I'm pretty sure God (other omnipotent beings are available), must have read my last blog, and seen it as some kind of complaint. Specifically, that I was complaining over the absence of crotch related stories in my life since moving to London.
ASK, AND HE SHALL PROVIDE!!
On Monday, on the tube, I was looking for the perfect opportunity to say to this guy:
'Hi, sorry, hi, I see you're incredibly engaged with that newspaper article, but could I trouble you to explain something? It's just that your penis, that's right, your whole penis, has been pressing very firmly against my shoulder, with each gentle sway of the carriage. So firmly in fact, that should you request it, I could draw you a quite accurate picture of its outline. If you could not sexually assault me every ten seconds, it would contribute a real sense of relaxation to my journey which so far, I've been unable to experience.'
But like most men, after five minutes of this activity, he left.
I'M JOKING. I mean he did leave, but the sweeping generalisation was completely out of order.
Does anyone have people at work who are paid to say hello and goodbye?
How does one break into that line of work?
I don't think I'd be very good at having to genuinely care about people, but I'd be interested to take a sneaky peek at the salary.
Sometimes I forget that it's not real, because this one guy looks at me with such sincere joy. He wishes that all my weekends be absolutely super, and that each day is totally fantastic and that my evenings are especially lovely.
And I wish the same back for him. Because he's TRICKED me into believing that it's real.
And what folks, is even more devastating than no one smiling at you in reception? Someone whose salary is entirely generated from faking interest in your life.
BASTARDS
For your sake, I hope you don't have to endure this daily cycle of humiliation and lies.
Showing posts with label Commuting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Commuting. Show all posts
Friday, August 16, 2013
Friday, February 17, 2012
Fight violence with violence
Amazon sent me The Journals of Sylvia Plath, a beast of a book, £14. All the pages are different lengths. I said I couldn't be bothered to send it back, and requested a partial refund.
£3 was automatically refunded.
Thanks chump sticks. That will serve me very well indeed, in the pound shop.
Honestly. I don't know why they didn't just send me my missing bits of page in a sandwich bag. it would've been less abusive.
Also, I'm sick. I'm not getting an appropriate amount of sympathy, because everyone else has it. We're all walking around being pretty disgusting, and don't have the energy to feel sorry for each other. Hopefully most people will get over it soon, so that they can give me the comfort I deserve. Because if there's one thing I've discovered, it's that things are usually worse for me. I try telling Ginger Beard this ofter. But he's too small minded to understand.
Has anyone else turned into a snake? My skin is drying out and falling off. Is this normal? Please send your answer on the back of a postcard.
I sat opposite this boy on the train last night. I say boy, because I knew that he completely lacked the capability to grow a beard. He was trying to sleep with his jumper against the window. And I thought, 'Ah bless him, poor little beardless student.' And then he kicked me, the shit. You know what I did? In that stinky, BO riddled carriage. I kicked him back. That's called karma.
Do yourself a favour, make a few good decisions today. Kick people who kick you. Feel sorry for me because I am poorly, go and buy The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and make yourself a cup of tea to read it with.
Work is for conformists.
£3 was automatically refunded.
Thanks chump sticks. That will serve me very well indeed, in the pound shop.
Honestly. I don't know why they didn't just send me my missing bits of page in a sandwich bag. it would've been less abusive.
Also, I'm sick. I'm not getting an appropriate amount of sympathy, because everyone else has it. We're all walking around being pretty disgusting, and don't have the energy to feel sorry for each other. Hopefully most people will get over it soon, so that they can give me the comfort I deserve. Because if there's one thing I've discovered, it's that things are usually worse for me. I try telling Ginger Beard this ofter. But he's too small minded to understand.
Has anyone else turned into a snake? My skin is drying out and falling off. Is this normal? Please send your answer on the back of a postcard.
I sat opposite this boy on the train last night. I say boy, because I knew that he completely lacked the capability to grow a beard. He was trying to sleep with his jumper against the window. And I thought, 'Ah bless him, poor little beardless student.' And then he kicked me, the shit. You know what I did? In that stinky, BO riddled carriage. I kicked him back. That's called karma.
Do yourself a favour, make a few good decisions today. Kick people who kick you. Feel sorry for me because I am poorly, go and buy The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and make yourself a cup of tea to read it with.
Work is for conformists.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
A one way ticket to chumpsville
Recently, I've been spending the vast majority of my life sitting on a train. Last week, I sat next to a Weeble. That's right kids, a real life Weeble. Being asleep, meant that she had no apparent control over her body, and rocked dramatically side to side. It's not known for Weebles to be aggressive, but this one insisted on hitting me time and time again. When the train stopped at Leeds, I had to forcibly shake the weeble to wake her up, so that I could escape. However, she struggled to get up, and had to chuck herself into the aisle a few times, before her smooth weeble base allowed her to stand.
You think I'm joking. I'm not. Trust me, I'm a Doctor. No wait. it's Ginger Beard that's a Doctor. Oh no, wait, he's not a real Doctor either.
ALSO, I need to type up more of my Thailand journal, but I can't be bothered, because my time has dissolved into two base activities:
1) Complaining about how cold it is.
2) Complaining about being too warm.
You know where they keep the perfect temperature? I'll tell you - abroad. It's that sunny day with a slight breeze, and the only time we British are every truly happy. Your only two options in England are sweating and frost bite. Take your pick. And I'll let you in to a few other facts, your mother will try and roast you. She can't get enough of central heating. And your Ginger Beard will turn you into an ice cube, because you're wearing all your jumpers and he's still too stingy to show you how the boiler works.
I've also occupied myself with discovering why trains are so shit. It's because companies spend most of their time refunding first class passengers. It's something they pride themselves on. Every bloody morning commuter train, sees the declassification of First Class. And they're so apologetic:
'Excuse me, first class people? Is this on? Yes? Okay, people who are better than everyone else, I'm afraid that we're going to have to let the poor people sit with you. To apologise in advance for the possibility that one of them might, God forbid, touch you, your entire journey is now free. Look at it as compensation. For all superior passengers who have not had a recent rabies shot, please alight the train by jumping from it immediately (it's safer). On behalf of Northern Rail, I apologise for any inconvenience, poverty contamination, or imminent death that this announcement causes.'
Stop making rich people richer! Where the fuck is Robin Hood when you need him? You've got thirty people per train, travelling free each day. I tell you what would work out cheaper, BUY MORE TRAINS. You complete chumps.
You think I'm joking. I'm not. Trust me, I'm a Doctor. No wait. it's Ginger Beard that's a Doctor. Oh no, wait, he's not a real Doctor either.
ALSO, I need to type up more of my Thailand journal, but I can't be bothered, because my time has dissolved into two base activities:
1) Complaining about how cold it is.
2) Complaining about being too warm.
You know where they keep the perfect temperature? I'll tell you - abroad. It's that sunny day with a slight breeze, and the only time we British are every truly happy. Your only two options in England are sweating and frost bite. Take your pick. And I'll let you in to a few other facts, your mother will try and roast you. She can't get enough of central heating. And your Ginger Beard will turn you into an ice cube, because you're wearing all your jumpers and he's still too stingy to show you how the boiler works.
I've also occupied myself with discovering why trains are so shit. It's because companies spend most of their time refunding first class passengers. It's something they pride themselves on. Every bloody morning commuter train, sees the declassification of First Class. And they're so apologetic:
'Excuse me, first class people? Is this on? Yes? Okay, people who are better than everyone else, I'm afraid that we're going to have to let the poor people sit with you. To apologise in advance for the possibility that one of them might, God forbid, touch you, your entire journey is now free. Look at it as compensation. For all superior passengers who have not had a recent rabies shot, please alight the train by jumping from it immediately (it's safer). On behalf of Northern Rail, I apologise for any inconvenience, poverty contamination, or imminent death that this announcement causes.'
Stop making rich people richer! Where the fuck is Robin Hood when you need him? You've got thirty people per train, travelling free each day. I tell you what would work out cheaper, BUY MORE TRAINS. You complete chumps.
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Happy Blue Year!
Just like last year, one can't help but feel that if you're not fat, hungover, and realising that you'll never be bothered to do anything, ever again, then you haven't embraced the true spirit of Christ, and his like, Mass.
Turns out making Christmas dinner is not as hard as everyone makes out. And this is all thanks to an appliance, which was a jolly good investment; a mother. They do get a bit pissy about you not using coasters. But if you leave the washing up for long enough, they just do it. Awesome.
