13.02.11
It's that 'special' time of year again. I was made aware of this when two weeks ago I journeyed to my local ASDA to attain some ingredients for breakfast. I was on aisle 12 perusing the different wines with which to enjoy my first meal of the day. After grabbing a rather fruity Cabernet Sauvignon I headed towards the cashiers but what ho? I was smacked in the face by what initially appeared to be a low-flying red Albatross. This encounter, only predicted by Alfred Hitchcock, prompted me to turn and flee. However, I pulled myself together and decided that this story wouldn't be another case of self inflicted embarrassment. After a second of base human logic I realised I was actually smacked in the face by a huge, imposing heart.
I turned to face the adjacent aisle and there it was, everywhere, contrasts of reds and pinks. Murdered bunnies sat on the shelves marked with arrows through their tummies. A huge blue elephant had been mutilated, some sick bastard had inserted a voice recorder into his trunk, which when tightly squeezed spoke "Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you". I had just been fucking rick-rolled by an undersized Loxodanta Africana (Latin for 'Elephant').
...
14.02.11
I asked someone how they'd be spending Valentine's day when I arrived at school this morning. My companion lifted up his right hand and pointed to it, "I'll draw a heart on this then masturbate until it rubs off".
Although his comment was crude and a classic example of the basest teenage humour, he made some sense. A good wank is far cheaper than a table for two at Pizza Express.
Here's an interesting statistic, the major category of people that swap Valentines cards range from 6 - 10 years old. Typical. They literally have no clue! They have no clue that Saint Valentine was a male chauvinist pig who was capitalised upon by men to advance the 'cult of femininity' and secure monogamous relationships, causing safe and sure paternity, meaning male heirs can take over private property. But worry not, because out of it all I got one day to call 'my own' with an added bonus of a lifeless blue elephant that was haunted by the overtly queer soul of Rick Astley!
V-day - where sex is only a box of chocolates away. Don't forget your entire future depends on how impressive you can be on this single (sense the irony) day. It's also a give-in that you'll love your partner substantially more on this day than all others so be sure to take any shit they throw your way, but don't only take it, take it with a smile because you aren't at all alone in the universe and weeping into a Pot Noodle.
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
The Night Bus
From my humble yet inspiring experience I could happily write an in-depth novel about the night bus, it would be a sort of psychological thriller meets romantic comedy meets queer musical. My most recent experience on the night bus took place on Saturday night, it was so poetic. As I wearily stepped on the 24 from Tottenham Court Road to Chalk Farm, I felt as though I was united with my people. I skipped over the skimpy eastern european lying drunk on the floor, the cheap duty free vodka protruding from her vagina. Like a piece of art I took a moment to admire her, making note of the fine detail in the way that the puke ran down her cheek, I tapped her gently and mused "we've all been there love". She laughed and spat some disease at my face - charming.
As I climbed the stairs I became vaguely aware of the slimy man captivated by my ass. Looking at this from a primitive perspective I took it as a compliment. However, when he propositioned me later it wasn't as amusing.
I took my place on the upper floor of this red double-deckered British novelty and sat right at the front. Peering over the top I felt like a king riding a very slightly bumpy roller-coaster. I surveyed my kingdom to the romantic tune of 'Frisky' played by the chavs at the back of the vehicle. They sang along, as if they were some heavenly choir gently narrating my evening. It was no 'songs of praise' that I might experience on a sunny Sunday afternoon in my local church, but it was peaceful none the less.
Suddenly the bus ground to a violent halt. Oh my, it was happening again, I looked around for a sense of reassurance from the other passengers, we were all in this together now. A woman was gently weeping into an empty Sam's Chicken box, whether this was because we both knew what was about to occur, or simply a tableau of her pathetic life, I simply did not know. I stood. I made my way over to the twisted staircase, wading through the ravaged chicken bones and piss stained floor. I peered over, only to inquire the full extent of the damage.
At the door way, there she was, dressed head to toe in tacky, fake Juicy Couture, and worst of all, she bared no ticket. Needless to say, the busman wasn't pleased. The vile 'woman' proceeded to bang violently on the thin slate of plastic that lay between her and her prey. "Let me on you fucking Paki", she squealed in a heartless, and rather non PC way.
The busman replied in words that I couldn't make out. Then the kicking began... one of her cohorts had began assisting her in committing minor atrocities worthy of an ASBO. I didn't know which primitive instinct to call on: fight or flight? I decided it was too late to run, I was through the looking glass now.
The villains began running up the stairs, one spotted me, "what you looking at?". This was it, my moment. Do I confront her poverty stricken ways? Do I pay for her ticket? Do I take pity on her and offer her the multiple McDonalds discount vouchers stored in my bag? Alas, I did none of these things, for I am a white, middle class haughty Jew. That, and I doubted whether she would understand the basic English in which I speak.
I returned to my place at the front of the bus, a seat which I initially deemed fit for a queen, now felt like the naughty chair. The bus didn't move for a few minutes, wherein I pretended to be captivated in a tattered copy of the Evening Standard. The cycle hire scheme is expanding into east London I hear...
She eventually threw herself of the bus in a fit of rage, not neglecting to give the bus driver a piece of her tiny mind, using the only sordid adjectives in her limited vocabulary.
The bus continued on its journey and I ended my trip safely. But we all know, the night bus will never be really safe...
FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER: myamedina
I took my place on the upper floor of this red double-deckered British novelty and sat right at the front. Peering over the top I felt like a king riding a very slightly bumpy roller-coaster. I surveyed my kingdom to the romantic tune of 'Frisky' played by the chavs at the back of the vehicle. They sang along, as if they were some heavenly choir gently narrating my evening. It was no 'songs of praise' that I might experience on a sunny Sunday afternoon in my local church, but it was peaceful none the less.
Suddenly the bus ground to a violent halt. Oh my, it was happening again, I looked around for a sense of reassurance from the other passengers, we were all in this together now. A woman was gently weeping into an empty Sam's Chicken box, whether this was because we both knew what was about to occur, or simply a tableau of her pathetic life, I simply did not know. I stood. I made my way over to the twisted staircase, wading through the ravaged chicken bones and piss stained floor. I peered over, only to inquire the full extent of the damage.
At the door way, there she was, dressed head to toe in tacky, fake Juicy Couture, and worst of all, she bared no ticket. Needless to say, the busman wasn't pleased. The vile 'woman' proceeded to bang violently on the thin slate of plastic that lay between her and her prey. "Let me on you fucking Paki", she squealed in a heartless, and rather non PC way.
The busman replied in words that I couldn't make out. Then the kicking began... one of her cohorts had began assisting her in committing minor atrocities worthy of an ASBO. I didn't know which primitive instinct to call on: fight or flight? I decided it was too late to run, I was through the looking glass now.
The villains began running up the stairs, one spotted me, "what you looking at?". This was it, my moment. Do I confront her poverty stricken ways? Do I pay for her ticket? Do I take pity on her and offer her the multiple McDonalds discount vouchers stored in my bag? Alas, I did none of these things, for I am a white, middle class haughty Jew. That, and I doubted whether she would understand the basic English in which I speak.
I returned to my place at the front of the bus, a seat which I initially deemed fit for a queen, now felt like the naughty chair. The bus didn't move for a few minutes, wherein I pretended to be captivated in a tattered copy of the Evening Standard. The cycle hire scheme is expanding into east London I hear...
She eventually threw herself of the bus in a fit of rage, not neglecting to give the bus driver a piece of her tiny mind, using the only sordid adjectives in her limited vocabulary.
The bus continued on its journey and I ended my trip safely. But we all know, the night bus will never be really safe...
FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER: myamedina
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)