What made Brian angry today?

The following things made me furious today:

• “Ryan” from Glasgow who claims “Parents don’t influence responsible/irresponsible drinking in their children. Society does.” - yes that’s you imbecile, all children behave exactly the same regardless of parental involvement, that’s why every bloody child drinks exactly the same amount of booze every day. Fuckwhit.
• Ending an email “toot toot” does not make up for the fact your work is really a bit crappy especially considering the amount you are being paid.
• Just give us bloody kettles will you.
• You do not understand the economic crisis, if you did you would not be wasting time writing asinine comments on the internet portraying yourself as a economic genius.
• Tracey ‘Mild Tallent at best’ Emin.
• My god damn self extinguishing oven.

Dogs are universally recognised by all right thinking people as being terrible animals. That’s a given, but like all things, within each group there are still levels of disdain with which things should be treated, some should be shot on sight, others maybe poisoned slowly over some months resulting in a more painless death.

Whilst wandering about past the lawn outside work I spied one such creature off his leash squatting in the corner. Imagine my surprise when he deposited a massive turd on the grass, stood up and trotted his stupid stumpy body over to his twuntish owner, who rather than doing the decent thing and removing the filth his filthy creature had so disgustingly left, he wandered off down the road strutting like his vile stumpy canine companion.

Clearly in this situation there should be police marksmen on every roof top who should immediately kill the dog, to reduce the numbers of these despotic beasts roaming the streets of course, and shoot the owner in the leg to remind him in future should he get another dog to look after it properly.

The fact that is was the kind of dog you only own because it looks like it could, and would, maul a child to death for a laugh, so therefore you look ‘ard too like, made it an even more infuriating episode. The only people who should be able to own such creatures (if they must exist) are small frail female O.A.P’s who look a lot like Joan Hickson. Any posing Yute who wants a dog should only be allowed a Chihuahua or a King Charles Spaniel, with a preeminently attached diamante studded leatherette leash (preferably spelling out the word ‘wanker’ in faux sparkle).

“HAVE ANY VIDEO’S” blared the clearly deranged man almost running into the charity shop I was perusing books in.

Bulgarian Shop assistant: “Yes over there”
SS Officer: “WHERE”
Bulgarian Shop assistant: “Over there”.

He finally spies them, withdraws a pair of specs that remind me of the kind worn by Major Arnold Ernst Toht, the SS officer from Raiders of the Lost Ark with the nasty hand burn. Wandering acorss, he yells back to the girl on the counter:

SS Officer: “ANY OTHER CHARITY SHOPS DOWN THIS WAY?”
Bulgarian Shop assistant: “Yes there are a few a bit further down the road, although I am not sure if they are open”
SS Officer: “WHICH SIDE?”
Bulgarian Shop assistant: “There are a few on each side”
SS Officer: “FAR?”
Bulgarian Shop assistant: “No not very”.

At this point I am wondering what the hell he’s after in such a fashion, maybe he’s heard tell of a first edition copy of Star Wars worth a fortune? Perhaps a rare montage of Queen’s speech outtakes where she’s gotten too pissed on port to continue?

Well it’s soon apparent that it’s not these things that he covets. As he barges some poor man, thumbing through the records, out of the way we learn the truth as he yells to no one in particular - “LOOKING FOR DEATHWISH 5”…

DEATHWISH…. 5…. what the Fucking Mc. Fuck? This is a film that rates a massive 3.6 in imdb, I’ve not seen it, but I’ve seen 1, maybe 2, who knows maybe even 3 when so hungover I was unable to jab at the remote forcefully enough to change the channel but FIVE? You’re kidding me. This must be one of the worst films ever transferred to video, why on earth would you a) be so desperate to get hold of it, but, b) refuse to use a real shop.

I’m actually enraged by his desperation, he could be at home watching something better, for free, and not out annoying me whilst I quietly shopped. Why, at the very time he was trying to source this rot, he could have been at home watching Police Academy 5: Assignment Miami Beach…

He does not find Deathwish 5, he leaves disappointed.

There are several things you don’t want to experience whilst staggering about Ealingtown catastrophically hung over from the previous night’s Gin bender. One of those is being asked to spare 5 minutes for charity, luckily this was not a problem today. Another thing you don’t want it a flaming racket being blared into both ears, especially when each ear is recieveing it’s own different din.

