When I was at Centerparcs, one of the girls brought along a copy of their local paper. My eye was caught by this story.
For those of you who can't be arsed to click the link, it's about a woman who decided to set fire to her Census form as a protest to the Government.
The article begins with some rather inarticulate framing of her grievances - she is something to do with Fathers For Justice - but she seems to have got a bit over-excited at the prospect of being interviewed:
“If the Government doesn’t recognise me and the parents I represent, then it doesn’t recognise us as a citizen so I won’t be counted. I will continue my campaign of non-compliance against the state and holding the Government to account. There is a chance I will be prosecuted and they will try and make an example of a few people but this lady is not for turning.”
I particularly like her loss of syntax in the first sentence and the Mrs Thatcher semi-quote later on. I can imagine her bouncing up and down, lighter at the ready as the reporter tries to get all this down for posterity.
Her plan was to ignite her Census form in the middle of the marketplace, while the local MP looked on in impotent horror, possibly hammering on his office windows, shouting "Noooooooooo!"
"Saturday morning’s census form burning was designed to bring the matter to the attention of Andover MP Sir George Young and give it wider public recognition."
It didn't go to plan.
"In the event the ceremonial flames failed to flare very much as the census form is seemingly made from a fire resistant material, the MP was not looking out the Guildhall window at the time although a few market traders looked on."
I just love - LOVE - that laconic word "Seemingly." And, oh yeah, he wasn't even watching. Perhaps next time she should blow a horn or something first, make sure she has Sir George's full attention before she tries and fails to set fire to a bit of paper.
A friend who was at Centerparcs (another friend, not the one who brought the newspaper with this gem in it) was doing some temporary work for the Office of National Statistics, conducting post-Census interviews in a particular area of Oxfordshire a little while ago. She said she was supposed to visit every single house in a specific postcode area, knock on the door, and try to get the occupant to take part in a survey to follow up on what was in the Census.
She told us about one row of cottages, each one occupied by a crazy person, but each crazy in a different way. She had us agog, listening to her stories of weeping women and slightly too security-conscious older men, but the climax was this one.
She knocked on the door of one cottage, and could hear the occupant moving around inside. There was no answer, so she knocked again. Apparently the ONS people are supposed to try for 10 consecutive days to get a reply, so she wasn't daunted. After another, louder knocking, the occupant shouted "Who is it?"
"Hello! I'm from the Office of National Statistics!" my friend replied cheerily. She had to shout through the letterbox, most undignified.
"What do you want?" bellowed the occupant.
"I'm here to ask you to take part in a follow-up survey, to confirm the Census form. It's entirely voluntary." She said she heard him walk to the front door, and then the bolts and locks being opened.
Imagine her horror when a large man, wearing a Guantanamo Bay style orange jumpsuit yanked the door open and glared at her. It didn't help that his face was traversed by a series of large, nasty-looking fresh scratches.
My friend said she backed away involuntarily.
"Oh yes?" said the scary scratched man. Then, leaning forward he bellowed into my friend's face "WELL I'M NOT DOING IT!" and slammed the door shut.
She said that one was marked down as "Declined to take part" on the form.
Showing posts with label scary mad people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scary mad people. Show all posts
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Friday, 14 January 2011
In the bag
Whilst travelling to the office the other morning, I was interested to see this going on:
They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios. I shall take another picture when it's finished. I bet you can't wait.
As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases. She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.
She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself. He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park. She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.
I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her. To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.
Anyhoo. The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
"Gosh," I thought. "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."
As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.
"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered. "Here! Wait!"
Everyone turned round, and he said: "That's my basket! Give it back!"
The kind commuter was horrified. "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.
"No! It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"
Heh.
The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.
By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket. A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.
They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios. I shall take another picture when it's finished. I bet you can't wait.
As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases. She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.
She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself. He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park. She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.
I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her. To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.
Anyhoo. The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
"Gosh," I thought. "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."
As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.
"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered. "Here! Wait!"
Everyone turned round, and he said: "That's my basket! Give it back!"
The kind commuter was horrified. "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.
"No! It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"
Heh.
The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.
By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket. A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Lexicon of the Weird
In the absence of anything unusually hilarious happening to me lately, here are some more results from the word search thingy that people use to stumble upon my blog:
1) emma stone. I have no idea who emma stone is, or why she doesn't get capital letters for her name. Is she a relation of e.e. cummings? More to the point, how did they get to my blog by typing in her name? Very strange.
