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This is a question Petty Officials

Bob de Bilde says: A traffic warden threatened to call the police and have me arrested because "It's illegal to take photos in the street. You might be a paedophile". I was taking a picture of a funny street sign, over which I had no plans to masturbate. Tell us about petty officials talking bollocks.

(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 15:05)
Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

"Hey! You!"
I was a fair distance away from Tesco when I heard the call from somewhere behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and could see that it was addressed to me. A PCSO was lumbering along the pavement.
"Me?"
"Of course you. Turn out your pockets."
"Why?"
"I was just in Tesco, and the security guard and I both saw you leave without paying."

It's true. I had left without paying, and was bang to rights on that front. I offered a defence. "They didn't have what I wanted. I didn't pay because I didn't take anything."

The PCSO took a moment to compute this. "But we both saw you leave."
"Yes. That's because I don't live there."
"But why did you have your hands in your pockets?"

Good lord. There was no way I was going to be able to answer that question clearly. I gave the only response I could. "Eh?"
"You had your hands in your pockets, and you left without paying. That's suspicious. So I want you to turn out your pockets."
"No."
"You do know I can arrest you for shoplifting, don't you?"
"You're a PCSO. No you can't. And even if you could, not buying something isn't an arrestable offence. To the best of my knowledge, it isn't an offence at all - even if you have your hands in your pockets."
"Then prove you didn't steal anything."
"I don't have to. It's up to you to show that something was stolen, and that there's a reasonable chance I stole it."
"Right. Stop playing games. I want your name and address."
"Tough."
"Resisting arrest is a serious matter..."
"Indeed it is," I had to agree.
"Well then."

This was getting nowhere; and though it was May, there was a chilly wind blowing. I was beginning to wish I'd worn a jacket. I could have been home by now had it not been for this pillock. There was a few seconds of silence.

"Listen: just do what I said. Or do you want me to radio for a car and have you arrested?"
"So you're suggesting that you're going to ask to have me arrested for having left a small supermarket with my hands in my pockets? I'm sure that that'll go down well..."

The PCSO began to look a little flustered. "Well, OK, then; but you have to give me your name and address."
"Really, I don't. But I'd like to take your name and number so that I can make a complaint." I had no such intention, of course. I didn't even have a pen on me.
"If you won't give me yours, I don't have to give you mine."
"We both know that that's not how it works. Now, name and number."
"..."

Another few seconds passed as the cogs turned in the PCSO's mind. The wind gusted again, and I suppressed a shiver.
"Oh, all right then," I offered, "let's call it quits." I started to walk away.
"Well... er... Don't do it again!" stammered the PCSO.

It really was unusually cold for the time of year.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 9:54, 28 replies)
International football transfer
My neighbour moved from Belgium to Australia. He had played football for his town in Belgium: when he got to Australia he also wanted to play for his local club there. Before they allowed him to play he had to get a document from Belgium to prove that he had not played at an international level, and had received no pay for playing, and therefore was not a threat to the Aussie football world. This document had to be translated by an official translator and delivered to the Aussie Football Association. All of this took several months. My neighbour was 8 years old.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 13:30, 2 replies)
Courtesy of my brother...
Every year, there's a big military exercise in the Nevada desert. My brother, who's in the air force, was employed for however long it was flying around in a Herc so that people could throw themselves out of it.

He'd flown out on an RAF transport into a USAF base, but was coming back on a civvy flight. Somehow, when he arrived, he'd managed not to get his passport stamped - well, I guess you don't get too many illegals coming in that way. Still, it meant that he had no point-of-entry for the security people to check when he came to leave from LAX. And, of course, they challenged him about this. For them, it was A SERIOUS MATTER.

My brother tried to explain what must have happened, but the security bloke was not budging. My brother had a stroke of genius.
"Does this mean that I'm going to be deported?"
Indeed it might well mean that. My brother looked into the middle distance for a moment, and then suggested that the best solution would be to allow him to deport himself on the aeroplane for which he had a ticket already.

