Green Pepper

September 18, 2014

Hey Sainbury’s where’s my green pepper?

I ordered one, you see.

And without that one green pepper,

It really ruins tea.

We’ve paid for that green pepper,

It’s there on the receipt.

Just before fresh pasta,

Just after two packets of meat.

I know it’s only seventy pence,

But it’s the principle, you see.

Take a pepper off ten customers,

You’ve made seven hundred p.

I know that I’ve got form for this,

Not seeing while unpacking.

But I’ve checked, re-checked and checked again,

And that pepper I am lacking.

Maybe it’s rolling around the van,

Or loose inside your store.

It could’ve been wrongly delivered

To someone else’s door.

So we ain’t got a green pepper,

To serve with chicken thighs.

Unless it turns up later on

- a vegetable surprise!


Lost

September 17, 2014

I’ve got not bloody laptop,
Something doesn’t work
So now I can’t go online all day
on Twitter just to lurk.

Something has gone wrong you see
With the cable that plugs in
Or it might be with the laptop itself
The bloody annoying thing.

I don’t know which it is right now
I’ll have to do a test.
I need another power lead
And for that, Dad is best.

He keeps wires, don’t you know
From everything he owns
He keeps them all in a massive box
And how my mother moans.

I do the same, and that’s a fact
It drives Carole up the wall.
But if you ever need a SCART lead,
Well, you know who you can call.

I don’t have any power leads.
I lacking on that front.
But before I shell out hard-earned cash
My Dad is worth a punt.

No laptop is quite strange for me
It’s like I’ve lost an arm.
I need to have a computer,
It’s part of my geeky charm.

But a few days without the screen
They won’t be be too bad…
I’m not sure I’ll make it th
Oh god, please hurry Dad.


Heart. Broken.

September 16, 2014

You know those times when you just feel sick to the stomach? It might be at a particularly gruesome bit of news, or a terrifying bit of film, maybe you’ve accidentally got into the queue for the Avalanche at Blackpool (it can happen) and have nowhere else to go but onto the ride. It could be any of those things. But what’s the one that’s made you feel the worst?

For me it was trapping an unknown part of Peppa in the back door.

I’ve never felt so bad about anything in my life. From the little bit of resistance the door gave as I closed it, to the frightful scream which burst forth from Peppa’s lips, the whole experience was absolutely horrible.

The worst thing, though, wasn’t the scream or the look of fear on my face that I haddone some serious damage to the most beautiful cat in all of England. It was none of that.

It was the look that Peppa gave me as she ran away. ¬†She stopped about halfway down the garden and turned to look at me with sadness in her eyes. Her face was one of puzzlement and betrayal. I was supposed to be her friend, and yet I’d put her in a position where she suffered discomfort.

Right there, at that precise moment, if you’d had cause to listen, you could have heard my heart break – shatter, in fact – into a million pieces.

If I ever have the need to channel the saddest I have ever been, I think that is the experience I will dwell on the most. It would easily generate the most tears.

We’re friends again now, though. She’s lying across me as I write this, in fact. Last night when she decided she’d had enough of having her tummy tickled I let her bite me – have a good old gnaw on my arm – where I would normally shake her off.

I think that makes us even, now, although my betrayal face isn’t half as heartbreaking…


Bus Stop Einstein

September 15, 2014

I’d love to know what it is about my face that just screams out, “HEY, YES YOU! YOU AT THE BUS STOP! TALK TO ME ABOUT ANYTHING. GO ON. I LOVE TO TALK TO STRANGERS AT THE BEST OF TIMES, AND WHERE BETTER THAN A BUS STOP?”

Because once I knew what it was I would go out of my way to have it removed, or covered, or something.

I would start approaching bus stops wearing a balaclava, and if people still insisted on starting up conversations with me about tins, or how they accidentally once got on the wrong bus and ended up in Mirfield then I’d know that it must be my eyes – in which case I would wear dark glasses. And possibly still. the balaclava. I’d look like the Invisible Man on a particularly cold day, but if it stopped idiots talking to me then it would be entirely worth it.

“I think this bus has missed,” said Bus Stop Einstein this morning as we were still waiting for the bus that should have already been there. “I think it should have already been here,” he continued. As though he was explaining his workings to me in case I couldn’t follow through his train of logic. “Oh no, it’s here now. It must have been late, don’t you think?”

