Next to the supermarket down here in Chickentown, there is a McDonalds. (I'm always astonished by the number of people that consider the place as somewhere to go for their Sunday lunch). Every time I go into the supermarket car park I look over at the far flung corners of the car park, where all the cap-wearing peanut-headed white tracksuit wearing scrawny little scrotes hang out in their shiny Vauxhall Novas comparing alloys.
You can see where they've been parked, sitting in their motors and talking shit to each other out of their windows. Because the ground is covered in all that food packaging crap and styrofoam cartons and brown paper bags. Litterbugging lazy shitbag little fucks, all of them.
You know, what does it take to walk over to a bin a few yards away and chuck your shit in that?
If I was the manager of McFuckingDonalds, and I knew who these twats were, the next time they came in to buy BigTurd and fries, I would empty it all onto the counter with no packaging whatsoever. No wrappers, no bags, no nothing - just hand it over loose. "Here you go, nobs, just put it all in the pockets of your baggy-assed jeans, squirt a bit of ketchup and some salt down there and it will all mix up nicely by the time you get back to the motor. Just remember to take the burger out of your ass-pocket before you get in it."
That way, these bastards would be less likely to dirty the place up with all that shit.
Bill Turnip
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Friday, 17 April 2009
BAG O' SHITE
Dog shite.
No way I’d own a dog. Dirty stinking annoying things. What’s the point? You buy some playful little puppy that looks cute, bring it home and it craps all over your house, every day, for weeks, until finally, after enough beatings, it figures out that crapping on the carpet leads to violence from the human.
They drool over everything. Leave the meat on the kitchen worktop while you reach into the cupboard for the veg and the fucker will have snaffled your fillet steak. They moult, leaving hair and fur all over your furniture. They have bad breath, and they try to lick your face with disgusting drool and then try to fuck your leg. They bark all the time, drive your neighbours nuts as well as yourselves. They chew up sofas (a friend is on his third sofa thanks to the mutt that was forced on him by the rest of the family).
They can’t exercise themselves – you have to go with the dog, early morning and late at night. And you have to take a bag with you so you can pick up all those fresh steaming foul smelling turds that stink worse than anything imaginable. You then get dragged arou nd the estate, carrying a bag of shite, while the hound looks for something to piss on, like a nice alloy wheel, or better still, a bag of rubbish on the floor, next to a full wheelie bin. So when the binmen come along, they can get dog piss all over their hands. Lovely.
Cats, on the other, while being selfish, violent and evil little creatures, at least don’t need to be walked, and they bury their shit. That is about the only positive thing I can say about them. The stinking little sods still lie around on the furniture leaving their fleas and hair all over it. They have to be fed, otherwise they kill things and bring the bodies in the house, or worse still, bring living things like rodents in, and then let them go so they can chase them to the death around the front room. Then, when the mouse is dead, the cat just fucks off and leaves the corpse for you to deal with. The cat then saunters off outside, backs up to the herb patch and sprays your parsley and chives with the most disgusting catpiss. Bastards, all of them.
Bringing dog shit into the house has to be one of the most rage-inducing events known to man. I nearly stepped in some while loading the car last night. I’d seen it during daylight, just a feet away from the back of my car – small dog type shit, like a couple of cocktail sausages and a chipolota. Another bastard dog owner who takes his animal out so it can crap outside someone else’s home, and not bother to clean up. They are the lowest, the most selfish, the most inconsiderate bastards. I very nearly forgot it was there in the dark, and could have smudged it all across my shoes and brought it into the house. I was lucky this time.
Many years ago I had a situation where a dog owner was regularly letting his hound crap right on the path to my front door – a few feet from the house and where I had to walk every time I entered or left the building. After bawling him out when I caught him with the dog in mid crap, and receiving a ‘don’t give a fuck’ type of response, I made sure I followed him discreetly to see where he lived on the estate. Much later that night, I scooped up the turds into an envelope and put it through his letterbox. Never saw his dog crapping on my doorstep again.
So my advice to all of you is, whenever someone lets their dog take a dump on your doorstep without picking it up afterwards, make sure you find out where they live and send them a package. Even better if you can actually post it to them, as they’ll be less guarded when they open something that has come via Royal Mail, and who knows, with a bit of luck they might be having breakfast and inadvertently empty all that stinking shit into their cornflakes. Wonderful.