He's in Guantanamo now.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2014, 12:10, 5 replies)
Port of Entry
My son was born in Indonesia. It took us a month to get him a passport and then we had to get him an Indonesian visa. Not only did we have to pay a fine for that month, but we had to specify his port of entry on the visa form. Thank god it was a C-section or I don't know what we'd have put.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 15:08, 1 reply)
Its strictly not officialdom, but my god is this petty
Mother scrapes the barrel in delusional needy umbrage upon discovering her 21 year old son has had a tattoo:

www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/aug/11/devastated-by-my-sons-tattoo

Seriously, not speaking to him for 3 days? Having a meltdown because you've realised you don't physically 'own' him anymore?

Those aren't apron strings, those are evil strangling womb-tentacles from the planet over-bearing. And the staggering thing is she doesn't even really realise it, judging by her whiny me me me fanny-fart of an article. How her son managed to be sane is miraculous.

What an agonizing gusset-louse of a female!
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 15:27, 30 replies)
We parked up in a multistory car park once
and the handbrake failed. When we came back the car was gone. We were obviously quite concerned that our car had been nicked. Then from afar we heard a shout, we looked round to see our car on the lower level. It looked like it had been abandoned in the middle of the car park and there were two traffic warden standing by it. We checked the car over and explained what had happened. We apologised profusely for taking up so much of their time as they has been waiting next to the car for an hour, had called the police to get our details and phoned our house to let us know.. The two jobsworth cunts told us not to worry as it had got them out of the rain. Then the fuckers told us that they were very sorry they wrote us a ticket as it had looked abandoned, but not to worry because if we just explain the situation they were sure we would be let off. When we wrote to the council explaining the situation the cheeky shits wrote back saying that these things happen, not to worry and that the ticket was cancelled.

Mother fucking traffic warden pricks.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 8:15, 6 replies)
Basically, I wasn't allowed to wear my favourite trousers to a funeral.

(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 16:25, 11 replies)
Not an official, as such, just another member of the moronic public...
... Bought a ticket to see second Hobbit movie in HFR 3D. This required a trip to one of the biggest cinemas I've ever been in, screen 1 at the Vue near the Reebok in Bolton. Huge. Seems like it seats a couple of thousand people. Seriously, ENORMOUS. Cannot emphasise enough just how ridiculously many seats there are in this place.

And when you buy a ticket, you get a seat number assigned to you. You can probably tell where this is going. It's reasonably late in the run for this film, so when I enter the cinema alone, I find I am the third person in there. Just two others, way up near the back. So I don't pay any attention to seat numbers or row numbers, just sit down somewhere convenient and settle in to surfing the 'net on my phone waiting for the adverts to stop. The trailers begin... and a couple enter the cinema.

They are patrons number four and five, remember, in a cinema bigger than a football pitch.

They walk around a bit. They closely examine their tickets. They walk around some more. Eventually, after an interminable two minutes or so of wandering around, he comes over and say "I think you're sitting in our seats". Interesting choice of phrase given that there is, as I said, one of me. Even if I am, in fact, in one of the seats he's booked, since my wave function is localised, I'm by definition not simultaneously in the other one too.

As it is, I don't get into a conversation about the Uncertainty Principle with him. I just look around slowly, taking in the THOUSAND EMPTY SEATS surrounding us, and say "Are you serious?".

He similarly looks round, and it slowly dawns on him that he can sit wherever he likes. He mumbles a bit and wanders off.

The film was SHIT.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 11:40, 14 replies)
New manager at work. First team meeting.
She introduced the new continuous improvement plan for staff (which didn't coincide with continuously rising pay)
Telling us all about the new "key performance indicators" (this for a support worker in a care home) she said there were four levels of achievement:
Does not currently achieve standards
Achieves standards
Exceeds Expectations and (eurgh)
Top Talent.