I've also recently purchased a brother (previously I sold him to the States for a year). Not so recommended. It takes every Ad break as an opportunity to fart, employs balled up wrapping paper as a weapon, and relieves its bowels with the door open. DO NOT WASTE YOUR MONEY FOLKS. Just get a mum and be done with it. A mum will even watch Rude Tube with you, and get upset that number 1 is Justin Timberlake giving a girl a present of his dick in a box.
It's nice being indoors so much when the house is this God Damn festive. This year, my family have tish toshed at the idea of a Christmas tree, and opted instead for the more traditional potted fern (not decorated). We had all our presents assembled around said 2 foot tall plant. Ah bless. It's not bah humbug. It's a recession. And it's not just the public sector who are feeling the pinch.
This is what 2012 looks like; everyone is over Christmas. That was like, so last year. They've been forced back into too tight office attire, forced to shove themselves onto cold, delayed trains. And they are pissed. Do not ask them to move from your booked seat. It's not worth it. The way they look at you is a promise, a memorising of your face. One day soon, they will track you down, and stab you, in the same way you have just apparently stabbed them.
There is approximately a four second pause where they stare, mortified, mouth agape, at you, a you is already fucking with their baby faced New Year. You Nazi. You January bastard.
I reflect fondly on Christmas Eve, when a walk through West Bridgford was like being on the set of a sickeningly cheesy American Santa related film. The children were laughing. Single mothers bellowed 'Good morning!' from across the road. Elderly men smiled to themselves and almost skipped along. But not now. Oh no, that won't happen again for another eleven months. Forget all about that sunshine. We're bitter now, tight lipped and offended. Driving like lunatics, manically swapping between lanes with complete disregard. So depressed, we find ourselves, in this windy, sodden month, that we don't much care to survive it.
I have somehow managed to cling on to a little cheer, for a whole eight days! Despite collecting a good few awkward moments, without which, I would not have this blog.
I was making my way to the lift at work, keeping pace with a blonde woman. A man shouted over from reception, 'Has anyone dropped a purple glove?'. I threw my hand in the air as I turned, 'Yes, that's mine!'. I assumed. It's rare to have purple gloves, and I walk around the world, littering it with my dropped possessions. Next to me, the blonde woman had also stopped, 'No it's not yours. It's my glove!'. I looked closer (my eyes are shitty mcshit shit). It was leather. I have wool gloves. 'Oh, yes,' I said, 'Not mine.' Then we shared a moment. All five of us: myself, the blonde, the glove finder, and two onlookers. And in that moment, four people looked at me and thought, that girl steals gloves, single gloves. She's a dirty little single glove stealer.
Luckily I'd been unconsciously txting busty, instead of busy, to people all day. Because I am never too busty to see anyone. So I think my rep is safe.
Turns out making Christmas dinner is not as hard as everyone makes out. And this is all thanks to an appliance, which was a jolly good investment; a mother. They do get a bit pissy about you not using coasters. But if you leave the washing up for long enough, they just do it. Awesome.
I've also recently purchased a brother (previously I sold him to the States for a year). Not so recommended. It takes every Ad break as an opportunity to fart, employs balled up wrapping paper as a weapon, and relieves its bowels with the door open. DO NOT WASTE YOUR MONEY FOLKS. Just get a mum and be done with it. A mum will even watch Rude Tube with you, and get upset that number 1 is Justin Timberlake giving a girl a present of his dick in a box.
It's nice being indoors so much when the house is this God Damn festive. This year, my family have tish toshed at the idea of a Christmas tree, and opted instead for the more traditional potted fern (not decorated). We had all our presents assembled around said 2 foot tall plant. Ah bless. It's not bah humbug. It's a recession. And it's not just the public sector who are feeling the pinch.
This is what 2012 looks like; everyone is over Christmas. That was like, so last year. They've been forced back into too tight office attire, forced to shove themselves onto cold, delayed trains. And they are pissed. Do not ask them to move from your booked seat. It's not worth it. The way they look at you is a promise, a memorising of your face. One day soon, they will track you down, and stab you, in the same way you have just apparently stabbed them.
There is approximately a four second pause where they stare, mortified, mouth agape, at you, a you is already fucking with their baby faced New Year. You Nazi. You January bastard.
I reflect fondly on Christmas Eve, when a walk through West Bridgford was like being on the set of a sickeningly cheesy American Santa related film. The children were laughing. Single mothers bellowed 'Good morning!' from across the road. Elderly men smiled to themselves and almost skipped along. But not now. Oh no, that won't happen again for another eleven months. Forget all about that sunshine. We're bitter now, tight lipped and offended. Driving like lunatics, manically swapping between lanes with complete disregard. So depressed, we find ourselves, in this windy, sodden month, that we don't much care to survive it.
I have somehow managed to cling on to a little cheer, for a whole eight days! Despite collecting a good few awkward moments, without which, I would not have this blog.
I was making my way to the lift at work, keeping pace with a blonde woman. A man shouted over from reception, 'Has anyone dropped a purple glove?'. I threw my hand in the air as I turned, 'Yes, that's mine!'. I assumed. It's rare to have purple gloves, and I walk around the world, littering it with my dropped possessions. Next to me, the blonde woman had also stopped, 'No it's not yours. It's my glove!'. I looked closer (my eyes are shitty mcshit shit). It was leather. I have wool gloves. 'Oh, yes,' I said, 'Not mine.' Then we shared a moment. All five of us: myself, the blonde, the glove finder, and two onlookers. And in that moment, four people looked at me and thought, that girl steals gloves, single gloves. She's a dirty little single glove stealer.
Luckily I'd been unconsciously txting busty, instead of busy, to people all day. Because I am never too busty to see anyone. So I think my rep is safe.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
The Thailand Journal - Part one - Pancakes
3/11/11
Ginger Beard says you can never be too sanitized. He is carrying round a travel sized sanitizer and using it every 5-10 minutes. He insists that I receive sanitation before we hold hands. He has many cuts on his face from shaving, and as such, is not at his aesthetic optimum. This makes me question our relationship. What am I doing with someone addicted to sanitiser who can't shave?
5/11/11
Determined to get my money's worth, I get stuck in straight away with the in-flight movies. If I'm smart, I can fit in 12. It would cost approximately £96 to see these at the cinema, and as such, is definitely worth the effort. Cue the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. Ginger makes it 6 minutes into Harry Potter (not literally, don't be vile), before turning yellow. But I am fricking staying the course! If I stop the film for a bit, I might only have room for 11 films! Eventually the stewardesses came round, and gave us some proper dodge food. I didn't eat it because I felt so, ridiculously sick. It's quite frustrating that so many scenes in Harry Potter are at night, because you can't see dark things on those tiny, shit screens. But I got the gist.
Eight hours later, Dubai Airport. I'm having to run to the toilets a lot for a good old dry vomiting session, but I did fulfil my film quota. And it's important to get your priorities right. I threw up just before take off, in one of those darling plane cubicles. A nice Thai lady told me I should drink Ginger Beer, but she didn't understand that this was a price I was willing to pay, and that I had already raked back £24.
I was unconscious for the next seven hours, only waking to wipe my drool away. On Emirates planes, when they want you to wake up, they put all the lights on, and play some man singing about what a beautiful day it is. It's not a beautiful day. Quite frankly it's complete wank, and 10pm, and you've woken me up to give me minced chicken with a slab of cheddar on it's face. Thanks.
Arrive in Bangkok. What a glorious start to the holiday. Let some people take us to an over-priced hotel. Think am hallucinating, but the taxis here are actually bright pink. A young boy carries our bags to the room, and shows me where the hairdryer is. Don't know what to tip. Do not understand currency. Awkward. Fall asleep. Wake up at 4am. Third plane to catch. Why did not pick Butlins? Can suddenly see the many merits of a Butlins holiday. Crave camp entertainers, pissed-in pool, and feral kids.
Realise Bangkok Airport looks like the Turd on the Tyne (Newcastle's Art Gallery). Weird. Sit on plane, eat cashew nuts. Do not desire to live anymore. Find it amusing that people jealous of our holiday. Nothing to be jealous of.
Taxi to the resort is 1:30. BUT the driver has a screen at the front of the car. Am still game for squashing in as many movies as possible. He doesn't ask, but puts on Micheal Jackson Live. Is lots of crying girls being restrained. Do not understand entertainment value.
