As an English student and wannabe journalist, I quite like words. They can be crafted in such intricate ways to portray innumerous ideas, viewpoints and arguments. Words are amazingly flexible in this case. We can even, when the elasticity of words is still just too rigid; make up new words (such as innumerous) in an attempt to convey what we mean. However, what is best about ‘words’ is the context behind which they are used.
For example, two days ago I was sitting on a train heading to Chesterfield for a mystery shop. It was one of those old trains that probably will be scrapped in five years or so, but lucky for everyone on the coach, this meant hoards of graffiti on the backs of seats, the windows, etc…
Now, as I was saying, it is the context – the motive for writing – of words that fascinates me most. So, on the train, graffiti such as ‘Damo 08’ and ‘Vinnie 2009’ holds within them a certain context, a certain mood. Why did Damo and Vinnie decide to brand their names and date their artwork on their respective train journeys to Sheffield or Huddersfield? (And why did Vinnie’s poor parents settle on the name Vinnie?)
The sad irony of it, as I starred at the seat in front of me where the graffiti was lovingly etched, was that one poor sod had evidently not understood the art of graffiti: ‘Danny Whitfield’. Now Danny, I’m afraid merely putting your name in enormous block capitals over the entirety of the back seat may not be the smartest thing to do. As I’m sure everyone would agree, your first problem is that you haven’t dated it. Second, you need a cooler name – or at least something that combines the two – such a ‘D Whitey’ or ‘Dwight’. This is was I love about words, the fact that when ‘Danny Whitfield’ was being written down, the hand that wrote it probably thought he was the coolest kid in the carriage. Imagine being out-cooled by a guy called Vinnie…
Anyway I made it to Sheffield station and sat down on a bench to await my next train. Stood in front of me was my next blob (and I mean that sincerely) of amusement. I’ll be blunt – an enormous woman was stood about 5 yards away from me with an Innocent Smoothie strapped to her gob. The best thing – apart from the fact she’d just called her friend a moron for forgetting to answer her phone – was that, stretched across the base of her neck, was the word ‘Dave’.
Poor Dave I suppose. That branding ain’t going away. A tattoo with your partner’s name on it is like an invisible one-way leash. The tattooed now has to fight to keep the relationship, while the named can hold their other half up for ransom:
“If you don’t make me a cup of tea sharpish, I’m going to leave you. And then you’ll be embarrassed by that ridiculous piece of shit on your back, rather than vulgarly proud. So go on – mush!”
The actual shop in Chesterfield went swimmingly, mainly because I had my ipod and was on my bike, so practically shut off the outside world. The journey back offered a little amusement however, and again involved an overweight member of our society.
I boarded the train home behind such a large bloke, who took up most of the remaining pair of seats in the carriage, so that I stood in the doorway bit. Looking at him, he had some bagging tracksuit pants on and trainers with the word ‘AIRWALK’ on the side. To be honest he was dressed like an amateur athlete, and yet I know it had been a while since compulsory P.E lessons.
What amused me though was the ‘AIRWALK’ branding on the trainers. The big thinkers at the trainer company obviously wanted a brand that would capture the consumer, to make them think THIS trainer is so light that running is like walking on air. Now, if you can convince a 28-year-old whale to buy them, you’ve struck marketing gold.
The only other thing I saw was the word ‘NEDLES’ graffitied on the side of a tunnel. I don’t know if this was a name, or an advertisement for a tramp’s new entrepreneurial business idea, but it was spelt wrong all the same… Probably didn’t have enough paint for an extra ‘E’.
Tuesday 27 July 2010
Tuesday 8 June 2010
Day Skipper
For the first time in a very long time, I actually made a day of it when doing a mystery shop. The other day I visited Skipton, just desperate to get out of the house, to earn very little money. I was expecting the usual ‘train journey – shop – train home’ routine, but with a glorious stoke of luck, it turned out to be quite a good day.
Due to my internet being cut off at home, I was forced in the morning to head to the university library to enquire about potential shops to do that day. Since the end of exams, I had promised myself never to set foot in the libraries at Leeds for 18 months, so I felt rather dishonoured breaking my Lent so early on.
Success! I bagged a visit to Skipton, and off I went. Nothing much really happened on the way there, as I was buried in a volume of light reading. However, three things did amuse me once in the supermarket during my shop. The first one concluded an idea I’ve had for a while: that people are happy to make acquaintances, but only when it suits them. As I walked down the frozen food aisle, two old women passed each other, going in opposite directions. A hasty “Hi” protruded from both mouths, and one of the women stopped in order to transform this greeting into a proper conversation. In return, the other woman just walked on by, head held high. Chatting in a supermarket to this particular lady just didn’t suit her mood. The poor other woman was left to recollect her rejection, and move on into the tinned goods aisle.