She went on to say that as we are clearly all intelligent, she expected us all to get "exceeds expectations"
I pointed out that it was now by definition impossible for us to exceed her expectations.
She clarified and said "yes, but it just means that this is the level I expect you to be working at"
I asked whether it was acceptable for me to simply "achieve standards", since I did meet standards, didn't have any ambitions to progress, and wasnt motivated to to beyond.
"no. We expect you to continuously improve"
"does my job description change every three months?"
"no"
"am I doing my job acceptably?"
"we're going to leave it there. I want people to exceed expectations, and you'll need to evidence (eurgh) that you have"
(, Sun 30 Mar 2014, 11:06, 17 replies)
doctor's receptionist
this happened to me recently:
me: "can i make an appointment to see the doctor?"
receptionist: "i can't give you an appointment unless you phone up."
me: "but i'm right here, why can't you give me an appointment?"
receptionist: "i just can't, you'll have to phone. there's a phone box outside."
me: "seriously? you're going to make me go to the phone box FIVE FEET OUTSIDE THE FRONT DOOR just to phone up for an appointment?"
receptionist: "well, i can't give you an appointment unless you do. it's been like that for ages."
me: "then why did the receptionist last week give me an appointment when i came in?"
receptionist: "i don't know! she shouldn't have! now, if you want an appointment, you'll have to phone for one."
frustrated, i walked to the phone box outside, from where i could be clearly seen by the receptionist. i inserted my coin and dialled the number.
receptionist: "hello, doctor's surgery, can i help?"
me: "yes. can i make an appointment to see the doctor, please?"
receptionist: "sorry, we've got none left. call back tomorrow."

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 15:56, 14 replies)
Your all racists
 photo thinprivelege_zpsd437db59.jpg
(, Wed 2 Apr 2014, 22:45, 32 replies)
Want petty officialdom? Try dealing with the PTA.
Or Port Transport Authority, to give this waste of time and money it's full name.

Coming into NYC off a cruise ship caused me to have dealings with this bunch of miserable jobsworths. After all the passport bullshit and the 'Welcome to America' now please give us all your fingerprints and iris scan crap, as we were coming in off a boat, we had another line of bureaucracy to get through - the PTA.

They wanted to know if we were bringing in any fish, meat or vegetables from our previous cruise destinations. I told them I wasn't - and the guy said, 'You better not be lying son, the Port Transport Othority takes this very seriously.' And yes, he said 'Othority', which lead me to think that his organisation was called the 'PTO', rather than 'PTA'.

But I was foiled, they found the two sides of smoked salmon I'd bought in Norway before we headed out over the Atlantic. 'I'm going to have to confiscate those' said the very important man, obviously insanely proud that he'd landed a huge, PTO fish haul.
(, Wed 2 Apr 2014, 12:30, 22 replies)
Of speed cameras and petty po-lice.
So there I was, sleeping, as I tend to do at half past two on weekdays. Suddenly, Beeper! Hazmat!
Off I rush to the fire station, and once there I am told to "Get Peter, he's at work." Said Peter works for the company who's truck was involved, so it was assumed that he had some sort of helpful info. Off I went in our nice Golf GTD (Protip to fire departments: Car dealerships can be thankful), blasting down the Autobahn at 230kph. There was some construction, with the normal three lanes reduced to two, but I'd driven through there only hours ago and nobody was on the road, so I kept my speed up. It was actually quite fun, since our Fire law says (in part, and paraphrased) "Anything that furthers the legal duties of a fireman is legal".

I was almost through the construction when it happened. Red flash. "Yup, speed trap," thought I. "No worries, got me flashers on."

Everything went well on the call, we finished up at about daybreak. I came home exhausted, only to find a cop car in my driveway. The two cops got out, and presented me with a picture I recognized: A blaze-orange Golf GTD, with "Feuerwehr" written back-to-front on the hood. Complete with air horns and light bar. There was a man in the driver's seat, and he was wearing a yellow-black-reflective stripes outfit.

