  I grabbed the remote to change the channel to something more suitable like er, The Simpsons, ahem.  They moaned and whined and asked why I had a downer on 'stenders. 

"Because," I replied, "the script consists of 'Woss garn on?  We need to tawk' and that's all anyone ever says."  At that precise God-given moment (and I swear this is true), someone burst out of a house and ran across Albert Square, hotly pursued by Phil Mitchell who said- guess what?  Yes - the magic line.  I rest my case m'lud.

In other news, regular readers may have noticed a lack of slagging-off of the Shah lately.  This is because I am a sand widow and the Shah has been packed off to Kuwait to work at 3 days notice.  

Me: KUWAIT?  Are you having a larf?  Why there and why you?
Shah:  They can't find anyone else who's willing to go.
Me: FFS!
Shah:  (employs his famous catchphrase) It'll be fine....

At least he's got a company car...
One other cause for excitement recently has been that my boy turned 20.  Twenty!  FECKIN' TWENTY!!!  How the hell did that happen?  Where have the last 20 years and nine months since I gazed on a positive pregnancy test in disbelief gone to?  One minute he was like this:

then I blinked and he had grown into this...

I feel old....

And lastly, the 17 year old has passed her driving test.  God help us all.  The novelty has yet to wear off and she is out and about more than she is home.

I may have need of these shortly...