To the left we have bloody Hare Krishnas playing some god awful drum thing, tapping finger cymbals and wailing as they traipse though town, for what purpose I don’t know. They are quite annoying but you can imagine that if they ever got out of hand and induced an incandescent rage they could easily be dealt with by just beating them to death with the banner they like to carry about. Alone this would not have been too much of a rage issue.

Alas in addition to this, the right ear was being assaulted by another audio atrocity, Socialist Worker Man! As a rule he’s an annoying breed at the best of time, yelling on and on about stuff you just can’t quite care about whilst you throw you life away buying crap you probably don’t really need, but today things were far, far, worse. On and on he droned about some theft or other, rich stealing from the poor, banks crushing your soul and so on, all loudly. Very loudly, as it seems he’d saved up and bought himself a bloody electronic speaking-trumpet, where he got the money from I’m not sure, a) money is theft and b) the rich man has stolen it all, apparently.

My head throbs further.

Alright, probably, he’s got a point to some degree, The Man is a bit of a fucker at times, but the problem is how he went about letting everyone know. His actions were so enraging that they actively encouraged me, as i meandered towards the station, to dream of a police state being set up, where this sort of protest would result in an immediate arrest and a swift trip down a flight of metal stairs at the local nick. In this dream state there would be no more headache exacerbating rackets on Saturday mornings, just the happy sound of baton on protester, muffled behind a station wall to a pleasant manageable volume level, joy.

Right so buses are quite useful, however you do have to pay to use them, getting on one, swiping your oyster card and reviving a FAIL notice would suggest that you have not paid and thus don’t deserve travel. Standing there arguing with the beleaguered driver won’t change this fact, claiming that you have £10 on your card holds little water in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The fact that your retarded friends have paid and gone up the stairs whilst shouting after you to hurry up won’t change the fact that you have failed to gain admission to this wonderful transport mechanism.

Realising that this bus is not even going to your destination is not further reason to argue with the driver, he’s not going to change it’s route for you. It’s reason to get off and leave the rest of us in peace. However, once realising the futility of your debate, whilst getting off, it’s not acceptable for one of your moronic friend to demand his “two bucks” back because he was too stupid to check the destination before paying.

What was especially enraging was I was desperately hoping that said friend would argue, to claim back his puny sum of money, further, so I could remove the 5 aussie clams that I happen to have in my wallet, throw it in his face and say “here, champ, have five bucks, now fuck off and let the rest of us go home”.

There was one saving grace that prevented a full bout of apoplexy setting in however. For I was sat safe and warm in the knowledge that not only did your compadres waste £2 on a bus that you were not going to use, but no bus from this stop goes to where you are going. Comforted by the thought that you might drunkenly wait there all night for a bus that won’t turn up, a full rage is prevented.

I am sure everyone knows the story about the little train going about it’s daily business. It goes something like - “A little black train goes down the track. clickety clack, clickety clack.” (alas Amazon “look inside” prevents me from stealing more of this copyrighted material)

What a pleasing tale it is too, a nice little train making a nice little noise as it zooms about it’s track. I’ve been on trains and almost drifted off to sleep, mesmerised by the rhythmic noise that the wheels on track make. Hell, I’ve probably thought I was listening to my iPod on more than one occasion thinking “man these are some awesome minimal tech tunes” only to find myself headphone less and deluded by the “tunes”.

However, this pleasantness is in NO WAY matched by some twunt on the tube clicking a bloody pen on and off, on and off, for half the length of the flaming central line. Click click click click. He was not even deep in thought doing a crossword, click, or heavens forbid sudoku, mainly, click, I imagine, click, cause he lacked the brain required to-do thought. Click click click.

Every station that passes the rage increases, click click click, but it’s one of the situations in life that present a problem. Click.

I could have yelled across the train to stop doing that, click, I could have wrestled the pen from his puny grasp and rammed it into his eye, click, I could have just beaten him to death with a London Lite, click click. However all of these actions would have lead to me being the annoying rage inducing freak on the train which just won’t do, click. Hamstrung by social acceptance all that’s left in the arsenal of the average commuter is the stern glare. Click click.

This was not enough however, oh no. Click.

Locks, as we know have been around for at least 6000 odd years, that’s 6000 years in which knowledge of their usefulness and operation could filter down in to the mental consciousness of all but the simplest morons. Knowing this fact its quite a surprise that my upstairs neighbour seems totally unable to use the fucking things. Every single day I used to come home to find the front (1) door wide open to the world, I would proceed to front (2) door to find, yes you guessed it WIDE BLOODY OPEN. Now I confess that both had odd locks, one was a pain to shut and one you had to get out your key and explicitly lock it (no Yale lock here, oh no).