We live next to a primary school, and one day I had reason to go in there to speak to the head. Walking through the corridor as all the kids were arriving for the day, I saw shit-smears all along the floor. Some poor kid had brought in a heap on his shoes and smudged it all around the school and his classroom. The staff then had to get the mop and bucket out, warn all the other kids, close off the corridor, clean up the kid covered in crap, get it out of the carpet in the classroom, and hose down the corridor. All because some fucking inconsiderate lousy fuckwit dog owner could not be arsed to pick up the disgusting mushy plops his animal had dropped, right outside the school. It doesn’t even take common sense to consider what is going o happen when your dog turns out on a footpath in front of the school gates. What c*nts these people are.
They should have their faces rubbed into their own dog’s ass.
At college, in 1975 (shit, that’s a while ago now), there was a student from Nigeria, or Cameroon or some place like that in Africa, who went by the name Jet. In his culture, a dog was something you ate from time to time, and he could not understand the British obsession with keeping animals as pets, rather than for food.
He was a complete twat, but I will always remember his wonderful rant about dog owners, mainly because I happened to tape it on my cassette recorder and still have it to this day. However, you have to hear it, complete with African accent, to find it amusing. I don’t suppose anyone other than myself will chuckle at the following, which brings back memories of a drunken evening surrounded by other twats.
“People who buy dogs, I think they are dogs themselves. I think they are dogs. I believe it, you know. They are dogs themselves. They can’t stop feeding the fucking dog, you know? They buy dog chow, chow chow and all that, and they spend, what, five quid….a day…on this dog. And they say, ‘it’s like one of the family’. What the fucking hell is a dog gonna do for you, man? People who buy dogs……they are dogs themselves.”
I’m with my Jet black friend on that one.
And then there is the dangerous breeds that our criminal element like to walk around the town with, intimidating people. These vicious little canine bastards that turn on children and tear them to shreds, or even kill them, should be rounded up and slaughtered. We don’t need them.
Fucking dogs. They’re all bastards.
Bill Turnip.
No way I’d own a dog. Dirty stinking annoying things. What’s the point? You buy some playful little puppy that looks cute, bring it home and it craps all over your house, every day, for weeks, until finally, after enough beatings, it figures out that crapping on the carpet leads to violence from the human.
They drool over everything. Leave the meat on the kitchen worktop while you reach into the cupboard for the veg and the fucker will have snaffled your fillet steak. They moult, leaving hair and fur all over your furniture. They have bad breath, and they try to lick your face with disgusting drool and then try to fuck your leg. They bark all the time, drive your neighbours nuts as well as yourselves. They chew up sofas (a friend is on his third sofa thanks to the mutt that was forced on him by the rest of the family).
They can’t exercise themselves – you have to go with the dog, early morning and late at night. And you have to take a bag with you so you can pick up all those fresh steaming foul smelling turds that stink worse than anything imaginable. You then get dragged arou nd the estate, carrying a bag of shite, while the hound looks for something to piss on, like a nice alloy wheel, or better still, a bag of rubbish on the floor, next to a full wheelie bin. So when the binmen come along, they can get dog piss all over their hands. Lovely.
Cats, on the other, while being selfish, violent and evil little creatures, at least don’t need to be walked, and they bury their shit. That is about the only positive thing I can say about them. The stinking little sods still lie around on the furniture leaving their fleas and hair all over it. They have to be fed, otherwise they kill things and bring the bodies in the house, or worse still, bring living things like rodents in, and then let them go so they can chase them to the death around the front room. Then, when the mouse is dead, the cat just fucks off and leaves the corpse for you to deal with. The cat then saunters off outside, backs up to the herb patch and sprays your parsley and chives with the most disgusting catpiss. Bastards, all of them.
Bringing dog shit into the house has to be one of the most rage-inducing events known to man. I nearly stepped in some while loading the car last night. I’d seen it during daylight, just a feet away from the back of my car – small dog type shit, like a couple of cocktail sausages and a chipolota. Another bastard dog owner who takes his animal out so it can crap outside someone else’s home, and not bother to clean up. They are the lowest, the most selfish, the most inconsiderate bastards. I very nearly forgot it was there in the dark, and could have smudged it all across my shoes and brought it into the house. I was lucky this time.
