commuter

The Arse Parrot

Posted on by Peregrine

The joys of commuting. The wonderful experience of being crammed into a small metal box with a bunch of strangers with varying degrees of personal hygiene is without doubt, one of the hilights of my day.

Take today, for example, I had positioned myself with an optimum chance of getting on the train within the first wave of commuters. This skill comes through daily practice of studying where the train doors will be when the train stops. Over time I have harnessed a skill like that of clairvoyance, knowing roughly, exactly, where abouts, approximately the train will accurately stop and therefore where to stand relative to the doors for optimum boarding efficiency. I pride myself in my accuracy these days, although it’s probably not the most interesting thing to brag about, especially at a training session at work during the introductions where you share an interesting fact about yourself during an “Ice-breaker.” Yes, you might have someone in the group who travelled to Africa to help build a well for an impoverished community; someone who trialled for a Premier League football team; or someone who met Paula Abdul whilst shopping for athlete’s foot cream in Boots the chemist; but throwing your hat in the ring, regaling the room with how you know exactly where the doors of the train are going to stop, unfortunately, doesn’t impress anyone.

Today was no exception with my train boarding abilities my friends, and I was one of the first wave to board the train. The choice of seats available to me was a joyous sight indeed; the spoils of my hard work being the choice of a rapidly decreasing number of available seats. Granted, not all of the seats would be an option. It depends how filthy they are and if there is any question of whether a stain is wet or dry, it’s just not worth the risk. Today, however, I opted to not delve quite so deep into the carriage, because I knew that the train was going to get very busy and the deeper into the carriage I am, the greater the slog to wade my way through a sea of commuters to get back to a door. Crowd surfing hasn’t been trialled yet but I think it’s a good idea. My stop was the third one along and so I decided to take a stain-free, aisle seat, next to a young lady and near the door.

This was my mistake. 

At the next station, a further mass of miserable office workers pile onto the train, making the population of commuters much denser. It was then that I felt a pressure on my left shoulder. I was not prepared for what I was about to find; for as I turned my head to the left, I found staring right at me, perched comfortably on my shoulder, a man’s arse. This bloke was taking liberties here. I mean, who did he think he was, perched on my shoulder, casually, like a boy band member, dressed in white, on a stool about to sing a tender love song to a bunch of screaming thirteen year olds in 1994! 

I din’t think this was a conscious decision by the man. I think it just happened but still, it was just there, as bold a brass, perched neatly on my shoulder. I’d had a long day at work, (well, it felt long); I didn’t want my face to be in such close proximity to another man’s exit hole, with only a couple of layers of material keeping us apart. That is assuming of course, that he wasn’t going commando.

I was hemmed in, I had nowhere to go and the owner of this anus was also squashed in, hence the shoulder stool he had found. My range of movement was minimal. I did what I could, I leaned away to my right. 

This, I could tell, made the lady to my right a bit uncomfortable because now she had a strange, yet ruggedly good looking and bald man, leaning towards her. She responded by also leaning to her right as far as she could go, which wasn’t far at all. 

This wouldn’t have been as bad, if that had been the end of it. But now sensing the space behind him, the owner of the balloon knot filled the space once again resting it on my shoulder like a Shitting Arse Parrot, like I was some sort of posterior pirate called Captain Brown-Eye. It was disgusting.

My only other option, because I couldn’t lean further to the right, I’d have been resting my head on the lady’s shoulder which to be honest, would have felt a bit like cheating, and on a packed train full of people, the female scream draws a lot of attention. So I leaned forward, and the cheeks kind of flopped behind me. I wondered whether to flip reverse the awkwardness by now leaning back to rest my head again his buttock like a fleshy gluteus cushion. Of course, I didn’t. That would be ridiculous and very wrong. So instead, I was now practically doubled up like I had a stomach cramp. Oh well, just two more stops to go.

At my stop, I stood up and followed my “close friend” off the train. He was taller than I and so I did think that this could have been avoided if he was a couple of inches shorter. But equally, I was also grateful that he hadn’t opted to turn around. It could have been like a scarf over the back of a chair! That would have been worse, surely. 

I have to count my blessings also in that he didn’t have jacket potato and beans for lunch. Every cloud I guess.

So let this be a warning to you, out there, in the urban jungle, these are unwritten rules of commuting. Never opt for an aisle seat, near the door on a packed train. 

Or, if you’re standing and it’s very cramped, consider a shoulder stool. 

Maybe that’s why large shoulder pads died out after the eighties?

P.S: If you’re wondering the relevance of the above image, I searched for Arse Parrot and that’s what came up. 

#baldmanproblems

Posted on by Peregrine

I’ve discovered that I have a “look.” A “look” that’s more common than I realised. Since I bought some new glasses with a thicker frame, it’s become very apparent that I am indeed one of the many who have adopted “The Look.”

It’s like when you purchase a new car. You feel great as you drive around in your red Ford KA and then you see another, then another and another. Your bubble bursts when you realise that every other bloody driver on the road has a red Ford KA.

I’m the same now with my newly discovered “look.” I’m just another bald man with spectacles. Just another bog standard photo fit; another face in the classic 80’s game Guess Who; another creative possibility for a child at Christmas with a new Mr Potato Head.