2) foot, leg, and ankle swelling I'm guessing my blog is now a magnet for sprain pervs, and possibly also people who like to see freak show horrors. I imagine there is a whole market segment dedicated to spraining injuries, possibly with its own glossy magazine that comes out once a quarter, with a section for Readers' Sprains at the back, just in front of the adverts for crutches and padded ankle supports. Brrrrr. It's slightly disturbing that the single most viewed image on my blog - the window, if you will, into my whole life and innermost psyche - is of my revolting, swollen, sprained ankle. I might have to grow a beard, or develop a second head to maintain the carney-like ambience once the ankle novelty wears off. Sickos. Yeah, you.
3) rick leek quarter horsesshow lucy artiscally obvious lucy Say WHAT? Whoever typed this into their search engine has a lot on their mind. Leeks? Horses? Slightly agricultural, so I can understand why it ended up here. Repeated mention of my name? Irritating, but again, can see the link. "Artiscally obvious" has me stumped, I admit. Do they mean "Artistically obvious"? Which is slightly hurtful, and implies that my fabulous attempts at mixed media art are not nearly as original as I imagine, dammit. And who is "rick"?
4) the oinkmaster pig roast Aha. Ahahahahahaaaaa. Yes indeed. The Oinkmaster Pig Roast. I remember it well. I think, reader, that it was in fact the Oinkmaster 3000, to be exact. No wonder you ended up here, you're not being specific enough, you muppet.
In other news: The Black Lung seems to be making an early appearance, giving me plenty of time to prepare for the annual Christmas chest infection-fest. Yay.
1) emma stone. I have no idea who emma stone is, or why she doesn't get capital letters for her name. Is she a relation of e.e. cummings? More to the point, how did they get to my blog by typing in her name? Very strange.
2) foot, leg, and ankle swelling I'm guessing my blog is now a magnet for sprain pervs, and possibly also people who like to see freak show horrors. I imagine there is a whole market segment dedicated to spraining injuries, possibly with its own glossy magazine that comes out once a quarter, with a section for Readers' Sprains at the back, just in front of the adverts for crutches and padded ankle supports. Brrrrr. It's slightly disturbing that the single most viewed image on my blog - the window, if you will, into my whole life and innermost psyche - is of my revolting, swollen, sprained ankle. I might have to grow a beard, or develop a second head to maintain the carney-like ambience once the ankle novelty wears off. Sickos. Yeah, you.
3) rick leek quarter horsesshow lucy artiscally obvious lucy Say WHAT? Whoever typed this into their search engine has a lot on their mind. Leeks? Horses? Slightly agricultural, so I can understand why it ended up here. Repeated mention of my name? Irritating, but again, can see the link. "Artiscally obvious" has me stumped, I admit. Do they mean "Artistically obvious"? Which is slightly hurtful, and implies that my fabulous attempts at mixed media art are not nearly as original as I imagine, dammit. And who is "rick"?
4) the oinkmaster pig roast Aha. Ahahahahahaaaaa. Yes indeed. The Oinkmaster Pig Roast. I remember it well. I think, reader, that it was in fact the Oinkmaster 3000, to be exact. No wonder you ended up here, you're not being specific enough, you muppet.
In other news: The Black Lung seems to be making an early appearance, giving me plenty of time to prepare for the annual Christmas chest infection-fest. Yay.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Rolling rocks
Clearly this is going to be a difficult week. It's only Monday (well, for another 15 minutes) and it already feels as though the days have been dragging on endlessly, running into each other like headless chickens on a windy day*.
I spent much of the weekend weeping and swearing, the aftermath of a trying day on Friday, related to the recent SSFH** stuff. Things are slowly being resolved but boy is it hard to deal with while it all happens. And, of course, with Mr WithaY away and unreachable on his luxury dive boat*** in the Red Sea, it's all felt far harder than I expected it to.
So. How am I dealing with all this, you ask? I managed to get through to the doctor's surgery on the phone eventually this afternoon and made an appointment. A week on Friday. I couldn't bring myself to lie and say I was an emergency, but having to wait 10 days to see the doctor is pretty poor I think.
Anyhoo, I am going to ask him to refer me to a psychiatrist/counsellor again. It helped the last time I went bonkers, so hopefully it will help get me through this particular episode of stress and horror. I have hardly slept since Thursday last week, so I decided not to go into London today, as originally planned.
Instead, I had a long and embarrassingly tearful telephone conversation with my colleague (who is an absolute star), then went through my email with the laptop, and then went off for a restorative cup of tea and sandwich at lunchtime. I came back to a message telling my that my password had expired and I need to login to a different machine to set a new one. Fucking great. So I need to try and call the system administrator tomorrow and ask them to sort it out remotely for me.
But their phone number is on the computer. Which I can't login to. But I need to login to get the number to call the help desk to tell them I can't login.
