i hate public transport
i think i pretty much deserve to get a bloody medal for having survived a year and a half as a regular commuter. and since i discovered that the monthly travel card for the bus and trolley was only 20 euros as opposed to 45 euros (!!!!!!) for everything, i should also get a commendation for having battled through the sweatiest, dodgy bits of town, every weekday, on the worst forms of public transport. i could have called this post “i hate people” but that would be unfair to the vast majority, who are very nice, normal people, that i encounter on my journeys. but. there are ten “types” who make travelling quite unbearable (actually, not just travelling. they make life unbearable):
people who feel the need to share their intimate mobile phone calls about their mother-in-laws embarrassing gas problems with their fellow passengers
people who cannot seem to work out that those people who are on the bus, need to get off before they can get on
people who ask you where the bus is going and then, after you’ve told them, proceed to ask every other person on the bus, as if everyone is either stupid, lying or has got nothing better to do than pass twenty-five minutes taking about bus routes.
people who sit next to you and read your book
people who see you reading a book in english and give you filthy looks
people who sit on you, stand on your foot or smack you in the eye and don’t even realise they’ve done it
people who complain loudly about foreigners destroying the country
people who mutter in agreement with the assholes above
drivers who seem to think they are doing you a favour by even stopping at the bus stop, let alone waiting for you to get on or off
driver who talk on their mobiles (loudly), drink coffee and feel it necessary to share their horrible pop skiladiko with everyone. these are often the same ones as the ones above
now i’ve got to ten, i could probably go on but i’ll throw open the floor to you, dear reader… any quibbles, quarrels or quims (sorry, private joke with vishy) you’d like to share.
go on.
share it in the comments.
you’ll feel better.
you know you want to…
commuting is crap
commuting brings out the very worst in people. there is a sort of madness that descends on that daily schlep to and from work. if i leave the house about 15 minutes before i really need to, my journey is not too bad. sometimes i can even sit down the whole way! sadly, human beings are not sensible and the snooze button on my alarm is a constant temptation. so i generally leave on time. and that’s the big mistake… to leave at exactly the right time to get to the office at 9am. oh my god! who knew such rudeness could even be thought of at that time of the morning.
everyone seems to think that they are a gift to the world of work and that somehow they would be missed (or even remembered) when they arrive 30 seconds late. this leads people to the very precipice of insanity. as if pushing on to the train that is belching people off onto the platforms, is going to somehow speed things up. that as soon as his or her royal highness has got on, the train will slam the doors closed and speed them to their destination without stopping at another station.
then there are those who seem to be oblivious to the fact that they are standing on your foot. how can you not notice that you are standing on my foot! and then when you pull your foot out from under their hoof and go “ow”, they either look at you as if you’ve gone completely barking or give you that look that says “how could you inconvenience me by jamming your foot under mine?”
then there are those who are all too aware of where they’re shoving their body parts. i always have my bag strap across my chest, with the bag itself firmly covering my girl bits. we run the risk of pregnancy and venereal disease with every journey. what is it about wht, wandering hand trouble, that has made men believe that it is acceptable in any way at all. are they not in control of their extremities in the same way as we are? do they imagine we like it!? females traveling on the tube should be issued with handcuffs and there should be special wht rails in every carriage. what a fine collection of pervs we’d have by the end of rush hour.
there is an urge to be individual and assert your unique and special personality at all times but it is not recommended while commuting. one sassy sex kitten can hold up the flow of traffic for hours. put your clothes on girl and get with the programme.
and on a final note, and i’ll probably get a deluge, well maybe one, of letters of complaint, please please please invest in some toiletries. a roll-on deodorant costs less than a kebab and will save you having a pong that a skunk would be proud of. thank you.
off to catch the tube…
ps no tube today or thursday due to national strikes… commuting is crap
tell me why, i don’t like mondays
since starting a proper job, almost three weeks ago (!), i’ve noticed something odd about the days of the week. they have taken on certain significances that are very different to the ones of a professional diva.
mondays are filled with dread and loathing, mingled with deep regret at having spent the precious weekend lolling in front of the telly box.
tuesdays are hideous mood swings. between feeling lucky at having an actual job and wanting to jump out of the nearest window.