Get a hard boiled egg. Draw a pair of glasses on it with a marker pen. Congratulations, you’ve just created “The Look.”

The other day I stepped into the reception area of work as I was heading home. I found a colleague who happens to be a bald man (completely shaved like me) with spectacles, signing out. Next to him, the coffee machine repair guy who just so happened to also be bald (completely shaven like us) with spectacles. He also had a striking ginger beard but he still sported “The Look.” He was part of the club.

“Bloody hell,” I said, “Three in a row!” I was genuinely enthused by this moment. I contemplated getting a selfie with them to share on social media to bring joy to all who gazed upon the three bespectacled baldies like we had just been uncovered on some kind of baldy scratch card where three baldies with glasses can win you a hair transplant and laser eye surgery.

Or we could have a selfie with our heads side by side, looking downwards. If we drew nipples on our heads and if the lady on reception stood behind us, we could be recreating that three breasted woman in Total Recall.

three-beasted-hooker

Unfortunately, I wasn’t met with the same level of enthusiasm in return. There’d be no time for banter here; no Total Recall re-enactment today. Personally I think they just need to open their minds.

Anyway, needless to say, I didn’t ask for a selfie.

Then today I left work a little late and had to get a dash on for the train. There’s a fine window of opportunity but who should I see running across my path as I burst through the exit door? Yes, a bald and bespectacled man, heading for the station.

As he ran past other commuters heading in that direction, I realised that my sprint for the train was now redundant. I will not be part of some humorous spectacle like a bald man charity dash or a glitch in the Matrix! I will not be a source of amusement! I was laughed at enough in the playground but not at thirty five damn it!

The fact that he was running in a kind of overly zealous, bouncy, children’s TV presenter way didn’t help and I didn’t want the other commuters to think I was chasing him.

Plus I’d probably try to beat him. It’s completely incongruent with the unwritten urban law of bald brotherhood. A baldy should never go head to head with a baldy.

So to prevent ridicule, I missed the train.

People with hair will never know the struggle.

Peaky Blinder

Posted on by Peregrine

I was on the very busy train home. We were crammed in like sardines but I had managed to bag myself a good spot next to the door. This meant that not only was I the welcoming face of commuting for those embarking on the journey home, I was also in prime position to dash off as soon as the door opens at my station. It’s imperative that I reach my Grump Mobile as quickly as possible so as to not get caught in the queue of traffic attempting to leave the station car park.

 

I was stood there minding my own business and wondering who it was around me who was emitting the natural au de armpit fragrance. My instinct was telling me it was the young lady with the shocking fake tan.

 

Fake tan is something I’ve never understood. Surely it would be better to buy and apply creosote rather than fake tan? You see, the trouble with fake tan is that it’s… well… fake! Obviously fake. If you’ve plastered yourself in fake tan, everyone around knows that you’ve been trying to apply an even covering but instead look like you’ve gotten into a fight at a Dulux tester pot counter and lost to someone armed with Orange Mocha or whatever the colour is that you’ve rag rolled yourself in.

 

On the opposite side of the vestibule area, near the door on the other side of the carriage, were three guys in their early twenties. One of them was doing most of the talking. He was one of those guys who likes the attention he gets when his voice penetrates the silence of a small group of strangers in a confined space. He has an audience. We don’t want to be an audience but alas we are trapped and have no choice.

 

So he confidently cracks jokes and makes his friends laugh who remain more composed because they don’t really want the attention of complete strangers looking at them.

 

Then I hear him say to the other two, “Yo, have you seen dat show, Peaky Blinders?”

 

I knew immediately that he was referring to me.

 

Firstly we had just made eye contact and I could almost see the cogs working in his mind and his face change as he’s hit with a lightening bolt of inspiration. That, and because I was the only guy in the vicinity wearing a cap.

 

I am a bald man. Therefore, it goes without saying that I am a man of many hats. It’s what we do. We can’t have different hairstyles to change our appearance. We can’t decide to grow our hair, spike it, shape it, cut it or choose between a side parting, no parting or centre parting. We have always got a very large centre parting! So to change our style, we rely on accessorising. Hats are our accessory with practical benefits of maintaining warmth in the winter and protection from the sun in summer. All bases are covered.

 

Sure enough I was wearing a cap not too dissimilar to ones worn in the television show Peaky Blinders. With my black jacket on and shirt collar protruding from underneath the jacket layer, maybe I did appear to be Peaky Blinderesque.

 

The guy was obviously taking the piss. So how best to react to it? Ignore it? Acknowledge it? Metaphorically disembowel them with a verbal onslaught?

 

“Nah! I aint seen it!” replied one of his friends. “Why?”

 

Brilliant, the joke had been put out there. It could have just had a laugh and put straight to bed, but now it is being prolonged. It’s going to be left to linger on the air like au de armpit.

 

“Oh, it’s just dat I’ve see someone who looks like it like.” Yes, he said, “like it like.”  Another friend of his craned his neck around like something out of the exorcist and looked in my direction.

