Party Poopers

I’m not the most sociable of people, I know that, but I do go out. So the other night I attended a sports club do,  just, you know, to mix in, that sort of thing. There was a band, a good one, doing covers, but they pitched the set at the ‘middle aged’ and, you know what that means. Yes, they’ll have a hard time pleasing all musical tastes and have to fall back on music that many considered shite when it first came out!

Anyway, after three tunes there was a lull when one of the staff at the venue came up to the lead singer/guitarist and whispered something. The guy then turned away and said into the mic, “We’ve been asked to turn down the volume as some people think it’s a tad loud.”

I couldn’t believe it so after the next tune, I asked the singer if that had actually happened. He said it had and it was a request by someone who was actually in the audience! Who goes to a ‘do’ which has a live band advertised and says it’s too loud? The band was made up of two guitarists, a bass guitar and, crucially, a drummer! You can’t play drums quietly to upbeat music.

Party pooper.

Despite that intervention the band pressed on with their ‘middle of the road, don’t rock the boat’ set, no doubt hoping that the people who don’t get out much could cope with the new volume level and the ‘middle-aged’ would be enamoured by the mainstream set list. After a while it seemed that this was the case. No doubt alcohol had helped ‘oil the wheels’ and the audience began to act a bit more upbeat. But that also means lots of people suddenly do ‘middle aged’ dancing. Look, I’m not knocking ‘middle-aged’ people per se – I happen to be in that category myself – but I’m sure you know what I mean.

So, I’m standing at the bar minding my own business, perhaps a tad aloof (like I said, I’m unsociable) when this guy starts doing that thing where you link arms with people and spin around. I’d seen him do it with other innocent bystanders, saw him approach and was ready. He tried to grab my arm in that arm link thing, but I batted him off and said, “No, mate.” But he wasn’t having it; he was on some sort of dance mission and came back for another grab. Apart from the fact I’m unsociable, I also thought I ain’t engaging with a geezer in a pink t-shirt with a stupid logo and dodgy decorator jeans when I’ve taken the trouble to dress up just because he’s a happy-clappy dick who thinks that as we’re at a social do we should all engage in chimpanzee-like behaviour.

I’d been keeping an eye on the Fury/Chisora fight so my mindset was on the offensive. As he came in for a second dance-grab, I thought of throwing a right cross and knocking the geezer out - he was six inches shorter than me and whilst I cannot claim to possess an Iron Mike shot, an Ali-like right cross, the sort that took Liston out and a few others, with its element of shock and surprise, would have stunned the nob, especially as he was on the front foot coming at me (like Sonny was in the aforementioned Ali/Liston fight) - but my sensible side knew I would have been banned (last time I threw a shot I ended up on my face on the pavement courtesy of some edgy club bouncers.) So, I pushed his grabbing hand away and emphasised ‘NO’ big time. He got the message, well with me anyway, and decided to impose his brand of ‘this is how you enjoy yourself’ upon some other hapless sucka.  

Party pooper.

Mammoth Task

No wonder the mammoth became extinct. They had so much to bloody do all the time. If you count the number of times people say, 'It's a mammoth task,' and the variety of activities that the statement covers, you quickly realise they had no real 'me' time in which to hunt, eat, chill and breed!

Freedom of Speech

Doctor meeting with young couple to discuss a 16 week pregnancy scan...

"Good afternoon. Mx and Mx Smith. Nice to see you. Please, sit down. How did you find that? Pretty straight forward I hope."

"Yes, absolutely fine. We're keen to hear the results," the pregnant woman replies.

"Of course. But before we begin, can I introduce Donnie McDonnell, the hospital's Diversity and Gender Equalities Officer. Donnie will simply be monitoring our conversation... just a routine process now in doctor patient care."

The couple nod a greeting as does Donnie.

The doctor continues. "I've  studied your scan and I'm pleased to say all is well. You have a very nice little person doing just fine."

The couple both smile and glance at each other. Then the woman says, "Thank you. Could I ask, is it a boy or a girl?"

"Excuse me. We don't use the 'B' or 'G' words here," Donnie says. "I hope I don't need to remind you that since the recent introduction of the Diversity, Gender, Equalities and Official Speech Amendment Bill, reference to the gender of a person is considered a hate crime."

The couple glance at one another again but before they have time to respond Donnie turns to the doctor and says, "And Doctor, please moderate your language and refrain from using sizest expressions."

"Sizest? What did I say?"

Donnie flicks a strand of crimson hair from his eyes and gazes intently at the doctor. "You referred to the person as 'little.' You know that word is offensive in that context."

"Oh, yes sorry. It just slipped out. Old habits and all that. Anyway, where were we?"

The man responds. "Look Doctor my wife and I just wanted –”

"Let me stop you right there," Donnie says. "I'm afraid I have to warn you that I cannot accept such references."

"References?"

"Yes, the 'W' word."

The man scratches his head and looks puzzled. Then he leans forward. "Oh... wife?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Uh, what's wrong with 'wife? We're married."

"It's outlawed. A highly offensive word designed to subjugate one person in a partnership, lowering them to the level of a possession or chattel. Can we please continue without using these demeaning terms." Donnie turns away. "Doctor."

"Err... oh yes... erm, is there anything else you would like to ask?"

The pregnant woman shrugs and then says, "I'm sorry we've caused any offence, but we were just thinking about names for our baby and –”

Donnie's face turns purple, a similar shade to his lipstick. "Excuse me. No. No. Not acceptable."

"What, to name our baby?"

"No. Another 'B' word. Have you not studied the Party Language Directive for Acceptable Terminology in a Modern Inclusive State?"

"Err... no, not entirely," the man says.

"Well, it’s time you di then.” Donnie says. "If you had then you'd know that that particular word is demeaning as it implies that the unborn is not a fully formed person with rights like –”

"But it's not a fully formed person. It's a baby."

"Mx Smith. I shall have to terminate this consultation if you insist on using politically incorrect language."

"We're sorry," the pregnant woman says. "We just wanted to know what our ba... err, person will be... for a name, that's all."

"I can help you there. I can email you the Party's brochure on names that fit our current Gender Neutral programme. Kervilin and Anbozda are very popular at present but there are many more equally beautiful options out there."

The pregnant woman wipes away a tear. "I feel sick. Is there a toilet I can use Doctor? It's all been a bit much today."

"Which type of toilet?" Donnie asks. "We have fifty-two designated washroom areas."

"Fifty-two?"

"Yes, they reflect the incredible diversity of this country. We have options for our cross-dressing society, our religious cultures, some for the one legged community, the hard of hearing, the gender neutral, persons of indeterminate IQ, non-binary beings, rehabilitated prisoners, asylum seekers, the persecuted, the insane, communists, and former EU economists, amongst others.”

"Oh... uh, do you not just have a ladies toilet?"

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!)