shit-u-a-tion (shit-yew-aye-shun)
noun
1. When your current predicament is undesirable.
Well this is one hell of a shituation.
2. When the predicament of your friend is undesirable.
You're in quite a shituation then, aren't you.
3. The potential result of actions.
If I don't say anything, I could avoid a big shituation.
Juice might not have caught on, but I'll be damned if this baby doesn't catch fire. Use as liberally as possible.
Friday, 23 May 2008
#3 Time flies...
I've always known my sense of time and management of it is shithouse, most of you would be well aware of this fact to. The amount of occasions I can recall being late for something, or just not making it at all, are too numerous to mention. I will, however, share with you when latest this affliction did show...
Time 3:45pm. Exiting National Gallery.
Can’t wipe the stupid look from my face after walking around with an artistic hard-on for the better part of two hours (Will describe how fucking fantastic that place is another day) Check the time, heaps left I think, how long does it take to get to Dursley? An hour maybe... Better get my bags from the Hotel (Bed was amazing, price not so good) Off to the tube...
Time 4:30pm. Exiting Hotel.
Doing well, proud of my new found ability to get things done on time. Now back to Heathrow to get my backpack...
-------------------------------------------------------
It occurs to me that I seemed a tad harsh towards the Flight Centre lady in my previous post, so I should explain my dislike (hatred) of her.
When I finally got into London, 30 HOURS AFTER LEAVING HOBART, and made it through passport inspection (The guy asking questions didn’t like me much) I headed to the baggage carousel and waited for my backpack...
And waited...
And waited...
By the time I went to the customer desk, another planes luggage was doing the rounds.
I was there a while.
Tired, exhausted, and probably looking like the bastard child of Kramer, I approached a well dressed Indian behind the counter. Despite a shaky start (he was adamant my bag didn’t exist) we found my bag...in Melbourne...
Desk Guy: You really should have checked your bag in Melbourne.
Me: I wasn’t supposed to. The idea was I checked it in Hobart and that was it. When I checked in in Melbourne I asked and made sure my bag was good to go. She said it was fine.
Desk guy: OK... But you really should have checked it in.
Cue me looking at him like he’s a small retarded child...
We went like this for a while, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe my story, but thankfully this story ended with my bag on the next flight to London, to arrive the following day...
I had the option of getting the bag delivered to an address, but he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t ring prior to delivery. Considering the address was my brothers - and he didn’t know I was in the country - I really didn’t want my bag beating me to his door...
And so I decided to come back to Heathrow and get it. As we parted he couldn’t resist.
Desk guy: Just remember to check your bag in next time OK.
You cunt...
The one good thing about going back to Heathrow was I got to do the arrival walkthrough twice. I felt like those Home and Away actors at the Logies who walk the red carpet, walk back down, and then do it again.
----------------------------------------------------------
Time 5:30pm. Standing at car rental desk.
Got everything together, backpacks heavier than I remember, but am good to go. After being told the price of renting a car for the day, I decide trains the way to go. Back to the tube...
Time 6:30pm. Paddington station.
Going good. Bought ticket to Cam train station, with a change at Bristol. Didn’t ask how long it would take, guy behind the counter had the highest pitch voice I’ve ever heard...on anyone... freaked me out a bit to be honest. Train leaves at 7:30, time for some food...
Time 7:30pm. We’re off to Dursley!
Nice to sit that fucking backpack down. Hate it already, resorted to dragging it round towards the end... We set off, can’t understand a word of the chick over the intercom, although I swear she said we get into Bristol about 9:30! That can’t be right, can it?
Time 8:30pm. Still going...
The two pissed Welsh dudes next to me are cool, been tipping some spirits into empty Red Bull cans since we started, gotta respect that... Poor bastards just came from watching Cardiff lose the FA cup, but the grog seems a good mistress for forgetting. Dursley is more than an hour out of London, I am discovering...
Time 8:45pm. We’ve stopped...
...In the middle of nowhere. Apparently there’s been an ‘incident’ on the track ahead and we are waiting till it’s cleared. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Time 9:50pm. Bristol, Finally!