 

So now I had to decide what to do. I couldn’t just ignore it, the reference was so loud that it was obvious. Any apparent lack of awareness of what had been said would be so obvious it would be embarrassing. No, best to tackle this head on. ‘Smile at them,’ I thought to myself. Not in a kind of cheeky, flirtatious smile you might send across a carriage to someone who catches your eye. (Something which I’ve never done by the way). No this was going to be a straightforward friendly knowing smile. A hypothetical tip of the cap to say, “Good one fellas. I know it’s a gag about me and I’m totally cool about that. I am so cool and confident in my own skin that I take no offense to your accurate observation.

 

I would gain their respect by demonstrating that I can laugh at myself. They’ll think I’m cool. Maybe they’ll want to “hang out” or whatever the on trend noun is for sitting in a skate park with a few bottles of cheap cider. I wouldn’t be hanging out with them though. They’re not the kind of people I would fraternise with.

 

So, to the guy who made the observation and the exorcist one, I nodded and smiled.

 

There, that’ll gain their respect. I have revealed myself to be a cool guy, up for a bit of banter.

 

But I haven’t. You see, I wear glasses and when I wear a cap with my glasses, sometimes when I move my face in a certain way, for example chewing or smiling, my glasses do something weird.

 

There I was smiling and nodding and appearing to float in front of my face are my glasses having lifted off my nose and hitting the underside of my cap’s peak. There the lenses hovered, vibrating slightly like a plucked guitar string in super slow motion. I resembled a cartoon character when the male lead sees an attractive female and their eyes pop out on storks. That was I. But this wasn’t a cartoon, there were no attractive females, just a handful of youths, a lingering joke aimed at me, au de armpit, my smile and my glasses floating out of control in front of my face.

 

I don’t think I gained any respect. But I was first out of the car park.

It’s Me!

Posted on by Peregrine

I stepped off the train this morning and onto the escalator. As I ascended into Grand Central / New Street Station (Is it a shopping centre? Is it a train station? Both!) and I became aware of the wonderful sounds of string instruments. It was somewhat ethereal.

My fellow commuters briefly snapped out of their Monday morning depression and had similar quizzical looks as we tried to work out the source of the grand music.

I had to pass through two ticket barriers and so I removed the annual ticket from its small photo ID wallet and fed it into the slot in the barrier which quickly snatched it from my hand and then spat it out at the top of the barrier. Upon retrieving it, the gate opened and I stepped through.

I let the sounds of the music guide me to a central area of Grand Central/New Street Station to find a  group of commuters watching a string quartet playing the dramatic Game Of Thrones theme tune. It was a promotional thing for the new series that has started. When they finished, they started again and I then noticed that the musicians, despite playing the music to absolute perfection, looked like they were slowly dying inside. From a distance they were playing with exuberance but their eyes betrayed them. All four of them looked like they were so bored of this same tune that they had been playing over and over since perhaps 7.30AM and were due to continue to play over and over until well after rush hour.

I thought that it was kind of like doing lines at school as a punishment. But instead of writing, “Santa Claus is not evil and I have no need to defend myself against him,” the music teacher has said, “You will play the entire theme tune for Game Of Thrones for two and a half hours!”

After hearing the tune for the second time and then after a two second break before they started again, I headed for the second ticket barrier to get to platform 5.

But where was my ticket? I had it just a couple of minutes ago. I checked my pockets, my man bag, my pockets, the pockets of my man bag, my pockets, my man bag pockets again, my back pocket, my man bag again and finally my pockets. Nothing.

Panicked, I saw two sweepers chatting so I asked them if anyone had handed them a pass. “Check lost property,” one said pointing to the sign for “Lost Luggage.” In there I was greeted by a chap in his early twenties who looked like he was fighting to keep awake. Sitting slouched feeling sorry for himself, he was either tired from the early start or the continuing sound of the Game Of Thrones theme tune was really starting to get to him.

My pass, much like his enthusiasm, his hopes and dreams, wasn’t there.

This was not a good start to the week. That bloody music didn’t help either! It only amplified the very dramatic situation I had found myself in.

I emptied my pockets and bag of their entire contents in a quiet little corner because, despite checking these twenty times previously, you never know.

Nothing.

So with the sixth rendition of the Game Of Thrones theme tune, I thought I would ask the two chaps at the gate I had passed through first.

With desperation I asked one of them, let’s call him Vikram, “Excuse me, has anyone handed in a lost train pass within the last 5 minutes?” “What’s the name?” he asked. “Grump,”* I replied. “Grump,” he whispered. I wondered if my notoriety had reached these shopping centre / public transport kingdoms. Damn it, I was starting to even think like a bloody Game Of Thrones character.

He strolled over to a little cupboard and opened it up. He removed a pass and opened it. Lo and behold, in time with a very dramatic part of the seventh version of the Game Of Thrones theme tune, I saw the photo ID card, that familiar bald, dome shaped head and miserable face that I see in the mirror on a daily basis. “That’s it!” I said.

“Nah, it’s a different name,” said Vikram. Was this guy serious? I had told him the name and he had repeated it to me. “Grump!” I repeated with an obvious air of frustration. If only I had my bloody broadsword. “G. R. U. M. P. Grump!” I said with a raised voice. Still Vikram looked at the pass, with my name on it, clearly written in block capital letters, but he still wasn’t convinced.

The music reached another swell as I pointed to the pass, to the one obvious thing about it that could surely end all this confusion. “You see that? That’s a picture of my face!” I said clearly on the brink of going full-on barbarian any second. My weapon? Forget a broadsword or axe. I’ve got a man-bag.

