Will this persecution never end?

Once more I have been affronted, once more I have interacted with society, once more I have shown mercy in the face of stupidity, once more I have just about managed not to bludgeon someone to death with a tire iron, once more I encounter my nemesis!

As I was cycling home through idyllic Acton one bright and sunny day, without a care in the world I came across an oddity, a freak, a ruffian and a rogue! Not for the first time, alas, I run into who I will from now on refer to as Saint John Smedley-Smith-Smyth-Smithe, for such is the snivelling nature of this disgusting creature I imagine that’s the only name his parents could have given him, if indeed he ever had parents and wasn’t created in a lab somewhere.

Once more his opening gambit is as witty as ever: “Still wearing that fucking shirt I see”.

Sadly for him he decides to make this crass remark whilst trying to make a turn, thus leaving him stationary and open to attack. I’m in my usually light hearted mood so I decide to stop for a quick chat.

“Look, just what is your fucking problem?” is my initial retort.

Saint John S-S-S-S comes out with his usual guff about it being “Chelsea innit”, lacking the required whit to use real words it seems.

Angry cyclist: “I don’t care what it is; I take objection to you hurling abuse at me in the street”

Saint John S-S-S-S : “You’re typical Chelsea aren’t you, can’t take a joke”

Enraged Cyclist: “Screaming obscenities as a stranger across the street is not a joke it plain rude. Have you ever thought that you might shout at the wrong person one day and end up with a smack in the mouth?”, I emptily threaten.

Saint John S-S-S-S : “Don’t you have any friends that support someone other than Chelsea?”

Furious Cyclist: “Sure I’ve plenty, but, unlike you, they’re not obnoxious cunts. Have you ever thought that maybe I wear this because it’s bright yellow and I’m on a bike and want to be seen?”

Saint John S-S-S-S: “It’s nothing to do with the color… Do you even go to away games”

Apoplectic Cyclist: “What’s that got to do with it? You don’t get it do you, it’s nothing to do with Chelsea! Why, for example, is a cunt like you wearing a stupid cunty yellow jacket like that? Could it be for safety, could it be so other people can see you?” I say trying to speak down to his level so he might better grasp my message.

Unfortunately at this point I can see his putrid visage is not taking the basic idea in so I decide to leave after politely informing him once more not to shout vulgarities across the street at me in the future.

Just as I wheel round to continue my way home, a motor bike comes past, I stop to let him by, as a sensible road user should. Alas Saint John can’t help himself.

Saint John S-S-S-S: “That’s right cause an accident, typical Chelsea”

Incandescently raging cyclist: “Oh just shut up will you”

I cycle off.

Posted in 1 - Incandescent Rage | Leave a comment

How about I just jam my fingers in the socket?

So I live in a flat, a flat that’s in lovely Londontown, as such it’s got this wonderful new thing plumbed in. The awe inspiring amazement that is electricity!

It’s a great thing, you can do all sorts of things with the stuff. Play games, process food, run disco lights, freeze the corpses of call centre workers and so on. All very handy things I can assure you.

Sadly its so wonderful that you have to actually pay for the flaming stuff, an outrage I’m sure you’ll agree. For reasons I don’t quite understand my glorious flat comes with a key meter and an associated key for charging said meter. It’s a pretty crap thing to have as it involves interacting with the post office once a month which is an infuriating experience.

For 2 years however it’s worked a charm, alas on Friday it decided it was time to throw an A5 error! An A5, the cheek of it!

I phone the nice people at Southern Electric and the lovely person at the other end of the phone promised to wing a new key out to me forth with, which they did. Great!

I pop it into the meter, fuck me what’s this an A7 Error! Fiddlesticks!!

I phone back:

“Ah yes sir that an A7 error, you just need to pop some credit on the key and it’ll be fine”

“Trouble is not sure I have time as you know, it’s Christmas and I’m not sure there are any chavy shops open right now and I’m going away”

“Well there’s not much we can do so just give it a try”


I pop out into the icy wasteland that London had become and find a shop, I pop a pound on the key and it seems to work, woo!

I return to the flat, gently slide the key into the perfectly formed slot, A-motherfucking-7, you’re bloody kidding me…

Back on the phone we go!

Quick explanation later…

“Well I’ll get another key sent out to you”

“Erm trouble is you might have noticed, it’s Christmas and I’m going away so I doubt the key will get to me in time”

“Well there’s nothing I can so”

“What, you can’t get a key to me any other way?”