The second and third interesting things happened when I was queuing to pay for my food. In front of me were an elderly couple. I looked at what they had on the conveyor belt: six packs of jelly and two litres of UHT milk. They were up for a right night. I was about to ponder further into what this lethal combination of consumables could amount to, when I heard a shriek that echoed throughout the store: “Come on Graham!” I don’t know why, but it amused me…
What made this visit particularly special was the coincidence that three friends (that again cannot be named for complicated legal reasons) also happened to be in Skipton that day. After half an hour trying to find them, I met them outside the local Oxfam in the town centre. I noticed on the window of the Oxfam a sign: ‘All clothes – half price sale’. Now, at what point does anyone think ‘well, I would shop at Oxfam, but it’s a little bit too pricey for my liking’? The price of the goods surely isn’t the reason why they’re not selling. In my opinion, they should get some better quality stock in…
The four of us, after finally meeting up, went for lunch by the canal. While sitting there mauling a four-pack of chocolate muffins, a beautiful event in nature was occurring. I am talking, of course, about… duck foreplay. A lady duck was perched on the edge of the canal. A man duck had noticed this, and thought he had a chance. The little pecker jumped out of the water, and began grooming himself near the female. When her head was turned, he actually slowly waddled sideways in her direction, to get near to her without her noticing. I was so sweet to see this guy trying his hardest to look cool but not too pushy. As we left, they swam away together on the canal. I suppose it does pay to be the nice guy.
Nothing much really happened after this. We went for a gander round the town and saw in a shop a bucket branded ‘The Invincible Bucket’. There was a picture on the front with a massive car on top of four buckets, as though this is meant to prove to you that this bucket is the manliest, most indestructible bucket in the world. So what do you put in a bucket? Paint, soil, and maybe water to wash the car. They should have called it ‘The Most Unnecessarily Branded Bucket Ever’.
Due to my internet being cut off at home, I was forced in the morning to head to the university library to enquire about potential shops to do that day. Since the end of exams, I had promised myself never to set foot in the libraries at Leeds for 18 months, so I felt rather dishonoured breaking my Lent so early on.
Success! I bagged a visit to Skipton, and off I went. Nothing much really happened on the way there, as I was buried in a volume of light reading. However, three things did amuse me once in the supermarket during my shop. The first one concluded an idea I’ve had for a while: that people are happy to make acquaintances, but only when it suits them. As I walked down the frozen food aisle, two old women passed each other, going in opposite directions. A hasty “Hi” protruded from both mouths, and one of the women stopped in order to transform this greeting into a proper conversation. In return, the other woman just walked on by, head held high. Chatting in a supermarket to this particular lady just didn’t suit her mood. The poor other woman was left to recollect her rejection, and move on into the tinned goods aisle.
The second and third interesting things happened when I was queuing to pay for my food. In front of me were an elderly couple. I looked at what they had on the conveyor belt: six packs of jelly and two litres of UHT milk. They were up for a right night. I was about to ponder further into what this lethal combination of consumables could amount to, when I heard a shriek that echoed throughout the store: “Come on Graham!” I don’t know why, but it amused me…
What made this visit particularly special was the coincidence that three friends (that again cannot be named for complicated legal reasons) also happened to be in Skipton that day. After half an hour trying to find them, I met them outside the local Oxfam in the town centre. I noticed on the window of the Oxfam a sign: ‘All clothes – half price sale’. Now, at what point does anyone think ‘well, I would shop at Oxfam, but it’s a little bit too pricey for my liking’? The price of the goods surely isn’t the reason why they’re not selling. In my opinion, they should get some better quality stock in…
The four of us, after finally meeting up, went for lunch by the canal. While sitting there mauling a four-pack of chocolate muffins, a beautiful event in nature was occurring. I am talking, of course, about… duck foreplay. A lady duck was perched on the edge of the canal. A man duck had noticed this, and thought he had a chance. The little pecker jumped out of the water, and began grooming himself near the female. When her head was turned, he actually slowly waddled sideways in her direction, to get near to her without her noticing. I was so sweet to see this guy trying his hardest to look cool but not too pushy. As we left, they swam away together on the canal. I suppose it does pay to be the nice guy.