“Oh, yeah, right,” said Vikram, finally handing the pass to me. I thanked him because I was brought up with manners, and relieved that the drama was now over and grateful that a good willed person handed the pass in, I set off to miss my train and escape the eighth rendition of the Game Of Thrones theme tune.

On the later train heading to work, I suddenly found myself humming the bloody theme tune. It had become my ear-worm and would continue to haunt me over and over and over.

Bloody Game Of Thrones. I don’t even watch it!

 

 

* Please note that the author’s real name isn’t Grump. He has a secret identity to protect!

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How To Create A Monster

Posted on by Peregrine

I fear I have created a monster.

 

I was sat on the train approaching my stop when the train manager’s voice came through the speaker. His voice had a personality. He made a slight joke, changing Sandwell & Dudley to, “Dundwell and Sadley,” and following up with, “So good, they named it twice.” His light manner with a slight hint of sarcasm was actually a breath of fresh air. I looked around to see other commuters smiling at this.

 

Usually, the train manager sounds like he is slowly being killed by his job. Like he started the job with all good intentions, but the constant dealing with the general public has ground him down to a mere shadow of his former self and he now sits quietly questioning his life choices and he also thinks his wife is having an affair and his children hate him despite his staff discount on rail travel. This comes across in their usual announcements.

 

But the endearing message from our affable train manager today was good to hear. So much so, that I took to twitter about it.

 

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It’s important to get positive feedback. It’s encouraging, a nice thing to do and despite my normal grumpy exterior I am actually trying to be more positive this year, hence the positive outpouring of appreciation. Okay, maybe not an outpouring. It was just a tweet.

 

Anyway, I received a reply.

 

 

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A few days later, I was on the train heading back. Then the train manager’s voice came over the speaker, “We are now approaching Sandwell & Dudley, that’s Dundwell and Sadley, so good they named it twice!” It was the same guy but something was different. It just wasn’t the same. He’s obviously had the feedback I had given and that had given him a lift and that’s great but, he had become over enthusiastic and too contrived. He was trying too hard to be the comedian. He no longer had the endearing quality that made him so likeable before. He was now, if anything, a bit annoying. Annoying in a kind of Holiday park rep way.

 

I looked around the carriage. Not a single smile on the faces of my fellow commuters. This was a Friday too so this should have been an easy audience to please! No, his genuine, slightly sarcastic and likeable quality had gone. What had I done? I was Frankenstein and I had created a wannabe comedian train conductor who was now annoying. I’m to blame for this!

 

But it’s not the first time I’ve done this. A few years ago I was friendly with one of my neighbours.

 

He was into writing poetry and he also enjoyed playing guitar. “Well, effectively, you could be a song writer then,” I said like a bloody idiot. He then began to write songs and became a bit obsessive about it.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of exploring creativity and I would always encourage that, but then he started singing and, well, it wasn’t the best. Too nice to say anything negative, I continued to encourage it. He didn’t have a bad voice….. for a car alarm.

 

Then he played his first gig and of course, friends and family showed support for him. I was also there showing support and applauding after each song. With the sudden rush of fame, it fuelled his fire even more and while he continued to practice loudly songs about his ex-wife, his current wife patiently put up with it whilst cringing and secretly hating my guts for it.

 

They’re not together anymore and I am certain I’m not to blame for their amicable split. However I can’t help but think that his daily practicing, and the pain that inflicted on his wife, only fuelled her fire and sadly (and dundwell), that was down to me.

 

So, the moral of the story? Sometimes a positive intention creates monsters who become unlikeable to the public.

 

Or you’ll start a chain of events that can ruin a marriage.

The Chase

Posted on by Peregrine

I had left the office, stepping out into the dark, damp and drizzly evening and I had mere minutes to make it to the train station. I started to get a jog on. Not quite a run. I was in a thick coat, dressed for business, and it wasn’t really a sprint kind of situation. A jog would suffice. Plus, I was dressed for winter wearing a scarf and my winter hat of choice.

 

One of these:

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I know, it’s not exactly a fetching look but I’m almost 35 and I feel that “fashion” has had to make way for the preferred choice of the mature man, yes, “functionality.” As a follically challenged man, this type of hat provides warmth to both the exposed parts of my cranium as well as keeping my lugholes protected from any cold draft. I hate cold lugholes, don’t you?

 

I didn’t fasten the strap of my hat under my chin, I needed some ventilation, especially as I was jogging along. Besides, I’m not seven years old. Although, I admit I have fastened it in the past, yes, but only on exceptionally cold mornings!

 

As I jogged along to reach my train in good time, I became aware of the clip clop sound of footsteps at pace behind me. They were more regular than my own steps and getting louder, I was indeed being followed. Or was I being chased? I contemplated looking behind to see who it was but I thought I might look like I’m afraid or paranoid. I could have just suddenly turned in a pre-emptive strike scenario. But that might unnerve an innocent commuter who, like me, were merely in a hurry to make the train. I still didn’t feel very comfortable with this situation though. ‘Great, I look like I’m being chased. I look like an executive man-bag thief!’ I thought.

