Barney (a friend I met at university) posted a message to his blog cursing his “British skin”. He’s on holiday in Mexico and managed to get sunburnt, you see. Well you’ll get no sympathy from me, sunshine. (See what I did there?) Try being a redhead. I once managed to get mild sunburn on a mostly cloudy day in Wales. Wales! Surely Barney your impressive fluffy head of hair would have served as a makeshift sombrero?
While we’re namechecking people off my course, Marek is also on holiday at the minute. He’s living it up in Japan, and seems to have a radar for punk/ska bands playing in parks and such. Also, has developed a penchant for traditional Japanese bathrobes, it seems. Curious.
Not to leave anyone out… Liam is doing a PhD, something to do with peer-to-peer networks, so will eventually be officially the doctor of piracy. I have kindly requested that he makes me a super-user on this new-fangled network, allowing me to leech as many DVD-rips as I can. I will then burn these to disc. Despite asking me every day for about a year, I most certainly will not lend these discs to anyone.
Today’s fact of the day is: Canary Wharf tube station has more tossers per square inch during peak hours than anywhere else in the world. Stop getting in my fucking tube carriage, harping on about Mike in Accounts and your 5-grand Golden Hello! I Hate Canary Wharf. At least at rush hour. During the day (when the suits are being fisted by the corporate machine) or at the weekends (when they’re in their warehouse conversions, snorting charlie or having heart attacks/nervous breakdowns aged 27), Canary Wharf is quite pleasant.
Tying in nicely with this mini-rant, here is an actual conversation overheard (read: “eavesdropped”) on the Tube sometime last week. I am providing a transcript here – as best as I can remember it – for your amusement, though nothing will do this justice really…
Setting the scene: Two suits get in at Canary Wharf, carrying briefcases. Both are aged late-20s/early-30s. One (let’s call him “Tosser”) is about 6’2″, wearing so much aftershave my eyes sting, and has one of those faces you’d like to punch. Permanently smug. I can imagine him being told he has cancer and still looking like Mr. Big. He doesn’t walk, he strides, and is almost certainly called Piers. He is accompanied by a shorter, portly guy. We’ll call him “Bored Colleague”.
Tosser: “So, yah, Edward says I’m on track for the third quarter bonus. To be honest I was there at the beginning of August…”
Bored Colleague: (Staring intently at the floor and not moving his eyes up to acknowledge the conversation) “Really?…”
Tosser: “Oh yah, yah. Should go towards the motor that Carrie’s been after. Women, eh?”
Bored Colleague: (Feigned laughter) “Yeah…”
Tosser: ” Yah, so, er, yah. So, David’s off to pastures new, then. Think I’m in with a chance there. I could do with the extra 20k a year” (Guffaws to self)
Bored Colleague: “I don’t think so.”
Tosser: (I couldn’t see the guys face, but I imagine it dropping) “What do you mean?”
Bored Colleague: “He’s offered it to me.”
Tosser: “Oh…”
(Silence for the rest of the journey)
How’d you like them apples, dickbag?