The Bus Obnoxicons

Hey there noisy family
With children numbering eight
While your breeding skills are awesome
Your parenting’s not great

Let’s look at when you boarded
You really were quite blunt
You forced a girl to move for you
To sit right at the front.

“I want to have the tablet,”
One of the eight kids whines
Not just once – repeatedly
Like, lots and lots of times.

But now I see you’ve given in
Their games they can now play
“Will you turn the bloody thing down now”
Is what we all should say.

I’ve had a really shitty day
You can tell just from my face.
So turn the sodding sound right off
That would be really ace.

But wait, it’s not just a tab
There’s a DS and iphone too
A cacophony of blips and beeps
Can you not hear it too?

Now cries of “Mummy, it’s my go”
“He’s had 56 turns, it’s not fair.”
And you just sit there quietly
Playing with your hair.

And now the baby’s screaming
A piercing, screeching wail
But you’re not doing anything
Another parenting fail

It’s seems that kids can scream shout
And generally run amok
While you sit there, oblivious,
Like you don’t really give a…


The One With The Missing Title

We have new phones at work.

There are many things wrong with them – they promise so much and deliver so little. But it’s the handset that I have an issue with. It’s small. Very small. It doesn’t fit in that nice natural space twixt ear and shoulder anymore. When you make a move to clamp it there it shoots out like you’re trying to catch the greased up deaf guy in Family Guy. It’s a terrible, terrible thing.

And this morning it threw coffee on me.

Any day that starts with you uttering the words “Ach, you bastard!” as a tsunami of hot coffee washes across your desk towards you is not a good day. Made even more so by the osmotic effect of my shirt seemingly feeling left out of the coffee action and trying its damnedest to soak up as much coffee as it could before I could roll my chair backwards and allow the caffeinated beverage to pour onto the floor like Niagara Falls. Nescafe falls. Whatever.

And it was all the fault of the phone which will, if you even so much as look at it funny, release the handset from the microscopically thin ledge it rests on (at a stupidly precarious angle)  to clatter across your desk or – as was the case this morning – to knock over your coffee cup like it’s picking up a spare in bowling. The bastard thing.

I don’t know if you’ve been in a situation where you have to remove the shirt you’ve been wearing for a mere two hours and have to watch it in the sink of the nearest bathroom but it’s something I’ve had to do on two separate occasions in my life. Once this morning, and once several years ago when, while enjoying a coffee from Caffe Nero, I discovered just what would happen if the lid wasn’t actually put on the cup properly.

The beauty of this impromptu sink wash is that try as you might you can’t get your shirt to not smell like coffee for the rest of the day. Or, in the case of today’s disaster, whatever chemicals it is that are mixed together in the vending machine at work to make brown drink.

Dear Yeo Valley

Dear Yeo Valley,

Big fan of your yoghurts. They’re lovely. Really creamy and full of flavour. The pots are a bit flimsy, mind, as I discovered when I dropped one and it exploded across the entire kitchen showering everything within a six foot radius with lemon curd flavoured yoghurt. It was during this incident that I found out when presented with cloths to help clean up this mess, the first area that my girlfriend will remove the yoghurt from is herself and not, as I assumed, the massive sea of it slowly seeping into the carpeted bit of the kitchen, threatening to smell like baby sick when it goes off. Luckily, as it turned out, the cats are also quite partial to your yoghurts so the clean up operation went better than planned.

Anyway, this is not about that, although if you do find a way to make the pots more resistant to the effects of gravity then I’d be most grateful. No, this is about the fact that I am the disappointed owner of three of your peach and apricot yoghurts. I should only have two. And even then I’m taking them reluctantly because peaches, and apricots by association, are fruits of the devil. I had two packs of your assorted fruits yoghurts – as the packaging says, these contain a strawberry, a blackcurrant, a raspberry and the aforementioned devil fruit. Two packets of those should yield two of each of those flavours.

I find myself with three of the nastiest.

What the heck is that all about?

Is there some luck son of a monkey out there who has two raspberry ones? Is there? If there is I want to shake him by the hand, and keep on shaking him until he gives me my raspberry yoghurt back. I’ll gladly give him (or her) the peach and apricot yoghurt. I’d possibly even give them some money, maybe tape a pound coin to the lid, to take that foul flavour away with them so long as I could get my hands on the raspberry.

