SOMETIMES IT'S HARD TO BE A WOMAN

Keep moving Nicola, the monsters are coming...

I have had my mobile phone number for several years now. I'm very happy with it, whatever it is. 
The previous owners of my number have moved on to newer sexier numbers. They are presumably happy in their lives and not being pestered by people looking for me. 
I'm not so lucky. 
For the past year I have been getting regular calls from what I'm guessing are debt collection agencies for a guy called Scott and a girl called Nicola. 
I have no wish to out them by giving their second names as I have a sneaking admiration for their ability to confound these ghouls, these dealers in misery who enjoy their jobs just too much. 
So let's call her Nicola Bumface.
A Brian called last night interrupting my viewing of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Big mistake.
"Hello, could I speak to Nicola Bumface please?" 
Brian had a flat angry Manchester drawl and was clearly fed up so I thought I would cheer him up. 
"Yes, hello I'm Nicola, can I help?"
"You don't sound like a girl," he droned suspiciously.
"I know, you see Brian I'm half way through a gender realignment process and the hormones are changing my voice. It seems to be working. I've always wanted to be a man ever since I realised the world likes them more .
"You can call me Nick. What can I do for you anyway?"
"Erm OK, sorry to hear that."
"Why are you sorry? I'm delighted. Once these breasts shrink I plan to celebrate by grunting my way to the pub."
"OK," you could tell he was suspicious but he struggled on.
"I need to ask you some security questions."
"Oh, OK. Well I have two locks, a security chain, an alarm called Alan and a cat called Algernon that would rip your eye out in seconds without a thought. A guy can't be to careful."
"No you misunderstand me. I need to know your date of birth and the first line of your address and postcode."
"Oh really? What on earth for? I have always been told not to give out that information."
"I need to establish who you are?"
"I've just spent three years in counselling trying to establish who I am and I decided I want to be a man. I don't truly know what I am yet Brian but I can see myself in the mirror and I can tell you I am who I said I am, apart from a few gorgeous hairs on my chin."
"No no," he interrupted. "I need to know you are who you say you are, for security purposes."
"Given what I am going through do you think it's fair to be questioning my identity? Why would you do that to me? Who are you and why are you calling me? Are you one of them trolls I have heard about?"
"No no, I'm sorry Nicola ..."
"It's Nick."
"Sorry Nick. I need to establish that you are the Nicola Bumface I'm looking for."
"Why are there lots of us?"
"I don't know."
"What's it like being a fella then Brian?"
"I'm sorry what?"
"You know, how cool is it being a bloke?"
"Listen I just need to know that you are Nicola Bumface."
"Who?"
"Nicola Bumface?"
"Oh how embarrassing, no I'm Nicola Pishface. Oh how awkward. I could ask around, see if anyone knows this Bumface for you. Do you fancy meeting up?"
He hung up. If these cowards didn't ring on an unknown number I would have called Brian back and asked him if he was OK and if he had a sister that I could chance my muscular arm with.
People need to pay their way for society to work and I understand money needs collected but debt collection staff are an ugly bunch of people.
Uncompromising tinpot Hitlers. Like mean, intransigent traffic wardens loving their little bit of power in their tiny kingdoms, their sinister hold on people's lives.
They are faceless bullies working for equally faceless clients with no knowledge of the struggle people are having staying afloat.
They care not who is on the receiving end of their vengeful threatening bile either by phone or letter.
Be it the serial scum constantly trying to sneak a con or a busy forgetful mum living hand to mouth, their vicious greed is constant.
Be it a vulnerable pensioner behind on their council tax in a bid to heat their homes or a desperate dad trying to make ends meet while burying his head in the sand, they don't give a shit as long as the call ends with a frightened promise to pay.
These people are monsters. The worst kind, mean and unforgiving with a sad love of the pain and anxiety they peddle.
They are getting busier thanks, in a woeful irony, to the greedy incompetence of their banking paymasters.
They may be just doing their jobs but they are still monsters.
Keep moving Nicola, the monsters are coming.

SO CHARITY DOES BEGIN AT HOME

Charity may well begin here

So I was happily sitting at home there with the kids enjoying a messy supper when for the third night in a row some arse ruined my chaos asking me about money.

The phone rang. Well, I thought, who could this be ruining this idyllic scene of a three-year-old throwing beans over his brothers?

“Hello, is that Mr Hassled?

“No, there is no such person. My wife is Mrs Hassled but I am Mr Rantparrot.  Modern marriage and all that. She refused to take my name you see, choosing instead to take my money.”

“Ah, I would like to speak to you about helping those less fortunate than yourself.

