Why are some people so disgusting?
Gobbing in the street in front of everybody else. Gargling up a gloop of phlegm to hoik out onto the pavement for all to see and hear. Happens all the time in London. And it’s usually the Arabs, or the Romanians. That’s not racist, it’s just fact.
The other day, I heard the sound of snot blowing out of a nose at speed. I looked round to see some bloke leaning forward, emptying each nostril in turn across the pavement. Great. Finger closing one side as he snorted it all out of the other, and vice-versa. In the middle of the shopping area, with no concern for public decency or manners. What a pity the wind didn’t catch it and flip the trail of snot down his clothes.
OK, I put my hands up now – I do enjoy the occasional fart in public. Usually only if it is done to embarrass the wife. I usually pump out a corker when we’re in town and then give her a clip across the back of the head and call her a ‘dirty bugger’. That’s just good clean harmless fun.
But snotting in public? What’s even worse, as I’ve witnessed on occasion, is snot-gobbling. Years ago, I remember seeing a mature professional in a suit, waiting at the traffic lights in his car, while digging out bogies. To my amazement, he was inspecting them and then popping them into his mouth. What kind of grown man eats mucas?
But just as bad, possibly even worse, was seeing a big bruiser of a bloke with a terrible flakey skin condition on his face (red and blotchy) – possibly a Pole, or other Eastern European – walking along towards me near Wembley Park tube, picking bits off his face and popping them into his mouth. For Fuck’s sake.
I’m writing this sitting in an airport restaurant in Houston, Texas, and across the table from me is a middle-aged businessman sitting with his laptop and a burger, letting out the occasional belch.
And I thought that kind of behaviour was reserved for Indian restaurant after a night on the piss. Standards are dropping – that’s for sure.
Bill Turnip
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
PISS
Monday September 6, 2010
An overwhelming smell of stale piss engulfed the carriage of the train I was on, traveling into Waterloo from the cultural vacuum of Feltham, where they keep the young offenders. It was a doddery old man with a walking stick and a shock of wavy white hair and a beard to match. Getting on at Richmond, he stumbled past the vacant seats next to me, and after some deliberation, carefully lowered himself into a seat at the end of the carriage. Next to a woman.
His clothes were grubby and stained and he was generally disheveled. His eyes were beady. Slightly mad, and stary. Brilliant! He sat there, next to this poor woman, who was trapped all the way into Waterloo, with the pungent fumes of piss whipping straight up her nostrils. This was a serious personal freshness issue, and she was in the thick of it.
I could only see the top of her head from my seat (she probably had it buried in her jacket), but I could see the old man between the seats. He looked around him, staring intently, and probably having no teeth, his bearded chin came close to his nose. What a fantastic face. And what stories and life experiences lay behind those beady eyes?
I felt for that woman, I really did, and expected to see her make her excuses and ask him to let her out of the seat, but no, she suffered for a good twenty minutes, all the way to the terminal. I also felt sorry for him too, despite the fact that everyone in the carriage was wincing and twitching at the stink all around us. It’s easy to simply dismiss these people as disgusting piss-stinking old dossers, but who knows what he did in his life? He could have been fighting in the war (he looked like he might be old enough, possibly in his 80s), or he could have been a scientist or something impressive like that.
A pretty young teenage girl and her boyfriend were sitting opposite me, and I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation. She said, “you know that building, like, M I whatever it is?” “You know, MI5 or is it six, I don’t know, but it’s all green and that?”
“Well there’s like a load of flats next to it, and they look the same. Don’t you think that’s a bit worrying”
“How d’you mean?” asked the boyfriend.
“ Well, terrorists and that. You know it’s like the biggest target in London, and those flats look just like it, especially from the air. They might get confused and bomb the flats. I wouldn’t want to live there.”
Then, as we left Clapham Junction, “How does the train know which track to be on?” “There’s like loads of them”
“There is a driver” replied the boyfriend.
Right, and the driver decides which line to put the train on, of course.
Priceless.
So we pull into Waterloo and the old man rises from his seat to leave. As I approach along the aisle towards the door, the traumatised woman is sat there with a scarf wrapped around her face, covering her nostrils. She looks like she might throw up.
And, on the subject of piss, the other day I needed one as I was on the way to a job. In fact I’m always needing a piss these days – a combination of age, a weak bladder and strong coffee. The job was at a client’s office in Great Marlborough Street, and there are steps to an underground bog at the junction with Carnaby Street. Great, I thought, I’ll pop down here for a wazz before I go in, otherwise I’ll be dancing around all knock-kneed in front of the client, which won’t look good.
I walk down the steps and around the corner to the urinals to find four blokes standing there at the piss-pots. I immediately thought it strange to be so busy, but as they all looked round and stared at me, the realisation quickly dawned. Homos. Fucking hell. Still, I needed a piss and I was committed to it now. Thankfully there was a vanity screen between the pots for some privacy, so I had my piss, all the time knowing these fuckers were staring at me. Shaking the drops off in a hurry, I zipped up and turned to leave. One of these sleazeballs was at the other end with an enormous bone in his hand, stroking it and looking at me, while his chum next door watched him. Fucking perverts. Eleven in the morning in the West End for chrissakes. Have they no shame? Maybe that’s part of it – it must be – they get a kick out of being seen tugging each other.
