What made Brian angry today?

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!

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.

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

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.