"We're taking you down to the station," they said.
"We called the fire department, they said it was you driving, and you certainly look like the guy in the picture," they said.
"220 in an 80? You'll never drive again," they said.

"Fuck off. I had my lights on, you can even see it in your stupid picture," quoth I, and went inside for coffee.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2014, 4:22, 16 replies)
These tales of American Petty Officials seem the norm.
I'm currently working in Afghanistan, and the American imposed rules are usually pretty petty. I was in the PX (a shop about the size of a Tesco express but more military themed and diverse in products) and a woman who worked there stopped me.
her: "Sir, I'd like you to leave."
me: "why?"
her: "because you're wearing shorts"
me: "but I'm in uniform"
her: "that's not the point sir, they're still shorts and still prohibited."
me: "so exactly what sort of freedom has been brought to this patch of desert if you can't wear shorts in it? What sort of freedom have American lives been sacrificed for?"
her: "do you need me to call the MP's?"
me: "yes please, someone's stopping me from doing my shopping in peace!"

She walked off and I hurried up. The MP's we're just coming into the car park, lights and sirens going as I was just leaving.

They've put a sign up since. This applies to civilians, military and of course, the locals - who have worn sandals for centuries.

(, Sun 30 Mar 2014, 5:10, 12 replies)
Walking over an invisible arbitrary line at LAX in an underground walkway...
apparently meant that I had officially left the airport, and had to go around, and go through customs again. The little jobsworth cow who was guarding this invisible line could not handle the fact that there was no one else in the corridor, and there was nothing I could possibly hope to achieve by being a meter "outside" the airport that I couldn’t achieve had I not walked over this sodding line.

No - she was there to guard the line, and make sure no-one walked in the wrong way. Arguments that implied she could perhaps use some common sense, and let me walk the metre back into the airport were met with her fingers inching closer and closer to her walky talky.

Not wanting to upset the Americans and face the inevitability of being shot down in a hail of anti-terrorist gunfire, I grudgingly went off - outside the airport, and went through customs - again.

However - before I went through customs the first time I had eaten the remainder of my stash - and so by the second time I went through I had the mild green tinge of third degree paranoia to contend with while dozens of armed JULFs searched my bag for nail files, bottles of shampoo, lighters and other terrorist essentials.

Again.
(, Sat 29 Mar 2014, 7:19, 4 replies)
US Immigration
I was woken by a 5:00 am call from our London Office. "We have a dangerously ill crew member on a ship 150 miles offshore from you. Arrange a helicopter to get him ashore and into a hospital!" This was not a normal part of my job, but after a few phone calls we were able to make it happen and the crew member was flown directly to the roof of a hospital.

On arrival he was declared dead. Since he was dying, the man had neglected to bring his passport - a reckless oversight it would later emerge. The next step was getting his body back to his home country and family. Unfortunately, US Immigration determined that since he was declared dead immediately after landing at the hospital he must have been alive at the time he entered the US and would have to have his passport stamped before the body could be released. The ship and his passport were now out of helicopter range on their way to North Africa. Even though we got the diplomats involved, Immigration would not budge. So, three weeks later when the ship reached its next port, his passport was sent back to Immigration who then released his body.

And this was before 9/11 so I probably avoided arrest for something like "felony conspiracy to violate immigration law."
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 17:13, 6 replies)
My friend Patricia Hall married a Irishman with and odd surname and had 5 kids.
Oddly enough, this story would also fit into last week's QOTW as, in a fit of faux-social climbing she opted for a double-barreled name on tying the knot.
Anyways, in my village now if you see a ginger child with big ears, chance are it's one of Patty O'Fish-Hall's.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 16:00, 3 replies)
Carousel Craziness
For a couple of years when my girls were small we bought season tickets to a farm park near to where we live. This has pigs and cows and the types of general farmyness that you would expect, plus some small rides and bouncy things to keep those of short stature and matching attention span amused.