Nothing much really happened after this. We went for a gander round the town and saw in a shop a bucket branded ‘The Invincible Bucket’. There was a picture on the front with a massive car on top of four buckets, as though this is meant to prove to you that this bucket is the manliest, most indestructible bucket in the world. So what do you put in a bucket? Paint, soil, and maybe water to wash the car. They should have called it ‘The Most Unnecessarily Branded Bucket Ever’.
Friday 4 June 2010
Grapes of Annoyance
Two days ago I was talking to a friend about finally doing another mystery shop. Stood at traffic lights, he jokingly suggested going to Tesco for lunch. “Nah” I said, “I’ll get my hit later today. Although I’m almost clean now”. As I said this we walked past two girls waiting at the crossing. I’m pretty sure they would have understood I was referring to mystery shopping…
Having left my friend (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons beyond my control) I sauntered down to the train station, sweltering in the glorious Leeds sunshine. My first point of call was Ilkley. I think I’ve been to Ilkley more times this year than… well than a really regular occurrence. Indeed, this visit was no different to the 15 or so I have done over the last two years to the town, and the ride back home was to be the same demure affair. However, the glories of personal stupidity struck as per usual.
A man sat next to me on the train as I was tucking into a bag of grapes. At this point I must say, they were bloody good grapes. The man – about middle-aged – had clearly had a long day at work, and was grumbling through the sports section of the Metro. He saw me eating the grapes, so I offered him one. He accepted, probably in surprise more than anything else; that a youth in this age were to offer him fruit and not a pill of some kind. I turned back to my book, and carried on reading and chopping, as a girl with creamy coloured tights sat opposite me. Now I must mention here that the colour of her tights, and the fact I noticed them at all, are important to the story, and NOT just a purvey appreciation of a 25-year-old’s undergarments.
About two minutes after the girl sat down, I grappled with an enormous red grape to pluck it from its stalk. This grape was the king of the packet. Much like the biggest crisp its respective bag, the grape was just bulging with mass. Rather nonchalantly I popped it between my two front teeth, and bit slowly but surely into it. The result: half a grape fell in my mouth, as the juice from the other half cascaded over my lap and discreetly onto the thigh of the lady in front, who was reading a stimulating celeb mag by this point. She didn’t notice, but I bloody well did: as did the man next to me, who was shaking slightly as he tried to suppress his laughter.
I quickly put my grapes back in my bag before the woman could see, and buried my head in my book, seriously hoping she shopped at Primark and not somewhere expensive, like George.
After alighting (whatever the hell that REALLY means) the train, I meandered through the busy crowd to a platform for the train to Bradford. Standing there waiting, I couldn’t help observe a rather short woman, nursing the potbelly of a balding, taller man. It looked like he was pregnant, and she was feeling for kicks. To be honest, it just looked weird.
On the train to Bradford I definitely saw an Asian Colin Murray, as well as a very skinny Chico (and I hereby express my embarrassment at having even heard of that name). I was pretty damn pleased with my celeb spotting for the day.
However, my annoyance grew on the way back from Bradford, when a guy came up to me and asked if I had “a fag”. Naturally I did the “sorry mate” routine, which basically just means: “please fuck off”, and went to cross the road. However, something hit me when I did this: why should I be sorry that I don’t possess something that basically makes you look and smell like the trampy state you’re in? Why should I concede to looking like the one at fault? It just pissed me off to realise the automatic reaction when being asked if you have a cigarette is to apologise for NOT screwing up your body.
Anyway, he then went over to two 12-year old girls and asked them. They of course said no. The guy was clearly an idiot.
Having left my friend (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons beyond my control) I sauntered down to the train station, sweltering in the glorious Leeds sunshine. My first point of call was Ilkley. I think I’ve been to Ilkley more times this year than… well than a really regular occurrence. Indeed, this visit was no different to the 15 or so I have done over the last two years to the town, and the ride back home was to be the same demure affair. However, the glories of personal stupidity struck as per usual.
A man sat next to me on the train as I was tucking into a bag of grapes. At this point I must say, they were bloody good grapes. The man – about middle-aged – had clearly had a long day at work, and was grumbling through the sports section of the Metro. He saw me eating the grapes, so I offered him one. He accepted, probably in surprise more than anything else; that a youth in this age were to offer him fruit and not a pill of some kind. I turned back to my book, and carried on reading and chopping, as a girl with creamy coloured tights sat opposite me. Now I must mention here that the colour of her tights, and the fact I noticed them at all, are important to the story, and NOT just a purvey appreciation of a 25-year-old’s undergarments.