Fast forward some months and the landlords had obviously noted that someone living in the block was a dim-witted goon and so they attached self closing door spring things, mended front (1) door so it shut easily and added an extra lock self closing lock on the front (2) door. Did this help? Did it my posterior, She still manages to conspire to leave the door open, she must actually be putting effort in now I’m convinced. Even when it is shut she still can’t be arsed to lock the one lock that might stand a chance as retarding a burglar progress whilst breaking in by more than 5 seconds.

I’ve half a mind to break into her flat in the middle of the night and savagely beat to within an inch of her life then steal all her belongings to ensure she understands that locked doors are on the whole a good thing.

One, youth, learn to damn well speak or at least if you must talk before gaining the basic skills in communication at least don’t speak loudly on buses into your stupid mobile phones about absolute crap. Also punctuation does not need to be spoken aloud and “yeah” is not a bloody punctuation mark even if, whilst I slept in today, the rules of spoken punctuation have suddenly changed. Also sitting on a bus talking about the best way to “do” a girl is somewhat less than ideal.

“So yeah, if you want to get at a girl yeah best to go for the face yeah makes them remember yeah forever yeah like these girls yeah had shanks yeah like long ones yeah they cut her up yeah like they were norf London yeah…” blah blah blah. DEAR GOD GIRL SHUT THE HELL UP or at least learn to bloody well articulate a little bit.

Two, Croc shoes on grown adults are clearly wrong, that’s plain for all right thinking folk to see. Crocs with socks, no no and triple no. Stop it, it’s fashion trends gone crazy I tells you. Infuriating!

Ah what a wonderful day, the sun is out the sky is blue, what could hamper such a wonderful day. Nothing at all that’s what. Well nothing other than the rage inducing people of Ealing town that is. Not all of the people obviously, there are some who stay at home, some that just pass by and some who might just be normal enough not to cause a bout of apoplexy. However there is a breed apart from these people and alas they all do the same thing, they work in shops, as sales assistance, and they like to annoy the bejesus out of people who have the audacity to put so much as a toe inside their store.

Haberdasher: “Hello can I help you”
Now irate shopper: “No its OK I was just going to peruse your store using my own eyes to scan the shelves for potential purchases and seek your assistance only if I had a problem finding something I wished to buy, however now I’ll just leave straight away to learn you that I can’t be brow beaten into buying things from your haberdashery store.
Haderdasher: “OK Bye! Please come again.”

Or words to that effect.

In this day and age of course this is quite common so fails to raise more than a light ire. However Ealing is no normal town, oh no, for Ealing has a nice cooks shop, Whisk. It’s full of nice cooking things, nice cooking things that you don’t really want to buy but are nice to look at, Moroccan tagines, avocado peelers etc. It also has two other characteristics, one, it sells microplane graters that I quite fancy buying and two, it employs in it’s service the most annoying, middle aged, ugly, hag-faced witch ever to gain employment in the service industry.

So once again I sally forth into the establishment trying to run the gauntlet in avoiding her and making a purchase, I wait outside till she’s talking to someone else, I make a dash for it, I enter, wander with some speed towards the destination of the planes, but I’m distracted by some fancy nutmeg mill and begin to peruse the wares. WHAT WAS I THINKING? I should have grabbed what I wanted and run (via the lovely looking other assistant at the till of course). I did not however, I dallied, I paused, I waited. Fatal!

Hag-faced witch: “Hello, do you need help with anything.”
Incandescent Brian: “No, just looking.”
Hag-faced witch: “We have some other mills over here too”
Incandescent Brian: “I’m just looking”

Alas it’s too late, the rage has been induced, I’m forced to leave the store once again before I launch into an abusive stream of rage directed straight at this devil spawn of shop assistance where I would no doubt point out that when I said “No” I meant no, not “yes but I’ll say no just so you can ignore my wishes and try to help me anyway”.

I’ve been trying to buy one for months but she interjects every time. You might think just suck it up and buy it whilst dealing with her. I did that once buy something in there (a removable head spatula, very good for cake making) and ended up listening to her drone on for 10 minute about all sorts of crap. I think the only solution would be to buy the nice serrated chefs knife I’ve been coveting and brutally butcher her there and then, for the good of everyone you’ll understand.

Stupid plastic key

This is the main source of my rage today, why doesit even exist, why? It might be sleeplesness rather than planet hating hotel chains I suppose but the result is the same, rage.