wednesday midday. the optimists are feeling smug that half the week is gone. the pessimists are reaching for the vodka due to the indisputable fact that half the week is still to come.
thursdays.
ugh.
almost there but still a long way to go. a mistake on thursday could mean a weekend spoiled.
or (blessed are the optimists) that there’s tomorrow to fix it.
friday.
friday,friday,friday.
how we love friday. friday is the day when you turn round and say ” what the fuck. it can’t possibly be worse by monday”
“two days off”
“at last”
breathe
slow down
friday evening…
don’t fall asleep… or you might not wake up until monday. enjoy.
enjoy!
fucking enjoy!!!!!
saturday.
oh. my. god.
two days off.
why the fuck am i awake at 6.30am?
bugger
sunday.
peaceful sunday… shit work tomorrow…what time is it? sunday movies. what time does the last one fini…sh..shhhh
shit!
monday!
*@$#!!*#@$!%$@#$$!##@$$@#
silly, silly people
i am rather shocked today. i was innocently surfing about (wishing there was some actual sea involved) and came across several lists of stupid 999 calls and, of course, i immediately wanted to share this idiocy with my six readers. so here we go with my top ten in no particular order.
Caller: My wife’s left me two salmon sandwiches which was left over from last night… and I’m a sat in the chair here and she’s out there decorating. She won’t put any food on or anything for anybody, I don’t know what….
Caller: Hello… I know this is gonna sound stupid but a pigeon’s been run over… and I’ve got no money to phone the RSPCA or anything…
Caller: I want to know what year the internet first came out I can’t remember.
Caller: Hi. I’m next to the M32, city centre… there’s an M32 city centre sign. Can you inform Animal Rescue that there’s a grey squirrel with no hazelnut trees please.”
Caller: The emergency is… I am at Lockleaze… and I would like to get home…
Caller: There’s no emergency except that there are no buses in Crow Lane…
Caller: Well, I don’t know who to call. Can you tell me how to cook a turkey? I?ve never cooked one before.
Caller: I’m in Huntingdon, looking for Homebase and I can’t find it.
Caller: “I’ve dropped the remote down the back of the settee and I need someone to change the television channel.”
Caller:“I’ve had a dream that I was unconscious and I’ve just collapsed.”
while it’s generally very amusing to poke fun at the foolishness of people, i am disturbed that people with genuine emergencies often complain about not being able to get through to 999. what am i supposed to do next time there’s a spider in the bath?
stupid baby names
it’s been a while since i wrote any nonsense here and much has happened in the world. not that i noticed while it was happening. the big news was that chelsea clinton got married to some bod called marc. no idea when mark came to be spelled with a “c” or when it became acceptable to name your child after an area in london but there you go. people are strange. in other celebrity news, alicia keys married someone called swizz beatz and now we have a silly name competition on our hands. the prize used to be held by the artist formally known as prince who became this unpronounceable symbol
jordan and peter andre called their daughter princess tiaamii, poor child. life is hard enough for kids without inflicting ridiculous names on them too. but they didn’t start this cutesy nauseating trend. bob geldof and paula yates should be held partly accountable for fifi trixibell (and paula again for heavenly hiraani tiger lily with michael hutchence) but they are not the worst offenders. here’s my list of the worst of the worst:
shannyn sossamon (i had to look up who the hell she was!) called her boy, audio science.
geri halliwell settled on blue angel for her girl? boy?
arthur ashe’s boy(?) is called camera.
david duchovny and tea leoni skipped the thinking up names bit and went straight for kyd.
jermaine jackson continued the rampant insanity in the jackson family and called one of his kids jermajesty
but i think the prize has to go to mr frank zappa who cursed his children with the names moon unit, dweezil and diva muffin
i should point out that my name, cassi with an “i” is not to be included in this diatribe about silly names. it is a unique and rather beautiful name, befitting of a diva but if i was having to name a child these days, i’d go for something that would really stand out like george or mary. the naming equivalent of not having a tattoo or having real boobs.
what’s the silliest name you’ve heard?
put this in your pipe 2
in my post the other day, listing blogs i find amusing, there were no british blogs. not one. the internet is dominated by american humour blogs and our daily lives are often overwhelmed by american culture. there are quite a few blogs dedicated to the subject of british humour but they mainly focus on how incomprehensible it is to americans.
so that got me thinking… a dangerous occupation in this heat… why is so much british humour incomprehensible to americans? here’s my thesis on the subject in one word: class
so much of what we find funny is based on class. we like nothing better than to take the piss out of upper class twits or bumbling, incompetent peasants. most of my favourite shows were based on the “class struggle”.
dad’s army,
fawlty towers,
absolutely fabulous,
to the manor born
blackadder
yes minister
are you being served
the good life
citizen smith
only fools and horses
much of monty python
and so on and so on.
