Rhino Jive

I was talking with a rhinoceros the other day and it was quite revelatory!

At first he was reluctant to engage, but you know that thing when you look into the eyes? Yeah, I could tell. Wanted to get things off his chest. I just said, “What’s up?” and got the expected answer, “Nothing.” But I’m patient and can tell when something is bothering someone. With a bit of coaxing, things were revealed.

“Okay, yeah, I am a bit perturbed,” he said.

I took that therapist stance - you know, pretending not to be bothered but secretly thinking, ‘get it out, fukwit’ - and eventually my patience was rewarded. I can only explain by referring to my notes. He had a few issues for sure!

“I don’t think we’re taken seriously. You people worry about going shopping, getting to the pub, what’s on your tellies but you never consider us. For a start, you can’t even spell our name properly. Then you shorten it to the ‘R’ word... yeah... do I have to say it? Okay! Rhino. Think about it. You’re oh so flippin’ careful when it comes to talking about your own species... yeah, you know what I’m saying! No? Don’t play innocent with me! Imagine doing the same shortening thing with people from Argentina, Pakistan, Russia, China, Ireland... to name a few! Okay, forget that last one, you do that already… Paddies.”

I had to interrupt. “But they don’t mind. The Irish have a sense of humour.”

“That’s as maybe but, ‘rhino’ ain’t okay! You think we’re thick skinned, don’t you? Yeah? Okay... okay, maybe we are, but I meant... you know, as in, not sensitive. But let me tell’ya, despite appearances, we’re very sensitive and get upset more than you think. No wonder we look angry all the time. And another thing! We’re pretty pissed off with them guys who shoot darts into us, send us to sleep and then, when we wake up, we’ve got some stupid collar stuck round our necks. I heard it’s for something you call tracking and conservation, but don’t gimme that bollocks! It’s for all them freakin’ documentary makers benefit, ain’t it? Just so they can follow us around, find out what we’re up to. Bloody liberty, invasion of privacy if you ask me. You know what, I was talking to them lions last week and they’re right pissed off too. One of them was saying that every time they go out for a meal, some nobhead in a freakin’ jeep is chasing after them. Right spoiling their night out. But you lot don’t care, do’ya?

“And, yeah, them tracking collars are not a good look on a date neither! I’m trying my best chat up moves and the minute some bird, and I don’t mean them oxpeckers that clean up ticks and things, I’m talking females… don’t look so high and mighty, us rhinoceroses ain’t like you lot, all that PC bollox. Anyway, some female sees them collars, it’s over, ain’t happening. I tried to make out they’re trendy, but you can’t fool a female rhinoceros. Oh, and yeah, we do have anger management issues. Wouldn’t you after the way you treat us? So when we charge your stupid jeep, don’t be that surprised. You can’t handle it anyway, can’ya? You bugger off the minute we come after’ya!”

I felt humbled. All I could do was ask if I could take a picture. He was reluctant at first but agreed after I said I wouldn’t post anything online and that our chat was confidential.

N.B. But in the interests of conservation and save the rhino... I mean, rhinoceros... I had to post this. But keep it between you and me.

Prayer

God must get really hacked off sometimes. I mean, the geezer has a difficult enough job as it is managing all the stuff he created (maybe the universe thing was a bit ambitious) without all these billions of people asking him for ‘stuff’, all the time. Of the world’s population (currently 7.8 BILLION!) over 80% adhere to some religious belief, the majority of those following one of the major religious groups. That’s over 6 billion people all asking God for stuff, quite often to do them some sort of favour or give them something. He must be pulling his hair out.

