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I found myself running into a shoe shop today to shelter from a torrential downpour of rain. I wasn’t looking to buy any shoes it just happened to be the first door that was open, so I ran in.
After fifteen minutes, I’d obviously done the preliminary rounds of pretending to be interested in buying a pair of shoes, but the rain was getting even worse. There were also three other people sheltering from the rain and trying to look like customers. This feigned interest whilst dripping wet is quite the skill to perfect if you happen to be a pedestrian without an umbrella. The bloke over in the far corner looks like a real seasoned pro at this. He’s already tried on a pair of shoes and I notice his quick glances outside to see how long he has to keep this up for.
After twenty-five minutes in this tiny little shoe shop it’s now blindly obvious to everyone that the only three people in the whole shop are sheltering from the rain – which is now coming down in sheets. I am considering buying the cheapest pair of shoes in the shop to justify me spending half an hour in there dripping water on the carpet. And then the rain stops and we all pile out into the street together with that ‘I know that you know that I know’ look on our faces.
Next time I am gonna find me a bus shelter like everyone else.
DT
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A few years ago, a friend of mine showed me how all traffic lights have a tiny revolving cone under the control panel to aid people who have a hearing and sight impairment. Did you know this? It’s certainly a golden moment when we chance upon something that has existed for years just beyond the boundaries of our knowledge. Did you know that all biro pens have an air hole in the tube and in the pen top in case a child swallows it?
Until recently, I didn’t know that you can record your voice on a mobile phone. Well, how about this one then – a zipper that locks. I mean actually locks like a key so that if you’re fat and bend over (ahm… like a friend of mine) your gut doesn’t hang through the fly like a donut in a ripped bag. When trying on a pair of jeans, I demonstrated to the sales assistant how when I bend over the zipper comes undone all on its own. Err …I mean my friend did and I was with him. She was a big fat bird herself and could obviously relate to my situation, so she stretched out a chubby paw, yanked the zip up to the top teeth and pressed the zip down – whereby it locked into place.
DT
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Toilet paper illustrators should have more fun. For one, they have a niche little corner of the market to play around with yet spend their time working on Christmas trees or cute little animal designs to print on toilet paper. Get an image of a puppy dog, and then cover it in shit. Not so cute after all, eh? I propose printing little tongues or noses, indented and poised to lick and sniff. Why not have a sense of humour about it? Ask anyone what illustrations they have on their toilet roll and you’d likely score a blank – which is a good thing, coz if you’re shopping specifically for toilet paper illustrations then your life is over.
DT
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The emphasis is on “look” gay as opposed to being gay, or even acting gay.
I am an espresso-drinking straight man who happened to catch a reflected glimpse of myself today in a café. My entire frame is wrapped around a tiny little cup, and unless I tape in the little finger to a bigger one it involuntarily sticks out and makes me look gay. My clothes are too crap to be an aristocrat or a gay man, so at best I can pass myself off as metro sexual.
The general rule is the bigger the bloke, and the further away from Paris he happens to be sipping an expression – the gayer he looks. Gay men and theatre directors should be the only men drinking espresso in the UK.
DT
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Every city has bums begging for change – fact. Sometimes I give and sometimes I don’t. There’s no hard and fast rule for me in dealing with bums other than to try and momentarily work out if this person is really in need of help or just a lazy bum who has dropped out of society. How does one go about actively becoming a bum anyway? I have often fantasised about turning up one day in an unfamiliar city and just sitting on the pavement amongst soiled chewing gum, rolling up cigarettes and slowing growing one big flat dreadlock.
I do give change to drug addicts – and yes, I know they will buy drugs with it. All judgement aside, here’s a guy begging for change in the rain under an ATM machine. There’s no dignity here and his life is evidently far, far shittier than mine so I can spare a few coins to ease my own guilt if nothing else.
We’ve all heard the same stories before, and you may begrudge this bum some change for a meal or a bed for the night, but would you begrudge him a dump? With public toilets in London now charging between 20p – 50p, where does a homeless man take a crap? I may not care if this guy starves to death or sleeps in a bus shelter but I don’t want him having to take a shit in a multi-story car park. Come on, give the guy a break and give generously. When was the last time you had to take a shit on tarmac?
DT
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Brain cells, brain cells. I’m sick of hearing about how clever and efficient the brain cells are. When it comes down to efficiency, you can’t beat the anus cell for work ethic.
All biological cells in the human body are universal and define themselves and their job by those cells around them. They all contain the required elements to determine what they should become and apply themselves accordingly. Isn’t that amazing? This means each and every cell is capable of doing anything it’s asked to do. If you’re assigned to work downstairs in the rusty bullet hole then you’re an anus cell. If you’re in the left ear shoveling earwax then you’re an ear cell – simple.