[aside: i’m afraid i’ve been out of the country so long, i don’t know any of the present popular comedies very well but things like little britain and the royle family fall into this category. but let’s face it, the old stuff was so much better]
the americans do have a class system but it’s very different to ours. it seems theirs is based on income and ours on birth. we brits are not fooled by an oik making lorry loads of money and we can spot a dressed down poshie half a mile off. no. in blighty, you are born into a class and there you stay. that’s why we find people’s pathetic efforts to pass as a toff so hysterical. because it’s impossible to do.
and sorry folks, but speaking in a fake “street” accent (see catherine tate for the lingo) is fooling no-one.
deep thinking over. here’s a quick pick of some funny british blogs.
The household is made up of myself, Zoe, an oasis of calm, Coralie, a 21 year-old stroppy little cow, her twin sister, Tatiana, who bosses the Twat and me around and winds up their brother Todd, a sixteen-year old with the attention span of a goldfish.
We have borrowed Big A’s baby names book, and I am bored with reading through it. It is basically just a list of names. Which is very useful and all that, but not incredibly interesting. All I can say is: show me a kid called ‘Aaron’ and I will show you some fucking lazy parents.
i am livid
I am going Speed Dating!!
Ostensibly I am accompanying a female friend who wasn’t keen on doing it by herself, but essentially I will be a contestant (they’re called contestants, right?). I tried this once before many years ago, but got very drunk, couldn’t remember people, and subsequently ended up going on a date with someone I really didn’t like very much. This time I intend on being sober for most of it.
a beautiful revolution
Girls. I am a complete catastrophe with them. The moment I fall for a girl I do stupid things like walking into trees or setting myself on fire in restaurants, and it just all goes terribly wrong.
take one woman with low self esteem, but quite good hair. add one moronic illness. stir in some medication which causes hair to fall out. mix it all up and this is what you get…
[two asides in one post! most of the popular humour blogs i’ve found in my travels have book deals. many are on bestseller lists. am i missing something? why would someone buy the book of a blog when they can read it for free online? where are the management™ when you need them?]
mathematically challenged
so the kid failed maths this year and i have the dubious pleasure of helping him get a pass so he can move on to the third year. yikes! we’re not called bad mathematics for nothing. what has been astounding about this whole process is that i’m finding that i’m not really as hopeless as i thought i was. i’m getting the kid to explain what he’s doing to me. this has two results. firstly, it makes it clearer to him and secondly, his dear old mum is starting to understand algebra!
you have to understand the significance of this event in my life. i struggled though secondary school maths in a twilight zone of hideous teachers that sounded like that character from peanuts that went “mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah” (or something like that). i would sit at the back of the class, pretending to be writing everything down when in fact, i was practicing my autograph, preparing for my diva years. it all sounded like utterly pointless drivel to me. don’t tell the kid this but i still think it’s utterly pointless drivel but now i understand it. another useless bit of nonsense that i can do.
before all you mathmaticians explode or start firing off angry letters to the management™, i would just like to point out that i do understand the reason why we are forced to learn this stuff. it stretches our brains and gives us a foundation for other boffin subjects like physics and chemistry blah blah blah. but. and it’s a big but. i know for a fact that i will never be in a situation where i have to actually use this knowledge. ok, i can work out how much i have to spend on each person if i have 24 quid and a party of eight to entertain but can mathematics tell me what to cook or how to use most the budget on booze? no. it’s woefully inadequate for preparing the next generation for real life. can maths help me choose between eating twiglets and chocolate for breakfast or having a hearty meal that will keep me going all day. no. not that there’s much difficulty in working out the right answer.