“You can run your meter to less than a pound, then we can send out an engineer to get it fixed”


“Run the meter down”

“err how”

“Just turn things on”

“No, I don’t have enough things to use that much in a day, and what if I run it down to £1.01 and you still refuse to come, and anyway it’s your fault for sending me a broken key, can’t you just fix it”

“Well if you will rely on a fragile technology. Can’t you just leave things on”

“No, I just told you I don’t have that many things to use that much, it’s not like I have a brace of lathes lying about or anything. What do you mean fragile?”

“Well there’s nothing we can do, if I send an engineer out and they find it above a pound they’ll just take the key and leave”

“Ok can I speak to a supervisor please?”

“You can but they’ll tell you the same thing, you need to run it down”

“That’s as maybe but I’d like to hear it from them”

Hold music ensues and I begin to wonder if this is some hilarious festive prank, also why are they using bits of crap they know don’t work then blaming me for it?

The music ends and quelle fucking surprise, the same hag comes back on the phone having spoken to her supervisor (allegedly) and informs me they CAN actually send someone out, who would have thought it she was lying right to my face. Shockingly though there is a caveat, it’s an all bloody day appointment meaning I have to sit in all day waiting, ever waiting.

“Yeah I guess I don’t have a choice, one thing though, I don’t have a doorbell, can they phone me when they get here otherwise it’ll be a wasted trip and we’ll be in the same problem”

“I can’t garuntee that”

“OK, i’ll just sit outside all day in the snow”

“Can’t you look out the window sir?”

“No the configuration of the flat… Oh whatever I’ll just have to hope they have a phone…”

“Right we’ll book that in tomorrow”

“What, can’t you do that today?”

“No they shut that department at 8”

“Fine, I’ll await a call… Cheers and have a nice Christmas”


I strongly suspect they won’t call and I’ll be buggered and my freezer will melt all its lovely content. Happy chilly Christmas, bastards.

Posted in 2 - Apoplectic | Leave a comment

Do you mind if I just take a crap on your face?

Sometime last week I awoke from a pleasant Sunday slumber with a bout of minor back arghhh. A twinge of pain, a spasm of ache, but nothing too bad, I ignored it and hopped onto the bike and popped to work for a day of exciting graft. Later that day after 7 hours of fun filled keyboard tapping I made my way home. I rustled up a tasty dinner and sat down to watch some guff on the TV or play some game or other. Life was good, well briefly occupied with some pointless activity at least; I decided to celebrate with a yoghurt! I got up and skipped to the fridge, only I didn’t, I ended up hobbling like an old man, bent double with back knack. Ow ow ow! Bollocks, I’ve finally broken myself, so this is the future is it.

I ponder if there might be hope of a recovery and to facilitate this decide that cycling might not be the best idea under the circumstances for a while  As a result I have, since then, been a constant user of the wonderful public transport network of London town.

Now I say wonderful but I mean infuriating of course, all last week I was reminded why I prefer to cycle whenever I get the chance, annoying hags here, screeching children there (at least one of which I’m convinced would have a serious ADD problem if I believed in such nonsense medical conditions*), purulent teenagers gabbling into their idiot boxes everywhere.

All very annoying, but today a new week brought a new nadir, a low so low I felt ill. On the tube home as I was wishing I was listening to some fine filthy minimal tech house tunage but actually rueing leaving headphones at home whilst staring into space when suddenly I hear a “snick snick”.

What the hell is that?

“snick snick”

I look around in confusion.

“snick snick”

Fellow commuters look a little perturbed, what can they see that I can’t.

“snick snick”

I wheel round and spy the source of the offending noise.

“snick snick”

Some filthy bastard is clipping their mother fucking nails on the god damn tube! It’s one thing, albeit quite an annoying thing, to perform personal grooming, such as applying makeup or a quick brush of the hair on the tube. For these things don’t usually result in ex-body parts being fired across a crowded carriage at potential eye removing speed.

“snick snick”

Nail clipping however is quite another matter, he’s not even being that careful about where his detritus is shoting. Anyone could eb rendered blind at any moment, or at least visiably sickened.

“snick snick”

I glare at the vile dunderhead but it’s no use, he’s focusing too much on his pudgy fingers.