Many years ago I had a situation where a dog owner was regularly letting his hound crap right on the path to my front door – a few feet from the house and where I had to walk every time I entered or left the building. After bawling him out when I caught him with the dog in mid crap, and receiving a ‘don’t give a fuck’ type of response, I made sure I followed him discreetly to see where he lived on the estate. Much later that night, I scooped up the turds into an envelope and put it through his letterbox. Never saw his dog crapping on my doorstep again.
So my advice to all of you is, whenever someone lets their dog take a dump on your doorstep without picking it up afterwards, make sure you find out where they live and send them a package. Even better if you can actually post it to them, as they’ll be less guarded when they open something that has come via Royal Mail, and who knows, with a bit of luck they might be having breakfast and inadvertently empty all that stinking shit into their cornflakes. Wonderful.
We live next to a primary school, and one day I had reason to go in there to speak to the head. Walking through the corridor as all the kids were arriving for the day, I saw shit-smears all along the floor. Some poor kid had brought in a heap on his shoes and smudged it all around the school and his classroom. The staff then had to get the mop and bucket out, warn all the other kids, close off the corridor, clean up the kid covered in crap, get it out of the carpet in the classroom, and hose down the corridor. All because some fucking inconsiderate lousy fuckwit dog owner could not be arsed to pick up the disgusting mushy plops his animal had dropped, right outside the school. It doesn’t even take common sense to consider what is going o happen when your dog turns out on a footpath in front of the school gates. What c*nts these people are.
They should have their faces rubbed into their own dog’s ass.
At college, in 1975 (shit, that’s a while ago now), there was a student from Nigeria, or Cameroon or some place like that in Africa, who went by the name Jet. In his culture, a dog was something you ate from time to time, and he could not understand the British obsession with keeping animals as pets, rather than for food.
He was a complete twat, but I will always remember his wonderful rant about dog owners, mainly because I happened to tape it on my cassette recorder and still have it to this day. However, you have to hear it, complete with African accent, to find it amusing. I don’t suppose anyone other than myself will chuckle at the following, which brings back memories of a drunken evening surrounded by other twats.
“People who buy dogs, I think they are dogs themselves. I think they are dogs. I believe it, you know. They are dogs themselves. They can’t stop feeding the fucking dog, you know? They buy dog chow, chow chow and all that, and they spend, what, five quid….a day…on this dog. And they say, ‘it’s like one of the family’. What the fucking hell is a dog gonna do for you, man? People who buy dogs……they are dogs themselves.”
I’m with my Jet black friend on that one.
And then there is the dangerous breeds that our criminal element like to walk around the town with, intimidating people. These vicious little canine bastards that turn on children and tear them to shreds, or even kill them, should be rounded up and slaughtered. We don’t need them.
Fucking dogs. They’re all bastards.
Bill Turnip.
Friday, 10 April 2009
THINGS THAT IRRITATE ME - No 1
A short list:
People who say ‘at the end of the day’
Stationary buses that then pull out when you are halfway into overtaking them.
Notices on food products that say it may contain nut traces, or it was made in a factory that uses nuts. (See in 'older posts')
People (especially ‘yoofs’) who say ‘innit’ at the end of every sentence. Example: “I is on da bus, innit”.
Indians and Pakistanis who say ‘isn’t it’ at the end of a sentence when they are not even asking a question. Example: “I’m going to make some popadoms, isn’t it?”
Mothers holding babies, with a cigarette hanging out of their mouths (theirs, not the baby's).
Teenage drivers who sit so low in their cars, only their heads appear over the dashboard.
Teenage drivers with baseball caps and heads the size of a macadamia nut.
Slack-jawed mouth-breathing numpties with drooping bottom lips.
Drivers who overtake you at speed on motorways and then immediately slow down to less than your speed, then when you overtake them, they speed up and do it again.
Motorway drivers who stay in the centre lane when there is no traffic in the nearside lane.
People who say ‘fair play to you, mate’
People serving in shops who haven’t the basic courtesy to look up and say hello when you arrive at their checkout.
Mullets. The fish also.
Most Americans.
People who say ‘at the end of the day’
Stationary buses that then pull out when you are halfway into overtaking them.
Notices on food products that say it may contain nut traces, or it was made in a factory that uses nuts. (See in 'older posts')
People (especially ‘yoofs’) who say ‘innit’ at the end of every sentence. Example: “I is on da bus, innit”.