Arrive at Talkoo Beach Resort, a child drives us to our room in a golf buggy. Why are these children not in school? Are obviously learning how to identify hairdryers and drive, through employment, but is not same as proper education.
No one else is here. Just me, Ginger and stray dogs. In our local Newsagents (One woman, a fridge with some milk in, and a freezer full of cornettos) there is a crazy amount of kittens. Ginger says I can't touch them because I'll contract rabies and die. It's a real shitter. They're sleeping amongst the merchandise, and I'd be happy to spend the rest of our vacation here. No dice.
Thai people here don't speak any English. You don't tend to get the food you order, but we try to enjoy the surprise. They're also very clever, and make you think they can understand you, by repeating what you say.
Me: Can I please order a taxi for tomorrow morning?
Reception: Taxi
Me: Yes, for 10am if that's okay?
Reception: 10.
Me: Good, so is that booked?
Reception: Booked.
And then you rock up at 10am, there's no taxi, and you nearly miss the ferry. But it's all part of the EXPERIENCE kids.
We went off to hunt some pink dolphins with a man, and his mate. I learned pretty quickly that nothing would make sense, nothing will be explained, and that's got to be just dandy. Which is why we drive around for a bit, head back, swap drivers, set off. The whole time they're having an animated, hilarious conversation.
So we get in this boat with a Thai couple, and chase this one bumpy dolphin. And these special jumping, silver fish are flying beside the boat, and every now and again, one slaps you in the face. It's a wholly pleasant experience. The woman put one hand on top of the other over and over again, and said 'Pancakes.' Fantastic, a day out at sea, followed by pancakes. Turns out she was talking about the rock formations. And this is why language barriers are harming people everywhere. Because I don't know if you've ever thought you were going to get pancakes, and had those hypothetical pancakes ripped away, but it's fucking upsetting
Ginger Beard says you can never be too sanitized. He is carrying round a travel sized sanitizer and using it every 5-10 minutes. He insists that I receive sanitation before we hold hands. He has many cuts on his face from shaving, and as such, is not at his aesthetic optimum. This makes me question our relationship. What am I doing with someone addicted to sanitiser who can't shave?
5/11/11
Determined to get my money's worth, I get stuck in straight away with the in-flight movies. If I'm smart, I can fit in 12. It would cost approximately £96 to see these at the cinema, and as such, is definitely worth the effort. Cue the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. Ginger makes it 6 minutes into Harry Potter (not literally, don't be vile), before turning yellow. But I am fricking staying the course! If I stop the film for a bit, I might only have room for 11 films! Eventually the stewardesses came round, and gave us some proper dodge food. I didn't eat it because I felt so, ridiculously sick. It's quite frustrating that so many scenes in Harry Potter are at night, because you can't see dark things on those tiny, shit screens. But I got the gist.
Eight hours later, Dubai Airport. I'm having to run to the toilets a lot for a good old dry vomiting session, but I did fulfil my film quota. And it's important to get your priorities right. I threw up just before take off, in one of those darling plane cubicles. A nice Thai lady told me I should drink Ginger Beer, but she didn't understand that this was a price I was willing to pay, and that I had already raked back £24.
I was unconscious for the next seven hours, only waking to wipe my drool away. On Emirates planes, when they want you to wake up, they put all the lights on, and play some man singing about what a beautiful day it is. It's not a beautiful day. Quite frankly it's complete wank, and 10pm, and you've woken me up to give me minced chicken with a slab of cheddar on it's face. Thanks.
Arrive in Bangkok. What a glorious start to the holiday. Let some people take us to an over-priced hotel. Think am hallucinating, but the taxis here are actually bright pink. A young boy carries our bags to the room, and shows me where the hairdryer is. Don't know what to tip. Do not understand currency. Awkward. Fall asleep. Wake up at 4am. Third plane to catch. Why did not pick Butlins? Can suddenly see the many merits of a Butlins holiday. Crave camp entertainers, pissed-in pool, and feral kids.
Realise Bangkok Airport looks like the Turd on the Tyne (Newcastle's Art Gallery). Weird. Sit on plane, eat cashew nuts. Do not desire to live anymore. Find it amusing that people jealous of our holiday. Nothing to be jealous of.
Taxi to the resort is 1:30. BUT the driver has a screen at the front of the car. Am still game for squashing in as many movies as possible. He doesn't ask, but puts on Micheal Jackson Live. Is lots of crying girls being restrained. Do not understand entertainment value.
Arrive at Talkoo Beach Resort, a child drives us to our room in a golf buggy. Why are these children not in school? Are obviously learning how to identify hairdryers and drive, through employment, but is not same as proper education.
No one else is here. Just me, Ginger and stray dogs. In our local Newsagents (One woman, a fridge with some milk in, and a freezer full of cornettos) there is a crazy amount of kittens. Ginger says I can't touch them because I'll contract rabies and die. It's a real shitter. They're sleeping amongst the merchandise, and I'd be happy to spend the rest of our vacation here. No dice.
Thai people here don't speak any English. You don't tend to get the food you order, but we try to enjoy the surprise. They're also very clever, and make you think they can understand you, by repeating what you say.
Me: Can I please order a taxi for tomorrow morning?
Reception: Taxi
Me: Yes, for 10am if that's okay?
Reception: 10.
Me: Good, so is that booked?
Reception: Booked.
And then you rock up at 10am, there's no taxi, and you nearly miss the ferry. But it's all part of the EXPERIENCE kids.
We went off to hunt some pink dolphins with a man, and his mate. I learned pretty quickly that nothing would make sense, nothing will be explained, and that's got to be just dandy. Which is why we drive around for a bit, head back, swap drivers, set off. The whole time they're having an animated, hilarious conversation.
So we get in this boat with a Thai couple, and chase this one bumpy dolphin. And these special jumping, silver fish are flying beside the boat, and every now and again, one slaps you in the face. It's a wholly pleasant experience. The woman put one hand on top of the other over and over again, and said 'Pancakes.' Fantastic, a day out at sea, followed by pancakes. Turns out she was talking about the rock formations. And this is why language barriers are harming people everywhere. Because I don't know if you've ever thought you were going to get pancakes, and had those hypothetical pancakes ripped away, but it's fucking upsetting
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Scaredy Cat
Hello world, I've grown quite fond of you. How's life these days?
I found myself, quite recently, with the unavoidable mission of negotiating the London subway. Although for the most part, my hand was held and led by a friend, I still felt ravaged by terror. It's the lack of certainty. It's the need to get from A to B without any comprehension of the journey between. A kind of panic that sees me hopping from foot to foot in front of the departure board wishing myself a little less cowardly.
On the way back (alone) I drank coffee for bravery. Caffeine never fails (when consumed in large quantities) to turn my pupils giant, and plant a great, impatient desire for adventure. I spent a lot of time in Kings Cross, fuelled by mocha, face in the local paper, craving all the London-based fun on offer. I love it all, well, all the limited places my infrequent visits have led me: London Bridge, Richmond, Camden markets, Spitalfield, Brick Lane, the list goes on. I want to eat all my breakfasts in Patisserie Valerie, and be part of the commuting, buzzing flux. In London, I feel like a writer, an identity I have all but lost. First and foremost these days my prime label is 'office girl'. I have decided to live, as Dolly Parton once sang, from nine to five. I make excuses. I type my way through months, imagining more, bigger, bolder, better. But I rarely change anything.
And of course it would be a group of strangers, accompanying me on my train between Leeds and London, who would chide me, and make me ashamed of it. We were drawn together over the book Sheila, the dermatologist was reading, 'Three cups of tea.' I was writing about my grandad, and my childhood, growing sick in the face of the speeding view. But soon it was kindles, and politics, autobiographies, Anne Frank, London's merits, the NHS. I got off the train feeling charmed by the randomness. I guess one thing my job is teaching me to do is talk, talk like words don't always have to hold great worth. I am quickly becoming an exemplary small talker. They said they would wait for my book, look for my name. Like the English Teachers before them who believed in me, like the glorious friends who flash in and out. And yet I'm 24 tomorrow, and have done very little, it would seem, to try.
Come on then son, get your finger out.
I found myself, quite recently, with the unavoidable mission of negotiating the London subway. Although for the most part, my hand was held and led by a friend, I still felt ravaged by terror. It's the lack of certainty. It's the need to get from A to B without any comprehension of the journey between. A kind of panic that sees me hopping from foot to foot in front of the departure board wishing myself a little less cowardly.