I’m definitely too late for tea, but then again I’m too fucking tired for food anyway. Thought it would be colder, now where is this train for Cam? After two laps of the station a guy in a reflective vest looks the go to give me my answer.
Me: Mate, where’s the next train to Cam and Dursley?
He speaks into a walkie talkie, gibberish comes out, he looks up...
Him: None more from here tonight, fellar. Last one leaves Bristol Parkway in about fifteen.
ME: Shit! How far aways that?
Him: Bout ten, fifteen. Cabs out the front, you might make it...
Gave him my thanks as I’m dragging my bag up the stairs. Should’ve got a backpack with wheels. Rank of cabs right out front, excellent! Welsh dude from the train is talking through the window to a cabbie, he’s still pissed...I dive into the same cab. Bristol Parkway thanks. Twenty five quid? Cool, let’s go.
Time 10:08pm Bristol Parkway.
That cabbie was fucking crazy! He nailed it though, got me there with a couple to spare. Tipped him five pound, which I immediately regretted when I converted it in my head, but I’ve got to get going. Dragged the bag across the car park, into the station, up the stairs...and the train is waiting. Spot on; jump on; sit; a minute later the last train for the night is on its way.
Time 10:45pm. Cam and Dursley train station.
As soon as I stepped off the train I smelt cowshit. This is not so much a station as a slab of cement in the middle of a paddock. I am not in Kansas anymore. Had to drag the FB up an overpass to the road on the other side. The cab rank from Bristol is nowhere to be seen. In fact, there isn’t a cab, car, or person in sight. There was an info board but I couldn’t see any cab numbers on it. Fuck!! Thousands of miles and I get fucked over by the last ten! Gave the board another crack, right at the top in small print were some cab numbers....
Time 11:00pm. Waiting...
A serial killer could abduct and kill me and no one would ever know...
Time 11:15pm. Dursley
Cabbie dropped me off, and I knock on the door... Nothing.
Again... A window opens on the second floor, my brother’s wife.
Donna: Who’s there?
Me: Are you gonna let me in or what?
--------------------------------------------------------
Next up: I’m also crap with directions...
Till then, find the joy people.
Time 3:45pm. Exiting National Gallery.
Can’t wipe the stupid look from my face after walking around with an artistic hard-on for the better part of two hours (Will describe how fucking fantastic that place is another day) Check the time, heaps left I think, how long does it take to get to Dursley? An hour maybe... Better get my bags from the Hotel (Bed was amazing, price not so good) Off to the tube...
Time 4:30pm. Exiting Hotel.
Doing well, proud of my new found ability to get things done on time. Now back to Heathrow to get my backpack...
-------------------------------------------------------
It occurs to me that I seemed a tad harsh towards the Flight Centre lady in my previous post, so I should explain my dislike (hatred) of her.
When I finally got into London, 30 HOURS AFTER LEAVING HOBART, and made it through passport inspection (The guy asking questions didn’t like me much) I headed to the baggage carousel and waited for my backpack...
And waited...
And waited...
By the time I went to the customer desk, another planes luggage was doing the rounds.
I was there a while.
Tired, exhausted, and probably looking like the bastard child of Kramer, I approached a well dressed Indian behind the counter. Despite a shaky start (he was adamant my bag didn’t exist) we found my bag...in Melbourne...
Desk Guy: You really should have checked your bag in Melbourne.
Me: I wasn’t supposed to. The idea was I checked it in Hobart and that was it. When I checked in in Melbourne I asked and made sure my bag was good to go. She said it was fine.
Desk guy: OK... But you really should have checked it in.
Cue me looking at him like he’s a small retarded child...
We went like this for a while, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe my story, but thankfully this story ended with my bag on the next flight to London, to arrive the following day...
I had the option of getting the bag delivered to an address, but he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t ring prior to delivery. Considering the address was my brothers - and he didn’t know I was in the country - I really didn’t want my bag beating me to his door...
And so I decided to come back to Heathrow and get it. As we parted he couldn’t resist.
Desk guy: Just remember to check your bag in next time OK.
You cunt...
The one good thing about going back to Heathrow was I got to do the arrival walkthrough twice. I felt like those Home and Away actors at the Logies who walk the red carpet, walk back down, and then do it again.
