What made Brian angry today?

It will come as no surprise to learn that using the public highways, in all their glorious forms, gives rise to an incredible amount of potential rage. Almost all the users of said roads are clearly out to cause as much outrage as is humanly possible during their pointless journeys. This is especially true of the ones that are on trips to drop their darling little Tarquins and Tabithas off at their local prep schools in cars so big I’m surprised they can even see whether the kid is sat in it or not such is the distance from window to seat.

Why, this very mornings I encountered just such a person, sat high up in her stupid chav tractor sneering at the world below whilst sweeping to her little darling through the scum filled streets as fast as possible. Whilst passing though a junction an outrage occurred to her life, there was some traffic impeding her path, what to do, what to do! I imagine a look of horror and disgust sweeping over her face as she realised that a bunch of plebs were holding her up for a few seconds. She could have waited of course, like everyone else, at the right place. Alternatively she could assume that she’s better than the rest of the world and just park in the middle of the bloody junction, despite the glaring yellow boxes indicating that this is not permissible, so as not to be further held up the pesky traffic lights.

Often I wouldn’t really give a flying hoot about such selfish behaviour, only on this day, at this time, I was trying to go through said junction in the perpendicular direction to her. Was I able to? Was I buggery, she’d blocked the whole fucking junction off with her stupidly enormous car/lorry hybrid causing me to almost fall off my bike. Now like all good rage filled individuals I attempted to attract her attention so I could mouth obscenities at her as she sat there flagrantly breaking the law, but what’s this, she refuses to look up. Glaring ever forward, no doubt aware that she’s in the wrong and avoiding any possible confrontation. It’s not hard to obey simple road instructions, big yellow boxes, don’t bloody stop on them.

I imagine when the hopefully inevitable fine wings it’s way to her, probably stone clad, abode she’ll be outraged at this “stealth tax” being imposed on her by the draconian motoring overlords. Good I say, don’t want to pay “stealth taxes” don’t bloody get in my way by blocking junctions. Next she’ll be moaning about not being allowed in a bus lane.

Also for the love of all that’s decent in the world, you do not have a bloody princess on board, you’re not the worlds best mum and you’re not driving “mummy’s taxi”, unless you are charging little Jasmica for these trips to school, which kind of invalidates the best mum claim… Sticking little notices in the window alluding to such dubious assertions is neither clever nor witty. The only reason I can think you might have one is to tell people not to crash into you as you have a child somewhere on the car. Only that, a) assumes that people make a choice of who to hit before they slam into another vehicle, and b) would actively encourage me to run you off the road for being stupid.

I bet if I could have been bothered to check you would have had some stupid personalised number plates too. Witch.

After a fine hour or two perusing the fine fare on the aisle of my local supermarket I took my trolley, laden with goodies (and non alcoholic beer), towards the checkout in an endeavour to pay.

There are some basic rules to picking the correct checkout at the supermarket, they are pretty obvious:

• Never go for one that’s got a queue of people all with fully laden trolleys.
• Never go for the one that’s got the old chap, he’s friendly but terribly slow.
• Never go for the ones where the checkout urchin looks under 18, when you are buying 20 litres of fistfight cooking cider the last thing you want to do is wait for an ageing supervisor to slink over and jab the keypad to authorise your dubious life choices.
• Never go for the queue that looks empty because there’s only one person on it, it’s a trap, always a trap.

Clearly I was still suffering from the prior evenings drain cleaner binge, for I broke this last, but most golden, rule. I sidled up to the checkout, there was hardly anything on the belt, the basket of the only person in the queue was mostly empty, this was a sure fire quick exit!

The problem was thus, the basket was attached, not to the arm of the person, but to the front of a flaming mobility scooter. Now, I know, I know, have some patience for the elderly, fine, I will cut this seemingly pleasant old lady some slack and refrain from bludgeoning her to death with a tin of Brasso.

I stand there and watch as she very slowly, one by one, transfers things from basket to belt. Once it’s all loaded she gives the till chap a mysterious bit of paper which seems to take up several minutes of his attention, this does not look good, but wait, he’s put it to one side.

Excellent I think, we’re on the move now, might take her a while to pack but this still looks like a good choice of queue.

Wrong.

Not only is the customer suffering from a touch of infirmity and thus slowness, but the bloody teller was a complete moron. I could have trained a stoat to pack things into bags faster than this goitre was managing. I’ll be here all bloody afternoon at this rate I think.

Whilst becoming increasingly infuriated at the dunderhead’s speed or lack there of, I failed to notice something terrible happening. The old woman had started a conversation with a passing friend, this would be fine if they were on a park bench and I was not being held up, but frankly, less chat more cash please!

The packing was finally done, the total was rung, time to pay… Umm hello… pay please… Or sit there having an inane conversation maybe?

Older OAP: Oh yes, it’s wonderful, they deliver it right to your house.
Younger OAP: Really Doris your such an inspiration to us all doing this for yourself!
Teller: Err that’ll be £29:08
Older Hag: Oh it’s easy they do all the carrying really.
Younger Hag: That’s good, it leaves you free to get a pint on the way home ha ha ha
Day dreaming rageaholic: Just pay for you crap and piss off please, I have some sherry that needs drinking.

Finally she pays, after a few more minutes reminising about when this was all fields, the bags are taken away, hopefully to be filled with poison before being delivered to the home, but does she wheel her self out the bloody way, does she buggery. She just sits there in the comfort of her chair carrying on her stupid conversation with this other hag. Honestly there should be rules against this, they should insist that old people go to old man till, at least that way they would be sperareted off at their own speed.