On the way back (alone) I drank coffee for bravery. Caffeine never fails (when consumed in large quantities) to turn my pupils giant, and plant a great, impatient desire for adventure. I spent a lot of time in Kings Cross, fuelled by mocha, face in the local paper, craving all the London-based fun on offer. I love it all, well, all the limited places my infrequent visits have led me: London Bridge, Richmond, Camden markets, Spitalfield, Brick Lane, the list goes on. I want to eat all my breakfasts in Patisserie Valerie, and be part of the commuting, buzzing flux. In London, I feel like a writer, an identity I have all but lost. First and foremost these days my prime label is 'office girl'. I have decided to live, as Dolly Parton once sang, from nine to five. I make excuses. I type my way through months, imagining more, bigger, bolder, better. But I rarely change anything.
And of course it would be a group of strangers, accompanying me on my train between Leeds and London, who would chide me, and make me ashamed of it. We were drawn together over the book Sheila, the dermatologist was reading, 'Three cups of tea.' I was writing about my grandad, and my childhood, growing sick in the face of the speeding view. But soon it was kindles, and politics, autobiographies, Anne Frank, London's merits, the NHS. I got off the train feeling charmed by the randomness. I guess one thing my job is teaching me to do is talk, talk like words don't always have to hold great worth. I am quickly becoming an exemplary small talker. They said they would wait for my book, look for my name. Like the English Teachers before them who believed in me, like the glorious friends who flash in and out. And yet I'm 24 tomorrow, and have done very little, it would seem, to try.
Come on then son, get your finger out.
Friday, July 01, 2011
'To die would be a great adventure' - Captain Hook
The highlight of my life for the last few mornings has been the giant rabbit on Wellington Street. Tis true, this vision may be a sign of my rapidly declining mental state, but it's very vivid. The bunny is hopping about the road as I approach, paws (paws?) full of leaflets, and then a very timid, female voice says, 'Morning.' And I think, finally, after years of attempted meditation and botched daisy chains, I am at one with nature.
I've also started to sleep with gloves on, after a beautician grabbed my hands with horror, and we looked upon there poor withered state. The whole thing is much to Ginger Beard's delight, as he got a photo of me, tucked up in bed, white, cotton gloves plump with moisturiser. Yes, while other girlfriends are refraining from shaving their legs and tash, and burping with relish, I'm keeping the good ol' love alive. He said, 'Great one for Facebook'. But he doesn't have facebook. Who does he think I am? Some schmuck who would fall for anything? I wagged my hot finger at him. 'I think not son, I think not.'
For those wishing to follow me around (for surely I have reached A-list celebrity status. I can be found most Monday evenings, semi-drowning my way to fifty laps at the Morley Gym pool. The more people that join in, the less we look like Olympic swimmers and the more we appear as traffic congestion on the M1, catching limbs, arching our backs to avoid contact, growling and splashing away. The Government are desperate to have us all touching one another. Be it on the sardine commuter train, or the thin lanes of the pool, they are eager to see brushes of skin, scratches and shared breath. Is the world shrinking? There doesn't seem enough room for us all even now. I'd have more room paddling in my bath.
In more exciting news, one is off to Thailand for a ruddy good adventure. My suicidal plan is to leave it as flights booked to Bangkok and nothing else, wing it, que sera, sera. The known has become too known. I know how to live in a nice flat, and drive a clio, and wear gloves to bed, but I want to know about Ping Pong shows, and floating markets, and the golden Buddha, and diarrhoea after buying lunch from street sellers. *Sigh*. Tis time to take a risk. After all, better to die in Thailand, than in Butlins.
I've also started to sleep with gloves on, after a beautician grabbed my hands with horror, and we looked upon there poor withered state. The whole thing is much to Ginger Beard's delight, as he got a photo of me, tucked up in bed, white, cotton gloves plump with moisturiser. Yes, while other girlfriends are refraining from shaving their legs and tash, and burping with relish, I'm keeping the good ol' love alive. He said, 'Great one for Facebook'. But he doesn't have facebook. Who does he think I am? Some schmuck who would fall for anything? I wagged my hot finger at him. 'I think not son, I think not.'
For those wishing to follow me around (for surely I have reached A-list celebrity status. I can be found most Monday evenings, semi-drowning my way to fifty laps at the Morley Gym pool. The more people that join in, the less we look like Olympic swimmers and the more we appear as traffic congestion on the M1, catching limbs, arching our backs to avoid contact, growling and splashing away. The Government are desperate to have us all touching one another. Be it on the sardine commuter train, or the thin lanes of the pool, they are eager to see brushes of skin, scratches and shared breath. Is the world shrinking? There doesn't seem enough room for us all even now. I'd have more room paddling in my bath.
In more exciting news, one is off to Thailand for a ruddy good adventure. My suicidal plan is to leave it as flights booked to Bangkok and nothing else, wing it, que sera, sera. The known has become too known. I know how to live in a nice flat, and drive a clio, and wear gloves to bed, but I want to know about Ping Pong shows, and floating markets, and the golden Buddha, and diarrhoea after buying lunch from street sellers. *Sigh*. Tis time to take a risk. After all, better to die in Thailand, than in Butlins.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Me and the BFG
I have (for the past few weeks) been afforded the luxury of a drive to and from work. That is, that for ten days Ginger Beard has taken me forth into the morning chaos of the city aboard our orange dragon, without so much as the chug of a passing train. Yesterday, he informed me, that due to an early meeting, I would have to go back to the unwelcoming, dirty bosom of Network Rail, tail between legs, and once more share the same fetid airspace of the ten or twenty who only brush their teeth at night.
By the time the train moved, I was sweating. Cue Mr Business suit, oh is my Metro in your face, forcing me back against the bin. Cue, the brief, holy pit stop at Cottingley, where the doors faint open and we are briefly doused in breeze. And of course the five passengers who would rather tenderly press their bodies against one anothers and mine, then take the dreaded walk down the aisle. We continue like this, grazing, stretching, heating up, and thinking on early teenage fumbles which were less intimate.
When I'm asked if I want a ticket by (incredibly) a conductor who doesn't feel like engaging the carriage in a chat about how shit his job is, I take out my earphones, and hold them in my left hand. Now, one of the dangers, of which I've always been aware, of putting your Ipod on shuffle, is that at an inopportune moment, a song comes on which shows you in a particularly odd light. Thankfully, mine was only the full volumed remix version of Backstreet Boys, Everybody.
I spot the barriers, awash with frantic worker bees. I can do this. I can survive this. I spot a woman on crutches, and make sure to head in a different direction. My ticket is in. My ticket is out. The doors open and I'm heading through. But no! From the corner of my eye, I see the woman on crutches has dropped her ticket. She ducks down, the crutches fly up, and I take one sharply to the knee. The barrier's decide to close prematurely. I turn to the side, and am struck in the gut. But I. Am. Through.
I look at myself in the mirror of the office toilets, hair dishevelled, mascara spotted under my eyes, my pale, sallow, traumatised face. And I know, that just like Beyonce once sang, I'm a fucking survivor.
Last night (because I like to provide the occasional, delightful insight into my broken mind) I dreamt that I was sexually propositioned by a giant. He picked me up from my doctor's appointment, let me travel through the city on his shoulder, dropped me on a bench, and licked my leg. I told him I had a boyfriend. The moral of the story is, that even when faced with the most likely of events, do the right thing.
By the time the train moved, I was sweating. Cue Mr Business suit, oh is my Metro in your face, forcing me back against the bin. Cue, the brief, holy pit stop at Cottingley, where the doors faint open and we are briefly doused in breeze. And of course the five passengers who would rather tenderly press their bodies against one anothers and mine, then take the dreaded walk down the aisle. We continue like this, grazing, stretching, heating up, and thinking on early teenage fumbles which were less intimate.
When I'm asked if I want a ticket by (incredibly) a conductor who doesn't feel like engaging the carriage in a chat about how shit his job is, I take out my earphones, and hold them in my left hand. Now, one of the dangers, of which I've always been aware, of putting your Ipod on shuffle, is that at an inopportune moment, a song comes on which shows you in a particularly odd light. Thankfully, mine was only the full volumed remix version of Backstreet Boys, Everybody.