----------------------------------------------------------
Time 5:30pm. Standing at car rental desk.
Got everything together, backpacks heavier than I remember, but am good to go. After being told the price of renting a car for the day, I decide trains the way to go. Back to the tube...
Time 6:30pm. Paddington station.
Going good. Bought ticket to Cam train station, with a change at Bristol. Didn’t ask how long it would take, guy behind the counter had the highest pitch voice I’ve ever heard...on anyone... freaked me out a bit to be honest. Train leaves at 7:30, time for some food...
Time 7:30pm. We’re off to Dursley!
Nice to sit that fucking backpack down. Hate it already, resorted to dragging it round towards the end... We set off, can’t understand a word of the chick over the intercom, although I swear she said we get into Bristol about 9:30! That can’t be right, can it?
Time 8:30pm. Still going...
The two pissed Welsh dudes next to me are cool, been tipping some spirits into empty Red Bull cans since we started, gotta respect that... Poor bastards just came from watching Cardiff lose the FA cup, but the grog seems a good mistress for forgetting. Dursley is more than an hour out of London, I am discovering...
Time 8:45pm. We’ve stopped...
...In the middle of nowhere. Apparently there’s been an ‘incident’ on the track ahead and we are waiting till it’s cleared. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Time 9:50pm. Bristol, Finally!
I’m definitely too late for tea, but then again I’m too fucking tired for food anyway. Thought it would be colder, now where is this train for Cam? After two laps of the station a guy in a reflective vest looks the go to give me my answer.
Me: Mate, where’s the next train to Cam and Dursley?
He speaks into a walkie talkie, gibberish comes out, he looks up...
Him: None more from here tonight, fellar. Last one leaves Bristol Parkway in about fifteen.
ME: Shit! How far aways that?
Him: Bout ten, fifteen. Cabs out the front, you might make it...
Gave him my thanks as I’m dragging my bag up the stairs. Should’ve got a backpack with wheels. Rank of cabs right out front, excellent! Welsh dude from the train is talking through the window to a cabbie, he’s still pissed...I dive into the same cab. Bristol Parkway thanks. Twenty five quid? Cool, let’s go.
Time 10:08pm Bristol Parkway.
That cabbie was fucking crazy! He nailed it though, got me there with a couple to spare. Tipped him five pound, which I immediately regretted when I converted it in my head, but I’ve got to get going. Dragged the bag across the car park, into the station, up the stairs...and the train is waiting. Spot on; jump on; sit; a minute later the last train for the night is on its way.
Time 10:45pm. Cam and Dursley train station.
As soon as I stepped off the train I smelt cowshit. This is not so much a station as a slab of cement in the middle of a paddock. I am not in Kansas anymore. Had to drag the FB up an overpass to the road on the other side. The cab rank from Bristol is nowhere to be seen. In fact, there isn’t a cab, car, or person in sight. There was an info board but I couldn’t see any cab numbers on it. Fuck!! Thousands of miles and I get fucked over by the last ten! Gave the board another crack, right at the top in small print were some cab numbers....
Time 11:00pm. Waiting...
A serial killer could abduct and kill me and no one would ever know...
Time 11:15pm. Dursley
Cabbie dropped me off, and I knock on the door... Nothing.
Again... A window opens on the second floor, my brother’s wife.
Donna: Who’s there?
Me: Are you gonna let me in or what?
--------------------------------------------------------
Next up: I’m also crap with directions...
Till then, find the joy people.
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
#2 What's In A Name?
Hey, good taste is universal...
Although I would like to know why they abbreviated Great Russell St, but not Little Russell St...
#1 Every End Has A Beginning...
Greetings and salutations, good people, and wecome to the beginning. This may become a regular diatribe, this may be incredibly irregular, this may well be the one and only entry I make (those cunts who know me best would be doing well to get dibs on the middle choice. Myself, forever the cynical optimist, expect the first but am dreading it will be the last...)
Despite the frequency, don’t expect a blow by blow account of this faraway place. You will not be told of every trip to Tesco’s, and its subsequent purchase; every time I take a piss, and the amount of shaking afterwards. Quality will be the aim of the game, people, not quantity. It will be random, it will most likely be largely pointless, and it will hopefully be smile worthy. I have no doubt this first entry will be the longest, And considering I’m three parts asleep it may be incomprehensible. But I’ll give it a crack, that you can bet on...