 

Now a part of me, namely, my competitive ego, thought that I should pick up the pace so that he wouldn’t overtake me. This could be a physical challenge and I could use this to spur me on to make the train in record time. But what if he picks up the pace and I end up in a sudden race? I wasn’t dressed for this and I’m wearing a stupid hat. I’ll be sweating buckets and needing my inhaler by the time I get to the platform! So I decided not to take the bait. No, today will not be a day of athletic competition between two office workers. I’m a grown man, comfortable in my own skin without the need to allow the ego to throw me into sudden competition. I’m better than that.

 

Eventually, I was overtaken by a taller man than I, in business attire, without a hat, running. He wasn’t jogging like me, he was definitely what I would consider running. ‘Great, now I look like I’m chasing him!’ I thought. Then I thought, ‘He’s getting away, you look like you’re losing this chase!’ So I think I may have sped up my jog a little to maintain a certain gap between us. He was now essentially my pace runner.

 

We blitzed past pedestrians heading in the same direction. I wondered if they thought we were part of a new executive running club. I thought of the strapline, Literally Running The Business. ‘I bet we look like a pair of bloody fit blokes,’ I thought. I don’t know what it is about running and my apparent belief that it impresses people. It’s something ingrained from school, when the only way I could impress the girl I fancied was to just run as fast as I could. It never worked. Mainly because, by the time I’d reached the far end of the playground, she had forgotten who I was and Neil Malone had stepped in with his Nike trainers. Damn you Neil Malone with your Nike trainers!

 

The fact is that a 34 year old bald man running doesn’t impress anyone.

 

We continued to keep the pace, running along the wet pavement; our shadows shifting and altering as we both pass each street lamp. As I looked down, I saw his shadow; the light from the street lamp ahead casting the shadow of a running man behind him. I also noticed my shadow cast in front of me from the street lamp behind me. It was then that I noticed the flapping of the sides of my hat. They resembled something. I almost stopped as I realised that our shadows looked like a man being chased by another man, in a dog costume. Yes our shadows resembled an artistic representation of the pursuit of a shoplifter at Euro-Disney. If it was a modern art film, it could be called Le chase a la Goofy. 

 

But I didn’t give up, even though I could see my opponent fellow runner start to slow down. ‘No stamina,’ I thought.

 

He stopped running and continued at a walking pace. I thundered past him, jogging / running, my dog ears flapping in the wind, my man-bag under my arm, my lungs gasping for air as I ran past the diesel guzzling black taxis outside the station.

 

But still, I reached the station first. I was the winner! Better luck next time loser!

 

You can call me…. The Greyhound.

 

 

Swearing: What’s The Point?

Posted on by Peregrine

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I was waiting at a red light and when it turned green I started to pull away. Suddenly to my left, a Vauxhall Zaffira with an overweight woman at the wheel and her chubby kids in the back, came shooting out of the junction to my left. I could only take a guess that they were in a hurry to get to the Macdonalds drive through that was a mere stones throw away from this junction. Perhaps they had an offer on?

I had to slam on the brakes and reacted as most of us would with the non verbal auditory sound of aggression behind the wheel; the obligatory long blast on the horn and when I say long blast, I’m talking a good two seconds which clearly explains my intent without going overboard on the aggression.

I received a response from the woman. She raised her middle finger. There it was, for all to see. A non verbal insult, aimed in my direction.

But as I looked on, I couldn’t help but think how ridiculous that act really is. How could showing her fat sausage like middle finger possibly offend me? If anything it was showing me she had some sort of gland problem.

But as I laughed to myself, I came to realise how stupid that notion really is. How could you get offended by someone showing you a finger? Why does it have to be that part of the anatomy that causes so much offence? Why not the tip of the elbow, the outer side of the ankle or a wisdom tooth, shown with the same evil intent?

Then I started to think about verbal abuse and similarly I came to the same conclusion overall that when you actually look at what’s being said, it’s really stupid and makes no sense.

Two swear words which I can fully understand and appreciate are calling people an Ar$*hole which is not the nicest parts of the body from which our digestive waste is ejected and then of course the other word is calling someone a $h*t. Obviously you are literally calling someone a piece of unwanted human waste which isn’t really good for anything. These insults, I get. I mean I understand! But they’re not used very much in this neck of the woods. I shall take a Grumpy Young look at common swear words and discuss further.

1) F**k off! / F**k You!

Said when you want someone to leave you alone. But the word F**k, is another word for sex. Sex of course, is the natural act of not only showing love and affection but also for procreating. The thing is that sex is enjoyable. (Well, it’s supposed to be. Just depends who you’re doing it with.) But there’s always someone at it and always someone trying to do it. Right now while you’re reading this! Could be the couple who live over the road from you, your colleague who is pulling a sickie from work or maybe even your parents.

So by shouting this you are telling the person you don’t like to Sex off! To procreate off! To have sex! You’re telling them to have a bloody good time! Furthermore, you’re telling someone you don’t like to procreate which is not something you’d really want is it? Some idiot passing on their genes? Well that’s what you’re saying when you say F**k Off!

2) C**t, Tw@t or other derivative.

These words mean lady parts. The C word has a bit more of a gritty edge and is seen as the most offensive of them all. Drop the C Bomb and everyone takes note. Especially in a team meeting at work. Not really appropriate.

