Day 64: I Really Have Had Quite Enough Of Bad Manners On Public Highways

Twats in 4x4s

I have Spoken Of This Before, but to sum it up perfectly: I am driving. I misjudge a traffic light and find myself in the unusual position of blocking access to a side road. Very vexing. I look to the right to apologise, and see a hard-faced 48 year old bimbo in a fucking Range Rover (in Putney?) pulling a sour face and shaking her head.

I lower my window, and say "Sorry!". Her face falls. She doesn't know what to say in the face of someone being polite. I drive off.

Drivers of Porsche Cayennes

At what point in your life, exactly, do you wake up of a morning and think: "I know what I need! A Porsche 4x4!". I can tell you when: when you turn into a cunt. Your cuntiness will be further demonstrated by the fact that you will wear sunglasses in all weathers, act like King of the Fucking Road, and live somewhere vile like Henley-upon-Thames, where your brainless bimbo of a wife will drive your dribbling fuckwits of children to over-priced, academically dubious private schools in the morning, and spend the rest of the afternoon with her interior designer adding another 12 layers of 'swags' to the drawing room curtains.

You will always go to the Bahamas for your holidays, and you will wear soft-soled nubuck moccasins and drink expensive Cognac in enormous balloon glasses whilst pulling on a cigar the size of my arm. And you will be called Graham, and you will be rude to people in shops, always.

White Van Drivers

Actually, I quite like them. They are what they are, and they are only on the roads between 8 and 9am, 1 and 2pm, and 4 and 5pm. Also, white van drivers always say 'thank you' when you let them out, usually by sticking their thumb out of the window. They are also the drivers most likely to catch my eye in a traffic jam and grin. Same with black cab drivers, who do an excellent "you will now let me out, but you will like yourself for doing it" sharp single-movement wave. Excellent.

Buses

"Hello. I am a bus driver. When I am not driving very fast and then braking suddenly so everyone falls over, I am indicating late and pulling out fast, causing near fatal heart attacks in drivers of small cars. When I have finished doing that I will, by using my secret psychic bus driver powers, communicate with other bus drivers and box you in on all sides. Then you will die of fright."

On the other hand, the odd nice bus driver makes up for it: they say thank you by either doing a thumbs-up out of the window, or (and this makes me nearly explode with excitement), flashing their tail lights. Hoorah!

The twelve people who found themselves unable to say "thank you" to me today when I let them out

I open doors for people, and give up my seat to old or pregnant people on buses. I help people carry buggies up and down stairs, and carry old ladies' shopping. Not because I am particularly nice, because I don't think about it: I was trained well when I was a small child, and it is a reflex. (I also think what my maternal grandmother would think if I didn't.)

On the road, I let people in or out if it is a sensible thing to do and will not cause any danger. I say "thank you" when people let me in or out (I flash my lights at night, and do a firm wave during the day), and I am invariably the one who pulls over when it's narrow road and there's only room for one. Today, the following festival of fuckwits pissed me RIGHT off by failing to even look at me when I let them out, let alone thank me:

3 x 4x4 drivers: one in Streatham, and two outside Channing Girls' School in Highgate.
4 x boy racers in souped up motors playing something like MC Biggy Pants on their sub-woofers
1 x bloke in Porsche Cayenne
1 x bloke in 8-series (did I read that right?) BMW
1 x blind woman driving a convertible Mercedes
1 x driver of terrifying articulated lorry
1 x knobend in convertible Audi TT.

I see a pattern emerging. Pointlessly expensive car = contains twat. Simple, isn't it.

Pedestrians

Tips for pedestrians:

1. Acknowlege the car that has stopped for you at a pedestrian crossing. Do not walk across as slowly as possible eating a sandwich.
2. Cross the road at a pedestrian crossing. Do not wander across it randomly and at your pleasure, causing a minor accident on Streatham Hill.

