At The Tesco Express

November 22, 2014

It’s eight o’clock on a Saturday
Oh it’s the morning – I should have said.
I’ve strolled along to the Tesco Express
Ten minutes ago, I was in bed.

Some milk and some coffee is all that I need
Otherwise I would have stayed warm and snug
The milk is for a lasagne for tea
And the coffee is my favourite drug.

Tesco Express is empty this early
But that woman that’s grumpy is here
She’s restocking a freezer down at the back,
I see her and turn round in fear.

Carole faced her angry wrath
Yesterday when questioning an offer
She was really quite angry about 50p
As if it came out of her coffer.

But all that aside, my eyes were opened
By the woman being served next to me
She’d come into buy some milk
And some vodka. Not one bottle. Three!

“I’ve a coupon for that!” she exclaimed,filled with glee.
“I’ll save money on my drink!”
That’s all that she uses her Clubcard for,
God knows what her liver must think.

“I’m off to work now,” she explained to the girl.
“Then I’m off out tonight,” she practically hissed.
I could be wrong, but I reckon by lunch
That woman I saw will be pissed.


Postman Pat, Postman Pat, Late Deliveries, What’s Up With That?

November 21, 2014

Do children today still have Postman Pat. Is that still a thing? I imagine nowadays, if he’s still around, he’s all CGI and his cat talks and things of an equally annoying nature. Gone is the stop-motion crinkled-up cellophane for water and in comes computer-generated postboxes and a smoothed out Mrs Goggins.

And a helicopter. For those tricky deliveries in the small country hamlet of Greendale.

But anyway, the reason I ask is because I’m curious if it atill has the same theme tune. You know, the one that says “early in the morning, just as the day is dawning, he something something letters in his van.”

I assume it would still be there. It’s part of the nation’s culture. Some people probably know all the words to it in the same way that everybody knows his bright red van, or smile when they see him waving.

I mean, it hasn’t changed has it? The song now doesn’t go “Late afternoon or just before, he delivers the post at ten past four,” does it? Only my Pat has just delivered the post at ten past four.

It was nearly dark.

They used to deliver in the near dark when I was younger, but then it was morning. You know, morning. When you open the post while enjoying a bowl of cereal, not in the afternoon as you’re trying to get a nine-letter word on Countdown.

I wasn’t waiting for anything. It’s just the principle of the thing. You expect to be woken up in the morning by the aound of post dropping onto the mat, not stirred from your enjoyment of Die Hard 2 on Sky Christmas (what’s more Christmas-y than Yippee Ki Ay…) or resting your eyes by what you believe to be some kind of ne’er-do-well or interloper seeking to gain entry to the house while you’re inextricably tied up in a single duvet on the couch.

Hypothetically.


Queue Wait

November 20, 2014

One of the things I noticed, as I waited over an hour for the bus on Tuesday night, is that Wakefield is remarkably well-served when it comes to buses.

Even when there’s been a crash leading to road closures and delays all over the shop, the Wakefield buses – which travel past the scene of the accident – are completely unaffected.

Because that’s all there is to do, while you’re standing around at a bus stop – count the number of buses to Wakefield versus the number of buses to Huddersfield. Lots vs absolutely none. Maybe I should live in Wakefield… which wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t, you know, Wakefield.

So I waited for an hour. I saw people come. I saw people go. I saw a car break down and be fixed in the time I waited. I envied everyone who could get a different bus. I hated anyone who wasn’t standing at the bus stop.

And when the bus did turn up, I went to get on it and two old dears who had turned up within the last five minutes or so had a little mutter about me pushing into the queue. I had been there an hour. I owned that queue. At times I was that queue.


The Truth About Cats And Dogs

November 19, 2014

Oh Peppa, you are not a dog.
You don’t have to guard the house.
All you need to do all day is sleep
And hunt down the odd little mouse.

You don’t need to investigate every noise
With your ears laid back flat
Pretty much everything is furniture dragging
Next door are amazing at that.