“snick snick”

I begin to wish that the train will, at any moment, jolt violently and cause him to cut his fingers off. It doesn’t, for shame. Rather the train pulls, annoyingly smoothly, into the station and he bounds off like nothing has happened leaving behind enough DNA to be fitted up for a brace of bogus police bungles without a care in the world.

Putrid swine!

*It’s might be real, I’ve not looked into it but it sounds made based on reading no evidence at all. Which is good enough for me.

Posted in 2 - Apoplectic | Leave a comment

Are you a criminal?

So I was in delightful Bristoltown at the weekend to take in a boat trip, spy some balloon and imbibe some local booze in the form of cider.

A good night was had by all and rest was forth coming after a slightly unfortunate walk home during which I realised that “things have changed, this used to be all shops, but now it’s a festering cesspool of drunken louts, how distasteful” – I fear old age might be approaching.

Anyway, the next day a light brunch was in order, so my kindly host and I wandered to a nearby café for some light refreshments, I swiped a lovely bottle of overpriced orange juice from the refrigerator and joined the queue in order to pay. Queues are generally quite boring and so a conversation ensued with sisterly companion about nothing in particular. When suddenly from nowhere an outrage occurred, my very being was verbally questioned and assaulted by a vile hag of a woman…

Vile Hag – “Excuse me, are you from Australia?”
Shocked and hurt Me – “Err, what, no, Bristol actually”
Stupid Hag – “OH! Me too!! In Stoke Bishop, just down the way!!!”

Wow, you’re from Bristol? No! Surely not!! What are the chances of two people, both from Bristol, meeting in Bristol. That’s got to be a long shot surely? 1000’s to one no doubt.

Persistent Hag – “It’s just you have an Australian accent”
Confused me – “Hmm no I don’t, that’s a deeply offensive thing to say”

I add, somewhat jokingly whilst wondering if her ears are in some way defective.

Apologetic hag – “Oh no I didn’t mean to be rude”

She replied quite seriously making me wonder if she’s a crackpot.

Crackpot Hag – “Just the tone of your voice is quite Australian. I’ve an aunt who lives in Australia”

At this point I should have just rammed the glass bottle of orange juice into her stupid face in a vain attempt to end this hellish conversation once and for all. Alas I was feeling thirsty and needed the fruity contents to quench the, probably, booze relate, hankering for refreshment I was experiencing. I didn’t though; I did something much, much more stupid; I continued to engage in chit chat…

Stupid me  -”Err that’s nice, where exactly…”
Chatty Hag – “Sydney, near the opera house.  She’s 76, but she moves about much quicker than me mind”

I’m not surprised, you look like you don’t move much at all. If I didn’t know better I would assume you had some nasty debilitating illness that you would not dream of talking about to complete strangers…

Ill hag – “but that’s hardly surprising, I was diagnosed with MS recently.”
Slightly confused as to what to say me – “Hmm oh dear sorry to hear that”
Too much detail hag – “They stuck a huge needle into my spine the other week, it still hurts quite a lot”

At this point there are furtive glances shooting back and forth betwixt sister and I wondering if it might be just easier to leave and die of thirst outside in the sun than listen to more of these inane ramblings. Luckily the gods were looking kindly upon us and the chap behind the counter distracted her with a coffee order long enough to allow me to pay and scamper out before any more details of her ailments were forth coming.

Australian indeed, the fucking cheek of it. If I’d had my didgeridoo with me at the time I would have given her a sound thrashing for that suggestion.

Posted in 2 - Apoplectic | 2 Comments

Hope and Charity

Whilst in Washington of late I noticed some things, it was hot and it was spacious. The spaciousness was filled with many things, monuments, government buildings and, joy of joys, countless charity folk.

I had pleasant encounters with the ACLU trying to gain support for marriage equality who quite understood that I would rather donate to things here and wished me a nice flight.

There was a moron from the Conservative Voters Association (or something) whose opening gambit was so stupidly leading it invited disdain.

“Do you support green energy?”

There was Greenpeace man:

“Hello have you thought about the environment”
“Well yes but there is no point talking to you really, I don’t live here”
“It’s ok, I work for Greenpeace and we operate all over the country”
“No I mean, as you can tell from my preposterous accent, I’m not from this country”
“Oh that’s ok Greenpeace is a global operation”
“Yes I know that, I’m not stupid, I know who Greenpeace are but I’m still not contributing here, it would be financially imprudent due to tax reasons for one thing.”
“They do very good work”
“I don’t care, I’m not giving you any money”

He warbles on a bit whilst I scan the area for a suitable place to sell me some turps and a sandwich then I leave perplexed as to why he was still talking.