I just made a noise and nodded a bit. You don’t want to engage people in conversation at bus stops. You really don’t. No good can come of it. Look at the people who catch buses – I mean, when you get on a bus and see the people that are on there you have to realise that each one of them have been at a bus stop. And there’s no way you’d strike up a conversation with any of them. Some of them can’t even dress themselves properly, speak in full sentences or make it through four words without two of those being “fuckin'”

I’d much rather just observe them from behind the safety of my Kindle, or an honest-to-goodness book, than have to engage them in any sort of conversation about buses not turning up or some news story in the Metro which is particularly troubling/distressing/disgusting or whatever else the woman who sits at the back of the bus each morning has to say on the matter. I’d like to work out, for myself, if the bus is coming or not, without having an amateur Sherlock Holmes using his deductive reasoning to point out that it’s late.

But I also wouldn’t have it any other way.


Cup Bored

September 14, 2014

I love the relaxing air that settles upon a Sunday morning. When you can emerge from the gentle embrace of sleep at your leisure, head downstairs for a nice cup of coffee and enjoy the day at your own pac… hang on, why the hell am I tidying out the kitchen cupboards? I only came down for a cup of coffee.

When people ask me, tomorrow, if I had a nice weekend, I’ll be able to say yes. And when they ask if I got up to much I’ll be able to point out that not only did I visit the Maize Maze and be savaged by an ant, but I also revolutionised the way in which we store pans in our kitchen. Or that we had a long chat about just how many frying pans one house actually needs. And even discussed the possibility of moving the juicer out of the cupboard where things go to die, in the hopes that we would use it.

But then, of course, reality hit, and the juicer stayed exactly where it is. Next to the steamer. And probably something else we haven’t used for ages, which certainly is not a sandwich toaster because when we fancied toasties a few months ago it turns out we’ve thrown that away.

If we’d set out, though, at the start of the weekend to try and tidy out the cupboards and ruthlessly cull a couple of frying pans which you would even have turned your nose up about hitting someone in the face with, nothing would have happened. But because I came downstairs to make a coffee this morning and had a little bit of idle time while the kettle boiled – even more so considering that for a good while the kettle wasn’t even plugged in – I just started pottering about and the rest, as they say, is history. Much like those frying pans.

According to Carole, I have a logic when it comes to tidying the cupboards. I’m not quite sure what that means. I don’t know how my cupboard emptying is any different to hers, but I do have quite a strong background in Tetris, so maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m just better at fitting things of different shapes in the space provided. I’m also massively more ruthless – I mean, when is the last time we crimped a Cornish pasty in the Cornish pasty crimper thingy that occupied pride of place in the cupboard?

Exactly.

Any why, when you sort out tupperware, are you always left with lids?


Ant Agonise

September 13, 2014

I got bitten in the face by an ant today.

I didn’t ask to be bitten in the face by an ant. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would ask to be bitten in the face by an ant. It was an unprovoked ant attack. In fact, quite how the ant found my face in the first place, is something of a mystery. It either scaled me, like Brian Blessed heading up Everest, or leaped upon me from atop a corn stalk for reasons best known to itself.

It’s dead now.

That’s what happens to ants that bite me in the face. In fact, that’s how I found out it was an ant.

I squashed it as part of the “ah, ya bastard” reaction to what is essentially a small but incredibly painful pricking sensation. In my case it took place just at the edge of my right eye socket. There I was happily negotiating the paths and thoroughfares of this year’s Cawthorne Maize Maze (and a very good one it is too) when I was attacked for no apparent reason. It could be that the ant had been lying in wait for me, having been sent by that child that I elbowed in the head (accidentally) a couple of years ago as he ran round the maze like a tit and then, directly afterwards, ran around the maze like a tit clutching his head and whimpering. It could have been that.

It could have been that the any clearly knew that we were going in the wrong direction and wanted to give some sort of indication that we should turn – possibly even turn right – at the next junction. Ants are, after all, masters of following trails and such like.

Or, more likely, I just knocked into a stalk of corn and it fell onto me and freaked out. And I don’t know about you, but often when I am freaking out I bite the first thing I find myself to be standing on.