“Oi, Gabriel. You seen my bloody in-box? Full to the bleedin’ brim again! Thought I asked you to sort it? Get on it, geezer.”
“Doin’ me best, Mr G. Just that they keep coming. Day after day. I cleared a load yesterday but –”
“Cleared a load? What d’you mean?”
“Uh, well, I tried to deal with requests to help get new cars, new jobs, good weather for a barbecue... that last one was the UK, I think… and to help to win sport matches and – ”
“Win sports matches? What’s wrong wiv’ya? Told’ya ’bout that, didn’t I. Remember, last week? Them two tennis players, both praying that I’d help ’em win. Nutters. How am I s’posed to pick one over the other? Ignore that stuff. In fact, tell’ya what. Ignore all of it. What’s the point of me giving people free will, freedom of choice, if they’re forever asking me to sort their shit out? Let ’em ask their governments instead.”
“They already do that, Mr G.”
“What? You’re ’avin’ a laugh, ain’t ya? Bloody religious lot. Right, wipe that in-box. No more. Delete the lot.”
“But, Mr G, people are expecting you to answer their prayers. We can’t just – ”
“Yeah we can. We can do what we want. I’m God, ain’t I! Sick of people wanting stuff. Bloody prayers. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if they asked for something useful.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like stopping wars, for a start. And maybe even actually asking what I want to happen instead of going ’round saying it's, God’s will, or in the name of God. I mean, what makes ’em think they know what I’m thinking?”

“I guess so, Mr G.”
“But it’s always about them, what they want. And what do people ever do for me in return? All I get is them bloody hymns every week, dirges with the same bleedin’ tune, or that chanting and wailing nonsense, or that bullshit about loving me and telling me I’m great. Change the bloody record. I don’t need it, do I?”
Gabriel looks away, unsure how to respond. It’s not often he sees God in a bad mood.
God notices, scratches his beard, thoughtful, then stares at Gabriel. “Look, Gabe, sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to rant. Not your fault.”
Gabriel looks sheepish. “It’s Gabriel, Mr G. I did ask you not to call me Gabe.”
“Oh, yeah. You did. Sorry, mate.”
“And you don't have to apologise. You’re God. God doesn't have to say sorry for anything.”

“Yeah, but I’m all about seeking forgiveness, ain’t I.”

“I s’pose so, although a lot of them people down in the other place might disagree.”

“That’s different, ain't it? Muderin’ bastards and them child killers ain’t getting no favours.” God pauses for a moment and then says, “Listen, Gabriel, here’s what we’ll do. Any time you get any more of them prayers, just send ’em one of them things they do down there that pushes it back... you know, like their bounce-back email thing.” 

“Ah, yeah. I know. Okay. But what message, d’you want.”
“How about, “God’s out of office at present. Sort yer own shit out.”

(And for ‘the offended’, my God has a sense of humour... I’m sure yours does too.)

Unhappy Medium

 

What has often puzzled me is why, at spiritualist meetings when the medium makes contact with some random spirit, they always get the same type of messages! You know, “I’m getting a… a B, yes… Ball… Bill…” and, in response to a gasp in the audience, “Yes, Bill. He says… Aunt Maisie’s car is going to fail its MOT.” No, if I ever went to such a meeting, what I’d want to hear from any spirit that feels it’s worth showing up in a dreary church hall or bingo hall on a wet Friday night, is something a bit more informative, maybe along these lines:

“Hi, guys. Thanks for inviting me to your, uh, little social gathering. You’ve all showed up ‘cos you wanna hear stuff from the ‘other side’, yeah? Cool, let me fill you in.

“So, first of all let me just confirm the burning question you’ve all wondered about. You have, haven’t you… you Know, wondered? You haven’t all turned up to hear about MOTs surely? Ha, just kidding. Yep, there is a Heaven! And, I’ll tell you what, it ain’t bad at all. In fact it’s blinding. All right, couple of things you gotta get used to first, like them angels and particularly their main man, Gabriel… mind you, I say ‘man’ but with that long blonde hair and them fancy fluffy wings, he could be anything. I dunno. Always smiling a lot too. Don’t know what he… uh, she’s smoking, but who’s judging, eh? Well, I s’pose God is. Yeah, you gotta go through all that judgement stuff once you get up here. Bit nerve wracking, if I’m honest… and I must be ‘cos they let me in! But Pete, the bouncer geezer on the gate, is pretty cool and puts you at your ease. Oh, and speaking of God, he’s pretty cool too, likes a laugh. Well, as he says, he must do. He made the human race… and octopuses. Yeah, he said ‘octopuses’. He reckons ‘octopi’ is pretentious nonsense. Anyway, he ain’t got a beard… God that is… well not one of them long ones all them painters used to stick on him. He has a bit of the old stubble now and then, sure, but what bloke don’t? And, yeah, he is a bloke. He has a chuckle when the sisterhood call him ‘she’. As he says, what woman is gonna make a fuk up like the human race?