These encounters ranged from simply time consuming to pretty annoying but nothing compared to what was to come.

I was strolling around downtown when I spied a stall with some gents, looks like they are some pals of Obama for I see a large poster of Herr Obama. As I get closer something seems amiss, I don’t recall him having a moustache.  Wait that’s not just any moustache, that’s a Hitler moustache. Wait wait, that’s another poster with a nice composite of Obama and Hitler surveying some nice SS troops or something. What the blazes?

I try to take a picture of said poster, so incredulous am I that it’s real, but this involved getting closer, what a mistake. One of the chaps manning the stall sees me close by and tried to speak with me before I can get a shot.

“Do you have a few moments?”
“No not really, that’s just too offensive”
“You’re right Obama’s financial plans are offensive!”

Whilst this might be a witty retort, it still does not really make me wish to continue to converse.

“Err no, likening any politician, in a roughly democratic country, to Hitler is offensive and mostly undermines anything you have to say really”

I walk off uninterested with what he has to say next. As I stroll away some kindly chaps sitting in a nearby cafe suggest I might like to punch him in the face, that’s quite tempting I reply but alas a fist fight does not ensue, for shame.

Posted in 4 - Enraged | 1 Comment

Communists of the world annoy!

Resigned to my fate of 8 hours on a plane for a trip to the USo’A I packed my bags and casually made my way to the aerodrome, with what I assumed was plenty of time, for I do so hate to be late. On arrival I was greeted with a scene more akin to, what I imagine, a Morrisons supermarket might look like on cheap gin Wednesday. People everywhere, most of them looking confused and irate whilst trying desperately to work out which queue to join.  One hapless drunk/traveller even had the temerity to screech at an overly made up employee who happened to be passing:

“Why is this queue moving so much slower than the others?”
“I’m not sure” came the blindingly obvious answer.

Anyway I managed to check in without causing a stir or being tased by customs and made my way to the lounge to await the arrival of my fellow traveller, who it should be noted was running late at this point. So late in fact that check in is almost missed. The boarding for the plane is called and still no sign, oh well I think I’ll just wander to the plane and hope for the best.

Finally just as I am about to board said plane he turns up, at which point it became apparent that Virgin Atlantic has a fantastic punishment for being late to check in, a bloody upgraded to premium economy class (not sure what this means, other than free champers on seating). AN UPGRATE! I’m outraged, why not give those who get there on time the benefits. Yes I realise they are trying to make more money by waiting as long as possible to try and dupe people into paying the £150 they were asking for this benefit, but that’s not the point…

Still at least I’m happy in the knowledge that i have a nice aisle seat and a good book to read, seat 40E, wait E? How can that be an aisle seat? Unless they have a unique seating arrangement something is horribly wrong. I make my way to my home for the next 8 hours to discover it’s not a nice aisle seat at all but one in the middle of a row. Curses!

Not only is did I not get an upgrade, not only did I not get the seat I booked but the seat I did get is next to an enormous galoot from Georgia on one side, and an Azerbaijani on the other (and to complete the communist  trio, a Bulgarian on the far end). Azerbaijani was fine, nice and small and quiet. Hurray! The Georgian on the other hand was not, through no fault of his own admittedly, he was cursed with limbs about 1.8 times longer than they needed to be, this resulted in 8 hours of knees and elbows being jabbed and poked  into my legs, arms and ribs.

The moment he went for the chicken over the stew was particularly bad, all that knife action to cut the stuff up could have easily resulted in a cracked rib had I not been agile enough to dodge the pointy blows.

He did not even seem to care, not a single apology was forthcoming for the bruise educing invasions of my personal space, not even a flicker of guilt at using half my foot well to store his left knee for the whole flight. Bloody communists!

Posted in 3 - Furious, 5 - Angry | Leave a comment

Is that the sound of the fashion police?

Whilst wending my way to and fro my work place sporting my spiffy yet unpleasantly bright 2 years old Chelsea away kit that’s been discussed previously I often receive what can best be described as blindingly idiotic comments.