”I am pretty unfortunate,” I said. "You will have to go some to beat me."

Now I don't want to target any particular charity as they all work from the same template with these calls, but this is how the conversation went.

"No seriously, there are those that are desperate for your help. You can help.  

“Is that right? I can’t feed my own children, what makes you think I can help anyone else?

"As we speak, my demonic one is pursuing my shy one around the kitchen with a chip covered in tomato sauce insisting it’s his chopped off finger. Things have got messy. How can I help?”

She told me that for as little as £5 a month I can help do earth shattering things all over the world.

She added: "There is a recession on Mr Hassled and all charities are feeling the squeeze." She added while they continued to strive to bring some hope into the lives of children/the poor/the deprived/the...list goes on

“Oh,” I replied.

“As I said It’s Mr Rantparrot not Mr Hassled. You would remember that if you could lift your eyes from your script and imagine you are dealing with a real person with his own frailties, worries and financial concerns.

“I know there is a recession on, it started here in this house a long time ago. I have no issue with you trying to raise money but I do take issue with it being asked for while I am watching my kids fight.

"I take further issue with the fact that at some point my wife or I were kind enough to give to a charity and leave our details only to have that generosity abused by people constantly calling for more."

“But Mr Hass…Rantparrot, it is important we get the message out there by any means possible.”

“You seem to be taking the old maxim charity begins at home to mean it begins here and only here. It doesn’t.  Can I go now?. I said”

“You must understand how much these people struggle and how much a simple direct debit from you can help,” she was sounding desperate now.

“I do understand, I sympathise, I give to charities in all manner of ways. It is not for you to tell me what I need to understand. I will be the judge of that. Do you fully understand the issue or do you just fully understand your script. Do not tell me what I need to understand.

“We give when we can, we do not give when are bullied.

“How much do you give every month?”

She wasn’t so keen on letting me know.

“That’s my business sir.”

“But do you give to this particular charity?”

“That’s my business sir,” she repeated.

“Then the charities I give to is my business as well and if I give to you then you will know about it and have an unfair advantage.

“As we have established, charity begins at home, I am at home and dispensing charity and first aid on a minute by minute basis. Why just now I am trying to reattach a bloodied finger that is actually a chip onto the finger of small child whose imagination is such that he now believes he has chopped off his sixth finger.

"Now I am going to hang up. I know that by telling you this I have nullified the effectiveness of the hanging up, but none the less…”

Drought, famine and disease take a horrendous toll around the world, especially among the young and the vulnerable. Mental health, poverty and deprivation should be higher up everyone's agenda.

I do not and will not belittle the efforts of charity fundraisers but, for crying out loud, leave me a little peace at home.

I do what I can and give what I can afford. I am intelligent enough to understand the maths and do not need to be called at home with dramatic and emotional demands for money. Stop it.

I have every sympathy with charities whose revenues are down. I have even more sympathy with the people they are trying to help and will help when I can. I do not need prompted, it makes me cross.

I have asked several times for this cold calling to end. It hasn’t. As far as I am concerned, I am now allowed to be as rude as I want when they try again.

You have been warned. 