Indians and Pakistanis who say ‘isn’t it’ at the end of a sentence when they are not even asking a question. Example: “I’m going to make some popadoms, isn’t it?”
Mothers holding babies, with a cigarette hanging out of their mouths (theirs, not the baby's).
Teenage drivers who sit so low in their cars, only their heads appear over the dashboard.
Teenage drivers with baseball caps and heads the size of a macadamia nut.
Slack-jawed mouth-breathing numpties with drooping bottom lips.
Drivers who overtake you at speed on motorways and then immediately slow down to less than your speed, then when you overtake them, they speed up and do it again.
Motorway drivers who stay in the centre lane when there is no traffic in the nearside lane.
People who say ‘fair play to you, mate’
People serving in shops who haven’t the basic courtesy to look up and say hello when you arrive at their checkout.
Mullets. The fish also.
Most Americans.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
ESTATE ASIAN
Selling my house in north west London last year, (2008), I went to see three estate agents for valuations, as you do. Trouble is, apart from Andrews, who we bought it through in 1986, they are all asswipes. Haaaaart didn’t really have much of a clue, telling us to put it on with a guide price ranging £30,000 between bottom and top price. What’s the point of that? Any buyer is surely only going to offer the lower price, or below.
Then there is the classic – Bairstow Eves.
I walked in and sat down in front of an Asian kid and explained I was putting my house on the market, would like a valuation, and would then consider which estate agent to appoint.
“OK Sir, I just need a few details.”
There’s something about this bloke. Apart from the incredibly strange hair, which seemed to have boot polish marking out a ‘hairline’ on is forehead, he must be no more than 21, full of self importance and attitude right from the start. I took an instant dislike. Nothing to do with him being Asian, you understand. I was living in a predominantly Asian part of London for more than 20 years. Shit, I even had a shopkeeper say hello to me the other week, and I’ve only been going in there for my avacados and limes for the last 15 years. I was really beginning to integrate.
Anyhow, this little wet behind the ears snot-nosed fucker starts to log down the details. “How long have you owned the property?”
“Twenty two years.”
“OK, so there is no mortgage on it then.”
“Scuse me?” “Yes there is mortgage – why would you be so presumptuous to assume there wasn’t?”
“Well, after that length of time, most people have paid their mortgage off.”
Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you know you are taking some shit, but it’s not until after the event and you start to think about it more, that you become really incensed with what was said? This was one of those moments.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I remortgaged a couple of times to finance other properties. OK?”
He continued, “What was the price you paid originally?”
Again, none of his fucking business, and of no relevance to conducting a valuation 22 years on, but I replied, “£82,500 in 1986.”
Eyebrows raised, and, “Hmmm…”
“What now?” Beginning to get seriously irritated by now.
“It seems like a lot to pay at that time.”
A LOT TO PAY AT THAT TIME? WHAT THE FUCKING BUGGERY BOLLOCKS WOULD THIS STUPID LITTLE GOBSHITE KNOW? IN 1986 HE WAS STILL UP HIS MOTHER’S FALLOPIAN TUBES WAITING TO BE FARTED OUT.
This was my cue to get up, tell him to poke it and walk out. But incredibly, I sat there, dumbfounded.
Anyway, they sent round a proper bloke to value the house (if it had been little Mr Boot Polish I wouldn’t have let him through the door). To be fair, this chap went through his schpeil and offered some valuable comments, priced it in the region I expected and so on. In fact he conducted himself in a very professional manner.
I told him this and complimented him on his knowledge and professional approach. I also told him his firm would not be getting my instructions. I said, if there is any possibility of that ignorant twat at the front desk getting a single penny of the sale commission, or crawling over my property, spouting off like the asshole he is, to prospective buyers, then you can forget it.
“What are you doing employing fucks like him? He needs to go on a course in basic manners and diplomacy, learn a little humility in front of people he is dealing with. Especially people like me who have been around the block once or twice.”
“He does your company no favours whatsoever, and as far as I am concerned, is the sole reason I would not go near Bairstow Eves to flog my house.”
Apparently, I am not the first person to be aggravated and wound up by this kid. “Yes, we have had one or two complaints about him in the past, but he was nominated junior estate agent of the year, north west London regional heats, runner up, or something, and he does speak fluent Gujarat, and as so many of our buyers come in here not speaking any English, he is an asset to the company.”
For Fuck’s Sake.