Now at August bank holiday or on the first fine weekend in April the place is absolutely rammed but on a cold February afternoon only those who are truly desperate to distract their kids, or who have already foolishly paid for the whole year, ever attend. Falling into both categories we huddle our way around for a while feeding goats and chickens and, somewhat bizarrely, alpacas before the girls want a ride on the carousel. The farm is such a desert that nobody is manning the rides that day and we have to ring a bell and wait for a staff member.

Eventually some kid slouches up and we are assaulted by flashing lights and the sound of a knackered barrel organ as the 30-or-so seater carousel bursts into life. The girls mount their favourite badly-painted chimeric nightmares and after casting around forlornly for any other riders our joyful helper starts the ride.

Now one ride on this pedestrian, shuddering musical abomination would be ample for most right-thinking humans but children have a different sense of amusement to most of us and the girls want to ride this thing again and again. The rules require, however, that each time the ride ends they are ordered off their chosen genetic atrocity and forced to run around and "join the end of the queue". Obviously, during the dozen or so rides that they indulge in, not a single other soul is seen, far less risks losing their place on their favourite monster, but each time the girls dash around the ride to the entrance again only to re-occupy the still-warm seat that they have just vacated.

Why? Really. Just why?
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 12:55, 6 replies)
Paris trains...
Having been advised it's wise to learn some key phrases in French just so you at least look like you're trying while in Paris, I walked up to the information desk at Gare Du Nord and stood quietly waiting for the attendant to look up from his news paper.
That didn't happen, so I cleared my throat politely. He looked up, shook his paper and went back to reading.
"Excuse moi," I began and went in to explain in broken French I was lost and which platform had the train to the station I needed.
He waved his hand vaguely without looking up.
I repeated the question, he shouted something in rapid French and waved again.
I explained I do not speak French, but know numbers, which platform please.
At this point he stood up, looked at me and spat "English!" folded his arms and turned his back.
I asked again, he just stood there with his back to me.
At this point I managed to live up to Australian stereotypes and asked him if he'd mind coming out of his little booth so I could stick his head even further up his arse than it already was, and got a tap on the shoulder.
A woman behind me who had heard the whole thing, said "please, let me", gently moved me aside and proceeded to rip the guy a new one in a blistering tirade I didn't need to any French to understand completely.
At this point he walked off into some little anteroom while she stood there banging on the glass going ballistic.
Another tap on the shoulder and a teenager who had also seen everything said in broken English "this man... I am so sorry, follow me and I will show you your train."
And he did.
Why would you work at an information desk in a place utterly guaranteed to be visited by people who will speak English, if you don't want to give information and have a hatred of anyone who speaks English?
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 0:53, 3 replies)
France is the spiritual home of petty officials.
A friend of mine told me the story this week of how she had wanted to organise a "clean up our parks" initiative, the gist of which was to round up a bunch of people and spend the afternoon in one of the local parks putting all the rubbish they found in bags and then disposing of it safely. She contacted the local town hall about it, who informed her that she'd need a permit if there were going to be more than 20 people in the same place for the same purpose, as that fell under the law on public gatherings. Applying for this permit cost money, needless to say.

She also had to make sure her own insurance covered the potential acts of the people who would be there for the event, in case she or any of her friends damaged the site; her gut reaction was "We're going to pick up rubbish; what the fuck are we supposed to be damaging? Are you afraid we'll step on a blade of grass and condemn it to a slow and painful death?". In the end, the town hall staff dragged their feet so much in giving her the permit that she had to push back the date of the event by a fortnight, and she applied for the permit four months in advance.