Swooshing past Loftus road stadium on match day will probably result in at least one “Wooyyyeeeee!! QPR!!!”. Meandering along the Uxbridge road you might hear a brief rendition of  “Come on the Hammers”. Once in a whole you will get an “Come on the Chels!!”. On Tuesday I even got a “I like your t-shirt” from someone who I can only assume was joking or colour blind. Why people feel the need to do this I don’t know, but they do and it’s all quite harmless and best ignored.

However some weeks ago something slightly stranger was screeched in my direction as I peddled sedately up a hill. Some blistering moran going in the other direction probably thought it would be fun to ask me politely at the top of his voice to “Take that fucking shirt off”. Tragically I was going one way, he the other so our meeting was too brief for a witty riposte, or indeed to get a look at him for identification purposes so I just assumed he was a crazy old man and decided to forget about it rather than turn around and chase him down to discover the meaning of this comment.

I thought nothing more of it until yesterday when our paths were fated to cross again, luckily in a much more congenial setting for confrontation, for he was stuck at a set of traffic lights. He spies me again and once more is compelled to yell in my direction:

“I told you to take that fucking shirt off”

Already in a bad mood thanks to Bob ‘Strike Strike Strike’ Crow filling the roads up with idiots I think this is a bit much, I’m not having this, I will not take demands for public indecency from this oik. I come to a halt and enquire.

“I told you before to take that fucking shirt off”
“Sorry, do you have some kind of problem?”

It seems as well as being rude and stupid he’s also deaf, I whirl around and come closer to his hideous visage so he’s more able to hear.

“I said, Do you have some kind of fucking problem”

At this point his tiny mind seems a bit confused, he ceases to be quite as brash and looks a little nervous, I’m guessing he didn’t think I would actually stop.

“Err It’s Chelsea ain’t it”
“Yes, but I asked if you have a fucking problem of some kind?”
“ha, err no, It’s just a joke…”

A joke? A joke is “two men walk into a bar, they both say oww” that’s a joke, albeit it a terrible one. Calling for a random stranger drenched in sweat to expose themselves in public is not a joke, that’s just a weird fetish. I briefly contemplate beating him to within an inch of his life with my bike lock but in the end I decide that the moral high ground has been seized and if I continue I’m in danger of looking like the freak to the now somewhat bemused onlookers. I politely inform him to keep his fucking opinion to himself in future, spin around and cycle off quietly enraged within.

Posted in 4 - Enraged | 5 Comments

But, but, I’m Old!

As I wend my way home from another day at the grind stone I tire as the wind works against me. I dodge and weave the morons who seem determined to hurl themselves under me wheels but finally make it to my road unscathed. I swing into the little lane that leads to my first front door. As usual of late it’s full of crap: a skip, sacks of building rubble, bricks and so on.

Wait! What’s this, there something new! There appears to be an old man standing there looking suspicious. He’s looking suspicious because he’s having a flaming piss.

He spots me and stops what he’s doing and looks guilty and blurts out:

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait. It’s because I’m old…”
“Umm… Yeah ok, whatever”
“I’m old, I could not hold it”

He claims whilst gesticulating wildly.

It’s swiftly apparent, however, that it’s not really his age that’s the problem, it seems more likely that it has something to do with being hammered drunk at 6:07 on a Tuesday evening.

Sadly for him, his slight, drunken, embarrassment was about to increase as a neighbor also appears behind me. He spots her and realises that hanging about making further excuses is probably not the correct course of action.

“I better leave”
“Yes I think you should”

He then staggers past us and the skip to be joined in the street by someone who seems to be an acquaintance. The wander off shouting talking loudly to each other

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure I’ve used a dark ally late at night before to relieve ones self, but 6:07 on a bright sunny evening! No and no old man!

The only saving grace was he was using the fence and not the front door.

Posted in 4 - Enraged | Leave a comment

I fought the law and I may or may not have won.

Now that the new shopping Mecca has opened up at Westfield the powers that be deemed it sensible to improve the transport links and so rustled up a nice spanking new rail station. A station that handily server the wild and dangerous South of London.

I say handily, as I was wending my way to Balham to wolf down several barrels of sauce. So I wander along to the station, sidle up to the barrier and swipe my handy oyster card on the read-y thing and wait on the platform for my train to turn up.

I wait and I wait, being trains they are, of course, delayed but I don’t really care as it’s a short ride so booze will be in hand in no time surely.

