People are people - so sang one of my black leather-clad, quiffed heroes of my teenage years, Dave Gahan (some time before he tried to blow up his liver with horse tranquiliser or whatever it was). And indeed, people ARE people. But when is a person not a person? When they're a twat.
Now, you'll be aware that I encounter many twats on a daily basis. But three twats have stuck in my mind this week (two in Tesco's, SHOCK).
Twat Number 1 - I was ambling around with my trolley, aimlessly wandering while trying to think what wonderous, vaguely edible delights I could conjur up for the old man's tea (we're both on a health kick, as is the entire population of Uranus in January so I was heading for the frozen pizza, obviously). It was quite busy in there, and I was a little grumpy, but someone made my day for helping me realise that maybe I'm not such a dick after all. I toodled towards the frozen aisle, and there was a family (mum, dad and two young children). The dad had what I assume was a shopping list in his hand, and as I approached, he was kind of gathering his family around him, and I actually heard these actual words come out of his actual mouth -
'Right people, time for a SITREP.'
That's right. A GROWN MAN said to his SMALL CHILDREN during a supermarket shop for Turkey Dinosaurs and Petit Filous -
''Right people, time for a SITREP.'
People who know how to use Google will know that this is a term generally (yes, not always, I know, I said GENERALLY) used in the military as a shortened form of Situation Report. Now, this man was not wearing fatigues. His children were not carrying Uzi 9mm submachine guns and his wife was not being held hostage by Colonel Gadaffi. They were in FUCKING TESCO'S. What sort of FUCKING SITUATION do you get in Tesco's? QUICK, CALL M.I.5, THEY'VE RUN OUT OF FALAFEL! Suffice to say, his wife, his children, and me all looked at him like he was a twat. Because he was a twat. I hope his wife kicked him in the bunkers when they got home.
Twat Number 2 - now, you all know that I am an EXCELLENT driver and drive a 16 year old Renault Scenic, the ULTIMATE in ENGINEERING MASTERCRAFTSMANSHIP (except the fucking coils which go on a fortnightly basis). Therefore SHITTY DRIVING really gets on my tits. I was looking for a space in Tesco car park (I don't live in Tesco, just in case anyone was wondering, I just seem to spend my ENTIRE FUCKING EXISTENCE in there), and was behind a girl in a Citroen C3 (I could tell it was a girl as I could see the cloned messy bun hair that EVERY SINGLE GIRL UNDER 25 WEARS sticking up over the headrest). Anyway, she pulled into an empty space that had an empty space either side, so PLENTY OF ROOM TO MANOEUVRE HER MASSIVE C3. I was intending to pull into a space behind her, so patiently waited while she took FIVE GOES BACK AND FORTH (sounds like an Enid Blyton book) to get a CITROEN C3 into a space THREE SPACES WIDE. And on the fifth go she FUCKING STALLED IT. Now, I realise that not everyone is as good a driver as me (this would be IMPOSSIBLE) but if you need FIVE GOES at a space when you are driving a toddler's pedal car, then you should CUT UP YOUR DRIVING LICENCE, THROW YOUR KEYS IN THE RIVER AND CATCH THE FUCKING BUS. Because you're a twat.
Twat Number 3 - I was driving home (probably from FUCKING TESCO), now I do love a good road rage and have a diverse range of insults and hand gestures that are used regularly while behind the wheel. There was some cars parked at the side of the road so I had to wait for oncoming traffic to pass (not a problem, I'm nice like that), now, it is only polite to raise your hand if someone has waited for you, right? But the last in the stream of cars, was he polite? Was he fuck. He just sailed on through in his shitty little Ford Fiesta without so much as a glance. RUDE. I had my window open (because my ULTIMATE in ENGINEERING EXCELLENCE Renault Scenic is shit at defogging so I have to have my windows open in order to see where I'm going) and as he passed, I felt the rage within me surface - I mustered all I had to produce the BEST INSULT EVER - I shouted the following -
'Yeh, thanks BEARD'.
Beard. The rude man had a beard, and the BEST I COULD THINK OF was to call him BEARD.
I continued on my journey home, disappointed and ashamed of myself, I had let myself down. I could have called him a COCKPIECE, a PISSWAND, a HAIRY GIBBON, but no, I called him BEARD. And I realised, readers, that Twat Number 3 was ME.
No comments:
Post a Comment