But…. what is it about that part of the anatomy that gives it such a bad rep? I mean correct me if I’m wrong, that’s where most men are trying to get to. That’s the promised land! Furthermore, unless you were born using what I shall refer to as, “The sunroof extraction,” then you popped out of one of those! That’s where you came from.

So by calling someone “You Tw@t/C**t!” you are essentially calling them, “A magnetically magical place of wonderment and fascination for most men and also the place you probably popped out of at birth.”

Not offensive at all is it?

3) Dick, cock or other derivative.

Ah, the male counterpart. Admitedly, probably not the most attractive of features and with a lot of attention and pressure surrounding it. But we are again referring to a sexual organ which let’s be honest, blokes struggle to leave alone! Men are very protective over their own package but are more than happy to use the fella when trying to woo the female of the species to reach the promised land, (refer to point two above) so that they can, well, you know, (refer to point one above).

4) W@nk*r

A British insult whereby you are telling a man he masturbates. May as well say the grass is green and the sky is blue really hadn’t you? It’s good for the prostate gland apparently!

5) B@st@rd

This is pretty old school now but nonetheless it means to be born of parents who are not married. However, with increasing house prices and other financial strains that we face nowadays, a wedding is not necessarily at the forefront of couple’s plans. Saving for a deposit for a house is. Therefore, it is becoming a more and more common occurance in todays society.

So when you call someone a “B@st@rd,” what you’re really saying to someone is, “You’re a child born in a modern society whereby a loving relationship is not necessarily defined by a ring on a finger anymore not out of choice but probably due to the increasing financial constraints your parents had at the time you were born. Doesn’t mean they didn’t love eachother!”

So there you have it. Our insults are not really insulting at all.

The next time someone pulls out in front of me I will show them my left eyebrow before shouting, “You sexually active; completely normal bloke who ensures a healthy prostate gland! What were you sex doing? Procreate and spread your genetic code off you favourite place of most men!”

I think they’ll get the message. 

Fiction, Salmon Agility, Brock Lesnar And Wayne

Posted on by Peregrine

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I was waiting for my train at Birmingham International Station. It’s called International not because you can get a train to anywhere on the planet, but because it’s got an airport next door. It’s like calling our home, Chateau Grump Evil Bastard Cat.

 

He is an evil Bastard though. You should see how he looks at me. I hate him.

 

So I was waiting, and then a guy who works in another department and doesn’t live far from me starts to pass by to catch the same train. I sometimes say hello to him. He has a look of permanent surprise.

 

“Hello,” I say. He manages to raise his eyebrows even higher, to almost his hairline. “Hey man.” Yes, he said, “Hey man.” This chap in his thirties, an insurance professional…… person used the phrase, “Hey man,” like he was some sort of rock star from California.

 

I’ve known this chap for a few years now. I say known; I mean I’ve been aware of him for a few years because in a former insurance incarnation, we both worked in the same department of another company. But I always kept my distance. You see, this is a guy who just seems to try too hard to be cool whereas he really isn’t. I don’t mean that disrespectfully. It’s just a fact. He uses all the cool words from the late 80’s and early 90’s. He thinks he’s in Wayne’s World. But the awkwardness is contagious, and I cringe when I hear him talk. When he calls a person, “Dude,” I just want to shake him and look at his shocked face and shout, “For God’s sake man, just relax! You’re trying too hard! You are not Bill S Preston Esquire or Ted Theodore Logan! You are not a Wild Stallion! There is no excellent adventure! You’re trying to sound cool but it’s just awkward!”

 

Maybe he is just being himself. Maybe his awkwardness and throwback attempts at sounding cool are not a sad contrived attempt at being accepted and liked. What do I know? He’s probably a nice guy.

 

So that’s why I said hello. After all, I should try to embrace society. Talk to people. Be friendly, warm, chatty and likeable. But then I noticed that he had changed direction and started to move towards me. I tried not to pull a face. A face that resembled the first and last time I ever tried Semolina. I was probably stuck with him for the entire journey home and I did not want that. But, ‘Give him a chance,’ I thought.

 

He asked me how my day had been. I told him it had been okay, the usual. How had his day been? “Another day in paradise,” he said, laughing at his own wit. Ah, yes, he likes to use clichés for comical effect in a witty manner. I politely half smile. This is going to be a long journey home.

 

We then chatted about commuting and then Wayne told me about how he almost missed a train the other day because it was so packed. There was no room but he decided to go for it and salmon dived onto the train. I don’t know what salmon diving is. I kind of pictured a salmon diving up a waterfall as it heads up stream for spawning. Although I didn’t believe Wayne here, I did find it amusing with the image of him diving with his permanently surprised look and with arms at his side, like a man-salmon, his body just wriggling as it flew through the air. The passengers of the train looking on with a mixture of awe and surprise at this eighties throwback, soaring towards them, only to land on the train and begin spawning on the floor.

 

Okay, I thought, he likes to exaggerate a little bit. No harm in that. Hey, once I told people that I blacked out whilst running and listening to the Rocky IV soundtrack, only to wake up in Aberystwyth with my running shoes on fire and flat battery on my ipod. I did exaggerate a little there. My running shoes were merely smouldering. There’s no harm in a little embellishment for dramatic effect. Salmon dive away Wayne!

