» Karma

Icy Goodness
One cold and snowy day, I was amongst a bunch of commuters walking out of Marylebone Station in London - the forecourt was covered with a sheet of ice and it was extremely tricky to find a way across. Subsequently, we were all picking our way very slowly and probably looking like a selection of mongs.

Some twunt in a pin-striped suit (there's a lot of 'em here) was obviously pissed off with our tremulous progress and pushed past, shouting, "Excuse me!" and tutting loudly.

Rather predictably (although not to him, obviously) his doom was close at hand. The ice and his speed combined to make him slip in the best way I have ever seen anyone do it - both legs raised high up in the air, where he seemed to hang for a delicious amount of time, before smacking down very heavily onto his arse.

I am proud of my fellow commuters - they joined me in pointing at him and laughing in a loud and prolonged manner (no mean feat when also trying to maintain one's balance).

Watching him slip over again when trying to stand up served only to increase our joy.
(Thu 21st Feb 2008, 17:16, More)

» Blood

Big Irish Ciaran.
I taught with him in Japan - the kids loved him because his name sounds like kirin, a word that can be used for 'giraffe' (he's particularly tall, even when not placed in a race of midgets).

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing - his Japanese was in a fledgling state, but he was fairly competent. So one day, when he's telling his class about a traditional Irish breakfast, he explains about black pudding. He accompanies this with the kanji for pig blood on the blackboard.

The kids go fucking nuts: the girls are screaming, the boys are petending to puke. 'WTF?' thinks Ciaran. 'This from a nation that eats snacks made from fried chicken cartilage and fermented beans?'

The Japanese teacher he works with sidles over. 'Erm, Ciaran-sensei? Is this true?' he asks, and points at the kanji. 'Sure,' replies Ciaran. 'Pig blood.'

There's a pause. 'Erm, Ciaran-sensei, this not say pig blood. This say, erm, pig period. You tell kids you eat pig period.'

Hmm...another bunch of potentially dumb tourists with crazed beliefs is on its way to England.
(Wed 13th Aug 2008, 11:04, More)

» Cringe!

Being somewhat of a lazy bastard
I used to called into the little convenience store next to my flat in Japan and buy a bowl of pre-cooked rice, which the little man would heat up for me.

One day, I bought two, thinking I'd egg-fry the second one the following evening (always better if it's left in the fridge for a night). The little man asked me if I wanted them both heated up, but I just said, 'No, only this one.'

In Japanese, that would be, 'Kore dake.' I said that, and he looked at me with a bemused and yet scared expression. 'Eh?' he responded.

'Kore dake. Kore. Dake.' He continued to look scared and I'm thinking, 'For fuck's sake - it's your bloody language I'm speaking.'

This went on for some time, before I suddenly realised - I wasn't saying, 'kore dake' at all. I was saying, nay shouting, 'Kore dare! Kore dare!'

The poor man was just trying to understand why the crazy gaijin was pointing at a bowl of rice and shouting, 'Who is this? Who! Is this?'

I spent the next few weeks frequenting the store across the road instead.
(Wed 3rd Dec 2008, 16:00, More)

» Customers from Hell

A cheeky pearoast from me...
For a short, unhappy time, I worked for Abbey (then National), just as they were taking over the N&P. So I started at an N&P branch, where they had open counters.

A very angry man came in, bypassed the queue of people and marched up to my counter. He shouted, "Do you mind fucking telling me why my fucking card doesn't work in your fucking machine?" At this point, he rudely flicked the card across the counter and it slid to a halt right in front of me. Whilst he continued to rant and rave, and everyone in the branch watched and waited, I looked at the card and had one of those glorious moments of impending victory.

When he had finished swearing, I pushed the card back across to him with the tip of my pen and said sweetly (but very loudly), "Sir, this is your BT chargecard. Perhaps you'd like to try your cashcard instead." To his credit, he blushed and said, "I look like a bit of twat, don't I?" I just smiled.
(Wed 10th Sep 2008, 13:29, More)

» Blood

Somerfield
when it used to be the mighty Gateway (to nowhere), opened a store not too far from where I lived. In the midst of our A'Levels as we were, my friends and I all applied to work there on Saturdays. We all got jobs. Much fucking fun was to be had from then on, because we were all simply arsing around all day, barely earning our miniscule pay, so we could all head over to Newquay in the evening and piss it all up the wall (in a manner of speaking).

I performed various functions; yes even that sort, as cherries popping were not only to be found in the greengrocery aisle. However, I digress...

I worked mainly on the tills: chewing gum, chatting to the girls on the adjacent tills, whizzing tins through at high speed in order to crush all the fruit, basically performing all the duties you look for in your checkout wench. But I also managed to wangle a stint in the butchery section.

Wangle may not sound like the right word; you might think 'be lumbered with' to be a more appropriate description. But when one of the butchers is a lunatic with a determined propensity for fun and the other one you're shagging, there is much potential for enjoyment. And blood. (Fortunately not during the shagging.)

Daily tasks included scraping the block (loved doing that!) and chopping things up (why didn't I stay in butchery, I wonder?). We also had to save any blood we could in a large bucket which was stored in the chiller. I never questioned this, just added the mortal liquids of various unfortunate animals to said bucket and headed off to join in The Great Warehouse Toilet Roll Fight, or whatever (for instigator of said fights, see Hugh G. Rection who lurketh here somewhere).

The day came when I found out what the blood was for. One of the assistant managers was due to leave and a lovely surprise had been arranged for him. At the end of his last day, he was dragged from the shop floor to the loading bay, where he himself was loaded into a cage and subjected to a pelting. Sadly for him, though this pelting began with flour and eggs, someone threw a tin and it went downhill from there.

And there, at the end of it all, stood the lunatic butcher with his bucket, to which had been added entrails and eyes and other pieces of animal that not even Gateway would try to sell, and which had been allowed to stand outside the chiller for the last few days. The butcher called to the assistant manager, who blinded by most of the contents of the last delivery turned to face the direction of the voice. Seconds later, the contents of the bucket were in his face, eyes, ears and mouth.

How proud I felt to have contributed to such fun. For the record, once he'd finished being violently sick and been home and showered, we did take him out and get him truly wrecked.

Footnote:
The butcher had a bit of blood left over; the next day he made a small hole in the base of a polystyrene tray and stuck his thumb through, so it looked like it was lying on it. Then he dripped blood all over it and went running to the hapless first-aider, claiming it belonged to the other butcher. She fainted, so it was handy to find out she couldn't be relied upon if any genuine chopping- related emergencies arose.
(Thu 7th Aug 2008, 18:14, More)