Some things in life serve only to induce rage. No matter how small these annoyances may be, they are never insignificant. 'Rant List' is the chronicle of one self-loathing narcissist's seemingly unending pettiness.

Monday, 29 November 2010

35. Mondays

^ I feel like I live somewhere in-between Office Space and Clerks

It's Sunday morning. You wake up, realising you don't have any job / education commitments for the day and lazily lay your head back down before it truly hits you. It's Sunday. This is your last day of weekend-based freedom before the weekday slog kicks in and begins the gradual process of chipping away what few fragments remain of your disillusioned soul. So, really, you better make the best of it.

It's Sunday afternoon. You're awake again. You have wasted your entire morning in bed and achieved none of the things you intended to by this point. And that's okay, because it's Sunday. You lazily make a fry-up to eat the pain away. Delicious. It dawns on you again though, that tomorrow is Monday. Better make the best of your free time.

It's 5pm. You've spent the day thus far playing Robot Unicorn Attack and re-watching episodes of the unrelenting mediocrity that is How I Met Your Mother. You think about dinner and pittle away your time by tapping away on the internet. Ooh, 2 notifications, how grand!

Somehow, it's Monday morning. You're up at the crack of dawn, you've had about five broken hours of sleep and the slog begins. You feel your jaw crack as you hear that unceremoniously violent alarm shatter your ears. You remember you spent last night illegally watching Piranha 3D (in 2D) and drinking. The morning is brutal. It's dark outside. Your eyes are crusted over with sleep and your vision doesn't want to kick in. Your legs are useless. You fall over your bag and spill that glass of water you keep by the bed. Ooh, crumbs. After making a coffee, you decide to turn on your laptop. Leslie Nielsen's dead. A significant part of your childhood dies with him.

You eventually muster the courage to leave the house. It is as cold as Hell would be if O.J. Simpson was actually innocent. You're wearing at least four layers and yet your nipples could cut glass - double-glazed glass, at that. Your nipples are too powerful for this time of morning.

You're at the bus stop. You notice there's an awful lot of people waiting for the bus. Oh, it's a Tube strike. Of course. You have to wait for a couple of buses. When you finally get on a bus, you are sandwiched between two unsavoury characters with an odour so offensive, it's like the smell took your nostrils outside and beat them up with a lead pipe stolen from a sewage plant.

You realise this is all before you have even reached your institution of choice for the day. You have an entire day of this tripe to put up with.

No other day assaults every one of your senses so aggressively in the space of the first hour of being awake. You become fully aware of the entire gravitas of the situation. You have a terrible case of the Mondays.

You write on your to-do list "buy wine and cookies before heading home".

You wait as five buses pass. You lose the ability to write coherent sentences. Banana hammock. You start writing entries for your inane blog.

34. The emptiness of crisp packets

^ "MAX deep ridge"!? That's what she said. I think. I don't know, I don't do innuendo very well...

You know that feeling you get, when you crave a bit of a potato-based snack and only something crispy will suffice? It's a strong one, so you take a detour in to the nearest newsagent and there it is; a big packet of Doritos. Lovely. The bag's pretty generously sized; there's a lot of spicy, corn-laden pseudo-nachos in there. You could save some for later. I mean, a bag of that voolume is really intended for several people. You could divvy a few out amongst your friends and still have some left over. So, you drop the newsagent one of your precious pound sterlings and leave the shop, excited about the snackery that is about to unfold.

And then you open the bag. A waft of tasty smelling air escapes and you excitedly examine the contents of your purchase. Four sullen tortilla chips and a lot of silver foil. If you're lucky, maybe a small pile of conglomerate flavourings at the bottom.

I. What? Gaaaaaaaaaah.

Words cannot express my disappointment when this happens. To this day, I naively expect big bags of crisps to contain lots of crisps - at least an amount in line with how big the bag is - but all I find within is Kate Moss' daily calorific intake (I'm making the somewhat crass assumption that a single Twiglet is too much for the Moss to take). I am a man, not a fashionable stick of a woman, and I demand my crisp packets be filled with "food" that will permanently damage my body. I am sick of bags of foil that gleam with disappointment, their shiny innards reflecting my crushed culinary hopes. My inner child needs nourishment.

(N.B. I was a fat child).

33. Tube strikes

^ I have spent over three quarters of my life living in London and I have yet to see this.

So, the London Underground (or "The Tube" as those of us within the accurately titled "Big Smoke" call it) was out of bounds today due to yet another strike. Now, I don't tend to take the Tube very often to travel around, so it certainly didn't affect me on that level of inconvenience. But, whilst I feel that the strikes are inconsiderate at best (I refuse to debate whether or not I think they're justified), my beef isn't with the train drivers (I say drivers, but those things drive themselves - I'm not really sure why there are people employed to witness that). My initial sirloin* lies with the appalling organisation of TFL, who don't see it fit to run more buses to deal with the huge amount of extra bus travellers that occur during a Tube strike. But the ever-so-slightly-unhinged sets of Londoners don't half make it worse.

*23p to who sees what I did there.

Every time there is a Tube strike, London seems to collapse in to some adolescent fury where would-be grown ups throw temper tantrums because of the, admittedly frustrating, process of getting home. Waiting for several buses before one with enough room for you to awkwardly squeeze yourself in turns up is, unfortunately, part and parcel of the striking process. It's annoying, it's aggravating and ultimately, disappointing when you eventually end up on a bus filled to the brim with sour-faced people and screaming babies (such as the trusty 134 I took back today). But never before had I seen a bus driver flip the bird at someone. He was more than entitled to though, seeing as a 30+ woman repeatedly tried to smash the door of the bus down when he was physically unable to let more people on to it. Don't take it personally lady, there's a lot of people trying to get home - God forbid, you have to wait for another bus like everybody else has for the last hour. She's not the only one, mind. I saw a man on Tottenham Court Road repeatedly hit a taxi with some kind of pipe because the driver wasn't letting him in. Well, putting a few major dents in his cab was certainly going to warm you to your charms, wasn't it? I bet you're a riot at parties. Literally.

I understand the annoyance of trying to get home in a timely manner. Really, I do. I had a horrific time on the bus today. Truly terrible. But, despite my relative youth in comparison to the wealth of people I saw throwing their proverbial toys out of the pram this evening, I accepted that it was a bad situation and I would have to deal with it. As did many other fellow travellers who, although clearly pissed off, managed to channel their energies in to not exacerbating the already stressful situation. If there's one thing I've learnt living in London, it's that someone always wants to make the experience worse for everyone else because they're too mentally unable to comprehend that everything won't always go their way. These people should have their Oyster cards revoked.