 

We laughed about the salmon dive. I cracked a joke. Wayne seemed excited by this. I hope he doesn’t think I want to be his friend. I could return home and find another friend request on Facebook!

 

Then Wayne started to tell me about a time when he was on the train waiting to get off and there was a really large guy standing in the door. He was apparently huge with muscles on muscles. As they arrived at the station, this huge guy wasn’t moving. Wayne stepped up and asked the guy to press the button to open the door. The guy did nothing. He was blocking the way. It was then that Wayne noticed the muscly man was asleep, whilst standing up perfectly straight at the door. I thought that surely the swaying and braking of the train would have prevented anyone from sleeping standing up. Apparently not. Anyway, Wayne couldn’t wake the huge muscly beast that was blocking the way. So he reached over, pressed the button to open the door. Then what did he do?

 

According to Wayne he then hoofed the big guy off the train with a powerful kick. Yes, skinny eighties throwback, with a look of surprise and exceptional fish like agility also has powerful kicks that can kick the equivalent of a sleeping Brock Lesnar off a train, leaving him face planting the platform,  in a semi conscious slumber. And what did Wayne do then? Did he have to battle with the large muscly semi comatose Brock? No, he just walked off. Probably had somewhere to spawn.

 

I imagine the most physical confrontation Wayne gets into, is with a cellophane wrapped lettuce and my money would not be on Wayne.

 

So then I realised that this was to be my journey home. An hours journey, stuck with a surprised, agile, eighties throwback who has the incredible ability to spawn clichés and bullshit!

 

Why do people lie?

 

The train arrived and so I headed for a door. I let Wayne head for the same door and shoot ahead. I then turned and made my way to a different door. A sigh of relief!

 

I didn’t catch Wayne’s response. He always looks surprised.

Is This Supposed To Be Fun?

Posted on by Peregrine

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Try this on the train home from work. It only works during winter months when it’s dark outside. Sit by the window and stare at someones reflection. When they see your reflection staring at them, do not react. Enjoy as they try to work out whether you are staring at them or looking out of the window.

I was doing this and freaking someone out until my concentration was broken when a young chap sat next to me. He had hair and was within my comfort zone. Rarely do I come into such close proximity with hair product. I felt uncomfortable and didn’t like it.

He like many others on the train remained glued to his phone. I glanced down to notice that he was playing a game.

Now back in my day, when I was a young baby faced adonis with beautiful blond locks and a glint of potential in my wide eyes, with one of the first in multifunctional Nokia mobile devices, I used to play the game to play. A real challenge, a test of grit, patience, skill, prognostication (I used a Thesaurus) and yet an extremely simple premise. Of course, I’m talking about the legendary game known as, “Snake.”

I’m not a gamer. I don’t have a console and don’t have any intention of getting one. I grew out of gaming when I discovered boobs, guitars and bourbon…biscuits. But it looks like gaming may have taken a few steps backwards.

What was this game? I don’t know the name but let me explain the rules. You are behind a fast food stall. You have sausages, fries, cartons, skewers, donuts and dips. A cartoon character approaches your stall; a speech bubble appears with a picture such as a carton of fries. Then you select the carton, select the fries and then hand it to them. They eat it and they might order something else like a sausage on a stick with ketchup or they’ll walk away and you wait for the next person to come and make an order.

I know, you’re blown away by this aren’t you? As soon as you finish reading this post you’ll be hunting on your phone for the app!

Okay, Snake wasn’t the most exciting game but it was a challenge. This game was essentially being a fast food vendor. The endless unstoppable imagination and subsequent possibilities of the gaming frontier and yet here, this chap is serving up greasy fries and donuts to ungrateful computer animations. And at no point did I see money changing hands! It’s not even encouraging good business sense!

So is this where we’re at with gaming these days? We’re done with exploring planets, flying fighter planes and space ships, racing supercars, first person shoot em ups, martial arts masters and strategy. No, they’re all old hat. Let’s spend twenty minutes frying food on a street corner!

I wonder if there are other jobs that are seemingly mundane that we can then turn into a high octane, heart thumping exciting rollercoaster of gaming excellence.

The Librarian!

Stamp a book, stamp a book, receive a book, stamp a book, someone joins up, ooooh collect a fine for late return of a book about penguins!

The Ticket Inspector!

Check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, Issue a fine, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, tell them they’re on the wrong train, check the ticket, call British Transport Police because a drunkard is swearing at you, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, check the ticket, issue a fine!

The Potato Quality Controller!

Good potato, good potato, good potato, good potato, Bad potato, Bad potato, good potato, good potato, good potato, good potato, Bad potato, good potato, bad potato, bad potato, good potato, good potato, good potato good potato, good potato.

Level up!

Good potato, Bad potato, Bad potato etc etc.

But then I notice that this young chap next to me is dressed in formal trousers and shoes and has sensible socks, so it’s safe to assume that he works in an office environment much like myself.

So I wonder if somewhere, perhaps on a street corner in New York, there’s a street vendor having a break, on his phone playing one of the greatest gaming apps ever invented. It’s addictive and thrilling. So thrilling you risk missing your stop when gaming whilst using public transport. That is because he’s playing the cutting edge in realistic gaming technology. He’s playing, The Insurance Claims Handler!