so, while i’m pleased that the kid is making headway towards passing his exam and i’m happy to add more useless information to my sorry excuse for a brain, i am desperately worried about this generation’s future if they are still having to learn this stuff. isn’t that why the eggheads invented computers? so they’d never have to put pen to paper or show working out? or learn? or think? i would like to propose that we scrap all traditional forms of education and just give kids laptops. everything you could possibly need or want to learn is on wikipedia and everything else can be found with google. there are facebook groups for absolutely everything from “we hate facebook” to “bad mathematics” and they could twitter and chat their lives away without the use of drugs and alcohol.
let’s save our children’s brains and give them carpel tunnel syndrome instead.
now i need to lie down.
my head hurts…
i’m turning into my mother
i know, i know, i’m far too young to be a parent but the truth is that certain indiscretions in my past resulted in an offspring who is now taller than i am. when this lunking teenager was born, i swore that i would be a cool mum. how could i not be? i’m in a rock and roll band for crying out loud. but the sad truth is that it’s easier said than done. much of the advice that my mother gave me was absolutely sound although at the time i thought she was a raving loon. and she only embarrassed me most of the time, not all. usually by simply being within 100 yards of me when i was with my cool friends.
so now it’s my turn to be the extremely unhip, embarrassing, stupid and irritating mum. i seem to manage to achieve this status on an alarmingly regular basis. yes, i am the sad old fogie that has to ask what that thing on my child’s neck is when it’s obviously a love bite. i’m the git that still asks whether teeth have been brushed when they obviously haven’t. i’m a fully paid up member of the “call the kid to find out when he’s coming home so that his friends can take the piss out of him” brigade.
i am pretty up to date with 21st century communication but have no idea what ///(0^^st. ////\\\\\\\\ means. (i made that one up but that’s what his friends facebook status updates look like). it’s my turn to cringe at the kid’s lack of vocabulary and swearing for every other word when he’s with his mates even though i have been known to curse like a bloody trooper. i also find myself rolling my eyes at his total incompetence in the kitchen. at his preening which doesn’t seem to include actually putting dirty clothes in the dirty clothes bin. at his attention to detail when it comes to how he looks and not to the enormous filthy elephant camped out in his bedroom.
yes. i am my mother. i have finally given up trying to be different. trying to win the “coolest mum on the planet” award. here is my list of stupid things that have come out of my mouth that i swore i would never say:
- i told you so
- is that a girl or a boy?
- if so and so told you to jump off a bridge, would you?
- what you need is a good hiding
- you’ve got the memory of a sieve
- because i said so
- just wait till your dad gets home
- we did have computers when i was your age
- what is he saying?
- you don’t know how lucky you are
- oh, you’ve always been like that
- are you really going out like that?
- how many times do i have to tell you?
- do you think money grows on trees?
- when you’ve left home and you’re earning your own money….
- when you start acting like a grown-up
and so on and so on. i’m not proud. i apologise to all kids for the stupid things that we say to you. but don’t blame us, blame your grandparents. you’ll find out this when you have your own children. or is that another cliché?
now go to bed!
supermarket exploits
i have been very impressed by the quality of my new readers (both of you) and one of them even showed an interest in reading about my divaesque outings to lidl. i know you find it hard to believe that someone such as myself would have any need to step foot in such a lowly store. the truth is that since i fired my personal assistant for utter uselessness, i have had to shop for groceries myself. far be it for me to look down on those who do this all the time but it really is a rather mundane and sad activity that really should be handled by lesser life forms.
i have a number of complaints about this particular supermarket called lidl, a ridiculously spelled name in my opinion. why isn’t it liddle? i suppose it must be some sort of slang, street word for peasant shop. which brings me neatly to my next complaint. it’s packed to the brim with people who seem to think it’s ok to venture outside wearing trousers that are too short paired with white sports socks and sandals. or hipster jeans designed for a twelve year old anorexic put together with a shiny/glittery/see-through top that barely covers their bra. or to allow one of their 15 children to open and eat a family-sized bar of chocolate before they’ve reached the till. or to actually pick up and handle your shopping simply because they’ve never seen a mango before and want to know what it is.