Cyclists

Tips for cyclists:

1. Use lights at night. Otherwise I will kill you.
2. Do not swoop terrifyingly between moving traffic, otherwise you will die.
3. Do not bang bonnets in a threatening manner. The man in the car is bigger than you, and will kill you.
4. Wear a helmet. Someone is going to try and murder you soon, what with the lack of lights, swooping and bonnet-bashing, and it may just prevent permanent brain damage.
5. DO NOT FUCKING CYCLE ON FUCKING PAVEMENTS.

And now I need to look at a photograph of a muppet driving to cheer myself up. Luckily, I have one to hand:

Day 64: I Am Delighted To Offer A New Feature

Look! On the right! A Flickr thing! I am terribly excited, and have to lie down and breathe deeply every time I think of it. I have a paper bag and some smelling salts to hand should it all become unmanageably thrilling.

Anyway, I have 'uploaded' (I believe this is the correct expression, but do let me know if I'm wrong), some photographs of my family (including Monkeymother, and my French cousin, Le Singe Qui Ne Travail Pas). I have also included for your viewing pleasure a drawing of my two cats (including the dead one), some typical English people at play, Bertie Bassett and his family (including the cat and kittens), and the birthday cake I would like.

Do let me know if there's anything you'd particularly like to see. I have thousands of photographs, all of them awful. And if you want to have a look at this collection, just click on the thingy there on the right. Do have fun, won't you? I have.

Day 63: I Am De-wonked

I am wonky. I list to the left, and sometimes I topple over unexpectedly like an end-of-pier musical hall act. But it was a dangerous collision with the loving arms of the Tread-O-Meter, followed a couple of days later by a surprising and painful crash into a wall, that finally sent me to Putney to see a chiropractor.

Now, this particular chiropractor is Magical, and he works in the Palace of Magic, and he has Magical Hands. He also makes me blush, because he is tall, handsome, kind, gentle and calm, and has enormous hands, all qualities that I admire in a gentleman. He is also Australian.

He shook my hand.

Me: I'm wonky.
Him: Wonky?
Me: Yeah. I sort of list to the left. Sometimes I fall over and even if I know it's coming, I can't stop it.
Him: Right.
Me: I'm not sure if it's in my head or real though. I might have a strange skelington.
Him: Skelington?
Me: Sorry. SkeleTON.

On his strange Chiropractor Bed of Magic, he did some tiny things with the touch of a delicate fairy. Magical things that didn't make sense (apart from the bit when the Bed of Magic disappeared in the middle, and then came back).

We talked a little of my new exercise regime. He smiled beatifically, and prescribed long walks and the avoidance of aubergines. Then I ran down the road a bit in a straight line without falling over. I am not exaggerating when I say it felt, just for a second, like I was flying. That's Magic, that is.

Day 63: I Have A Visitor From Europe

"I think of myself as European", I once said out loud in the offices of The Daily Telegraph. How we laughed.

I want Euros in my wallet, not pounds. As it is not the done thing to discuss politics, money or religion in polite company, I won't go in to any more detail; suffice to say the whole subject makes me jolly cross.

So you'll just have to imagine the joy I felt when today's cursory glance at Site Meter* revealed (amongst the details of my other 1.2m daily visitors), a solitary 'Europe', illustrated with the brave flag you see here.

European Visitor, I salute you.


* Tireddad, don't start.

Day 63: I Provide A Product Warning

See this? Lovely stuff, with marketing that is (for once) accurate: it is indeed "like being caught naked in a hail storm of Mint Imperials", although possibly a little less painful, as Mint Imperials weigh quite a lot. (For our foreign friends, Mint Imperials are peppermint sweets, and are another reason why all British people over the age of 35 have false teeth.)

I often enjoy the invigorating tingle of Original Source, and apply it liberally to my capacious buttocks in the gym shower whilst singing snatches from West End musicals. Today, however, I had a bit of a start. All I'm saying is: don't let the stuff near your ladyparts.