I spot the barriers, awash with frantic worker bees. I can do this. I can survive this. I spot a woman on crutches, and make sure to head in a different direction. My ticket is in. My ticket is out. The doors open and I'm heading through. But no! From the corner of my eye, I see the woman on crutches has dropped her ticket. She ducks down, the crutches fly up, and I take one sharply to the knee. The barrier's decide to close prematurely. I turn to the side, and am struck in the gut. But I. Am. Through.
I look at myself in the mirror of the office toilets, hair dishevelled, mascara spotted under my eyes, my pale, sallow, traumatised face. And I know, that just like Beyonce once sang, I'm a fucking survivor.
Last night (because I like to provide the occasional, delightful insight into my broken mind) I dreamt that I was sexually propositioned by a giant. He picked me up from my doctor's appointment, let me travel through the city on his shoulder, dropped me on a bench, and licked my leg. I told him I had a boyfriend. The moral of the story is, that even when faced with the most likely of events, do the right thing.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Recycle your bicycle
'Tis a sad day for the world - The untimely death of my mouse hand. After battling for a week or so with its whingeing, I have finally had to admit defeat. It woke me up several times in the night to tell me of its suffering. I've switched the mouse over to the left side, and my left hand has become a bit retarded. I am amused to watch it try and master the mouse, and also note that it is scared of becoming like the original mouse hand.
It's off to the Doctor's for me on Wednesday, and hopefully, I can even stretch this to get out of driving. Ginger Beard is fast becoming my chauffeur, and I'm finally treated with the lifestyle I deserve.
I'm also joining the ranks of my fellow drivers with road rage targeted at cyclists. When I couldn't drive I liked cyclists, I occasionally was a cyclist. Now, I hate cyclists! What do they think they're bloody doing on their bikes, on the road? Huh? Outrageous. But when I'm a pedestrian, I want them off the pavement. Get on the road you bloody cyclists! I genuinely don't believe there is a place for them, apart from the rare bicycle lane. No bicycle lane, no bicycle son. And all motorcyclists are suicidal. Luckily, when I was learning to drive, every time one came within five meters of me my instructor screamed, "Think bike! Think bike! Think bike!". I would scream "Where?" take my my eyes off the road, and check the backseat of the car.
Also, no one indicates. Cars let off a very fragrant whiff of 'Look, I'm going where I'm going'. And we politely continue to follow the instilled 'proper' driving ways of our test. Well except when I forget to drive with my glasses on. Oh, and going through that red light. And maybe the flat tyres weren't great. 1.6mm tread did not occur.
I can't drive this Renault Clio. I need a BMW with the top down. I should've been a business man in accounting, a silver fox let loose on the motorway. I'm oppressed.
In conclusion, if it hasn't got at least four wheels, give it up, and get the bus. I didn't commit to an obstacle course. I'm just trying to get to work love.
It's off to the Doctor's for me on Wednesday, and hopefully, I can even stretch this to get out of driving. Ginger Beard is fast becoming my chauffeur, and I'm finally treated with the lifestyle I deserve.
I'm also joining the ranks of my fellow drivers with road rage targeted at cyclists. When I couldn't drive I liked cyclists, I occasionally was a cyclist. Now, I hate cyclists! What do they think they're bloody doing on their bikes, on the road? Huh? Outrageous. But when I'm a pedestrian, I want them off the pavement. Get on the road you bloody cyclists! I genuinely don't believe there is a place for them, apart from the rare bicycle lane. No bicycle lane, no bicycle son. And all motorcyclists are suicidal. Luckily, when I was learning to drive, every time one came within five meters of me my instructor screamed, "Think bike! Think bike! Think bike!". I would scream "Where?" take my my eyes off the road, and check the backseat of the car.
Also, no one indicates. Cars let off a very fragrant whiff of 'Look, I'm going where I'm going'. And we politely continue to follow the instilled 'proper' driving ways of our test. Well except when I forget to drive with my glasses on. Oh, and going through that red light. And maybe the flat tyres weren't great. 1.6mm tread did not occur.
I can't drive this Renault Clio. I need a BMW with the top down. I should've been a business man in accounting, a silver fox let loose on the motorway. I'm oppressed.
In conclusion, if it hasn't got at least four wheels, give it up, and get the bus. I didn't commit to an obstacle course. I'm just trying to get to work love.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
You have mail
This morning I took a wander up to toilets, never previously encountered. And on the back of the door was this sign: 'Please do not keep putting unsuitable items in the sanitary bins, i.e. fruit peel, coffee cups, sandwiches.' I love that. I love the idea of someone sitting on the toilet eating a tangerine. How brilliantly random. An office worker with a mocha between their feet, a banana wedged in their mouth, and a three cheese sandwich. It's not like there aren't bins in the bathroom and througout the building. Are toilet cubicles the new place to dine? Are we that desperate for a little alone time?
Perhaps someone has a vendetta against the cleaner. 'I shall constantly perplex them. This week, I will choose lego bricks, a light bulb, and three grapes.'
I am very pleased to inform you that I've had a reply, thus, the war rages on:
Perhaps someone has a vendetta against the cleaner. 'I shall constantly perplex them. This week, I will choose lego bricks, a light bulb, and three grapes.'
I am very pleased to inform you that I've had a reply, thus, the war rages on:
From: Innes, Moira
Sent: 16 May 2011 12:28
To: 'theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk'
Subject: billboard
Sent: 16 May 2011 12:28
To: 'theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk'
Subject: billboard
hello Gemma
Thank you for your e-mail regarding Matt Darbyshire’s billboard. It is always interesting to get feedback.
Placing art in the public realm where it is chanced upon as opposed the deliberate act of visiting a gallery alters the context and viewers experience. As with any art work, the artist has a clear intention and concept but knows that the work will be received in a variety of different ways depending on the viewers’ individual experiences. Arguably this is more the case when the work is placed in such a public situation where for the majority, the viewing is incidental to their reason to be in the station.
Matt’s intentions are multi-fold and combine various interests and concerns including the design and look of the ‘ experience economy’ where the spheres of culture, health and retail all promise to enhance and transform our lives. What is presented is a composite image of his personal views on the hard-hitting public health campaigns and the fluffy advertising of the time and relates to a project he undertook at the MIro Foundation in Barcelona. The opportunity of presenting the work as a billboard returns the idea to the appropriate context of mass advertisements.
I feel it is valuable that everyone is at liberty to embrace or dismiss the work and for me the fact that you have thought about the image and content is what is important . I don’t expect everyone of the thousands that see it to spend time contemplating its merits but trust that many will have left asking questions.
best
moira
Moira Innes
Director
Leeds Met Gallery & Studio Theatre
G12 Northern Terrace
Leeds Metropolitan University
Leeds
LS2 8AG
I can't resist. It's not like I can read that, and go on living my life, doing nothing.
Hi Moira,
Thank you for taking the time to reply, it is much appreciated.
I completely agree with you that the idea of art we 'encounter' is a fantastic way to experience something different, and not confined to a gallery environment. I do however believe it's a shame that something a little more obvious/influential could not be in it's place, considering the volume and variety of commuters who see it everyday. Unfortunately the only question I have heard asked regarding this work is, 'What does it mean?' I feel that it is a real shame that the artist has set forth with such thought out principles, only to ultimately confuse the public. Have you had much response to this billboard, acknowledging, or lining up with the artists intentions? I am all for art which teaches me something, surprises me, alters or challenges my perspective, amongst many other effects, but have only felt frustrated thus far.
Do you happen to know the source of funding for this project? I only ask, because the station itself is unable to run remotely to schedule at the best of times, and I find myself wondering if the money could be a little more appropriately spent. I'm sure a lot of people's lives have been improved by looking at a playful puppy, but I'd just like to get home on time more often.
Thank you for taking the time to reply, it is much appreciated.
I completely agree with you that the idea of art we 'encounter' is a fantastic way to experience something different, and not confined to a gallery environment. I do however believe it's a shame that something a little more obvious/influential could not be in it's place, considering the volume and variety of commuters who see it everyday. Unfortunately the only question I have heard asked regarding this work is, 'What does it mean?' I feel that it is a real shame that the artist has set forth with such thought out principles, only to ultimately confuse the public. Have you had much response to this billboard, acknowledging, or lining up with the artists intentions? I am all for art which teaches me something, surprises me, alters or challenges my perspective, amongst many other effects, but have only felt frustrated thus far.
Do you happen to know the source of funding for this project? I only ask, because the station itself is unable to run remotely to schedule at the best of times, and I find myself wondering if the money could be a little more appropriately spent. I'm sure a lot of people's lives have been improved by looking at a playful puppy, but I'd just like to get home on time more often.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Or the puppy gets it!