The train turns up, I hop on, along with seemingly 5000 other people, the train pulls away with my face pressed against the window. Some stops come and go but in no time at all we are at Balham. I leap from the train, to once again enjoy the sensation of breathing, then make my way to the exit.

I get to the little gate and once again swipe my card, beep, what’s this, I’m being told to seek advice, odd.

Tube user: Hello, my card does not seem to work.
Small Tube worker: Let me check, ah it’s pay as you go, you can’t use that here.
Confused Tube user: Umm pardon

At this point my card is passed to a great gormless galoot of a man:

Galoot: Yeah as the sign say there you can’t use pay as you go.
Me: Err… Ok…. So can I buy a ticket?
Galoot: Well yes but I have to issue you with a penalty notice.
Me: What for?
Galoot: Fare evasion.
Me: But I’m not evading a fare, I’m trying to pay one.
Galoot: You’ve come to a station you don’t have a ticket for.
Me: Fare evasion is not coming up to you and asking to buy a ticket, it’s vaulting the barrier and running off. Fine I’ll go back to Clapham and get one.
Galoot: No you’ll have to pay a penalty for fare evasion.
Me: I’ve not evaded a fare if I’ve not left the station. Anyway why let me onto a system with a card that does not work that seems a little unfair.
Galoot: The maps clearly show you can’t use it.
Me: No they don’t

At this point I get bored of looking into his tedious features so I snatch my oyster card back from his primitive grasp to make my way back to Clapham.

Galoot: Sir you can’t do that, OK I’m calling the police
Me: What for?
Galoot: Fair evasion.
Me: Right, I’m not evading a fair, oh what ever.
Galoot: Your on camera sir.
Me: Really, wow that’s a surprise, cause London is renowned for it’s very limited use of privacy invading cameras.

I didn’t add. Anyway I go to Clapham, get a ticket, don’t get arrested, go back to Balham (£2.10 for a single stop, day light robbery), pop through the barrier, clearly in view of Galoot, don’t get arrested.

I will now just have to sit wait for my front doors to be shattered by a swat team who will then drag me off for a number of tips down some flights of metal stairs before disappearing from the system entirely. It’s been fun.

Posted in 1 - Incandescent Rage | 4 Comments

Change! No, it seems we can’t!

Nothing is more likely to send someone into a rage as change. Not just any kind of change mind you. Some change is great, a change of bed sheets is ace, a change of salary, in the upward direction, is always welcome, a change in job can herald a wonderful change in life.

Yes, some change is good, but there is change that is unwelcome, or rather, the means of getting that change. The kind of change we are discussing here is the handfuls of shrapnel change that you have thrust into your outstretched hand by a bored, uncaring, retail till operatives.

You might wonder how I can get annoyed by getting change give back to me. You’re probably thinking that not getting the change that I am due would be more rage inducing and you’re probably right. It’s the manner in which they dispense this coiny goodness that infuriates me.

You pop into the local Happy Shopper to buy some Happy Shopper Value Arsenic to continue your campaign of terror against your arch enemies. The teller jabs their pudgy fingers at the till ringing up the 0.23p that it costs these days to do away with unsavory elements of life. You take a crisp clean ten pound note from your wallet and hand it over. Several minutes later once they have managed to obtained the correct change from the till you hold out your hand into which they thrust a receipt (that you clearly neither want nor need), a tatty torn five pound note, then finally they dump a handful of change on top of the paper portion.

You glare at them like they are the devil spawn then leave in disgust as they fail to fall prostrate to their knees and apologise for this outrage.

What outrage has occurred  you might wonder? Well the problem here, people, is the order in which the change is returned. It’s an inherent truth that the coins go into the hand first, any right thinking person can see this makes more sense. If you put the coins on top it makes it impossible to pop the notes into your wallet without showering the shop floor with the coin element of your change. If you try to pop the coins into your pocket, you end up ramming the note element into pocket too and as it’s already on the brink of total destruction this last exertion renders it asunder into two worthless parts.

Sure, if I turned up with a huge sack of swag and just grabbed handfuls from it to pay for stuff, it would be OK to assume that I might just lob all the change back into the sack without separating it. However I clearly just withdrew that nice clean ten pound note from a thin, changeless wallet, meaning I will want to separate the two change elements to store them. Separation is only achieved properly if you can grip both elements of the change independently at the same time. This is only possible if the damn coins go first.

Sort it out retails, this has infuriated me for years.

Posted in 2 - Apoplectic | Leave a comment