What can you say to that? Fuck all.
Bill Turnip
Then there is the classic – Bairstow Eves.
I walked in and sat down in front of an Asian kid and explained I was putting my house on the market, would like a valuation, and would then consider which estate agent to appoint.
“OK Sir, I just need a few details.”
There’s something about this bloke. Apart from the incredibly strange hair, which seemed to have boot polish marking out a ‘hairline’ on is forehead, he must be no more than 21, full of self importance and attitude right from the start. I took an instant dislike. Nothing to do with him being Asian, you understand. I was living in a predominantly Asian part of London for more than 20 years. Shit, I even had a shopkeeper say hello to me the other week, and I’ve only been going in there for my avacados and limes for the last 15 years. I was really beginning to integrate.
Anyhow, this little wet behind the ears snot-nosed fucker starts to log down the details. “How long have you owned the property?”
“Twenty two years.”
“OK, so there is no mortgage on it then.”
“Scuse me?” “Yes there is mortgage – why would you be so presumptuous to assume there wasn’t?”
“Well, after that length of time, most people have paid their mortgage off.”
Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you know you are taking some shit, but it’s not until after the event and you start to think about it more, that you become really incensed with what was said? This was one of those moments.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I remortgaged a couple of times to finance other properties. OK?”
He continued, “What was the price you paid originally?”
Again, none of his fucking business, and of no relevance to conducting a valuation 22 years on, but I replied, “£82,500 in 1986.”
Eyebrows raised, and, “Hmmm…”
“What now?” Beginning to get seriously irritated by now.
“It seems like a lot to pay at that time.”
A LOT TO PAY AT THAT TIME? WHAT THE FUCKING BUGGERY BOLLOCKS WOULD THIS STUPID LITTLE GOBSHITE KNOW? IN 1986 HE WAS STILL UP HIS MOTHER’S FALLOPIAN TUBES WAITING TO BE FARTED OUT.
This was my cue to get up, tell him to poke it and walk out. But incredibly, I sat there, dumbfounded.
Anyway, they sent round a proper bloke to value the house (if it had been little Mr Boot Polish I wouldn’t have let him through the door). To be fair, this chap went through his schpeil and offered some valuable comments, priced it in the region I expected and so on. In fact he conducted himself in a very professional manner.
I told him this and complimented him on his knowledge and professional approach. I also told him his firm would not be getting my instructions. I said, if there is any possibility of that ignorant twat at the front desk getting a single penny of the sale commission, or crawling over my property, spouting off like the asshole he is, to prospective buyers, then you can forget it.
“What are you doing employing fucks like him? He needs to go on a course in basic manners and diplomacy, learn a little humility in front of people he is dealing with. Especially people like me who have been around the block once or twice.”
“He does your company no favours whatsoever, and as far as I am concerned, is the sole reason I would not go near Bairstow Eves to flog my house.”
Apparently, I am not the first person to be aggravated and wound up by this kid. “Yes, we have had one or two complaints about him in the past, but he was nominated junior estate agent of the year, north west London regional heats, runner up, or something, and he does speak fluent Gujarat, and as so many of our buyers come in here not speaking any English, he is an asset to the company.”
For Fuck’s Sake.
What can you say to that? Fuck all.
Bill Turnip
Sunday, 5 April 2009
WEEDS
What could be more pleasant than spending a warm Spring Sunday in the garden, with your wife by your side, digging together in readiness for planting out the season's veg?
Sitting in the garden with a Gin and Tonic, watching her dig the fucking weeds out. That's what.
Weeds: fucking pointless.
If there is such a thing as a God, what was he thinking of when he came up with the idea of weeds?
Veg should grow naturally in abundance, without any help from man, without any input whatsoever, or visits to Wilkinsons to buy seeds, in a weed-free environment, and if you want weeds, you should have to plant the fuckers yourself.
Who or what eats or benefits from weeds?
They produce nothing of use or value in the garden. All they fucking produce is a load of other weeds. They strangle my onions, fuck my peas, and generally piss me off. I'm done with weeds.
They're all bastards.
Bill Turnip
Sitting in the garden with a Gin and Tonic, watching her dig the fucking weeds out. That's what.
Weeds: fucking pointless.
If there is such a thing as a God, what was he thinking of when he came up with the idea of weeds?