I would like to apologise to the woman in the train station that I 'took out.' One minute I was happily walking along to the exit, and the next minute I was trying to run her over. This is all because someone shouted 'Free!' and held up something shiny. Normally I tut at people like me, who run over, salivating, palms together. But my inner Magpie, and greedy cake smeared little child, wanted it. I would have it! I didn't care how many people had to die, as I brashly ignored the unspoken code of giving way to oncoming traffic if turning right. It was worth it. The chicken cup-a-soup was mine.
And it was full of chickeny goodness.
People have killed for less than this.
Also, is there any legislation to protect toilets against what office workers are doing to them? I have beheld some horrific scenes recently, where the lavatory has been what I can only call 'destoyed.' Are there companies who will come in to lecture nine to fivers on their diet? Why aren't the culprits in A and E? What's happening in their bodies is vicious, it's monstrous. The poor cleaner lives in the ground floor toilets. She's always in there. It's a constant battle. This is exactly the kind of crime they had in mind when the electric chair was first out forward as an option.
Fry them, fry them all.
It's incredibly distressing. It makes me feel sick. And then I have to go throw up over a toilet.
I was considering letting the billboard situation go. But then I read this on the Leeds Metropolitan Website:
"The day-glo paint bombs work not only with the wording of the caption but as compulsory post-millennial icing, masking the drab 1980s corporate, colourless ad language of cutesy animals and black retro fonts with tokenistic, upbeat, candy-coloured social appeal. With an eye on the techniques employed by art/Aids activists of the 1980s such as Barbara Kruger and Group Material, Darbyshire combines slogans from the hard-hitting Eighties HIV public health campaign posters with the innocuous, familiar toilet tissue adverts also from that period. While these issue-based adverts created widespread fear at the time, Aids is still a global pandemic and alongside noting a worrying return to the politics of the Eighties here in the UK, Darbyshire asks whether we have in fact regressed in our fight against HIV/Aids too."
Who wrote this? And why are they still allowed to inhale oxygen?
And it was full of chickeny goodness.
People have killed for less than this.
Also, is there any legislation to protect toilets against what office workers are doing to them? I have beheld some horrific scenes recently, where the lavatory has been what I can only call 'destoyed.' Are there companies who will come in to lecture nine to fivers on their diet? Why aren't the culprits in A and E? What's happening in their bodies is vicious, it's monstrous. The poor cleaner lives in the ground floor toilets. She's always in there. It's a constant battle. This is exactly the kind of crime they had in mind when the electric chair was first out forward as an option.
Fry them, fry them all.
It's incredibly distressing. It makes me feel sick. And then I have to go throw up over a toilet.
I was considering letting the billboard situation go. But then I read this on the Leeds Metropolitan Website:
"The day-glo paint bombs work not only with the wording of the caption but as compulsory post-millennial icing, masking the drab 1980s corporate, colourless ad language of cutesy animals and black retro fonts with tokenistic, upbeat, candy-coloured social appeal. With an eye on the techniques employed by art/Aids activists of the 1980s such as Barbara Kruger and Group Material, Darbyshire combines slogans from the hard-hitting Eighties HIV public health campaign posters with the innocuous, familiar toilet tissue adverts also from that period. While these issue-based adverts created widespread fear at the time, Aids is still a global pandemic and alongside noting a worrying return to the politics of the Eighties here in the UK, Darbyshire asks whether we have in fact regressed in our fight against HIV/Aids too."
Who wrote this? And why are they still allowed to inhale oxygen?
Matthew Darbyshire | Untitled Billboard (Leeds Station)
To gallerytheatre@leedsmet.ac.uk
| From: | Gemma Rutter (theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk) |
| Sent: | 12 May 2011 12:41:19 |
Hello,
As a regular commuter through Leeds Train Station, I was very curious when I first spotted this billboard. I have recently discovered the reason for it, and the supposed political statement that the artist is making.
Could you please let me know if you believe that anyone, whether they be educated in the arts, a professional, or Joe Bloggs, would be able to interpret a puppy covered and surrounded by paint as a comment on Aids campaigns in the 80's and our current lax attitude?
I like to think of myself as having a rather average IQ, but am unable to draw anything from this billboard which remotely resembles the artists intention.
Any clarity you could provide would be much appreciated. Also if you could let me know the exact date that it would be removed, and the source of the funding for the project, that would be fantastic.
Kind Regards,
Gemma Rutter
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
We took her breath away.
Hey, so, if you go for a drive with your left wing mirror pushed in, turns out, it's okay as long as you never turn left. It is odd however that I didn't notice, if we agree that you're supposed to use them, and they're not (as I like to think of them) the cars ears. In my defence, the wing mirror ended up in this state because, thanks to Ginger Beard's experimental, diagonal parking, it was necessary to save its life.
What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.
Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.
Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.
My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.
I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.
What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.
Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.
Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.
My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.
I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Click Happy
Hey kids, how goes it?
I'm having a delightful time of life recently. The cream of the crop has to be yesterday's incident. I'm sat at my desk at work, suddenly overcome by a curiosity to see where all of my blog traffic is coming from. It turns out slagging off that puppy has drawn me much Google support. I also have a stronghold in Germany. I can only presume this is because of my German ancestry, which must be evident in my writing style.
There are also a few sources coming in from websites. I clicked on them. Someone's doing a research paper on colour. I'm flattered. It is true that my life is very colourful, mostly black, but black is very in right now. And then there's this one link. This one, inoffensive, innocent link. You know what fills my screen, at work, surrounded by colleagues, eating my tuna sandwich? Hmm? PORN. Lots and lots of animated porn, and women with their legs open, and their breasts bouncing. I said 'Shit!' loudly, alerting all to the issue at hand. And promptly shut the bitch down. I haven't spoken about it. No one has spoken about it.
I like to think that my blog is a kind of literotica for people, and listed on their site as an alternative to the visual. I guess the angst and frustration I channel here could be pleasuring the nation. Very likely. Go me. I am going to edit these posts, and sell the book to Ann Summers. Coming to a shop near you.
Also, notice the link, that puppy is still fricking there. I have written documentation that restricts the lifespan of that billboard to April. It's May now, why is it allowed to live? I have nothing against dogs per say, but it needs to be destroyed. Every time I look at it this happens, 'How does this represent aids in the 80's? It's so pretentious. I hate you. And I hate this commute. And I hate this sardine shuffle to the exit. Stupid dog. Stupid painted dog.' I don't think I can go through these emotions every morning for the next month.
I also don't think it's too dramatic of us to gel together in our outrage, and burn it. Would anyone like to help? Remember that even a few, small people, can change the world for the better. Also, let me know if you have the following items which I can borrow:
Flamethrower
Massive Ladder
Fire proof suit and headgear
Exemption from arrest
Keys to station
Thank you in advance.
I'm having a delightful time of life recently. The cream of the crop has to be yesterday's incident. I'm sat at my desk at work, suddenly overcome by a curiosity to see where all of my blog traffic is coming from. It turns out slagging off that puppy has drawn me much Google support. I also have a stronghold in Germany. I can only presume this is because of my German ancestry, which must be evident in my writing style.
There are also a few sources coming in from websites. I clicked on them. Someone's doing a research paper on colour. I'm flattered. It is true that my life is very colourful, mostly black, but black is very in right now. And then there's this one link. This one, inoffensive, innocent link. You know what fills my screen, at work, surrounded by colleagues, eating my tuna sandwich? Hmm? PORN. Lots and lots of animated porn, and women with their legs open, and their breasts bouncing. I said 'Shit!' loudly, alerting all to the issue at hand. And promptly shut the bitch down. I haven't spoken about it. No one has spoken about it.
I like to think that my blog is a kind of literotica for people, and listed on their site as an alternative to the visual. I guess the angst and frustration I channel here could be pleasuring the nation. Very likely. Go me. I am going to edit these posts, and sell the book to Ann Summers. Coming to a shop near you.
Also, notice the link, that puppy is still fricking there. I have written documentation that restricts the lifespan of that billboard to April. It's May now, why is it allowed to live? I have nothing against dogs per say, but it needs to be destroyed. Every time I look at it this happens, 'How does this represent aids in the 80's? It's so pretentious. I hate you. And I hate this commute. And I hate this sardine shuffle to the exit. Stupid dog. Stupid painted dog.' I don't think I can go through these emotions every morning for the next month.