There's a hole in my bucket.
Actually no. I feel like that bloke who had to roll the giant rock up the mountain every day, then watch it roll back to the bottom every night. Who was that? Except my particular rock at the moment is made of cat shit and broken glass****.
*I know it doesn't make much sense but it's a great image.
**Shit Storm From Hades.
***It has a hot tub. In my book that equates to luxury.
****Worst combination ever.
I spent much of the weekend weeping and swearing, the aftermath of a trying day on Friday, related to the recent SSFH** stuff. Things are slowly being resolved but boy is it hard to deal with while it all happens. And, of course, with Mr WithaY away and unreachable on his luxury dive boat*** in the Red Sea, it's all felt far harder than I expected it to.
So. How am I dealing with all this, you ask? I managed to get through to the doctor's surgery on the phone eventually this afternoon and made an appointment. A week on Friday. I couldn't bring myself to lie and say I was an emergency, but having to wait 10 days to see the doctor is pretty poor I think.
Anyhoo, I am going to ask him to refer me to a psychiatrist/counsellor again. It helped the last time I went bonkers, so hopefully it will help get me through this particular episode of stress and horror. I have hardly slept since Thursday last week, so I decided not to go into London today, as originally planned.
Instead, I had a long and embarrassingly tearful telephone conversation with my colleague (who is an absolute star), then went through my email with the laptop, and then went off for a restorative cup of tea and sandwich at lunchtime. I came back to a message telling my that my password had expired and I need to login to a different machine to set a new one. Fucking great. So I need to try and call the system administrator tomorrow and ask them to sort it out remotely for me.
But their phone number is on the computer. Which I can't login to. But I need to login to get the number to call the help desk to tell them I can't login.
There's a hole in my bucket.
Actually no. I feel like that bloke who had to roll the giant rock up the mountain every day, then watch it roll back to the bottom every night. Who was that? Except my particular rock at the moment is made of cat shit and broken glass****.
*I know it doesn't make much sense but it's a great image.
**Shit Storm From Hades.
***It has a hot tub. In my book that equates to luxury.
****Worst combination ever.
Thursday, 15 January 2009
Sightseeing
Things I have seen on my travels to work this week include:
1) Incredibly glamorous girl with two-inch-long deep scarlet fingernails, which she fiddled with constantly as we travelled to Victoria, clicking them against each other with an oddly loud noise.
2) Man with more facial piercings than I have ever seen in my life, including in crappy science fantasy films and on heavy metal album covers. He must have had about 50, including stuff in patterns under the skin to make big lumps. Seriously, deeply intimidating. I saw him as I got onto the Tube, then had to stand with my back to him because it was honestly too much for me. He had at least 15 big rings in and around his lips, many with metal balls and things on them. He looked terrifying.
3) Continuing the scary theme, several large, very fresh pools of blood at Waterloo station, at the foot of the concourse escalators, next to the Help point. It was half covered in bits of paper, presumably to try and shield it from the hundreds of commuters thronging past, surrounded by tape, with two policemen standing next to it. The bloke in the newspaper vending place right beside it was gamely trying to sell papers and pretend he wasn't standing next to a scene from CSI Railway Station.
4) Incredibly farty bloke on the train this evening. This was more of a smelled- than saw- but it was most unpleasant. He was sitting there watching tv on his laptop, swigging cider, munching his way through a bag of mini Cheddars, farting liberally and foully all the way to Salisbury. Stinky bastard.
How was your day?
1) Incredibly glamorous girl with two-inch-long deep scarlet fingernails, which she fiddled with constantly as we travelled to Victoria, clicking them against each other with an oddly loud noise.
2) Man with more facial piercings than I have ever seen in my life, including in crappy science fantasy films and on heavy metal album covers. He must have had about 50, including stuff in patterns under the skin to make big lumps. Seriously, deeply intimidating. I saw him as I got onto the Tube, then had to stand with my back to him because it was honestly too much for me. He had at least 15 big rings in and around his lips, many with metal balls and things on them. He looked terrifying.
3) Continuing the scary theme, several large, very fresh pools of blood at Waterloo station, at the foot of the concourse escalators, next to the Help point. It was half covered in bits of paper, presumably to try and shield it from the hundreds of commuters thronging past, surrounded by tape, with two policemen standing next to it. The bloke in the newspaper vending place right beside it was gamely trying to sell papers and pretend he wasn't standing next to a scene from CSI Railway Station.
4) Incredibly farty bloke on the train this evening. This was more of a smelled- than saw- but it was most unpleasant. He was sitting there watching tv on his laptop, swigging cider, munching his way through a bag of mini Cheddars, farting liberally and foully all the way to Salisbury. Stinky bastard.