IT’S A MANGO, DUMBASS!
my next quibble is that lidl doesn’t provide baskets. you can have a giant trolley that has a mind of its own and can only be filled by throwing your shopping at it. or you have to get one of their flimsy plastic bags that splits if you put more than two tins in it. of course, being of superior intelligence, i purchased some proper environmentally friendly reusable shopping bags for using on these occasions. would it kill lidl to provide baskets? i especially like the ones that have wheels and a long handle. very convenient for a supermarketly-challenged diva.
onwards and upwards with my next complaint. vicious old ladies. i know they tend to populate most places that have things on sale but there is a particular breed that like to gather at the checkouts in lidl. firstly, they have to complain in very loud voices that there is only one till open. talk about stating the bleeding obvious. once they have summoned up a chorus of like-minded elderly shoppers, all croaking the same boring tune over and over “all these people and only one till?”, they simultaneously spot another cashier opening her station. they flock like gannets over to the new line and lord help you if you get caught in the stampede. other shoppers are ruthlessly shoved out of the way, stomped on or poked in the eye with a packet of spaghetti. there’s only one place where the older lady (and i use the word “lady” very loosely) is more deadly than lidl. and that’s the weekly street market. because there they have an extra weapon in their arsenal. the trolley. i’ve personally been run over by one of these at least 13 times and badly scratched by one particularly nasty specimen of the blue rinse generation.
my final gripe (for now) is the ugliness of the entire shop including the staff. i am fortunate enough to have one particular girl in my local lidl who is actually rather attractive (although the uniform is a challenge to even the most gorgeous of women). the rest are an utter mess especially the boys who seem to pride themselves on being the most slovenly staff on the planet. as for the products themselves, lidl is not a bastion of good design or layout. the mentality is stack as many cheap, gaudy, popular products as you can and watch the masses fight for them.
so why, oh why do i lower myself to go there ? well, it’s near to my house. it’s cheap. not something i would normally consider but the band has been affected by the financial crisis as much as the ordinary folk. i also get to experience something of real life when i visit, which is probably important to an artist who likes to keep her feet on the ground.. well, that’s what the media likes to hear isn’t it?
more on pleasanter forms of shopping later in the week. (probably)
disclaimer: this is my personal opinion and in no way represents the view of the management™
exaggerate the truth
so i asked our unscrupulous inspiring webmaster/bass player for a word as inspiration for today’s post. i was feeling a little overstretched (couldn’t be bothered) by my self-imposed “one post per day” regime. and he fired back with “mendacity“. thanks mate!
but as i sit here thinking about it, i have a sneaking suspicion that this was a rather well-disguised attack on your beloved diva. you see how he rather sneakily pretended that he was just throwing out the first word that popped into his mind, when the truth is that this has been brewing for a long time. he secretly believes that the diva is, perhaps, a little mendacious? no, no, no, i hear you all cry. the diva telling porkie pies? impossible.
as a genuine diva, it is my job to exaggerate the truth. to add spice to mundane things. i’m not going to sit here and write about my trips to lidl or cleaning the toilet, am i? i am trying to create the illusion of being a star and while it’s not exactly true in real life, it is in my head. and that’s not mendacity. it’s the nature of us suffering artists. we struggle and toil to bring our creativeness to the huddled masses. with very little thanks or recognition. so excuse me, mister barking mad charming bass player, i will continue to write my reams of wisdom for the lesser mortals who read this blog (both of them) and bugger to anyone who thinks of “mendacity” when i ask them to help me.
ps: please ignore the above brain fart. i just drank some very strong coffee and appear to have lost the plot for the moment. normal blogging will return tomorrow.
pps: good word though.
corporate coolness
back in the day, when we were a struggling band (unlike now as we are poised for world domination), we were grateful for any gigs we could get. whether paid or unpaid, halfway up a mountain or at the old deserted airport playing to three drunk italians. nowadays, we are much more fussy but one thing remains the same. we like playing to an audience. don’t get me wrong, i love our friends and die-hard fans of the band who trek through torrential rain, dodge burning buildings and miraculously recover from illnesses to come and see us. what i don’t love is that it’s almost impossible to get more than two or three new people in through the door to see you play.
why? [click below to read more of this rant]