-------------------------------------------------------
Two things I’ve learnt about the kindly people of Malaysia...
1/ It appears to me their entire language is based around ‘dung’ and ‘dong’. How the fuck they can create a knowledgeable society around two words is beyond me. To provide example, allow me to translate my flight captain.
Captain in Malaysian: Sera dungadong gungudung, maradongo sepa dong, sheeta cuntee, pungadong Malaysia gonadung. apoodungo 13 DUNG dungadong, ding...
Captain in English (of sorts): Good afternoon Passengers, I am your captain, sheeta cuntee, and welcome to Malaysia airlines. We hope you enjoy your 13 HOUR flight, enjoy...
-------------------------------------------------------
2/These people must be the worst shot in the world! I’m guessing their death penalty doesn’t include firing squad these days... And yes that is mostly piss on the floor, the bottom of my jeans can attest to that. Connoisseurs will note the colour of the water. I haven’t used it yet, by the way. I do have some class for Christ’s sake. Apparently they like to let the yellow mellow on the equator...
WRITERS NOTE: I know what you’re thinking, I said I wouldn’t be talking about my own piss, not others... So suck on that.
Aaah, I feel my horizons broadening already...
Well that’s me for the minute folks. I’m sitting in a hotel room for the price of which I would normally sell a kidney, or at least be considering an offer from a big black sailor named Willy May, and would like to get my moneys worth in sleep.
Until next time - if there is one - Find the Joy, people.
PS. If any one else is thinking of travelling, and the lovely lady at Flight Centre tells you of ‘a new system that allows you to check your bags at Hobart and not worry about them till you get to London.’ Punch your fist up her vagina, and pull out the women's bits...Idiots like her need to be stopped from ruining the gene pool.
Or at the very least say no...
Despite the frequency, don’t expect a blow by blow account of this faraway place. You will not be told of every trip to Tesco’s, and its subsequent purchase; every time I take a piss, and the amount of shaking afterwards. Quality will be the aim of the game, people, not quantity. It will be random, it will most likely be largely pointless, and it will hopefully be smile worthy. I have no doubt this first entry will be the longest, And considering I’m three parts asleep it may be incomprehensible. But I’ll give it a crack, that you can bet on...
-------------------------------------------------------
Two things I’ve learnt about the kindly people of Malaysia...
1/ It appears to me their entire language is based around ‘dung’ and ‘dong’. How the fuck they can create a knowledgeable society around two words is beyond me. To provide example, allow me to translate my flight captain.
Captain in Malaysian: Sera dungadong gungudung, maradongo sepa dong, sheeta cuntee, pungadong Malaysia gonadung. apoodungo 13 DUNG dungadong, ding...
Captain in English (of sorts): Good afternoon Passengers, I am your captain, sheeta cuntee, and welcome to Malaysia airlines. We hope you enjoy your 13 HOUR flight, enjoy...
-------------------------------------------------------
2/These people must be the worst shot in the world! I’m guessing their death penalty doesn’t include firing squad these days... And yes that is mostly piss on the floor, the bottom of my jeans can attest to that. Connoisseurs will note the colour of the water. I haven’t used it yet, by the way. I do have some class for Christ’s sake. Apparently they like to let the yellow mellow on the equator...
WRITERS NOTE: I know what you’re thinking, I said I wouldn’t be talking about my own piss, not others... So suck on that.
Aaah, I feel my horizons broadening already...
Well that’s me for the minute folks. I’m sitting in a hotel room for the price of which I would normally sell a kidney, or at least be considering an offer from a big black sailor named Willy May, and would like to get my moneys worth in sleep.
Until next time - if there is one - Find the Joy, people.
PS. If any one else is thinking of travelling, and the lovely lady at Flight Centre tells you of ‘a new system that allows you to check your bags at Hobart and not worry about them till you get to London.’ Punch your fist up her vagina, and pull out the women's bits...Idiots like her need to be stopped from ruining the gene pool.
Or at the very least say no...
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