What a utilitarian paradise our bodies are. There’s work for all; no unemployment; no need for unions; one wage for all; and no need for holiday leave. Our cells do everything they’re asked without any tea breaks and never complain about the long hours. The brain is the boss, and would probably have a large human resources section where all new cells report for their first day at work. A new young cell turns up for his first day at work in his dad’s suit with clean socks on. The conversation would go something like this:
New Cell: Hello. I am a new cell reporting for work today.
Human Resources Cell Manager: Hello young cell. You are to report to the supervisor in the Anus this morning. Do you know how to get there?
New Cell: Yes. I know a blood cell that is car pooling and is leaving on the jugular express this morning for the Anus.
New Cell (later that morning): Hello Anus Cell Supervisor, I am a new cell reporting for work.
New Cell Supervisor: Yes, good morning son. Please get into that astronaut suit over there and go to the Svinkter where there’s a pile of brussel spouts that need turning into shit.
… And that’s his job for seven years. Every seven years, each of the trillions of cells in your body will replace themselves, so this little anus cell will drop dead at work and a new one fills his boots silently and automatically on a continuous basis until you eventually drop dead.
We could all learn a thing or two from the Anus cell about efficiency at work.
DT
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If I was writing a thesis for a psychology PhD, then I would surely conduct my research on the London Underground. Apparently, we evolved from monkeys and missed picking lice off each other so much that we are now on our way back again. Any semblance of civility, nobility, dignity and even common sense migrate like flamingos when we decide to cram our frame onto a London Underground tube carriage at rush hour with enough available space for a field mouse. In fact, the field mouse gets off on the platform, unfolds its legs from the back of its ears and says – “f**k that. I’ll walk.”
There’s the restrained panic at the sound of the doors closing when we realize that this sardine existence will be our lives for at least the next two minutes – but more like ten. Avoiding all possible angles of eye contact, I stare at this woman’s coat button like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve seen in years. I realize that someone else is also staring at the same button in equal fascination, so I quickly switch my gaze to a steel screw on the handrail that nobody has yet claimed. Adverts must make a killing on the tube. Then there’s the businessman who has been living this nightmare for so many years he’s desensitized to it. He’s actually trying to read the newspaper. I love these people because their attempt at opening the newspaper means reading it in three inches of text from an origami swan. Novels are good – stick to novels, and get someone else to be your page turner for you.
One Christmas I saw something that was so incredulous I still can’t believe it. I was on the platform at Bond Street on the Central Line when this guy walks out onto the platform dragging a12ft unboxed Christmas tree behind him. Picture the scene – three shopping days before Christmas and the platform is as frenetic as a termite mound that has just been chopped in half by a chain saw. I had been waiting for 20 minutes just to get close enough to a train in the vague hope of actually getting inside it. You could just about slide a playing card from one end of the platform to the another, and there was this cocksucker with the tree. I could hear the piercing sound of vocal objection as commuters were being harpooned by trees branches. This guy had somehow managed to squeeze his way to the front of the platform, mainly due to people diving out of the way of the sharp branches. The only thing funnier than witnessing the grimaces and moans from the platform, was the utter shock and disbelief on the faces of the people inside the train as the doors slide apart to reveal the tree. Mouths gaped open like feeding coy carp mouthing silent expressions of ‘wadthafuk’ as this dude tried to force the tree onto the carriage. At this point, the guys in the CCTV booth must have somehow summoned enough strength from rolling around choking on laughter, and were on the platform removing the man and his tree before someone’s eyeball became a Christmas bauble.
Some people!!
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We ever so polite people have certain automatic responses; so I’ve been testing out a theory. I was sitting directly opposite a lady in the library today for about four hours. During this time, neither one of us uttered a single word to the other. Moreover, I didn’t acknowledge her in any way and vice versa. We were perfect strangers sharing perfect silence in perfect harmony. When I left I said “see you later,” and she said “see you later” back! Try it. I guarantee it will work.
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As the advice goes, how do you actually go about meeting someone at a supermarket? Which aisle is more amenable to love? There is something very romantic about dairy (cow’s tits, milk maids, etc) so I would personally opt for midway down the cheese and margarine aisle. Single people have cats, so look out for the cat food in their trolley.
Have you noticed the basic flaw in this theory – people do not speak to each other in a supermarket, so unless you’re stacking shelves and someone asks you where the gluten free pasta is, starting a conversation could be tricky. You’ll need a better icebreaker than ‘can I help you carry your cheese,’ or “haven’t I seen you by the McVitie’s biscuits before?”
Real supermarket love is offering your ticket at the deli counter or making eye contact in the dried fruit section. In a world of consumables and bright lights eye contact is king. Dress for the occasion. Walking past the bleach dressed in a backless ball gown might be overstretching the limits of subtlety, and will make you shiver uncontrollably by the frozen peas.
