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The Hard Rock café I was eating in today had a pink Cadillac suspended from the roof directly above me. There’s surely no way it could fall, but I still couldn’t enjoy my curly fries for fear of it landing on my head. I then made myself laugh at the thought of my own obituary – ‘hit by a pink Cadillac whilst eating curly fries.”
When you think of all the freak accidents that happen every day, there’s an administration clerk at the registry of births, deaths and marriages that has to record them onto death certificates. The term ‘death by misadventure’ is very appropriate to me being squashed by a Cadillac with curly fries poking out of my broken skull.
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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Street scams are like internet scams – we know about them in theory and then it’s usually too late when we find out about them in practice.
Tourists are particularly susceptible to street scamS, but even on home soil some of them are almost believable. A young girl in her early twenties approached me in the street today with a clipboard and a sponsorship form on disabled children which she had obviously photocopied. There were a few names already on the list as she presented it to me with her thumb over the donations column. There was no ID badge. She was obviously a fraud and I told her so and moved on with my day. I then got to thinking how I would turn myself into a credible street scam money machine, and just at that point a nun walks past me. Rather, it was a woman wearing a nun’s habit that I automatically assumed to be a nun, and herein rests the tools for simple emotional manipulation.
Who would question the sincerity of one wearing the holy garments? I wouldn’t, and I certainly wouldn’t ignore a nun, a priest or an arch-bishop who stopped me in the street in the same way I would a ‘chugger’ (charity mugger) shaking a tin. Any cause will do – after all, I am not giving to the cause I am giving to God’s servant.
I’m sure it would be far easier to make a dog-collar from a cereal box than an Arch-bishop’s mitre from a baseball glove, but either way this is a scam that I will never use for fear of being struck down by a thunderbolt … and because I am a morally transparent member of society, of course.
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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A few years ago when I was working as a housing officer, I had a drunken tenant in a block of flats that was up all night causing the rest of the block sleepless nights. After several unsuccessful attempts at resolving the problem I decided to move him immediately or risk finding him lynched one morning. He wasn’t a bad bloke – just a repentant drunk who didn’t know what he was doing after two litres of cider. I don’t think anyone else would either! I had one available empty ground floor flat that was proving hard to occupy as the woman upstairs was a raving drunk. Voila! Two raving drunks who can’t remember a thing the next day. Perfect.
I moved him in and things went exactly as I thought they would, but with an added twist. They fell in love. It was an affair sponsored by Strongbow, and I don’t think either one of them knew the other one’s name. Then one day, the bloke dropped dead and I had the task of telling the woman upstairs that her brief love affair was over. Not only did she not believe me, but she carried on acting as if he was still alive, stuffing love letters through the letterbox and proclaiming her desire for him through the carpet at the flat downstairs.
The moral of the story is – the distinction between being dead and being dead drunk resides in the fact that even though you’re dead, there may still be someone who is dead drunk that wants to shag you. Don’t ever underestimate the power of beer goggles.
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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.
