I’m not above a good rant and I’m definitely not short on opinions and exhaustive commentaries on the world around me.
Sometimes, you just need to get it out. Tell someone. Write a blog. You know?
Firstly, and I do not mean to cause anyone any form of offence for I know it is the minority that spoil it for the rest of us but… BUGGIES. PUSHCHAIRS. PRAMS. STROLLERS. Whatever the hell you call them, I hate them. Well, like I said before, the minority spoil it for the rest of us and one day I know I’ll have to go out and buy one. The thing is, stupid women (I’m apologetic to my gender here but it is usually women) like to RAM them into your shins or into the backs of your calves like they have no idea you’re stood right in front of them when you’re out for that one day’s shopping a year. Or maybe they know fine well you are only three foot from their nose and are using their often empty pram/battering ram to get you the hell out of their way… Astute observation me thinks…
SO, I KNOW YOU ARE THERE. IT’S KINDA HARD NOT TO HEAR YOU WHEN YOU’RE YELLING ABOUT THE PRICE OF CIGGIES AND THE AMOUNT OF DSS THE GOVERNMENT ARE LETTING YOU SPONGE. I ALSO KNOW THAT IF YOU HIT ME HARD ENOUGH IN THE BACK OF THE ANKLES WITH YOUR LEGALISED BATTERING RAM I WILL COLLAPSE ONTO (AND POTENTIALLY KILL) YOUR SPAWN.
And when they push the baby-filled pushchair out between two parked cars when they come to cross a busy road. Oh now this gets my Dad mad too. The amount of times he’s had to slam on the breaks to avoid potential infanticide when brainless, callous, shouldn’t-be-allowed-to-breed mothers shove their tiny offspring out in front of them to then duck their heads out between parked cars to see if it’s safe for them to cross.
OKAY, SO DON’T THROW YOUR SPAWN IN THE WAY OF MOVING HUNKS OF METAL UNLESS YOU WANT JAIL-TIME instead, THROW YOUR GODDAMN CRAZY-ASS SELVES IN FRONT OF THE VEHICLES AND PULL YOUR CHILD AFTER YOU ONLY IF IT IS SAFE.
Wowsa, that gets me mad.
The Royal-Bloody-Mail. This makes me mad too. For so many teensy weensy reasons I seem to just despise the whole idea of the mail system sometimes. You used to get charged for weight of parcels. Now they not only charge for weight, they charge for size too. I can pay nearly £2 just to POST a card with a badge on the front. No, a first class stamp on an average sized birthday card is not adequate any more… You must be penalised for the sending of a tacky and horrendous badge on the front too. Hmm, Okay.
AND WE JUST PAY THE SUCKERS CAUSE THAT’S THE ONLY WAY YOUR YOUNGER BROTHER WILL KNOW YOU STILL KNOW HE’S ALIVE AND GROWS OLDER EVERY YEAR EVEN IF YOU NEVER PICK UP THE PHONE TO CALL HIM.
Anyone over the age of 68 driving a car. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I know you’re old and need to enjoy every last vestige of freedom you can before the inevitable comes along and… Well, you know. But…
SERIOUSLY, IF YOU CAN’T SEE OVER THE BLOODY STEERING WHEEL THEN HOW ON GOD’S-GREEN-EARTH ARE YOU EXPECTED TO STOP- PLOWING DOWN ANYONE CROSSING THE ROAD/CRASHING INTO OTHER CARS AT JUNCTIONS/SMASHING UP OTHER PEOPLE’S SIDE PANELS WHEN YOU PARK IN CAR PARKS/JUST PLAIN OLD GET IN MY WAY?!
I live on a road where I am the youngest home owner by roughly (and I am being generous here) 40 years at least. Every one of these crippled old biddies has back/neck/leg/eye/hand problems that mean they walk with sticks/wear remarkably thick glasses/take such strong pain meds they are high as kites, yet they are still safe to drive? When they can’t SEE? Can’t FEEL THEIR FEET? Can’t GRIP THE WHEEL? Don’t KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS? Come on.
Working with anyone under the age of thirty. Yup, I know I’m not even 25 yet but it seems (as I still work in retail at the moment) anyone under the age of thirty (and unfortunately a lot over that age too) are so frigging immature I can’t bear to have them talk at me.
Hearing the tales of getting ‘smashed’ every other day and coming into work still hung-over, I really don’t care. Feeling ‘so extremely poorly’ for the ninth week in a row; basically either the part-timers hang-over excuse or they have a cold and can’t be arsed working. Whingeing about how mean/tight-fisted/miserable your parents are; primarily because they wouldn’t drive you to work/buy you a car/let you live for free in their house/give you money or anything else you want. I DON’T CARE.
I have only ever met one person in all my years working within retail that has anything in common with me, that lady is still one of my close friends. She’s 64. I own my own home, no-one else seems to. I am in a steady long-term relationship, apparently I’m an oddity. I cook like an adult, whereabouts I don’t live off beans on toast, pizza and pasta. I spend most of my wages on homey things first as I want to live comfortably, everyone else only cares about bags, shoes, online war games, makeup, alcohol. They talk to me about their failing relationships with other losers; jobless musicians, my idea of depressed and lazy wannabees; girls they met over the internet and subsequently proposed to 3 weeks after meeting face to face, my idea of loser bunny-boilers. The list goes on and I STILL DON’T CARE.
Farmers. The French (a hand-me-down from my parents). Politicians. Boy racers. Bankers. Anonymous PPI calls. Rugs (don’t ask). Clueless holiday makers. Chavs. Anyone who doesn’t respect Sir Patrick Stewart. Reality TV shows…
The list is practically endless, as I’m sure yours is too, and I laugh about these things as much as I despair but please, just let me live in peace general populous. Geez.