About two minutes after the girl sat down, I grappled with an enormous red grape to pluck it from its stalk. This grape was the king of the packet. Much like the biggest crisp its respective bag, the grape was just bulging with mass. Rather nonchalantly I popped it between my two front teeth, and bit slowly but surely into it. The result: half a grape fell in my mouth, as the juice from the other half cascaded over my lap and discreetly onto the thigh of the lady in front, who was reading a stimulating celeb mag by this point. She didn’t notice, but I bloody well did: as did the man next to me, who was shaking slightly as he tried to suppress his laughter.
I quickly put my grapes back in my bag before the woman could see, and buried my head in my book, seriously hoping she shopped at Primark and not somewhere expensive, like George.
After alighting (whatever the hell that REALLY means) the train, I meandered through the busy crowd to a platform for the train to Bradford. Standing there waiting, I couldn’t help observe a rather short woman, nursing the potbelly of a balding, taller man. It looked like he was pregnant, and she was feeling for kicks. To be honest, it just looked weird.
On the train to Bradford I definitely saw an Asian Colin Murray, as well as a very skinny Chico (and I hereby express my embarrassment at having even heard of that name). I was pretty damn pleased with my celeb spotting for the day.
However, my annoyance grew on the way back from Bradford, when a guy came up to me and asked if I had “a fag”. Naturally I did the “sorry mate” routine, which basically just means: “please fuck off”, and went to cross the road. However, something hit me when I did this: why should I be sorry that I don’t possess something that basically makes you look and smell like the trampy state you’re in? Why should I concede to looking like the one at fault? It just pissed me off to realise the automatic reaction when being asked if you have a cigarette is to apologise for NOT screwing up your body.
Anyway, he then went over to two 12-year old girls and asked them. They of course said no. The guy was clearly an idiot.
Thursday 1 April 2010
Finally
It’s been two months now since my last mystery shop. I remember that day as if it was but yesterday. The crisp bite of early February air, off the back of a freezing winter, tormenting my lungs as I jogged out of Huddersfield.
Today I got back on the road, with a shop to York. This morning I had come to the conclusion that the most exciting thing that was going to happen to me today was seeing if the red team in ‘To Buy or not to Buy’ would make a steady profit at today’s auction. Imagine my sheer distress and utmost anger when my boss rang up, asking if I could do a mystery shop instead.
So, how to get to York… Well, I had the car for once, so printed off a map and got into third gear (mental, I know!). I encountered my first problem however at the bottom of the road, with a queue of cars stretching up into Honley village reminding me I was about to set off on a 100-mile-round trip… in rush hour. They said on the radio that ‘rush hour’ doesn’t really exist any more. I’d have to agree; no one can move fast enough to ‘rush’, and the whole thing takes longer than an hour. My journey was to take five.
Anyway, I eventually broke into some vague momentum and managed to get up to 30mph in Dewsbury! I was getting bored however, and so, realising there was a fast-looking car in my rear mirror, decided to amuse myself a bit. The road was long, with a huge queue of cars. We weren’t going anywhere soon, and yet this car (I think it was a Jag) was trying to overtake me. I can’t remember the number plate, but am sure it read something like: PR1CK.
So, what to do with an impatient tosser behind you, with nowhere to go, and nothing to do but go 30mph? Well, slow down of course. I didn’t act quickly, but ever so slowly reduced my speed, to about 25mph, to see if he’d notice. He did, and I could tell he did. So, I went down to 23mph, making sure to let any car from adjoining roads in front of me whenever I could. The guy did not seem happy, but, as he angrily sped away at a junction further down, I decided I didn’t care. I’d happily pissed off a rich angry bloke. Adopting the phrase ‘time is money’, looking at his car, suggests he has too much spare money, and therefore too much spare time. So why does he need such a fast car?
Anyway, I got past Leeds and was heading to York when possibly one of the greatest spectacles ever seen on the roadside introduced itself to me. It was on old bloke on one of those mobility scooters you get along with your bus pass, pension and stair lift when you reach 65. The guy was bombing along the pavement, but what was special was that his wife was sat behind. I thought giving your mate a backie died out when you were about 14? It was funny though: to see this old woman clutching on to her husband as he traversed unruly potholes and meandered round pedestrians, a walking stick tucked under her right arm. They looked like they were having fun at any rate.
The shop in York took no time at all, and so off I went back home. On the way back I thought I’d stop off in Leeds to check the house; you know, to make sure it was still standing. Thankfully it was, and, after picking up some stuff I naturally forgot to take home with me for the Easter break, I jumped back into the car to head for Honley.
