Monday, 10 May 2010

Eat The Rich.

I woke up early on Saturday morning to spend the day with my friend, Phat Paul, and to celebrate his birthday. There was a time when Phat Paul and I would have gone out, got drunk and got into a hilarious scrape involving a Mum, her daughter and a big Nun but those days seem to have changed. We don't celebrate birthday's like we used to. That's why I woke up at 7.30am on Saturday to go mushroom picking.

Yep. That's what he wanted to do.

I've never gone mushroom picking before (I know, it's a shock) and I can't imagine I'll go again. There was nothing wrong with it, of course, it's just that the actual picking of mushrooms is a bit dull. I mean, we walked all round Hampstead Heath while people looked solely at the ground and ignored the beautiful scenery around them. It was if they were completely unaware that mushrooms are available in the shops. They also behaved slightly like mushrooms are the cure for cancer and we all needed mushrooms, and only mushrooms, to survive. But, as we were there for four hours and there are only about six mushrooms in the entire place, I couldn't help but think that Hampstead Heath has more interesting things to offer. In fact, due to the Heath's reputation and complete lack of mushrooms, this birthday day out was quickly turning into a cum-filled condom finding expedition. I think at one point we managed to walk fifteen feet without seeing a spunky little ghost lying exhausted on a branch.

But the walk itself around the Heath is just gorgeous. I took joy in ignoring the mushrooms (that aren't there anyway) and looking at all the wealthy people's beautiful pedigree dogs. They all seemed to gracefully run around with an air of importance and superiority that really suited them. Still not as beautiful as my mutt, though. But that was the really annoying thing. I hadn't really paid attention to where we were going or what we were actually going to be doing so, in essence, I ended up paying a dog-sitter to look after my dog so I could go to the park. I'm a fucking stupid penis. Jerk would have loved it on the Heath. She'd be able to fight with a much better class of dog than she's used to.

The mushroom non-picking didn't bother me at all. I like mushrooms but I don't care how many types there are or how they grow or how you dry and store them. If I want mushrooms, I will go to the shop and buy them. I'm walking around a beautiful part of London and no-one can spoil it.

Except for absolutely everyone here.

What a horrible bunch of fucking alien cunts this heath attracts. The people who constantly fuck behind bushes are fine but the other people? They're awful. The mushroom pickers are bad enough. They SQUEEEEEEEAL when they see a small clump of mushrooms and that horrible noise just attracts the others to rush over and start clambering over themselves to get a mushroom too. Dignity is something that never occurs to them. There are mushrooms there so they MUST have some. At all costs. No matter what. Pushing, grabbing, shoving, pulling and for what? Mushrooms. Mushrooms that these wealthy fucks can easily afford yet would rather die than pay for. They acted like cunts, which is fair enough because they looked like cunts. One grown man walked around with a BASKET. A FUCKING BASKET. Like the one Little Red Riding Hood carried before her Grandmother was raped and murdered by an animal. He carried a fucking BASKET around like it was the most normal thing in the world. Fuck, manbags. Manbaskets are the thing REAL twee little bastards are seen with these days. And every time he found a mushroom, which was about twice, he smugly popped it into his BASKET and smugly looked at it as if it was his little earth baby that he loved more than anything he had ever known. He wasn't going to take that mushroom home, chop it up and stir-fry it to death like the rest of us might. NO! He was going to clean it, clothe it, educate it, love it and make it the sole heir to his incredible pastel-coloured fabrics empire.

And he was far from the worst. One cunt, who carried a mushroom identification book with him CONSTANTLY, wouldn't leave us the fuck alone. He kept talking about the dishes he's made all over the world without any acceptance of my body language screaming "I DON'T TALK TO PEOPLE I DON'T KNOW. GO THE FUCK AWAY, PLEASE". I smiled and nodded but as soon as he said "I haven't actually paid for a mushroom in two decades" I sped up and got away from him.

He got more time from me than the "guide" did though. I dunno, there's something about a man who describes himself as a Druid that I can't take seriously. The cunt. He isn't a druid and I say that for a very good reason. NO-ONE IS A DRUID. Grow up.

But it was the people who live near the Heath that upset me most. Yes, yes, yes. I'm jealous of them. Of course, I'm jealous of them. They have everything they want. I just think that there should be a line and, when people of incredible wealth cross it, ALL of their money is passed on to someone else. Someone who might appreciate it and not spend it in the most ridiculously pompous way that they do.

At one point I saw two children on wooden bicycles. Are you seriously trying to tell me that if you had seen two children on wooden bicycles that you would be certain that you wouldn't start punching them to death? I just wanted to deck them. Two little twats OPENLY riding WOODEN bicycles. Are they INSANE? No, they're not. They are children. The insane ones are their parents. The people who bought these two little boys, that they have barely met, wooden bicycles and named them after an exotic holiday destination or a salad and dressed them up little country gentlemen. How could anyone NOT want to batter these children? THEY RIDE WOODEN BICYCLES? Don't tell me I'm wrong, OK? I'm right. I'M RIGHT, I'M RIGHT, I'M RIGHT! No, I'm not losing it, you're losing it. Shut up.

A perfectly lovely walk tarnished by the human race. Again. Luckily, gigs this weekend have been excellent. The Kings Head in Crouch End was just lovely and the Comedy Cafe was a lot of fun too. Allow me to tell you about the table of HERE COME THE GIRLS that had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, out of the venue. Tomorrow...

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4 comments:

Manic Expressive said...

Nothing makes me hate people more than being around them.

Michael Legge said...

You say everything in one sentence that I try to say in a thousand. Well done!

Bob said...

I fucking love nature/outside stuff but there's always people there to ruin it. I used to want to move to the states so I could find outside places with no people but apparently that's where all the murders happen.

Creaky Castle said...

I didn't really start to deeply dislike people until I moved to manchester. I didn't really like people before, but now I really really don't like people. I hate to say it, but I'm a southener who really doesn't like northeners. They're twisting my mellow man.