I also don't think it's too dramatic of us to gel together in our outrage, and burn it. Would anyone like to help? Remember that even a few, small people, can change the world for the better. Also, let me know if you have the following items which I can borrow:
Flamethrower
Massive Ladder
Fire proof suit and headgear
Exemption from arrest
Keys to station
Thank you in advance.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
How to make friends and antagonise people
I'm having a very difficult time enduring the conditions of my commute. Yesterday, I was delightfully cornered by three buxom, big mouthed women, who were incredibly smug about their upcoming days off work. One of them, the ugliest, announced that she had plans for the next seven weekends, and proceeded to list them.
"Booked up, completely booked, hardly time to breathe. This weekend I'm phoning my mum, next weekend I'm sewing up a hole in my sock. Then I'm catching up on my recorded Sky back list, then it's a holiday with the girls, I say the girls, not everyone can make it, and it's in the UK."
I thought, please, please divulge the location of this 'holiday', so I can make sure I'm not there, in body or spirit. Then another one talked about a fabulous Spanish resort that she was going to with her family, but mentioned no dates. Great, now I have to avoid Spain for the foreseeable future, all of Spain. Thanks. The third continually yawned in my face, covering only her nose. It left me to imagine that her nostrils flared unnaturally, and had been the topic of previous nasty remarks.
Will this ever end, I asked my poor, suffocating, sprayed in the remnants of their lunch self. Will it? No, because the logical jump for the conversation to make is Osama Bin Laden. They were in mutual agreement, that his death wasn't going to stop anyone 'doing' terrorism. I really hate it when people do terrorism. And they all seemed genuinely very excited about possible revenge. I guess that the first woman was hoping for an event large enough that it would busy her for that eighth, looming weekend. I guess the second woman was hoping for an event long enough, so that she could bob off to Spain for a few weeks. And I guess the third woman would just bloody love another excuse to have her mouth open.
Upon nearing my departure from the love train, I said 'excuse me' to a so far quiet lady to my left. She too, was getting off, and said, 'I too, am getting off.' I said, 'IF we can get off', and gestured at my new friends. And she, without the slightest hint of sarcasm said, 'We will make them get off.' And I knew, that like me, her day had also been ruined by their complete disregard for personal space, and political opinions.
Could the class one travels by, not be concluded by conduct, rather than cash? It's not that I don't enjoy an elbow tentatively rubbing against my breast, and being privy to a loud re-telling of Susie's break-up, and a briefcase nudging my crotch. I do. It's just a suggestion.
"Booked up, completely booked, hardly time to breathe. This weekend I'm phoning my mum, next weekend I'm sewing up a hole in my sock. Then I'm catching up on my recorded Sky back list, then it's a holiday with the girls, I say the girls, not everyone can make it, and it's in the UK."
I thought, please, please divulge the location of this 'holiday', so I can make sure I'm not there, in body or spirit. Then another one talked about a fabulous Spanish resort that she was going to with her family, but mentioned no dates. Great, now I have to avoid Spain for the foreseeable future, all of Spain. Thanks. The third continually yawned in my face, covering only her nose. It left me to imagine that her nostrils flared unnaturally, and had been the topic of previous nasty remarks.
Will this ever end, I asked my poor, suffocating, sprayed in the remnants of their lunch self. Will it? No, because the logical jump for the conversation to make is Osama Bin Laden. They were in mutual agreement, that his death wasn't going to stop anyone 'doing' terrorism. I really hate it when people do terrorism. And they all seemed genuinely very excited about possible revenge. I guess that the first woman was hoping for an event large enough that it would busy her for that eighth, looming weekend. I guess the second woman was hoping for an event long enough, so that she could bob off to Spain for a few weeks. And I guess the third woman would just bloody love another excuse to have her mouth open.
Upon nearing my departure from the love train, I said 'excuse me' to a so far quiet lady to my left. She too, was getting off, and said, 'I too, am getting off.' I said, 'IF we can get off', and gestured at my new friends. And she, without the slightest hint of sarcasm said, 'We will make them get off.' And I knew, that like me, her day had also been ruined by their complete disregard for personal space, and political opinions.
Could the class one travels by, not be concluded by conduct, rather than cash? It's not that I don't enjoy an elbow tentatively rubbing against my breast, and being privy to a loud re-telling of Susie's break-up, and a briefcase nudging my crotch. I do. It's just a suggestion.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
For Ian Nelson
Alas, I have discovered the reason for this mysterious train station advertising! Was it afterall trying to persuade us to have fun with Dulux? Was the little Andrex Puppy a victim at paintballing? What can we learn from this? Well, obviously it's about foolish innocence over HIV in the 80's. OBVIOUSLY. No, I mean it. That's actually it.
Matthew Darbyshire - Billboard Projects
"You might not have spotted The Billboard Project at Leeds Train Station, now on its fourth and final ‘ad’. It’s played host to a cycle of work by artists each granted access to its large scale presence and the collossal passing trade of commuters. Matthew Darbyshire has pasted up something emotionally evocative, involving the lovable Andrex puppy and a slogan harking back to the 80’s youth culture, evoking the style of HIV campaigns engineered to snap people out of foolish innocence. Darbyshire’s work also points to a concern that the politics of the 80’s is creeping back into the UK. The presentness of the billboard in Leeds Station in all its candy-coloured sweetness says the fight is not over."
It's so God damn emotionally evocative.
I hope that you discover this blog Ian, so that your mind can finally be at rest.
But I want to vandalise it even more.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
What's with that bloody Andrex puppy?
I'm not too happy about being a worker bee today. Buzzing about for some faceless queen. Giving up our time so that we can earn enough to pay for the commute, to give up our time. Enough for the food we shovel down, in order to have the energy to give up our time. How many days holiday do bees get a year? I bet it's about twenty-five.
Leeds City centre is starting to make me feel nauseous in the morning. It might Be the sweating, nicotine ripe man whose knees bump into my handbag, or the sight of all of us in sensible coats, hiding behind newspapers, pressed together in silence, and thinking of 5:30pm. We are filtered through the station, and I think of traffic. You have to navigate the lanes like a pro, be prepared for the odd emergency stop, and give way to oncoming pedestrians. And once out on the street, our station training serves us well. We walk, single file on the right side of the pavement, thinking ourselves American. A conveyor belt of tired robots keeping pace.
I think of my Santander commute, back in the day, back when I was getting bullied by children with snowballs, slipping over in car parks, and nearly getting run over. Times were good.
If you happen to be in Leeds Train Station with WHSmiths on your left, do me a favour - look up at the huge billboard ahead. Explain it to me. It says, 'He's not immortal, he's just young', and features a dog splattered in paint, but no company logo. I don't get it. It looks like the Andrex puppy, so I think of loo roll. Are they telling me to excuse young children from shitting over everything? Is it for drunken, late night travellers, heading out into the city - 'This puppy thought he could hold his drink too. Now look at him. You're not immortal, you're just young. And you'll end up the same way.'
I look at it everyday. I frown. I. Don't. Get. It. Please help me. Or I'm going to kick it in the face. I don't know how. I'll have to get a ladder. I'll have to develop a skillful, acrobatic move, during a quiet period which will allow time for set up before a possible arrest. I'm going to graffiti on it, give the dog a tash, surround him in a question mark, smear Pedigree Chum around the borders. I think this is what a mental collapse feels like. I'm certain that my frustration at the whole bloody commuting process comes down to this one billboard. If someone could reveal its true message, I will discover inner peace. I will start sleeping again, and stop shaking my head at labradors everywhere. PLEASE.
Leeds City centre is starting to make me feel nauseous in the morning. It might Be the sweating, nicotine ripe man whose knees bump into my handbag, or the sight of all of us in sensible coats, hiding behind newspapers, pressed together in silence, and thinking of 5:30pm. We are filtered through the station, and I think of traffic. You have to navigate the lanes like a pro, be prepared for the odd emergency stop, and give way to oncoming pedestrians. And once out on the street, our station training serves us well. We walk, single file on the right side of the pavement, thinking ourselves American. A conveyor belt of tired robots keeping pace.
I think of my Santander commute, back in the day, back when I was getting bullied by children with snowballs, slipping over in car parks, and nearly getting run over. Times were good.