“Another thing, the people you meet up here! I had a drink with Adam and Eve the other day - yeah, they got back together once Eve got rid of the snake. We had a couple of glasses of cider. Makes a change from the local brew, milk and honey. And Eve’s making better use of the apples these days too. Ran into Muhammad Ali as well… yeah, I know he’s different religion but, guys, it’s all the same place! Big surprise, eh? Shouldn’t be. How can you have more than one ‘heaven’? Ain’t like it’s a competition! You live your best life and, what, you get a choice of different heavens? Get real. So, Ali was having some banter with his mate, Smokin’ Joe and they was just being chilled. It’s that sort of place.

“You know who I wanted to check out? Adolf Hitler. I know it sounds a bit odd but I s’pose I was curious. Thought I’d look him up. I had a few questions. Turns out he ain’t here. They sent him down… yeah, that place exists too… along with several other murdering megalomaniacs and numerous nutty religious leaders. But don’t panic. The judgement thing isn’t a fifty-fifty lottery. For Pete to let you in you’ve only gotta be a decent person, that’s it. Nah, nobody’s worried if you don’t go to church on a Sunday - I never went. Mind you, if you do and you bin singing them half-wit hymns, God is gonna think twice. Only joking, but I’m telling’ya, them hymns piss him right off. He don’t even listen no more. He’s sick of the dreary tunes and the sycophantic bollocks in the lyrics. Trust me. He told me that himself. Mind you, not surprised if the religious lot’ve bin bending his ear with that nonsense for centuries.

“Anyway, people, I gotta go. Think I’m hacking Doris off here by telling it like it is. Her business is gonna go right tits up if she gets any more like me! Go do something useful out there and stop worrying about this shit. Cool. See’ya.”

Coffee and Tarts

I visited a coffee shop in town for a mid-morning chill and an escape from the mayhem that is Christmas shopping. It was busy in there but I'm a patient sort of guy and waited my turn in the queue. 

I have almost made it to the front when the bloke ahead of me orders a coffee and then begins to browse the cakes and pastries. He stares at the glass display case, his head moving back and forth as if he’s at the Wimbledon men’s singles final. I’m getting a little impatient now, the queue, the shoppers out there, and I’m a little peckish too. Who browses cakes as if they are going to make a major life changing purchase anyway? 

The assistant is waiting patiently for a decision, aware that she has a queue of eager people waiting who have already smelled the coffee. The bloke looks up at the assistant and says, “Uh... I think I’ll...” He stares at the display again, his gaze taking in the wares... “uh, yeah... I think I’ll... let me see... I dunno...” His indecisiveness is starting to get on my nerves. I’m thinking, ‘Mate, you’re a bloke, not a seven year old. Choose a frigging cake and let the rest of us get on with our day.’ He then makes a decision, but it's still tinged with vagueness. “I think I'll go for the... uh, yeah... a mince pie.” The assistant reaches for one but is interrupted. “Sorry, no. I’ll try a custard tart.”

I’m pretty irritable by now. This should not be such a significant transaction. I want to tap him on the shoulder and say, “Mate, you can’t try a custard tart. You either buy one or you don’t. What you gonna do? Ask for a gift receipt and if you don’t like it after you’ve chomped into it, take it back and get a refund? Nah, just make your frigging mind up, choose something and go sit down somewhere.” But, instead, I just clench my teeth and feel justified in my developing rage. I mean surely the point is you don’t need to tell the assistant you are going to TRY the product. You just order one and if you don’t like it, you leave it on your plate. The assistant is hardly going to resell it after you’ve ‘tried’ it. And if the guy had stopped fannying about and just ordered a coffee and a custard tart without embellishing his order by telling the assistant what he was going to do, I might have got served sooner. 