I was happy with the day’s exploits. The drive back past Hyde Park however, filled me with slight remorse. You see, in the spring, for about two weeks, flowers emerge all over the park, giving the place a more vibrant colour scheme than the graffiti on a skate park. It signifies the coming of summer and the pissing off of winter. Sadly, this Dulux delight only lasts about a fortnight, for, as I drove past, I noticed the daffodils and weeds have already begun to take over. They’re nice, but just not as strikingly beautiful. Wordsworth had it all wrong…
Today I got back on the road, with a shop to York. This morning I had come to the conclusion that the most exciting thing that was going to happen to me today was seeing if the red team in ‘To Buy or not to Buy’ would make a steady profit at today’s auction. Imagine my sheer distress and utmost anger when my boss rang up, asking if I could do a mystery shop instead.
So, how to get to York… Well, I had the car for once, so printed off a map and got into third gear (mental, I know!). I encountered my first problem however at the bottom of the road, with a queue of cars stretching up into Honley village reminding me I was about to set off on a 100-mile-round trip… in rush hour. They said on the radio that ‘rush hour’ doesn’t really exist any more. I’d have to agree; no one can move fast enough to ‘rush’, and the whole thing takes longer than an hour. My journey was to take five.
Anyway, I eventually broke into some vague momentum and managed to get up to 30mph in Dewsbury! I was getting bored however, and so, realising there was a fast-looking car in my rear mirror, decided to amuse myself a bit. The road was long, with a huge queue of cars. We weren’t going anywhere soon, and yet this car (I think it was a Jag) was trying to overtake me. I can’t remember the number plate, but am sure it read something like: PR1CK.
So, what to do with an impatient tosser behind you, with nowhere to go, and nothing to do but go 30mph? Well, slow down of course. I didn’t act quickly, but ever so slowly reduced my speed, to about 25mph, to see if he’d notice. He did, and I could tell he did. So, I went down to 23mph, making sure to let any car from adjoining roads in front of me whenever I could. The guy did not seem happy, but, as he angrily sped away at a junction further down, I decided I didn’t care. I’d happily pissed off a rich angry bloke. Adopting the phrase ‘time is money’, looking at his car, suggests he has too much spare money, and therefore too much spare time. So why does he need such a fast car?
Anyway, I got past Leeds and was heading to York when possibly one of the greatest spectacles ever seen on the roadside introduced itself to me. It was on old bloke on one of those mobility scooters you get along with your bus pass, pension and stair lift when you reach 65. The guy was bombing along the pavement, but what was special was that his wife was sat behind. I thought giving your mate a backie died out when you were about 14? It was funny though: to see this old woman clutching on to her husband as he traversed unruly potholes and meandered round pedestrians, a walking stick tucked under her right arm. They looked like they were having fun at any rate.
The shop in York took no time at all, and so off I went back home. On the way back I thought I’d stop off in Leeds to check the house; you know, to make sure it was still standing. Thankfully it was, and, after picking up some stuff I naturally forgot to take home with me for the Easter break, I jumped back into the car to head for Honley.
I was happy with the day’s exploits. The drive back past Hyde Park however, filled me with slight remorse. You see, in the spring, for about two weeks, flowers emerge all over the park, giving the place a more vibrant colour scheme than the graffiti on a skate park. It signifies the coming of summer and the pissing off of winter. Sadly, this Dulux delight only lasts about a fortnight, for, as I drove past, I noticed the daffodils and weeds have already begun to take over. They’re nice, but just not as strikingly beautiful. Wordsworth had it all wrong…
Wednesday 10 February 2010
Small talk
You know when you see a person in the street who you don’t really know, have never had a conversation with (really) and actually kind of just think they’re a bit of a knob? Well, that happened to me today.
I arose this morning fully expecting to pile on the hours in the library in one massive reading session. After applying to do a mystery shop by 8:30, my plan for the day had gone slightly askew. Instead of reading for five solid hours, I reckon I managed about one and a half today. Must do better tomorrow!
The problem is with my ‘job’ is that the benefits of doing uni work while on the go is evident when you’re stuck on a train for three hours to Morecambe. But, when the train only takes 25 minutes to get to Huddersfield – my destination of choice for the day – it’s hard to find the incentive a settle down with a book and get a good read in. The ipod was beckoning.