All of this was depressingly familiar to me. A friend of a friend at a dinner party once explained the French bureaucrat's attitude to work as: "If I don't have the original form requiring the paperwork in my right hand and the paperwork itself in my left hand at a given moment, the request is clearly fishy and I'm going to chuck it in the bin." You have to declare your local GP in France in order to get your healthcare costs reimbursed by the State, and when I sent the social security fund the form saying my local GP is Dr. X and his surgery is located at Y location, they hadn't received the corresponding attestation from Dr. X himself, so the mouthbreathers just sent the entire 5-page form back to me with all my information crossed out and giant question marks scribbled over every page. Brainless fucks.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 22:12, 10 replies)
I deleted some words off a website once.
And half a dozen petty-minded internet bureaucrats wet themselves in anger.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 21:08, 4 replies)
Pet shop
When I was eighteen odd (and odd) I worked for a pet shop which was part of a chain. Fun job for the young me and I was dedicated. The chain had some fairly customer focused ideas, one of which was offering customers a hot beverage on cold days. We were allocated a supply of teabags, coffee etc which one winter morn ran out.
Being a dedicated soul I ran out and bought some Tetleys out of my own tiny wage, only to be told we couldn't serve the customers anything that wasn't from an 'approved vendor'.
In a fit of pique I took a bag and flung it into the largest fish tank on the premises, one that contained several different groups of types of fish. While it did murk the tank up the different groups did seem to rather enjoy the addition to their tank, genuine displays of affection were witnessed (as much as you can tell with fish anyway).
That was the last time I encountered pet tea of fish shoals.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 18:41, 7 replies)
I win, so you might as well give up now.
www.b3ta.com/questions/jobsworths/post31461

I never nonce-punched a copper, mind.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 17:18, Reply)
I seem to recall a whole messageboard getting stepped.
Something to do with sheds.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2014, 15:12, Reply)
Extended ramble.
Pun.
(, Wed 2 Apr 2014, 12:02, 6 replies)
Yeah, so I was at a Wacky Warehouse and the so-called MANAGEMENT tried to kick us out
of the so-called CHILDRENS PLAY AREA because we were adults and very pissed on White Lightening. There were like 30 of us and at least one had done a martial art. CUNTS
(, Tue 1 Apr 2014, 15:02, 10 replies)
For some, there is no such thing as joy.
Felt slightly guilty about posting the previous link - though I still do rather believe that vapid monster-mother's anti-tattoo tirade is probably genuine, it was rightly pointed out that the Grauniad would not be above hosting it to troll up a bit of response.

But this article, I am plumb-certain the shrieking buerk really believes in: you know that clip of Joanne Milne? The one where she is over-come by the joy of hearing for the first time - a clip of transparently genuine emotion, that touched the vacuous emptiness of even my bitter old soul?

Well, watching/sharing that clip means you hate deaf people.

Because yeah.

The basic line of argument appears to be that all people watching/sharing that clip believe that all deaf people are 'broken' and that all deaf people can be 'fixed.' For lazy people, here are some choice bits:

*the "deaf person hears for the first time" videos don't make me smile. They make me want to throw my computer out a window.

*Note: writing Deaf with a capital D separates people who can't hear from people who consider deafness a major part of their cultural and political identity.

*So what do these videos say to a deaf person who does not want or cannot have the implant? They say, "this other person is healed now, but you will always be broken."

*viral videos aren't about the people who are in them, they're about the people who watch them. It's much easier to look at a 60-second "uplifting" video and tear up and feel really good about yourself for sharing a post to Facebook than it is to learn anything meaningful about the lives of Deaf individuals around the world

Read the full wobbly piece of tripe here.

I don't see anyone making and larger assumptions about deaf people than the militant CODA joy-leech is making about the people watching/sharing the link! And the idea that the link portrays Joanne as walking away with 'fixed' hearing is utter T-Rex shit.

While this bint has no credence in my eyes (ears?) I know she really does mean it. My own hearing hovering between shite and poor, I have run across this attitude before.