How was your day?
Thursday, 11 September 2008
Fight!
Went to Bristol today for work, and on the way back was almost involved in a real fight! A colleague gave me a lift, and as we were coming back there was a minor altercation with another driver who was trying to jump the queue to get off the slip road onto the motorway.
My colleague, rather unwisely as it turned out, made a "What the fuck are you doing?" gesture at the other driver.
Other driver, instead of (a) ignoring us and going about his lawful business, or (b) returning said gesture with one of his own and speeding away, went for option (c): Glaring like a madman and then pulling alongside our car and shouting violent abuse.
This was rather wasted because we couldn't hear him. My colleague, who was finding it all very funny, did an exaggerated "Sorry, I can't hear you mate" mime, pointing at his ear and shaking his head.
The other driver started waving his arms about, furious. It was unreal, he was a respectable looking middle aged guy, in a decent car, indicating to us that we were to pull onto the hard shoulder so we could have a fight. What the fuck?
My colleague nodded, and as the other driver pulled onto the side of the road, we drove past, my colleague waving cheerfully. The other guy then accelerated back onto the motorway and chased us for bloody miles. We pulled off the motorway and headed down into Bath, the lunatic still chasing us, still shouting and furious.
My colleague had gone from finding it funny to finding it a bit worrying. He watched the other guy in the mirror, and said "He's waiting for us to stop at the lights so he can come over here." Nice.
This is how people get killed! I remembered various "And then it turned out he had a biiiiig knife/was on the run from the police in 5 countries/was an escaped dangerous psychopath" stories I had read in the papers.
Luckily, we didn't have to stop at the lights, and made our way onto the dual carriageway, this guy still dodging through the traffic to keep behind us. He followed us for several more miles, and then my colleague lifted his arm and slipped his watch off, handing it to me. "Put that in the glove compartment" he said, which I did, not realising what he was doing.
"Um...why are you taking your watch off?" I asked. He looked at the car behind us and said "I don't want to damage it."
It was all rather surreal and scary.
Anyhoo, either the nutter behind us happened to live down the next side turning, or he'd seen my colleague prepare for battle and realised he could be in a lot of trouble, because he suddenly turned off and we lost him.
It was most unexpected.
Other news: The lemon curd is nice. And, because it is made from real lemons, it is good for me. Apart from all the sugar and butter. And eggs. But the lemons balance that out.
Mmmmmm vitamins.
My colleague, rather unwisely as it turned out, made a "What the fuck are you doing?" gesture at the other driver.
Other driver, instead of (a) ignoring us and going about his lawful business, or (b) returning said gesture with one of his own and speeding away, went for option (c): Glaring like a madman and then pulling alongside our car and shouting violent abuse.
This was rather wasted because we couldn't hear him. My colleague, who was finding it all very funny, did an exaggerated "Sorry, I can't hear you mate" mime, pointing at his ear and shaking his head.
The other driver started waving his arms about, furious. It was unreal, he was a respectable looking middle aged guy, in a decent car, indicating to us that we were to pull onto the hard shoulder so we could have a fight. What the fuck?
My colleague nodded, and as the other driver pulled onto the side of the road, we drove past, my colleague waving cheerfully. The other guy then accelerated back onto the motorway and chased us for bloody miles. We pulled off the motorway and headed down into Bath, the lunatic still chasing us, still shouting and furious.
My colleague had gone from finding it funny to finding it a bit worrying. He watched the other guy in the mirror, and said "He's waiting for us to stop at the lights so he can come over here." Nice.
This is how people get killed! I remembered various "And then it turned out he had a biiiiig knife/was on the run from the police in 5 countries/was an escaped dangerous psychopath" stories I had read in the papers.
Luckily, we didn't have to stop at the lights, and made our way onto the dual carriageway, this guy still dodging through the traffic to keep behind us. He followed us for several more miles, and then my colleague lifted his arm and slipped his watch off, handing it to me. "Put that in the glove compartment" he said, which I did, not realising what he was doing.
"Um...why are you taking your watch off?" I asked. He looked at the car behind us and said "I don't want to damage it."
It was all rather surreal and scary.
Anyhoo, either the nutter behind us happened to live down the next side turning, or he'd seen my colleague prepare for battle and realised he could be in a lot of trouble, because he suddenly turned off and we lost him.
It was most unexpected.
Other news: The lemon curd is nice. And, because it is made from real lemons, it is good for me. Apart from all the sugar and butter. And eggs. But the lemons balance that out.
Mmmmmm vitamins.
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