I remember when I first got stung by a wasp. I was at University at the time and, in the morning, had killed a wasp in my room. Unbeknownst to me, during the day, that wasp had crawled – for it was not quite dead – into the middle of my bedroom carpet and died with its arse pointing upwards. I trod on said wasp, and after the compulsory round of swearing, sat on my bed wondering if I was in anyway allergic to wasp stings and was about to die. I mean, as things go, it’s quite a fun predicament to be in. It was late, I wanted to go to bed, but I was also fearful that if I did go to sleep my throat would swell up and I would die, and there would be no Anna Chlumsky to mourn my passing (it’s a My Girl reference, that’s how cool I am).

It was a bit like that with the ant bite. I started to wonder if I had entered the maze with a face of a normal human but was destined to leave looking like Sloth from The Goonies because my face really didn’t like the effects of the ant’s formindable mandibles. Or if other ants would be attracted by the bite and gnaw all the flesh off my bones. I’ve seen enough ant-based disaster movies to know these things can happen, and that the crafty bastards will always use leaves as rafts even if I were to hide in the middle of a river.

None of that happened though.

The pain went away before I’d finished worrying what might happen.

BIt of an ant-iclimax really.


Too Close To The Edge

September 12, 2014

When you’re a guest on Desert Island Discs, as well as the ten records you’ve chosen that you think will stop you from going batshit crazy on a deserted island and your luxury item, you’re also given two books – the Complete Works Of Shakespeare and The Bible. Now, if I was every on the show not only would I find it hard to choose ten songs which wouldn’t, after a while, properly get on my tits, but I would object to being given The Bible because it’s really not my thing. I don’t have an issue with people who like to read the Bible or anything like that, it’s just that my own beliefs don’t head in that direction. Give me a science text book, or something, and I’d be happy.

The reason I mention this, is because I now appear to be the owner of an album by U2.

And it feels a little bit like I’ve been marooned on my desert island with my songs, and my works of Shakespeare, but someone has swapped out The Bible for Bono and his cohorts warbling on at me.

The thing that’s upset me the most about it is that I only thought it came as part of the iPhone 6 launch. I clearly wasn’t paying attention to the stuff on the internet. I must have missed that particular tweet from Stephen Fry (who seems to be for technology what Carol Vorderman is for Sudoku). I thought – and had clearly misunderstood when I read about it – that the new phones would come out and you would find that they were already pre-loaded with this exclusive U2 album. In which case I’d hang fire until, for some legal contractual dispute reason, the album could no longer be put on the phones. Then I’d upgrade.

I didn’t realise we were all getting the bloody thing regardless. And that it would appear in our Music library like an stalker at a bedroom window – completely unwanted and ready for action.

This is like when we all got that free copy of The Sun that time for no fricking reason whatsover. It’s just like that. 2014 is becoming the year of free stuff given to people who don’t bloody want it. How come I never come home from work, or wake up in a morning, and find that someone has been into the house and installed a free Playstation 4, or Xbox One, underneath the TV? Why is it only the shit stuff that’s free?

I’d have liked to have been asked, that’s what I’m saying. I suppose it’s probably hidden somewhere in the 437 pages of the iTunes End User Agreement that everyone just agrees to and doesn’t bother to read. I bet there’s a clause in there somewhere which says that at any point Apple and/or iTunes can channel music which is exclusive and free to your phone or iPod without any kind of consent from you. Even if you’d rather have red-hot pokers stuffed up your arse, or your eyes licked by honey badgers.

I’d have just settled for a voucher which I could have redeemed at my own discretion. Or not, as the case may be. Like the ones you can pick up in Starbucks now that offer you a free book, song, game, app or some other thing that you’re probably never going to download, but collect every week anyway, put in a pocket, take home and dump on the bookshelf behind the couch. For example.

If I’d got a voucher for a free U2 album, I’d have not redeemed it. If a U2 album had been given away with a morning paper, I’d have not bought that paper. I like to exercise my right to not own a U2 album. And now that’s been taken away from me. It’s probably a violation of my human rights, or something.

Bono’s pretty hot on stuff like that, isn’t he?

I should probably give him a call…


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