Pricks, Trains and Automobiles.

Not blogging is shit. Real life has got directly in the way of me complaining and it's a shame. It's not like the normal stupid things that happen to me have suddenly stopped happening to me. They definitely haven't. And thanks to real life not giving me any time to blog, I've had to keep this in since Saturday. I shouldn't ever keep these things in. Blogging is what keeps me from the High Street rifle massacre that's not that deep within me.

It goes without saying that Saturday's stupidity started on a train. Of course it fucking did. I was on my way to Manchester and was very much enjoying the quiet train journey. There were quite a few people on the train and they were all talking but not loudly or horribly. They were chatting happily to one another and, maybe this says a lot about most other train journeys I've taken, the atmosphere was cheery. I was even reading. A BOOK! I know, I wasn't watching some TV thing about spacemen, I was actually reading a book. This was a lovely relaxing train journey. Up until Stoke-On-Trent.

At Stoke-On-Trent, Fuck Face got on. Fuck Face is a very tired looking business man who has obviously had a bad day. He also looks like every day has been a bad day. Dishevelled, sweaty and red-faced; and that was just his hair. He put his bag down on the seat next to him which just happened to be the seat in front of me and then he collapsed into his own seat. He looked somehow incredibly spiteful of the world and happy to have a seat all at the same time. He phoned his friend and spoke about how many train delays and unexpected changes he'd had to make that day. He had to sit on the platform at Birmingham for over an hour. I could have almost felt sorry for him if it wasn't for him hating the other people near us chatting. He just hated the sound of them chatting. I should say that all the people near us were Chinese.

Oh now we're uncomfortable.

"I'm on China Airways", he said to his friend. "China Airways. I'm on China Airways. I'm on China Airways". He repeated this a billion times more than was necessary but his friend on the other end of the phone either didn't quite get what he was saying or he couldn't bare the fact that his friend is a stupid fucking racist. "I'm on China Airways", he continued while I stared at him. "Can't you hear them?"

It was then that he outstretched his arm and pointed his phone right at the chatting people. I tried to make my staring louder but he didn't notice and went back to his lovely phone call. "It's been like that since I got on. Ching chang chong ching". I slammed my hand on the table and we finally made eye contact. It took him about a half a nano second to completely understand my glare. He went quiet and wrapped up his call. Right after he hung up, I stepped in. "Really?", I said. "Do you think that was appropriate?"

"What?", he lied.

"Your racist conversation".

He sighed like he gets this all the flipping time.

"I'm not a racist", he claimed. "Why were you eavesdropping?"

EAVESDROPPING? You can't fucking eavesdrop on a phone being pointed at people who aren't speaking English and then a chorus of Ching Chang Chong. That's not eavesdropping. That's having awful shoved down your throat.

That's when I reminded him that he was being racist and pointed to the people who he was being racist about while saying "You were being racist about them" very loudly. He moved carriage.

I felt very smug and happy before the inevitable wave of you-really-are-going-to-get-your-teeth-kicked-in-one-day hit me.

But that was just a racist. I'd need a sexist as well to really make my day. I'm not saying that Fuck Face wasn't a sexist, I have every reason to think he most definitely is, but I have no proof. Luckily, a cab in Manchester provided me with one.

Right after the gig in Manchester, I decided to take a cab to the Frog & Bucket to catch The Boy With Tape On His Face. There was a lot of talk about him in Edinburgh but going to see shows in Edinburgh is boring and should never be encouraged. This was my chance to see him. As soon as I got in the cab, the conversation between the driver and me began. Here it is in it's entirety:

"Can you take me to the Frog & Bucket, please?"

"No problem, mate".

"Thank you".

"Lot of good looking women in town tonight".

"Yes. But you know how it is when you get to our age. It goes from fancying them to worrying about them".

"What?"

"I mean, like a few years ago you'd see young girls wearing next to nothing and you'd go PHWOAR and now you just look at them and you think 'They'll be freezing later'".

"Don't you like women?"

"Er...no. I do. I just mean that it's easy to worry about these girls. You'd like to think they'll be OK".

The cab pulls over to the side of the road. "Right. Get out. You sound queer, mate".

And that was it. I was thrown out of the cab. Thrown out of the cab for not ogling women. I say that was it. It wasn't quite. It was just so funny and shocking to be asked to leave a cab so soon into the journey that I got the giggles. Knowing fully well what I was doing, I said "Fair enough. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing. Just get out".

My day was complete. You never really actually meet racists or sexists, unless you are racist or sexist, so to meet two in one day was really refreshingly depressing. I got another cab about 30 seconds later and told the cab driver what had just happened. He said "That could be one of a million cab drivers in Manchester. But I think I know who he is".

I think it's time to get back to blogging now. Two a week isn't enough. There will certainly be one tomorrow because today I go back to my doctor to discuss my blood test. My blood test that has come up with abnormalities. Abnormalities that he has to talk to me about face to face.

Gulp.

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