 

Game play may consist of the following:

Set up a claim, check the policy wording, turn it down, take a call, get shouted at, pay a claim, pay another claim, set up another claim, take another call, get shouted at, bonus points for calming them down, tell them they’re underinsured, bonus points for hearing the phrase, “What’s the point in having insurance!?”

Level up.

Set up a claim, check the policy, pay a claim, turn another claim down, deal with some post, have a colleague next to you have a break down, take a call, take another call and get shouted at, pay a claim, pay a claim, close a claim, deal with someone who has a leak and doesn’t realise that you are not a plumber, avoid another colleague who has a break down, go to the loo for five minutes to escape, bonus points for getting the drinks in to try to raise the morale of your colleagues, take a call, get shouted at for not picking the phone up even though you are actually on the phone, lose 10 points!

Level up!

Just a thought. Am I wrong? What do you think would make a good mundane game?

Am I Wrong? #2

Posted on by Peregrine

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I saw someone the other day on the train and I had to double take. Okay, let’s be honest, I looked several times. I couldn’t help it.

 

It was a bloke. A bloke, who looked a bit different to you and I. He had a shaved head, had painted these huge thick unconvincing eyebrows on and had feminine clothing, which included a furry scarf. Yes, he wasn’t dressed the most manliest of ways but equally, with his many tattoos and large stature, he was kind of menacing in a femanine kind of way. I was very confused about it all to be honest.

 

But that wasn’t the eye-catching thing. The most eye-catching thing was his top lip which looked like he had recently had botox* injected. Just perhaps a bit too much botox* or it had reacted badly, because this thing was huge.

 

Now I like to write comedy and I like to tweet things, which I find amusing, sometimes even the odd photograph. Seeing something funny on my commute such as someone dressed strangely or a crazy haircut can seem like easy material to make a funny, completely out of touch with fashion, or a jealous hair-based rant about and hopefully cause a chuckle in one of my followers. I sat nearby and took out my phone to grab a sneaky picture. I looked across at him and was in a good place to grab a quick shot. I was trying to think of a funny tag line to add to it and within seconds it could be on line, on the web and people across the globe could have a good laugh at his lips.

 

But I didn’t take a picture. I put my phone away and I genuinely felt disappointed in myself.

 

On another day, maybe I’d have felt different. But, despite my incessant desire to make people laugh through tweets or writing this blog, I felt that if I were to do that, it wouldn’t be comedy, it would be a type of bullying.

 

Comedy is not Bullying.

 

He sat there on a full train and he knew people were looking at his face. His lips swelled to what almost looked like bursting point. I saw everyone glancing across at him, and I did the same because I truly haven’t seen anything like it before. Can I just clarify, I wasn’t staring, wide-eyed and pointing.

 

But if it had been some sort of burn, facial scarring or someone else with a disfigurement, would we have stared as much? Probably not. We’re British and overtly awkward at times, choosing to ignore and pretend it’s not there to hide our own embarrassment and insecurities. Also to try to not make the person with the disfigurement feel bad. So why treat this any different?

 

It played on my mind a little on the journey home as I sat watching other passengers completely entranced by his top lip. I couldn’t help but think that this probably felt different because it was done through vanity and perhaps it had backfired. So much vanity allows us to make fun when it goes wrong. Any kind of overly vain behaviour is frowned upon in our society. It’s just the way we are. No doubt, if one of Kim Kardashian’s buttocks suddenly exploded it would be all over the front of the papers, and the ceiling, and the walls, everywhere and it would also be all over the media for people to sneer at. Because of her vanity, the general consensus of the population would probably not be a general conveyance of sympathy but of laughter and glee at her misfortune. I think that modesty and class are much more admirable than getting a fat ass out on a front page for all to see in an attempt to break the Internet.

 

But then this presupposition might not be correct. I had assumed that this was a bad botox related incident and as much as it looked to be, the fact is that without asking him, I just didn’t know. This might be a bad reaction to a small amount of botox. It might not even be botox. Once, I had a bad reaction to cold sore cream and my lip swelled up albeit, nothing to these proportions.

 

And then we are presuming that this is something that went wrong. Who knows, maybe he’s happy with that? He’s definitely an individual in his appearance.

 

Basically, it’s none of my f*cking business and it is what it is.

 

I don’t know perhaps I’m being a hypocrite. But if I see someone wearing what looks like hairy leggings and a bright orange tank top or a trendy haircut that looks like someone has gotten into a fight with a hedge trimmer and lost, whatever I do, take a photo, tweet or write a post, they’re merely observations, a comment on human nature and it’s changing fashions along with my inability to follow what’s going on. But to do it with this physiological problem, felt to me, like a step too far.

 

I’ll still probably take photos, post online and rant about human nature and hopefully make many of you laugh but I guess I found a line I wouldn’t cross.

 

Not the usual light-hearted post today but, it’s not as if I write anything serious very often. Fear not my Grumpyans for the grumpy service shall resume, as normal, shortly.

*Since this post was first published, Mrs Grump has informed me that the stuff that goes in lips is not botox, it’s filler. So there you go. Now I know. To me, filler is something you use to repair cracks in walls before decorating. You can also get expanding foam to fill larger cracks. Maybe that explains it then, hence the swelling. Every day is a school day.