My order was simple... “A tea please and one of those cakes.”

(For the attentive amongst you, yes, it was a coffee shop, but they sell tea too!)

 

Car Boot Sales

Warning: Contains adult language

Somebody suggested I might like to go to a car boot sale. No, I wouldn’t! As a bloke, to put it mildly, car boot sales have never been high on my agenda. As far as I’m concerned a car boot sale is a scam where people try to offload their unwanted junk to the public and make the suckers pay to take it away! Okay, so maybe once in a while somebody finds a rare ancient Egyptian artefact, rescued from a Pharaoh’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings, that’s somehow made its way down the ages to the rickety trestle table that some scammer has set up in a farmer’s field, and they are oblivious to the fact that the item is worth a small fortune so you pick it up for one pound fifty. But mostly a car boot sale is a jumble sale for the middle classes! (I should note here that I have nothing against the middle classes, if indeed they actually exist these days. I use the term only to depict a section of the great British public. Interestingly, isn't it strange that there is a mentality out there that rails against the so called ‘class’ system but sings the praises of the ‘working class’ loud and clear?)

Anyway, car boot sales! Not my ‘cup of Early Grey’ but I have to confess I have been to one - as a seller. No, I am not being hypocritical. I wasn’t selling junk. It was suggested to me as a good way to part with unwanted ‘stuff’ when I was ‘downsizing’ from a house to an apartment. No matter how attached you are to your belongings, sometimes they ain’t going to fit a new property. So they had to go. But, what a nightmare experience!

First of all, I was told I had to be at the location at 5:30 in the morning to set up, hours before the public was allowed access. No idea why, but I complied. I pulled in, unloaded my trestle table and then opened the car boot. Out of nowhere, it seemed, a throng of people descended on the car (fellow sellers, it transpired) like vultures. They crowded around, pushing forward as I started to unload my things. Some even had the cheek to pick up items from the boot and examine them. I tried to back them off by manoeuvring from one side of the rear of the car to the other. I felt like a lion trying to keep a pack of slavering hyenas away from the carcass of my kill. I couldn’t understand it. I knew I didn’t have a boot full of crap trinkets but I wasn’t packing Tutankhamen’s Saturday night 'going out' jewellery either. As I tried to keep one side at bay, someone would creep up on my blind side, pick something out of the boot, examine it and ask how much.

“Mate, I ain’t selling. That’s my wheel brace, ya dick!”

So, you’ll be thinking the idea is to get rid of ‘stuff’ and make money. Don’t matter who’s buying. Maybe, but when I’m doing anything I like to do it properly in an organised fashion so I keep control of what it was I set out to do. I just wanted to get my table set up, arrange the things I was selling in an orderly fashion, know where everything is and then do the selling when I was ready. I didn’t want the hyenas snaffling bits off the carcass in a chaotic frenzy.

Anyway, I managed to back them all off by shutting the boot, standing with my arms folded and leaning against the car with a defiant ‘sod off’ expression fixed on my face. Eventually they decided there were easier pickings elsewhere and left me alone to get my table set up and my wares displayed just how I wanted.

Then the public showed up!

I swear to God ninety percent of the people who think a fun morning out us sniffing around other people’s tat are professional scavengers. It was an eye opener. There’s me thinking that this would be a civilised, professional sales process but I soon discovered that I was being a naive dickhead. They mill around your table, pick stuff up and examine it like they are all experts from Sotheby's. Then put it down again with a disdainful look, as if they were doing me a favour by even approaching my table.

A woman picked up a whiskey decanter that came with four whiskey tumblers.

“How much?” she asked.

“Uh, five quid the lot,” I replied.

“Will you take twenty p for the decanter?” she replied.