I try not to be homophobic, but when people try to tell me it’s natural and normal and there's nothing wrong with it, I can’t help thinking that standing in a public bog-hole, strangling your own meat to an audience of other bandits and any poor innocent sod who happens to walk in for a slash, is far from fucking normal behaviour. As a hetrosexual, the thought of a quickie with a bird in a public place where you might get caught is kind of exciting, and to the extent that it is a hetrosexual encounter, by default, more natural and somehow more acceptable. This however, was downright ugly behaviour.
On the wall as I scurried up the steps back into the real world again, I noticed a council sign – asking the public to report drug abuse or inappropriate behaviour in the public bogs. So I rang the number and spoke to some bloke at Westminster council, or maybe it was Camden, I don’t know.
“There are at least two blokes down there, masturbating as we speak, and I thought you might like to know”, I said.
“Oh right, thanks for letting us know, we’ll come down and have a look.”
Fucking hell, half the council staff are going to rush down to Carnaby Street and pile down the stairs to get a look at a wanking session!
Bill Turnip
An overwhelming smell of stale piss engulfed the carriage of the train I was on, traveling into Waterloo from the cultural vacuum of Feltham, where they keep the young offenders. It was a doddery old man with a walking stick and a shock of wavy white hair and a beard to match. Getting on at Richmond, he stumbled past the vacant seats next to me, and after some deliberation, carefully lowered himself into a seat at the end of the carriage. Next to a woman.
His clothes were grubby and stained and he was generally disheveled. His eyes were beady. Slightly mad, and stary. Brilliant! He sat there, next to this poor woman, who was trapped all the way into Waterloo, with the pungent fumes of piss whipping straight up her nostrils. This was a serious personal freshness issue, and she was in the thick of it.
I could only see the top of her head from my seat (she probably had it buried in her jacket), but I could see the old man between the seats. He looked around him, staring intently, and probably having no teeth, his bearded chin came close to his nose. What a fantastic face. And what stories and life experiences lay behind those beady eyes?
I felt for that woman, I really did, and expected to see her make her excuses and ask him to let her out of the seat, but no, she suffered for a good twenty minutes, all the way to the terminal. I also felt sorry for him too, despite the fact that everyone in the carriage was wincing and twitching at the stink all around us. It’s easy to simply dismiss these people as disgusting piss-stinking old dossers, but who knows what he did in his life? He could have been fighting in the war (he looked like he might be old enough, possibly in his 80s), or he could have been a scientist or something impressive like that.
A pretty young teenage girl and her boyfriend were sitting opposite me, and I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation. She said, “you know that building, like, M I whatever it is?” “You know, MI5 or is it six, I don’t know, but it’s all green and that?”
“Well there’s like a load of flats next to it, and they look the same. Don’t you think that’s a bit worrying”
“How d’you mean?” asked the boyfriend.
“ Well, terrorists and that. You know it’s like the biggest target in London, and those flats look just like it, especially from the air. They might get confused and bomb the flats. I wouldn’t want to live there.”
Then, as we left Clapham Junction, “How does the train know which track to be on?” “There’s like loads of them”
“There is a driver” replied the boyfriend.
Right, and the driver decides which line to put the train on, of course.
Priceless.
So we pull into Waterloo and the old man rises from his seat to leave. As I approach along the aisle towards the door, the traumatised woman is sat there with a scarf wrapped around her face, covering her nostrils. She looks like she might throw up.
And, on the subject of piss, the other day I needed one as I was on the way to a job. In fact I’m always needing a piss these days – a combination of age, a weak bladder and strong coffee. The job was at a client’s office in Great Marlborough Street, and there are steps to an underground bog at the junction with Carnaby Street. Great, I thought, I’ll pop down here for a wazz before I go in, otherwise I’ll be dancing around all knock-kneed in front of the client, which won’t look good.
I walk down the steps and around the corner to the urinals to find four blokes standing there at the piss-pots. I immediately thought it strange to be so busy, but as they all looked round and stared at me, the realisation quickly dawned. Homos. Fucking hell. Still, I needed a piss and I was committed to it now. Thankfully there was a vanity screen between the pots for some privacy, so I had my piss, all the time knowing these fuckers were staring at me. Shaking the drops off in a hurry, I zipped up and turned to leave. One of these sleazeballs was at the other end with an enormous bone in his hand, stroking it and looking at me, while his chum next door watched him. Fucking perverts. Eleven in the morning in the West End for chrissakes. Have they no shame? Maybe that’s part of it – it must be – they get a kick out of being seen tugging each other.
I try not to be homophobic, but when people try to tell me it’s natural and normal and there's nothing wrong with it, I can’t help thinking that standing in a public bog-hole, strangling your own meat to an audience of other bandits and any poor innocent sod who happens to walk in for a slash, is far from fucking normal behaviour. As a hetrosexual, the thought of a quickie with a bird in a public place where you might get caught is kind of exciting, and to the extent that it is a hetrosexual encounter, by default, more natural and somehow more acceptable. This however, was downright ugly behaviour.
On the wall as I scurried up the steps back into the real world again, I noticed a council sign – asking the public to report drug abuse or inappropriate behaviour in the public bogs. So I rang the number and spoke to some bloke at Westminster council, or maybe it was Camden, I don’t know.
“There are at least two blokes down there, masturbating as we speak, and I thought you might like to know”, I said.
“Oh right, thanks for letting us know, we’ll come down and have a look.”
Fucking hell, half the council staff are going to rush down to Carnaby Street and pile down the stairs to get a look at a wanking session!
Bill Turnip
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