» Things we do to fit in

Things we do to fit in
When I was a 15 year old lad, back in '84, my first girlfriend lived 12 miles away in the nearest town to my village. There was only one bus a day and that was at 7am, so there was only one answer. I had to cycle.

However there was the question of how to cycle 12 miles in the 28 degree summer heat, and still look like a New Romantic when I got there.

With my limited funds, the nearest I could get to looking like Simon Le Bon was to purchase an army surplus tunic, made of that green horsehair shit. Looked cool,I thought, as long as no one noticed the sweat patches on my back and armpits.

This left me with the final issue of my hair. Now I still have hair that has a slight wave in it. Not curly enough to look after itself, but just enough life to sentence me to daily hairwashing, or having a special needs hairstyle. Aged 15, though, my hair was full Duran length, and the slightest puff of wind would send it into a sort of demented furball, which given my weekly quest of getting closer and closer to my girlfriends fanny, simply wouldn't do.

The solution? Simple.

I'm sat here still cringing, 25 years on, at the thought that I used to ride down the main road every saturday, in soaring temperatures, wearing that fucking tunic and a matching green wool balaclava.

Never did get any further than her tits.
(Tue 20th Jan 2009, 19:14, More)

» Workplace Boredom

I worked in a Onestop convenience store in the mid 90's...
...one of those overgrown newsagents, that sells groceries and stays open till 11pm a la tesco metro. I was earning a bit of cash to pay for a nice drug-addled thai beach holiday, whilst finishing a post-grad course. I was evening supervisor, and my god was it dull. The conversational abilities of my, mostly teenage, colleagues was...um...non-existent, and after realising that there is only so much fun you can have with the stock, I started to turn on my customers.

Not the nice ones, you'll understand, but the arrogant cocks in suits who think that the customer is always right, even in a fucking Onestop.

My tactics were varied and many. My favorite was simply saying 'Pardon?' everytime the customer spoke, and repeating their words with an imaginary speech impediment. "Thothages? pardon?.. ..ahhh sausages! Yes off course. Down the back on the left hand side next to the pork pies" "Nose-pipers?.....ah, you mean newspapers" etc

The most impressive? The fake-rejected debit card. All that is needed is a large queue, who are tired and impatient enough to be interested to know who, what and why they are being held up, all standing behind the obnoxious cockmuncher, who is about to receive a lesson in humility from your tired and harrassed narrator.

In the days before the modern electronic switch units it was all done, under the counter and away from the prying eyes of the soon to be humiliated customer.

Customer keys in number onto pad. I, after a brief pause, announce (just a little more loudly than is really necessary) that the card has been rejected. All ears in the queue pick up, customer replies tetchily that that cannot be the case. "Ok" I say "let's try again, just in case you misentered the number.... it is your card isn't it, sir?" (cue rage)

"Ok...here we go...it's...no, sorry sir, it's rejecting the transaction again sir. Are you sure you aren't overdrawn, sir?" (cue more rage)

"Obviously, the card only works if the account is in credit, sir, if you are overdrawn the bank rejects your card. Doesn't happen often here, sir, but it's always when the customer hasn't got any money left in the account" (eyes popping out on stalks by now)

"Yes, sir, even so, you'll need to check with your bank that you have some money in your account,.. no, sir I am the manager... I'm afraid I can't serve you if you can't afford to pay, sir...next customer, please"

He he he
(Sat 10th Jan 2009, 19:09, More)