If you happen to be in Leeds Train Station with WHSmiths on your left, do me a favour - look up at the huge billboard ahead. Explain it to me. It says, 'He's not immortal, he's just young', and features a dog splattered in paint, but no company logo. I don't get it. It looks like the Andrex puppy, so I think of loo roll. Are they telling me to excuse young children from shitting over everything? Is it for drunken, late night travellers, heading out into the city - 'This puppy thought he could hold his drink too. Now look at him. You're not immortal, you're just young. And you'll end up the same way.'
I look at it everyday. I frown. I. Don't. Get. It. Please help me. Or I'm going to kick it in the face. I don't know how. I'll have to get a ladder. I'll have to develop a skillful, acrobatic move, during a quiet period which will allow time for set up before a possible arrest. I'm going to graffiti on it, give the dog a tash, surround him in a question mark, smear Pedigree Chum around the borders. I think this is what a mental collapse feels like. I'm certain that my frustration at the whole bloody commuting process comes down to this one billboard. If someone could reveal its true message, I will discover inner peace. I will start sleeping again, and stop shaking my head at labradors everywhere. PLEASE.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
'All aboard the disappointing, deliberating, devestatingly dire 8:21 to Leeds.'
Oh the insufferable injustice of a relationship with Northern Rail.
Why am I paying £3 every day to be intimately pressed against a pensioner?
Why can't they master basic mathmastics by comparing the number of passengers to the number of seats?
Why platform 13B, wait no platform 3A, wait no, sit on the first train for 15 minutes, wait, sorry, we've lost your train, let me just check my coat pockets and get back to you?
You're telling me that a considerable chunk of my wage is making it's sad, slow walk into your bank account every month, and the best you can do is, 'I apologise on behalf of Northern Rail for this delayed/over crowded/technically unsafe/oddly smelling/several inexplicable pauses/hot journey.'
Why does nothing ever change? I've been getting these commuter trains from all over Leeds for three years, and the sheer consistency of the problems amazes me. Seriously, look at my face, my mouth is hanging open, my eyes are wide. I. Cannot. Actually. Believe. It.
But will I pay an extortinate amount of money to drive in, and park in the city? I will not.
Will I get a man in a taxi to ship me about at £13 a pop? I will not.
Will I keep making frustrated noises whilst crampt in a stuffy, late carriage, my arse cradled by the hands of a sitting teenager, my chin resting ever so gently on the shoulder of a nicotine-stinking goth? Why yes, yes I will.
Because Northern Rail, you have backed me into a very tricky corner, and there is no escape.
You complete bastards.
Why am I paying £3 every day to be intimately pressed against a pensioner?
Why can't they master basic mathmastics by comparing the number of passengers to the number of seats?
Why platform 13B, wait no platform 3A, wait no, sit on the first train for 15 minutes, wait, sorry, we've lost your train, let me just check my coat pockets and get back to you?
You're telling me that a considerable chunk of my wage is making it's sad, slow walk into your bank account every month, and the best you can do is, 'I apologise on behalf of Northern Rail for this delayed/over crowded/technically unsafe/oddly smelling/several inexplicable pauses/hot journey.'
Why does nothing ever change? I've been getting these commuter trains from all over Leeds for three years, and the sheer consistency of the problems amazes me. Seriously, look at my face, my mouth is hanging open, my eyes are wide. I. Cannot. Actually. Believe. It.
But will I pay an extortinate amount of money to drive in, and park in the city? I will not.
Will I get a man in a taxi to ship me about at £13 a pop? I will not.
Will I keep making frustrated noises whilst crampt in a stuffy, late carriage, my arse cradled by the hands of a sitting teenager, my chin resting ever so gently on the shoulder of a nicotine-stinking goth? Why yes, yes I will.
Because Northern Rail, you have backed me into a very tricky corner, and there is no escape.
You complete bastards.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
The Rutter - 1 The Little Shits - 0
I did start writing this yesterday, but stopped and gave into the paracetemol driven, dehydrated hallucinations. I woke up feeling like cack, and forced myself around 9pm to produce the final 500 words of shocking cliche, probably inspired by the hours I spent watching Jeremy Kyle, and Come dine with me. And so hurrah! 50,000 words of iliterate, intolerable garble, which I will now have to wade through on my search for gold. I will also share with you some of the worst writing you will ever stumble across.
In other victorious news; Tuesday, whilst on my lovely morning walk to work, I turned a corner to find three charming boys waiting for me with a look-what-we-prepared-earlier pile of snow. The conversation which thus followed went a little like this.
Rutter: Please don't! I'm on my way to work.
Fat child: Tough!
Rutter: I'll remember this house number.
Fat child: We don't even live here!
Rutter: Yes, but they'll know who the little shits of the neighbourhood are.
Several things then happened dear reader. I realised that with my final sentence, I had officially made the transition into becoming my mother, spewing words commonly associated with the antagonised elderly. And also that I was now being chased, by the leader nonetheless, the fat one. With great cheer I announce that he could not catch me, and between the three of them, struck me once on the shoulder with a snowball. I even commentated on their effots. 'Nice one.' 'Wow, your talents astound me.'
I now realise that all my years of badminton, and my recent progress on the gym treadmil, had been preparing me for this moment. But there was only one sad thought in my mind, as I walked on in my woollen coat. And that was - How much my cag in a bag would've loved to accompany me on this adventure.
In other victorious news; Tuesday, whilst on my lovely morning walk to work, I turned a corner to find three charming boys waiting for me with a look-what-we-prepared-earlier pile of snow. The conversation which thus followed went a little like this.
Rutter: Please don't! I'm on my way to work.
Fat child: Tough!
Rutter: I'll remember this house number.
Fat child: We don't even live here!
Rutter: Yes, but they'll know who the little shits of the neighbourhood are.
Several things then happened dear reader. I realised that with my final sentence, I had officially made the transition into becoming my mother, spewing words commonly associated with the antagonised elderly. And also that I was now being chased, by the leader nonetheless, the fat one. With great cheer I announce that he could not catch me, and between the three of them, struck me once on the shoulder with a snowball. I even commentated on their effots. 'Nice one.' 'Wow, your talents astound me.'
I now realise that all my years of badminton, and my recent progress on the gym treadmil, had been preparing me for this moment. But there was only one sad thought in my mind, as I walked on in my woollen coat. And that was - How much my cag in a bag would've loved to accompany me on this adventure.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's a cag in a bag!
For those of you who don't know me, I think it's time to share an intimately personal aspect of my life; I walk to work. For the last few weeks my commute has been a soul-destroying battle, including the obliteration of two umbrellas, and a steep decline in personal appearance. But as I write to you today, I am on the brink of a life changing revelation. And that, ladies and gentleman, is the cag in a bag. What, you may be wondering, is this wonderful invention of which she speaks so fondly. As it says on the tin, it's a cagoule, which you can stuff back in on itself into a small bag. Today, I donned my cag for the very first time and would like to report my findings. On the way home I was thrilled, with the hood up over my beanie, to realise that this was exactly the kind of wind velocity that would kill my umbrella. Should it have been raining, my top half would've been completely dry. How comforting that was. Unfortunatley, at the time of purchase, I'd forgotten that I had legs, but am planning to fashion some kind of wrapping out of bin bags. Due to the depth of the hood, your head resides in a warm cave. This means you have no peripheral vision whatsoever. As I only cross approx 16 roads on my way to work, this is of little consequence to me. Another benefit, is that coming round dark corners, I look like a tough hoodie, and would likely scare off any muggers before they spot the light blue and scatted pink roses pattern.
In writing news, I am not doing well. At all. It's really hard. I've never had the kind of discipline required. Nails are still bitten, chocolate still consumed. And I barely manage 1 glass of water, let alone 8. I wish someone would tell me that quitting now would be okay. After all, who needs another demand heaped onto a 9-5 job, a relationship, and a backlist of household chores. But sadly I must answer to myself. And myself is a drill sergent when it comes to pride. On my day off tomorrow I aim to write 10,000. But I will bite my nails, eat chocolate, and drink fanta fruit twist to get through it.
In writing news, I am not doing well. At all. It's really hard. I've never had the kind of discipline required. Nails are still bitten, chocolate still consumed. And I barely manage 1 glass of water, let alone 8. I wish someone would tell me that quitting now would be okay. After all, who needs another demand heaped onto a 9-5 job, a relationship, and a backlist of household chores. But sadly I must answer to myself. And myself is a drill sergent when it comes to pride. On my day off tomorrow I aim to write 10,000. But I will bite my nails, eat chocolate, and drink fanta fruit twist to get through it.
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