TAILGATE GATE

WHEN SUITS ATTACK - IT CAN TURN NASTY

So I was happily driving home from work when I spotted a fury of a car screeching down the on ramp onto the motorway.
Well, I thought, as he tore onto the road in his Audi Getoutmyway, wonder if his wife is in labour or he needs a poo?
He sped past some old dear up the inside lane and I could see he was alone, just him, his club foot, his 4x4 and his god-given right to be ahead of everyone.
He swept across the three lanes like a hot knife with no indicators slashing at some butter.
Well I thought, this should set his piles to tingle as I shimmied the 1.6 Mazda into the fast lane just in front of him.
To make it worse, I only indicated as I settled into what was now a not so fast lane.
Not sure what happened to him next. I think a wasp maybe got into the car as he spent the next 500 yards waving his arms in all directions at once while screaming.
Crikey I thought, that must be some size of a bloody wasp. It must have stung him on his face as well as it was swelling up and going a very uncomfortable looking colour.
He was built like his car, huge with bits he would never need. He had alloy eyes with diabetes and high blood pressure on show for all to see.
I could now see why he was in such a rush, he was drowning in his own suit. It was eating him alive, squeezing the life out him so as his head got smaller his suit grew and grew.
His tiny fat head was sticking out of a jacket that was consuming him, pushing him down into the quicksand of his collar.
He was closer and angrier now but all I could see was a man out of control as his suit eat him, his arms flayed around after a deadly wasp and his car tried to get jiggy with mine.
As he fought the wasp, his car played out a high speed courtship with mine. It started by getting very close, then began flashing its big white eyes off and on constantly as its horn began its loud serenade.
I was down to 50mph by now and the middle lane traffic was undertaking me. The fluorescent chap behind me moved into the middle lane.
He pulled up alongside me as traffic slowed when we approached a stretch of motorway where police have said everyone must slow down as we have a surplus of 50mph signs and need somewhere to put them.
I pulled my window down in order to check he was OK, but he started shouting.
It could have been: Oh you, rid of me of this wasp as I battle my man-eating suit."
Or it might have been: "Oy you f*****g wan*er, I will rip your f*****g head off."
Of course, he may have been talking to the wasp although why he would wind his window down and shout it across at me is anyone's guess but a a man being eaten by a suit is likely to get desperate.
Smiling didn't help, he got even crosser.
But what really boiled his pish was me shouting through my open window that I couldn't hear him as my window was broken before flicking the button to raise it.
I lowered it again to say: "It's such a nuisance, bloody windows. Nice suit by the way."
I sped off as much as my sweet little Mazda allowed me and cut in to take my exit with him now stuck in the middle lane unable to get out as a flurry of equally cross drivers now drove within an inch of each other in a desperate bid to win race no one else was taking part in.
But I'm not sure he heard me as the wasp was back and his arms were everywhere again.
Never saw him again, shame.
I don't like being bullied, anywhere. I will do what it takes to end it. If you have a fast or big car, it doesn't give you any more rights than those in smaller or slower motors.
The places slower drivers go are just as important as the places you apparently needed to be yesterday. Set off earlier, get a helicopter, use a TARDIS, do something else other than bullying, harassing and annoying people with the same rights on the road as you, gobshites.
I am still out there fighting daily. I may be a bad driver but at least I am wasp free, have manners, indicators, and remember this, no sense of self preservation.
Take care.

CONVERSATIONAL FURNITURE

Chatty chair

So this is what I would ask you, the people who read this: What annoys you?

Don't tell me. Please don’t tell me. I only ask because someone asked me the other day if I knew what annoyed him.

He actually decided to waste my time and his by saying: "Do you know what really annoys me?"

Then he looked quizzically at me for a few seconds as though I might know.

I know that I am supposed to say "no" or "what" but we never got to that.

I replied: "Is it people asking you questions you had no hope in hell of answering, say like, do you know what annoys me? Is that it?"

"Oooh touchy," he said.

"Ok," I said, "I'll play. What annoys you, it had better be good or I'm going to beat you to death with my growing sense of disappointment."

Turns out it was fish from the fishmonger that still had bones in it.

He is probably still lying on the ground picking the bones of my disappointment out of his arse.

No I don't know what annoys you, how could I?

You're not wearing a T-shirt with the slogan 'corn beef really annoys me' on it. There is no clue in your features. I was not warned in advance that I may face a grilling about your personal preferences.

Why not just say what really annoys you? "Corn beef really annoys me," there you said it and we can move on to discuss why.

Why waste time? We only have a short while on this earth.

The wife tells me it's just a language tool, conversational furniture or something.

What the f**k is conversational furniture?

It's the sort of phrase a modern art fan might come up with. Is it counter intuitive? I don't want to sneer but, no hang on, I really do. Conversational furniture, for crying out loud.

Next time someone says to me 'you know what really annoys me', I am going to punch them in the face and say: “Is it that?”

Or I will just keep asking them.

I will bring myself to my full tiny height and reel them off.

I will say: “Is it dolphins, is it Wakefield, is it cheap carpets, lite instead of light, is it when people say aks instead of ask, cardinals, Weetabix, the Scottish Widows woman, Dave Lee Travis, chairs, products like "No one would believe it's anything but margarine?

"Is it tomatoes, women, lifts, sausages, caramel shortcake, cheese, town halls, paper, football, soup, elbows, Chinese lanterns, is it bollox terms like counter intuitive or conversational furniture?"

Then when their face stops squinting and I can see tears in their eyes, I will say: "No sorry I don't know, you better tell me."

I pity the person who approaches me and says 'you'll never guess what happened to me today'. I will, even if it takes me all day.

Then they can go to the next person and say: “This guy really annoyed me today by reeling of a list of pish when I asked him if he knew what annoyed me.”

You see, they will actually say what annoyed them, leaving them in no doubt what it is. Victory will be mine.

And you know when someone says "don't look back just now", I don't and I don't feel an overriding compulsion to do so. It annoys people that I don't even make the effort. Weird eh?