Veg should grow naturally in abundance, without any help from man, without any input whatsoever, or visits to Wilkinsons to buy seeds, in a weed-free environment, and if you want weeds, you should have to plant the fuckers yourself.
Who or what eats or benefits from weeds?
They produce nothing of use or value in the garden. All they fucking produce is a load of other weeds. They strangle my onions, fuck my peas, and generally piss me off. I'm done with weeds.
They're all bastards.
Bill Turnip
Saturday, 4 April 2009
JUMPER
What a shite day
Travelled up to London last night, to be in place for work today. The job got cancelled just before I set off to do it. Bollocks.
So I decided to fuck off out of London early on the Friday, but realised my Network Railcard had expired. So I missed the 16.20 out of Waterloo while queueing to renew it. But never mind, I got on he 16:50.
Ten minutes down the line we're passing through a Station and BANG!. A loud thud and a jolt. I'm in the first carriage, near the front of the train, and everybody looks puzzled. A brick thrown from a bridge? Something on the line the train ran over?
The train slows down after the station and comes to a halt. Across the way, a passenger says "someone just got hit" Oh fuck. "I just saw the body scooting along the platform beside the train."
Now the person obviously had some serious issues. You don't just leap in front of thousands of tons of metal moving at 70mph unless you are seriously fucked up. But what about the poor bastard driving the train? Right in his face. He must have been looking - you don't drive a train through a station at speed without paying attention. Poor bastard. That image will be etched on his memory for the rest of his life.
I hear that train drivers who are confronted with this, often find they can't go back to work for fear of it happening again. I can understand that. Every time they go through a station they are not stopping at, it must all come flashing back to them. I would not want the image of a squashed face at my window to haunt me for the rest of my days.
My heart goes out to the family of this troubled soul, but you know, there are less traumatic ways of topping yourself. Car exhaust and hosepipe. Lots of booze and a load of pills. Swallow dive off the Severn Bridge. Apart from the train driver, there must have been plenty of people who saw the body twizzling down the platform like some discarded kids ragdoll.
Apparently, lobbing your ass in front of an express train on a platform is more likely to result in an insurance payout for the family you leave behind than other forms of self destruction, as there is more possibility of it being an accident and therefore harder to prove suicide.
So we switched trains after limping on to the next station, standing room only all the way to Woking, and then change again and stand for another two hours in a packed Friday evening train.
By the time I got home, my tea was dried up.
The selfish bastard.
Bill Turnip.
Travelled up to London last night, to be in place for work today. The job got cancelled just before I set off to do it. Bollocks.
So I decided to fuck off out of London early on the Friday, but realised my Network Railcard had expired. So I missed the 16.20 out of Waterloo while queueing to renew it. But never mind, I got on he 16:50.
Ten minutes down the line we're passing through a Station and BANG!. A loud thud and a jolt. I'm in the first carriage, near the front of the train, and everybody looks puzzled. A brick thrown from a bridge? Something on the line the train ran over?
The train slows down after the station and comes to a halt. Across the way, a passenger says "someone just got hit" Oh fuck. "I just saw the body scooting along the platform beside the train."
Now the person obviously had some serious issues. You don't just leap in front of thousands of tons of metal moving at 70mph unless you are seriously fucked up. But what about the poor bastard driving the train? Right in his face. He must have been looking - you don't drive a train through a station at speed without paying attention. Poor bastard. That image will be etched on his memory for the rest of his life.
I hear that train drivers who are confronted with this, often find they can't go back to work for fear of it happening again. I can understand that. Every time they go through a station they are not stopping at, it must all come flashing back to them. I would not want the image of a squashed face at my window to haunt me for the rest of my days.
My heart goes out to the family of this troubled soul, but you know, there are less traumatic ways of topping yourself. Car exhaust and hosepipe. Lots of booze and a load of pills. Swallow dive off the Severn Bridge. Apart from the train driver, there must have been plenty of people who saw the body twizzling down the platform like some discarded kids ragdoll.
Apparently, lobbing your ass in front of an express train on a platform is more likely to result in an insurance payout for the family you leave behind than other forms of self destruction, as there is more possibility of it being an accident and therefore harder to prove suicide.
So we switched trains after limping on to the next station, standing room only all the way to Woking, and then change again and stand for another two hours in a packed Friday evening train.
By the time I got home, my tea was dried up.
The selfish bastard.
Bill Turnip.
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