MEMORY OF A GOLDFISH

Oh fuck. I’ve forgotten what I was going to rant about.

Yeah, that’s it. Memory. Fucking useless mine is. I go upstairs to get something, the wife asks me a question on the way up, and by the time I get to the top I’ve forgotten whatever it was I climbed the stairs for. It’s bollocks.

I have to go back down and stand in the place where I thought of getting whatever it was originally (if I can remember where I was) and think hard. Suddenly it comes back to me and off I go. Half way up the stairs I’ve forgotten again.

The other day, the wife dropped me at the station to catch the train to London. Made it in good time. Gave her a sloppy kiss and made my way over the stairs to the platform. Just about to climb aboard when I realised I’d left my wallet at home with all my cards and Oyster card, Network card etc. Buggery bollocks. I had £2.40 in my pocket, so I couldn’t even buy a single tube ticket the other end. Rang the missus and she made a dash back home to get the wallet. She was never going to make it before the train left. The guard looked at me wondering if I was getting on. I told him why I couldn’t, but also explained that I had a dirt cheap ticket that only allowed travel on that particular train and I would have to buy another full price ticket. He asked for the document and scribbled something down on his bit of paper, tore it off and told me to show it to the guard on the next train. He’d requested that I be allowed to travel on the following train, even though the ticket was not valid. Brilliant – thanks mate, and to South West trains, I take back all the shit I threw at you during a recent rant here.

Anyway, wife came back with wallet after the train had left, but all was well, even though it was a balls-ache.

Where was I?

Memory. Useless. Thought it was linked to age, but thinking about it, I have always been crap at remembering anything, from an early age. My Mum would always ask as I left the house for school, if I had my hanky. I never did. Why would anyone blow all that sticky snot into a cloth and then put it in their pocket? That’s disgusting. All that phlegm oozing around in your trousers. And when you need to pull it out again, you have to find a bit of the hanky that isn’t squelching or crusty. My mates would never let that go, always asking if I had my hanky, the bastards. And then, as a teenager, on my way out to a gig, it would be, “Have you got your tickets?”. Invariably, I’d have to turn around and go back inside to get them. More laughter from my mates.

Then, later in my teens and early twenties, my favourite trick was to leave stuff on the roof of my car and drive off. Mother would sometimes send me off to work with a plate of salad wrapped in cling-film. Usually, a slice or two of ham with some limp lettuce, branston pickle and beetroot – oh happy days. Spoilt rotten, I was. One day I put in on the roof of the car while I loaded my other stuff in and then drove off oblivious to the fact that lunch was sitting directly above my head. It was only when I had to brake suddenly for some asshole who stepped out onto a pedestrian crossing in front of me, that I noticed. My plate of ham and lettuce and beetroot etc launched itself into the air as a food projectile, skimming over my bonnet and smashing right in front of this bloke, who got splashed with beetroot up his legs.

Another time in the mid seventies, I left the office in a hurry with a Rolleiflex camera on the roof of the car. As I lurched out of the yard I noticed something in the mirror bouncing across the road. Surprisingly, it still worked and I went off to the job and used the equipment – no problem.

After driving from Brixham to Paignton once, again in the mid seventies, I was waiting at the traffic lights, when a bloke started waving at me from the pavement. I wound the window down and he told me there was a box on my car roof. Sure enough, it’s my camera gear again. But this time it stayed on, despite my speed, as it was in a leather camera box and my car roof was a soft-top: I had a Triumph Spitfire at the time, so the weight of the box and the fabric of the roof stopped it from moving too far.

What a fucking numpty. But not because I was driving a Spitfire, even though it was apparently a hairdresser’s car. The car was OK, but I just looked like a twat in my Brutus shirt with Spaniel ear collars and thirty-inch flares, with a brain like a sieve. A dough-bake, or a daft Apeth, as my old Nan would say.

Now I’ve forgotten what the fuck it was I am supposed to be doing today…..

SLIPPERY WHEN WET

‘Customers should take extra care during wet weather, as platforms and the station concourse can become slippery’

Every few minutes I’m hearing this, while waiting for a tube at Wembley. For fuck’s sake. Now, maybe I’m just old and cynical, but these announcements wouldn’t by any chance be anything to do with covering themselves against compensation claims, now would they?

A bit of ass-covering going on, perhaps? Someone slips up on their arse and tries to sue. But, ‘Your honour, we put out warnings over the Tannoy every 52 seconds during rainy weather’.

Irritates the crap out of me that does.

Of course, if the dozy twats had not laid shiny smooth marble-type floor tiles, but chosen something with a stippled surface, they wouldn't have a problem with punters falling on their arses in the first place. What kind of moron lays a completely smooth glossy floor in a public area that is subject to wet shoes tramping all over it?

I’m in Asda, and they have a conveyor belt that takes you up to the first floor so you can fill your trolley with cheap clothing made by kids in far east sweatshops. As soon as you, or anyone, sets foot on it, the recorded announcement starts up: “WARNING, moving ramp – please take care. For your comfort and safety, please make sure you hold the handrail while in motion’, or some such silly shit.

For my comfort? How is holding on to a handrail while moving at two miles per hour going to make me comfortable? Honestly!

And this message is repeated all the way up this poxy ramp and every time a person steps onto it. If I worked in that shop, anywhere near the ramp to the clothing department, I’m sure I would lose my mind completely. I’d just go berserk after a week of hearing that hundreds of times a day. It’s no wonder the staff all look like fucking zombies.

Add to that, the most awful dreadful wailing pop muzak by Eurovision failures that is piped through the ceiling, and you have a recipe for disaster. Someone will snap one day, and come to work with an automatic weapon and shoot the place up.

Ladies and Gentlemen, for your safety, cctv is in use throughout London Underground. For my safety? Give me a break. They’re just spying on us mate. Fucking cameras everywhere. Until you get your own out of course. “sorry sir, you aren’t allowed to take pictures here.” Why not? ‘security’ OH FUCK OFF!!

In a place, that’s open to the public, where hundreds of cameras are recording our movements, do we really not have the right to take our own pictures? I haven’t given permission for these c*nts to film me, so why should I need their permission to use my own camera? Fuck ‘em.

Can someone tell me what law I’d be breaking? No, of course not – there isn’t one.
London mayor (who actually is quite likeable after Ken) is planning to ban photography on the tube network. You have to pay for a permit. Well, Boris, you can tightly roll up your poxy permit and cram it right up your sphincter.

Bastards

Yours
Bill Turnip