And you don’t have to go for the postman
As he comes up to the door
Or try and attack the letters he posts
As they fall from the slot to the floor.

But you don’t carry sticks
Or fetch balls in the park
And you tend to meow
Where a dog would just bark

But we do like the way that you greet us
In the window when we cone home.
You’re the most dog-like cat I’ve ever seen
Next thing you’ll want is a bone.


Flash ‘n’ Chips

November 18, 2014

For a variety of not particularly spectacular reasons it took me an absolute fricking age to get home from work today.

And so, as a treat to ease the pain of what was a particularly shit finish to my working week (yaay) I went to the chippy on the way home for a portion of fish and chips.

The staff in the chip shop change with more regularity than the red shirts in classic Star Trek. Today I was served by what Justin Bieber would be like if he lived in a slightly dodgy area and worked in a fish shop.

Oh, and was a comedian.

“What is it with people coningbin here tonight… Everyone wants fish and chips!”

I laughed politely because, at this point, my order wasn’t yet on the paper and ready to be entombed. I resisted saying “It’s because you work in a chip shop” or calling him a bell-end – both of which could have so easily occurred.

Then he went to get my chips.

And that’s when I noticed.

He was one of those people with the pants down his bum cheeks. Except he’d taken it to a whole new level. No-one wants to order fish and chips and have it served to them by a youth who is wearing his pants so low that you can see what is probably best called “the undercurve”.

I mean, I understand fashion’s need to display underwear with the use of low slung trousers. But this was the whole arse. It was like he’d been getting dressed and got so far pulling his trousers up before just thinking “You know what, that’s far enough for today.”

I don’t need to see the entire curvature of a bum. It doesn’t enhance my dining pleasure.

In fact it positively ruins it.

Because I couldn’t have wverytgibg I wanted…

I dread to think what would have happened if I’d asked for some bits…


Window Display

November 17, 2014

I’ve seen my first Christmas Lights
Displayed inside a home
The window was all lit up
Casting a glow upon a gnome

I say that it was Christmas Lights
I assume it to be true.
But the window was lit red you see
Like brothel workers do.

It has to have been a festive glow
Rather than advertising sex
There was tinsel round the window frame
And bows of holly on the decks.

But it is a little early, see.
It’s only mid November
Barely two weeks from the fifth
The day we must remember.

The seasonal mood had landed there
And the window was a looker.
And if it wasn’t Christmas lights
It was a very festive hooker.


Book ‘em

November 16, 2014

As I have for the past few years, I’ve set myself a reading challenge of finishing 100 books by the arrival of the new year. Unlike previous years, however, it actually looks like I might make it as I need to read 11 books in the next 44 daya or so.

Easy.

Now, while I do set myself this challenge every year, I do read for fun. Competitive reading is not a thing and, if it was, it would be bad.

But what I don’t understand are all the people who clog up the comments on Amazon and Good Reads complaining that the book they’re just read isn’t very good. And then going on to quantify this further by expkaining that they don’t normally read these sorts of books.

“I don’t normalky read books with guns in,” says one reviewer of a Clive Cussler novel – trashy action at its best – before marking the book down for that exact reason. A lot of the books have explosions or military hardware on the front. Or the blurb makes reference to battles, armies, conflict and whatever else.

At any of these moments you can choose to oot out.

I, for instance, don’t usually read books with bonnets in them. And, bizarrely, I have still not read a book with a bonnet in it, not even for the purposes of saying “If you like this sort of thing then this is the book for you” as so many people do and then awarding it a couple of stars because the words were in a kind of cohesive order.

Maybe I do reading wrong. I don’t find my entire enjoyment of a book is ruined because there was a missing comma on page seven. Or not on page seven, as the case may be. I don’t read books that I don’t enjoy just so I can say that I’ve read it, and then point out that I don’t like it.

I read as a form of escapism. If I’m on a bus about to be stabbed by a man having a piss into a beer can, the pages of a book can take me away from all that.

There’s no point escaping if you’re not going to enjoy it.


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 822 other followers