Anyway, I was walking down into Leeds to get the train when I saw someone in front of me who I just could not be arsed to talk to. It’s not that they weren’t necessarily a nice person, or that they were a knob; it was the fact that I couldn’t be bothered with the suffering of small talk.
Small talk is an arduous task that can ware down even the most patient of people. There’s a limit to the amount of times you can tell someone you’re tired, how you don’t like mornings, and how much fun last night was. So to save me the hassle, I walked slowly down to the station, making sure this person (a guy off my course) didn’t turn round.
My run around Huddersfield was fairly unremarkable to be honest. It snowed, which made me wonder if February could just hurry up and get out of the way. I love spring, it’s just you have to get through shitty February for it to even be close.
I arose this morning fully expecting to pile on the hours in the library in one massive reading session. After applying to do a mystery shop by 8:30, my plan for the day had gone slightly askew. Instead of reading for five solid hours, I reckon I managed about one and a half today. Must do better tomorrow!
The problem is with my ‘job’ is that the benefits of doing uni work while on the go is evident when you’re stuck on a train for three hours to Morecambe. But, when the train only takes 25 minutes to get to Huddersfield – my destination of choice for the day – it’s hard to find the incentive a settle down with a book and get a good read in. The ipod was beckoning.
Anyway, I was walking down into Leeds to get the train when I saw someone in front of me who I just could not be arsed to talk to. It’s not that they weren’t necessarily a nice person, or that they were a knob; it was the fact that I couldn’t be bothered with the suffering of small talk.
Small talk is an arduous task that can ware down even the most patient of people. There’s a limit to the amount of times you can tell someone you’re tired, how you don’t like mornings, and how much fun last night was. So to save me the hassle, I walked slowly down to the station, making sure this person (a guy off my course) didn’t turn round.
My run around Huddersfield was fairly unremarkable to be honest. It snowed, which made me wonder if February could just hurry up and get out of the way. I love spring, it’s just you have to get through shitty February for it to even be close.
Tuesday 2 February 2010
Observe, don't meddle
Over the last nine days I have done ten mystery shops. I have scaled the heights of Skipton, delved into the depths of Sowerby, and wandered fairly absentmindedly through the pit of Bramley.
In fact, I’ve done just so many shops and had so little time to do much else, that I have decided to condense my experiences of the last week into one lovely, manageable, single blog post.
So, I suppose I begin last Monday, with a trip to a local fastfood outlet (which shall not be named in the risk of free advertising for the international franchise to my vast array of readers…). Here, sat on my own watching the other Huddersfieldians munch of their food, my external monologue grew like Wakefield rhubarb… fast.
My observations were hooked by a couple sat across the restaurant from me. The girl was sat chewing on a cob of sweetcorn. I was impressed by this: a healthy meal in a less-than-healthy store, until I realised this was only a small starter in preparation to her main course: two burger meals.
As I gaped at the amount of food piled in front of her, and the fat globules of butter dripping off her sweetcorn, I turned towards the male sitting next to her. I refer to him as a male as this is what he was. He wasn’t a man, he couldn’t be. His gender was established due to the enormous bald cranium shining at me from a distance. However, I would stop short in saying this guy was human. He was at the time gnashing his way through a double burger of some kind, and this is where I realised his jaw was wider than his head. No man’s jaw should be wider than his head. It either means his brain didn’t develop enough to achieve minimum capacity, or he’s eaten so much meat over the years his jaw muscles could enter a strongman contest on their own. This meat-eater was no man, he was a beast, and his stomach proved as much.
Anyway, that pretty much summed up Monday. It wasn’t until later on in the week that I found my next ‘observation’. I had to hurry to get a train to Bradford, and only just got it. I sat down with relief on the train, and looked up to feel my relief turn to utter joy. A man was sat in front of me that looked exactly like Pierce Brosnan. Now, I’m not saying his eyes were similar, or his mouth was, rather his entire face was James Bond. He was reading a book in a smarmy yet cool sort of way. Out of ten (ten being Pierce and zero being an alien) I’d give him a solid nine. The only way I knew it wasn’t 007 was that there was no way in hell Pierce Brosnan would be using a clattery old train, in commoner class, to travel from Leeds to Bradford. Still, I put it up there with when I thought I saw Chris Martin in Nando’s, Huddersfield.
I got off the train and was walking through Bradford when I strolled past Topman. In the window was a range of manikins, wearing a variety of, well, clothes. The clothes didn’t really capture my attention however; it was the manikins. Imagine holding a dead frog, with a large, round belly, from its neck. The belly protrudes forwards while the legs flop back at a strange angle. This is what the manikins looked like. The hip, like the frog’s belly, was a pivot for the body and legs to skew off in two freakish and impossible angles. It was simply thrust forward about half a foot. Now one stands with their crotch protruding 15cm from their body. This annoyed me a little bit to be honest. Although what annoyed me more was the fact I was annoyed by it, as is often the case.