Otherwise, I fear, the nasty yoghurt will go to waste.  Unless, of course, there’s a sudden thrush epidemic in which case I will gladly donate these yoghurts to the cause. I can find someone who will be willing to eat the expected two peach and apricot devil’s own yoghurts, but I’m not sure I can persuade them to take a bullet for a third time. And, before you start questioning why I even buy those packs if I don’t like one of the flavours it’s because I do like three of the flavours  and we live in a democracy, dammit.

Please can you take a closer look at your pack assembly line and make sure that this doesn’t happen again. Or, if it does, that it’s not the peach yoghurt it happens to. No-one really likes the peach flavour anyway, and I believe there’s a strong chance you just get the peaches thrown in for nothing if you buy all that other fruit because they’re the most unloved of all the fruits.




Welcome New People

It feels like there’s a lot of pressure on this post. Because this is the post after that post. Because my last post got picked up and featured on the Freshly Pressed website which takes samples of blogs from across WordPress and puts them out there for everyone to see, not just the few people I lure here every day with promises of chocolates* and the odd chuckle.

I first became aware of this at around 3am this morning when – for some reason – I found myself wide awake. In the old days, pre-mobile phones and the like, I would have just rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But nowadays, the modern era and its reliability on technology means that a 3am unexpected wake-up is the perfect time to catch up on Twitter, any Facebook updates and try to work out why you now have about 40 more email messages than when you went to bed.

What this taught me is two-fold:

1) Who knew I even had any kind of email notification on for things like this
2) When I resort to poetry for a blog it can pay off.

Because that’s the thing. There’s a hierarchy of blog posts here. There’s the rambling ones like this one, which cover something which has happened to me today or recently and that I have twisted into some sort of five-hundred word story. Then there’s the news-based stories. They’re my second port of call. If I can’t think of anything suitably amusing or pertinent to blog about I will turn to the news for my inspiration. Following that it’s invariably a story about the cats doing something. Or not doing something. Or just being cats.

And then it’s poetry.

If I’ve written a poem it means I’ve got an idea but it’s not enough to spin into one of these blogs so I take the idea and rhyme it a few times. Like today, for example, I was trying to be all suave and sophisticated when I got on the bus and proceeded to fall up the stairs to the top deck – well, more go to move up a stair but not actually go anywhere – and make a very strange noise indeed. Something akin to the noise an old person makes when getting out a chair, mixed with surprise that I was no further up the stairs than when I’d initially raised my foot. I could have written a poem about that. But I didn’t. Because I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that I essentially looked like a nob.

So, this blog is really about what happened yesterday, and what is still happening judging by the emails that are still hitting my inbox (you really would think I’d have turned that off by now). So welcome to the new followers and welcome to the people who aren’t following but are maintaining some sort of casual watch over the blog like a friendly stalker. Or even an unfriendly stalker. A reader is a reader I suppose and makes this whole endeavour worthwhile. Welcome to you all. I’ll try not to disappoint.

I got on the bus and headed upstairs
But my foot didn’t reach to the next
I kind of fell forward and made a strange noise
Like an old person standing, but vexed.

What made it worse I think you’ll see
Is that I was first on the ride
So when I stumbled and suddenly stopped
People bounced off my backside.

A more mortifying time I couldn’t have had
Than to look like a tit on the bus
It’s hard to recover when you’ve stopped on the stair
And the people behind make a fuss.

I’d like to think no-one had noticed
That I got away with it, scott free.
But that’s not going to happen now is it?
Not when the person involved here is me.

* There are no chocolates

Farewell Egon Spengler

Farewell Egon Spengler,
You really were a blast
The legacy you leave behind
Will last, and last, and last

With  PKE meter and proton pack
Ray and Peter by your side
And Winston once you’d hired him
In ECTO-1 you’d ride.

You saved New York not once, but twice
And hinted at a third
But now that chance has been and gone
I wish it had occurred.

Because today you passed away
Your proton pack hangs forlorn
Without your massive input
The Ghostbusters wouldn’t be born.

I know that you weren’t real
That Harold was your name
But to me, Egon Spengler
Is the thing that brought you fame.

Don’t cross the streams, you said to us
It’s the most important rule.
And one that every kid will know
Because it’s just plain cool.

Like don’t feed after midnight,
And never get them wet.
Of all the 80’s movie rules
It’s the one you don’t forget.

So farewell Harold Ramis
And thanks for all the fun
And thanks for everything you did
Of which Ghostbusters was just one.