I’m thinking, ‘Twenty p! No! I won’t. Where can you buy anything at all for twenty frigging pence? Are you off your trolley? You can’t even buy a bar of chocolate for that.’ But, hoping to make my first sale, I said, “It’s Dartington Crystal.” It was! An unused and now unwanted wedding gift since the wife had buggered off with some gym freak she met, ironically, at a church charity jumble sale. “It’s part of the set. I’ve even got the original boxes.” I reached under the table to search for the boxes which were in a bin liner. I halted when she increased her bid.

“Twenty-five p,” she said.

My mind was racing. Who, on the planet, increases their negotiating position in five pence increments? What was wrong with this woman? “Uh, look, I’ll take four quid for the lot, tumblers and all, okay? It’s quality stuff. I’m not selling no… you know… uh, crap.”

“I don’t want the tumblers,” the woman said. “Thirty p, take it or leave it.”

Take it or leave it? Who’s doing the selling here? I took a deep breath and tried to apply some logic even though I knew I was getting tetchy. 

“Look, just a point worth thinking about. If you buy a whiskey decanter presumably you’re going to put whiskey in it, and then the whiskey needs to be poured into tumblers…” I tried a touch of lightness, adding with a smile, “...unless you’re going to give your guests a straw each and ask them to suck up your fifteen year old malt fishbowl-style like a bunch of teenagers on an Ayia Napa stag do. So, as a deal…" I did a quick calculation based on my customer's own grasp of economics… fifty pence per glass, so two quid subtracted from my original generous pricing… “Call it three quid, decanter and glasses. Bargain for a genuine Dartington Crystal set.”

Her expression didn’t change. “Thirty pence, my final offer.”

I smiled, a kind of rueful, ‘What the fuck, you for real,’ smile. Our valuations were significantly at odds.

“You know what?” I said, “I’m with you. I like the word ‘final.’ This is my final refusal.” She scowled and walked off.

And it went on like that. The wheeler-dealers operating in pence! I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t sink to that level of small mindedness. My ‘stuff’ was good quality. I don’t buy junk! I’m a Capricorn, after all. By the end of the morning, after hardcore negotiation, I’d sold five items and made five pounds and seventy-five-pence! I took home most of the stuff I’d turned up with. Maybe I was being bloodyminded - I guess the point of the sale was to get rid of things you no longer need, but I just couldn’t cope with the petty penny pinching.

Anybody want to buy six Dom Perignon Baccarat flutes? Offers over twenty five pence!

Coffee Pods

I think I’ve developed a strange addiction to coffee pods! I keep buying them even when I don’t need any. However, I think I’ve worked out why. I don’t actually buy them for the flavour. It’s the colours! I like the colours and the patterns they make when stacked up. I’m sure I can get help. I mean there’s support out there for most addictions, isn’t there?

I can just imagine my first session at ‘Addictions Anonymous’…

“Hello. My name’s Pa… uh… I mean, erm… Zbigieneski Satan-Crank and I’m addicted to -"

“You Polish?” says an attendee sitting opposite.

“Sorry?”

“I said, you Polish?”

“Polish? Uh, no. Why?”

“Just wondered. A lot of Polish people got names beginning with ‘Z’. Not all, mind, but y’know.”

“Have they? No, I'm not, uh... it’s just a made up name because, well, it’s meant to be anonymous here, isn’t it? Anyway, erm… I’m addicted to -"

“You from the Channel Islands then?”

“What? The Channel Islands?”

“Yeah, y’know. Jersey, Guernsey and that.”

“I know where the Channel Islands are. No, I’m not from there. Why?”

“All right, pal, keep yer hair on. Just thought you might be, on account of that posh surname of yours.”

“My surna… no! That’s made up, like I just -"

“Can we just get on with it mister… Satan-Clarke,” says the session facilitator.

“Crank. It’s Crank… Satan-Crank… well, for the purposes of this meeting it is. Anyway, as I was trying to say, I have an addiction, which is why I’m here." I hesitate. "This is going to sound weird but -"

"We don't make judgments here, Mr...Crank... err, Satan."

"Satan-Crank. Look, that doesn't matter. I'm just here because of the addiction."