On the bus back from Bradford I was stood near three people of about my age. One guy had a ludicrously strong West Yorkshire / Asian accent. I could barely understand a word he was saying. However, through the garbled dialect I heard one phrase: “Shut up you fanny crack”. This rather took me aback. I looked at the guy who had said such a base thing and found it remarkable a 20-year-old would use such adolescent language. The girl he said it to didn’t even flutter an eyelid. But what really got me was the context he said it in. The guy had earrings, new coat, clean trainers and new gloves. He clearly cared about his appearance, so why didn’t he care about how he spoke? I suppose he just found it normal. I was confused.
I can’t really remember much more, other than today, walking back from Leeds, I passed the Student Union. As I walked past, I heard a guy talking to his mates. All I heard was “I was literally killed six times”. Now, I’m fairly sure that’s an overstatement. Saying you’ve been killed once is hyperbolic enough, literally or otherwise. His mates looked impressed anyway, so I decided to let him revel in his glory uninterrupted.
In fact, I’ve done just so many shops and had so little time to do much else, that I have decided to condense my experiences of the last week into one lovely, manageable, single blog post.
So, I suppose I begin last Monday, with a trip to a local fastfood outlet (which shall not be named in the risk of free advertising for the international franchise to my vast array of readers…). Here, sat on my own watching the other Huddersfieldians munch of their food, my external monologue grew like Wakefield rhubarb… fast.
My observations were hooked by a couple sat across the restaurant from me. The girl was sat chewing on a cob of sweetcorn. I was impressed by this: a healthy meal in a less-than-healthy store, until I realised this was only a small starter in preparation to her main course: two burger meals.
As I gaped at the amount of food piled in front of her, and the fat globules of butter dripping off her sweetcorn, I turned towards the male sitting next to her. I refer to him as a male as this is what he was. He wasn’t a man, he couldn’t be. His gender was established due to the enormous bald cranium shining at me from a distance. However, I would stop short in saying this guy was human. He was at the time gnashing his way through a double burger of some kind, and this is where I realised his jaw was wider than his head. No man’s jaw should be wider than his head. It either means his brain didn’t develop enough to achieve minimum capacity, or he’s eaten so much meat over the years his jaw muscles could enter a strongman contest on their own. This meat-eater was no man, he was a beast, and his stomach proved as much.
Anyway, that pretty much summed up Monday. It wasn’t until later on in the week that I found my next ‘observation’. I had to hurry to get a train to Bradford, and only just got it. I sat down with relief on the train, and looked up to feel my relief turn to utter joy. A man was sat in front of me that looked exactly like Pierce Brosnan. Now, I’m not saying his eyes were similar, or his mouth was, rather his entire face was James Bond. He was reading a book in a smarmy yet cool sort of way. Out of ten (ten being Pierce and zero being an alien) I’d give him a solid nine. The only way I knew it wasn’t 007 was that there was no way in hell Pierce Brosnan would be using a clattery old train, in commoner class, to travel from Leeds to Bradford. Still, I put it up there with when I thought I saw Chris Martin in Nando’s, Huddersfield.
I got off the train and was walking through Bradford when I strolled past Topman. In the window was a range of manikins, wearing a variety of, well, clothes. The clothes didn’t really capture my attention however; it was the manikins. Imagine holding a dead frog, with a large, round belly, from its neck. The belly protrudes forwards while the legs flop back at a strange angle. This is what the manikins looked like. The hip, like the frog’s belly, was a pivot for the body and legs to skew off in two freakish and impossible angles. It was simply thrust forward about half a foot. Now one stands with their crotch protruding 15cm from their body. This annoyed me a little bit to be honest. Although what annoyed me more was the fact I was annoyed by it, as is often the case.
On the bus back from Bradford I was stood near three people of about my age. One guy had a ludicrously strong West Yorkshire / Asian accent. I could barely understand a word he was saying. However, through the garbled dialect I heard one phrase: “Shut up you fanny crack”. This rather took me aback. I looked at the guy who had said such a base thing and found it remarkable a 20-year-old would use such adolescent language. The girl he said it to didn’t even flutter an eyelid. But what really got me was the context he said it in. The guy had earrings, new coat, clean trainers and new gloves. He clearly cared about his appearance, so why didn’t he care about how he spoke? I suppose he just found it normal. I was confused.