The deaf community can indeed be a close, wonderful community with its own language and richness - however, as medical science comes up with clever things like cochlear implants, the petty militants lash out in fear of their shrinking world; I've even heard of people like Joanne being ostracised for trying the implants.

No-one wants to admit being imperfect, but this is B3TA - if we are visiting here, its a pretty good bet we are all already raggy doll broken (but with more outrageous lyrics). So should we, in an orgy of bloody-mindedness, rip off our glasses and grope around helplessly, rather than lose the rich, blurry world of the shitty-sighted? If your leg don't work no more, wouldn't you just call it 'broken'?

Proves that when there is uncomplicated joy, someone somewhere will find a way to object to it. Sad.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2014, 12:48, 20 replies)
the queue to get through security at miami airport is very long and very VERY tedious
my friends and i were shattered after a week of going out too much, and it was an overnight flight. but we stood there patiently and complied. finally, we got through the scanners. as i went to put my passport back in its wallet, i noticed that my driving licence had fallen out.

i turned around. it was clearly visible on the floor, just about 10 cm on the wrong side of the scanner, and about 5m behind me. you can probably see where this is going, but i was blissfully oblivious. i smiled at the female gorilla - who had enjoyed frisking everyone a little bit too much in the anal regions for my personal tastes - and turned around to pick it up.

"what are you doing?" she barked.

"i just - my driving licence, look."

"yeah, i saw you drop it." well thanks for telling me, sweetcheeks.

"right, so can i-"

"NO. you have to queue up again."

for something that she had seen me drop about 30 seconds previously, that was a couple of paces behind me? what the actual fuck? i would have understood it if i had reappeared minutes later or hadn't been in sight the whole time, but she was clearly just doing this to be a cunt.

fortunately i was too tired to articulate what i was thinking, so i just mouthed at her like a goldfish. and even more fortunately the nice man at the front of the queue let me jump back in right in front of him, but i'd have had to miss the plane or pay for a new driving licence if he hadn't. stupid powermad bitch.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2014, 9:59, 17 replies)
I arrived in the USA.
I'd just got off a flight from Tokyo Narita. It was 4am. I was, by dint of being in business class and not being a lazy arse, the first person through the arrivals area and into the immigration zone.

So I turn up at a desk manned by the largest black man I have ever seen. If he stood up, he'd probably have been about five foot eight, but he weighed, at a minumum, thirty stone. His uniform shirt was doing that thing where there are gaps between the buttons because the material is under such strain. I walked smartly up to his desk, put my briefcase on the floor, and waited a moment. He completely ignored me.

Nonplussed by this display of colonial ignorance, I tried to be helpful. I looked around, and noticed a large sign below his desk which explained, in big, red letters that I should (a) stand more or less where I was standing, (b) put my passport on the desk, (c) place my index finger on the little glass pad and (d) look into the camera to the left. So I did all these things.

King Kong now deigned to notice me. "What are you doing?" he inquired. This seemed such a spectacularly obtuse question that I was momentarily confused. There's a massive sign in front of me telling me what to do, in excruciating detail. You presumably spend your entire working day instructing people to do what it says on the sign. And here I am, the only other person for forty metres, doing exactly what it says on the sign. How is this confusing for you?

Eventually I managed to stutter out the word "Well, the sign says..." when the gorilla before me rudely interrupted to inform me "DON'T DO ANYTHING UNTIL I TELL YOU."

Wow. Welcome to the USA.

So many things ran through my mind, but this fuckwit clearly had a tiny, tiny amount of power and was on a hair trigger to use ALL of it at the slightest provocation, so I just smiled and complied.

Fuck America.
(, Sun 30 Mar 2014, 8:39, 11 replies)
I was in a cafe with a little friend of mine but he fucked off to Dagobah without settling up
Pay tea off I shall.

oddly, he did the same thing again when we were playing golf
(, Fri 28 Mar 2014, 22:46, Reply)

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