"Okay, that's why everybody's here. It's fine. Just let it out."

"Coffee pods.”

"Coffee pods?" replies the facilitator.

"Yes. I seem to have developed an addiction to them."

“Oh, a caffeine addiction. That's not that unusual… unless it’s out of control and affecting your health?”

“No, not caffeine. The actual pods, you know… the capsules.”

“The capsules?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to say. The little metallic pods that contain the coffee.”

“Ah, a material fetish! You like the texture, the feel of the aluminium?”

“No. I just like the colours. Although I drink coffee, I buy them based on the colour of the pod as I like to arrange them so they create a colourful feature in my kitchen. I can't stop myself buying them even when I don't need them."

The facilitator rolls her eyes. “I'm not sure you're in the right place, Satan... erm, mister Clarke-Crank. Have you thought of going to art classes?”

Online Shopping Rage

Warning: Contains adult language.

Anyone else suffer from online shopping rage? I don't mean the grocery buying thing - I've never really done that as it requires planning ahead for meals, I would think. You know, I'm having this particular combination/menu on Monday, this on Tuesday, this one Wednesday and so on. And I'm a bloke... I ain't gonna do that! No, with food shopping I like to visit the shop, see 'stuff' in front of me and then put it in the basket. There is no plan. Consequently, when my provisions are at critically low level, I go to the refrigerator to see what I have left and what might make a meal, and get on with it. I did have to be particularly creative once when all I had left was bread, raspberries, potatoes and mustard! 

But, I'm veering away from the point. So the type of online shopping rage I'm referring to is when you want to buy a product, for example, a camera, a mattress, a jacket or a table, to name a few one-off type purchases. (I was actually looking for a mattress when I had my latest bout of shopping rage!) 

So, you go on line, Google the product you want and up comes a number of sites. You browse as far as the first three - any lower and you think you are going to get dodgy goods - and click on a site. Then it starts!

All you want to do is get an idea of what's out there, at your leisure, so you can maybe make a choice based on what appeals to you. This is just the browsing stage. It doesn't have to be complicated. But, no, it pans out like this:

Cookies - 'This website uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience on our website. Do you accept?' 

Instant reaction - "Yes! I do. Everybody uses cookies now. We don't care, yeah? We don't even notice. We're used to our web searches being tracked. And you ain't concerned about me getting the 'best experience.' No, you're only putting that up because the law says you have to and and then you can bombard me with crap I don't want. "

Live Chat - 'Hi. Looking for a mattress? Anything I can help with?'

Instant reaction - "No. Fuck off. Of course I'm looking for a mattress. That's why I'm on the page that sells frigging mattresses. What d'you think I'm looking for? A baby giraffe?"

Discount - 'Get 10% off your next purchase.'

Instant reaction - "Next purchase? I haven't made any purchases yet. I'm just looking! And already you're assuming that I'm gonna make a 'next one'? Anyway, if your mattresses are any good, why would I come back for another one? I'd have one. So, sod off. You're not trying to do me any favours. You just want my email address."

Privacy Policy - A bunch of words that contain things like, '...our services may contain links to third party websites and applications.'

Instant reaction - "I don't care. I ain't reading all that. I just wanna buy a frigging mattress! If I buy one, you can share that shit. Who cares? I'm never gonna deny it! And what d'you mean your 'services may contain links to third party websites and applications?' May? Of course they do. Don't talk bollocks. Just put that, tell it like it is. They do contain links. End of story!

Terms & Conditions - If you do make a purchase then you have the T&Cs to read.

Instant reaction - "Bollocks. Just get me to the checkout. Nobody reads 180 pages of legal waffle that they don't understand and which, if ever I needed to apply, you'd wriggle out of anyway because no doubt it would be me who did something wrong. So, I ain't reading that either. Anyway, I'm buying a frigging mattress, not a baby giraffe. How complicated can it be? 

So, by the time I've gone through this several times, I've lost the will and enthusiasm to shop for anything.

I've decided to sleep on the floor!