A LITTLE RESPEC FOR THE OLD MAN PLEASE

1. 

   Look - is this pic of this person's front or the back?

   So, this lurid chunky Spandex nightmare came at me in the car park and said I needed to learn some 'respec' as I had distractedly neglected to hold a door open for her.

   
   

   This woman had a builders arse on the front end of her, astonishing. I don't know if her top was supposed to be up there above the navel (SMART ARSE WIFE) or was too scared of the crevice below it to venture down.

   
   

   I said I would likely respect her more if she understood the word rather than use it as a pointless and ill informed attack.

   
   

   One of her chins formed into a frown so I said I am older than you, maybe you should respect me for no other reason than I have managed to live longer than you.

   
   

   She got pretty fed up with my attitude if what passed for a response was anything to go by.
   
   There was certain words I understood but quiet a lot that was simply really heavy noise.
   
   They came at me at a pace and were made all the more terrifying as the pitch and tone directly corresponded with the movement of the front arse.
   
   It was hypnotic. I was lost in the rise and fall, the turn and twist, the agonised heaving of this heavenly body. It was awkwardly compelling, like watching a couple arguing in a pub.

   
   

   Young people please stop using the word respect without understanding its limitations.
   
   
   I pointed out to this young pie fan that the t in respect was not silent, it is needed, like it is in twat.
   

   
   The classic song is not R.E.S.P.E.C is it , no it's not. It is R.E.S.P.E.C.T - see the T is bloody important as that is how it is how we spell it, with a T.

   
   
   I have no reason to respect or indeed 'respec' you. Why would I? I resent the assumption from anyone that I should automatically respect them without knowing them or what they have done to earn the respect. 
   
   It is a vastly overused word. A word abused by those who fit the award about as much as the Spandex ugliness fitted her majesty in the car park.
   
   I respect people who are great at what they do, who are kind or brutally annoying.
   
   People who know what they are and are comfortable with that, or people who simply have never cared about the opinion of others towards them, I respect that.
   
   I don't respect someone because they are above me in the food chain professionally or are faster than me at football. I don't respect people because they are simply there and somehow deserving of it.
   
   I most certainly do not respect a two-arsed Spandex simpleton who cannot even say the word properly. If I had know before what I knew afterwards, I would have slammed the door shut.
   
   
   

   We parted company best of pals but I couldn't help thinking someone should buy her a full length mirror, just so she could check what she is inflicting on others as she heads through the town.
   
   She maybe needs to show a little 'respec' to the sensibilities of sensitive folk like me

   
   

   Oh and another thing, not everything is 'random', stop saying that as well.

GREGGS IS NOT ALONE

As a footnote to the Greggs post, I just found this ramble from a while ago that shows their staff are not alone.

I asked a young member of staff in Morrisons if they sold almond flour.

He said: "Yeah probably, this is a supermarket."

He then walked away.

My little son and I stood there in deep admiration of this wit for some time.

Made my day, I almost cried.

People need to learn that rudeness is not necessarily a bad thing.

LAPSES THAT TURN PRO

1. 

   A prolapsed bus

   So I had to get the bus to work a while ago there after an unconvincing lurch to the environmentally friendly from my mechanic who fitted my car with an unwelcome, unwanted and accidental immobiliser.

   
   

   It was a joy.

   
   

   Real people eating stuff, drinking stuff and talking as though they were happy. Most bizarre. Some were literally talking pish, great.

   
   

   The lady in front of me was telling her pal about her prolapsed bladder.

   
   

   I didn't know what a prolapse was and wondered what had lapsed so dramatically to make it a pro. 

   
   

   Can you get amateur lapses?

   
   

   I am a prolapsed Catholic, not like those amateur lapsed Catholics who occasionally head back to chapel to keep their hand in.

   
   

   She was pretty graphic at one point but I stared at my shiny new phone and looked up prolapsed bladder on Google.

   
   

   Crikey, I moved back a seat or two as I wasn't wearing my mac. I enjoy honesty as much as the next man, providing he likes honesty of course. If he doesn't then we are all knackered, but really, this was just too much for me.

   
   

   I could do without a graphic depiction of another's suffering as I make my way to work where, well I hear about other people's sufferings.

   
   

   I checked the overly chatty lady's seat after she got off just to make sure she had not forgotten anything. Am kind like that.

   
   

   I may get the bus again depending on the efficiency of the dopey mechanic. I fully expect to go to pick the car up only to find it has become a bike.

   
   

   I may get the train, although that is fraught with angry bags taking up seats.