I can’t really remember much more, other than today, walking back from Leeds, I passed the Student Union. As I walked past, I heard a guy talking to his mates. All I heard was “I was literally killed six times”. Now, I’m fairly sure that’s an overstatement. Saying you’ve been killed once is hyperbolic enough, literally or otherwise. His mates looked impressed anyway, so I decided to let him revel in his glory uninterrupted.
Saturday 9 January 2010
Quiet Christmas
I awoke yesterday morning in Paul’s bed. Paul wasn’t there I’ll have you know, but seeing as I’m the only one in the house at the moment and his radiator is the only one that can be arsed to work, I’ve decided that camping in his room for a few days is warranted.
So, sitting in my sleeping bag (don’t want to touch the sheets!) I checked on the BBC weather website to find out if my two mystery shops could actually be completed today. Well, high pressure and zero wind meant there’d be no more snow coming my way, so I gambled out of bed as quickly as I could and got myself down to the train station.
Guess what, it’s been snowing. In fact, I’m pretty sure everyone is aware that it’s been snowing for quite a while now. In fact, it’s getting to the point where the novelty has just about worn off and you just want to get on with your life. The snow’s been here so long now I’m beginning to think the world is enacting The Day After Tomorrow in slow motion. Checking on Yahoo News today, the headline simply reads ‘Britain’s Big Freeze to get worse’. How tragic.
Anyway, I successfully managed to get to the station without falling slap on my arse. While heading towards my first train, a rather aged, balding man with a heavy-looking suitcase sprinted past me, closely followed by a guy with one of those stupid grey hats that fold back and look a wee bit like a condom. They were running for my train! I looked up and realised the doors were about to shut. Now, I had a decision to make. Either a) run to the train, slip on the platform, embarrass myself and watch the carriage doors shut from my new lowly position on the floor, or b) walk normally towards the train, if it goes, it goes.
I walked. It went. I carried on walking as though I didn’t even want that train. I passed the condom guy, who hadn’t reached the train in time, and was hitching up his pants from below his knees.
So, instead of going to Halifax first I ended up on the train to Selby. I should have remembered this as the conductor came up to me and asked if I was going to York. My reply: “Erm… no. Sheffield”. She looked at me as though I was a moron. My brain itself was kicking me. For, at what point do you then go “Oh erm… sorry no this isn’t to Sheffield is it. Erm… Selby then I think”.
She walked on by with an expression on her face of ‘why did I pick a job that dealt with the general public?’ and I got nestled in to a meaty article in the Metro.
Selby was fairly unremarkable, as was my visit to Halifax. However, on my way back to Halifax station I overheard a conversation between two elderly ladies. It went:
“So did you have a good Christmas?”
“Oh yes. Although it was a quiet one this year.”
“Aye same. Nice… but quiet.”
Now, what were they expecting? We’re all fed on television and films this idea of the massive family intrusion on your doorstep descending the household into chaos for a day, but that doesn’t really happen. You’ve cooked a roast dinner hundreds of times before, so this one is as much as a doddle as the one you did last week. You sit there with people you live with, and only comment on how nice the turkey is and how repulsive the sprouts are because they only make an entrance to your dinner table once a year. The crackers are woefully disappointing and yet you lament over the crap standards of the jokes as though this were a surprise, and the television schedule is a bunch of hour-length specials telling you how great Christmas is, while you and everyone in the world are all in the knowledge they were filmed back in August. Of course you had a quiet Christmas.
Back at Halifax station I had another look around the Eureka grounds. Eureka, as I have mentioned before, is the best place in the world – when you are a kid at least. It looked great covered in snow, a proper fantasy.
Anyway, my journey home was dominated by an attempted conversation with a man who sounded like he was from Latvia or Armenia or somewhere like that. He was asking for 10p so he could upgrade his ticket from a single to a return. Sadly, it took rather a long time to explain this to me, as his English was not good, he was talking into my deaf ear, the carriage was exceptionally noisy, and I was more concerned with the pink magazine he was brandishing at me.
I eventually got the gist, that he would give me his magazine, that I had seen him pick up off the carriage floor about two minutes beforehand, if he could have 10p. I looked at the magazine. It was one of those celebrity ones, but sadly I didn’t recognise it. To be honest, if it’s not Hello Mag, I don’t want it. And to be honest, I would happily have paid the guy 10p to take such an illiterate clump of bilge off my hands.
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