Letters to fuckwits
Mild-mannered commuter. Patient shopper. Mousey Nine-to-fiver. Silent Queuer. Sweet-natured colleague. Personable acquaintance. Docile pavement-user.
Yes, yes, I have you fooled. You think Im that – you think I am, and the cast-down eyes and meek stride convince you that youre right. You think I mean you no harm; but sadly, I do. I mean you very much harm indeed.
At least, I think thats what the rest of the world can see.
Of course, anyone whos walked with me, worked with me, lived with me knows about my flashes of homicidal rage. Theyre momentary, magnificent, and of course, completely and utterly rational – in that its clear that theyre very annoying, completely in the wrong, and possibly deserve to be sent next-day delivery to Siberia. And then exploded with a straw like Ribena cartons.
See, I never actually argue with them or say anything, or even tut (or any some such significant action) at all.
But I think such detailed, vicious, verbose diatribes against them – boy, I tell you, if any of these people with the ability to turn their headphones up so high you can hear a loud clear tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch from the other end of the carriage can also read minds, then gosh theyre going to be sorry they wake up in the morning.
I wonder if someday Im going to snap – and actually open my mouth and berate the litter-droppers, social-morons, slow-walking, volume-cocks that seem to populate my world
And, I have to say, who seem to populate it particularly when Ive had a crappy day (or may plausibly have the Ladytensions).
Still. They never get said, they never have been said, they never will be said.
I just wanted to let rip here, instead – lets face it, if your blog isnt your duvet, and you cant let something go underneath it and trap some peoples heads under there to appreciate it, what is the true point of the medium?
To the lady at Brighton station who wandered past the single queue that fed the cash machines (some five people long) stood directly behind someone using one of the machines, and then leapt to it once they left
God LORD, woman. This is just the Way that we DO it! This is way we queue! Were British! I mean come on – how long have you lived in this country? About 55 years, right? Because by the looks of you, youre about 55.
Oh – youre 40? Oh gosh I AM sorry. But come now. Surely youve noticed that this is the way people queue in a civilised society. For a multiple outlet facility, you form ONE queue, if you can imagine – No, hang on, you dont NEED to, because theres one RIGHT HERE, which you JUST WALKED PAST
Well, you get the idea.
Then of course there were the large number of ridiculously dressed first-year students walking at blimey-my-legs-are-combat-pant-strapped-together-arent-I-kewl? pace.
And with one of them shouting JERMYMAR! in my ear as I overtook them, and still shouting JERMYMAR! two minutes later when I caught up to Jemima – with green hair, carefully structured non-caring layered look (made in China, only £30.00 from Top Shop) and faux-rock chick chic, that screamed I developed a personality only last week almost as loudly as the anti-war badges that speckled her £150 gift-from-daddy-bag – it was only someones hand pulling my arm into a god-were-almost-thirty-arent-we shop (to buy an extension lead and some of those coat hooks that fit neatly over doors, yes) that stopped me sarcasming
Hey! R tard! Two things! Well three, if you count that youre an idiot. But
b) You try too hard, stop it. And
c) Your dumbfuck mates been yelling at you for five minutes.
I dont know if will ever say any of these things out loud. Ever ever ever.
Partly because theyre really quite abrasive and might upset someone, some of them; partly because I clearly enjoy saying them in my head so much; and mainly because Im a gigantic pussy who would clearly never say anything this rude to anyone.
No no, if I pull a hissy fit; because of bad days, idiots, circumstances, hormones – its going to be at my friends, or my beloved.
The rest of the world may well think Im an angel. Because outwardly, Im really surprisingly calm, when you take into account that my universe is clearly filled with the most irritating people it is possible to imagine.
I may write some more letters to fuckwits. Its somewhat theraputic
For the Love of Kinnock, what the HELL is wrong with you?