Just Went Out For Coffee.

The below is a true story, albeit embellished in places. I decided to document my mundane adventures as if it were lofty prose, because there are many hours in the day that need to be filled somehow.

***

It was a cold day. Not too cold, but cold enough to make people say “ooh, that’s a bit cold.” Our story starts a few weeks after our hero lost his job for using company software to instigate an office wide rap battle. The official reason was “gross misconduct” which he reasoned was the same as normal misconduct, except done naked. He made the same joke at his disciplinary hearing. No one laughed, glances were exchanged. He still maintained the whole thing was a team building exercise, they countered that it was simply him avoiding doing any meaningful work.

Our hero – who for the sake of argument we will call Jasper – once again found himself endlessly applying for jobs. Any job would do. It is often said that the key to success is perseverance. Plugging away endlessly will eventually lead you to your goals. It is also said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. If both these statements are true, then logically, the key to success is insanity, which is all very well, but hardly sustainable.

Jasper hit the submit button for an application to Which? Magazine. A strange organization. They seemed to be an authority on just about anything. “Best washing up liquid as voted by Which? Magazine.” “Best estate agents as voted by Which? Magazine.” “Best internet provider as voted by Which? Magazine.” Jasper doubted their credentials; no one could claim specialist knowledge on such an eclectic mix of products.

Enough was enough. His eyes hurt and he had not blinked for a good few hours. The blue light leaking from his computer screen was slowly frying his retinas and melting his brain. There was only so many times he could lie about why he wanted to work for various companies. No one wanted to work for the 60 plus years until they were decrepit or dead, it all came down to financial necessity. It was time for a coffee. He stood up and donned his bobbleless hat. It did once have a bobble, but he forcibly removed it. No one over the age of 9 should have a bobble about their person. It looked odd and served no purpose. The only logical purpose he could see would be if a bird were to perch atop his head, which he would not appreciate. He thought the hat gave him a working-class look. However, in truth it made him look like an exceptionally middleclass person attempting to look working-class.

He found his jacket and slipped on his loafers, life was too short to be fannying about with laces every time he left the flat.   He lived in the centre of a vibrant, modern town. Some might say it had fallen victim to gentrification, meaning that it was wall to wall coffee shops and estate agents and the occasional estate agents with a coffee shop inside. Jasper often wondered why the coffee growing nations of the world didn’t rise up and use their ample stock of roasted coffee beans to become a global superpower. By holding coffee hostage they could easily bring western civilisation to its knees.

He patted himself down. Phone… Wallet… all good. He passed through his three doors, down a flight of steps and out into the world. He entered his popular coffee chain of choice and joined the queue. Already he could feel the ever present rage begin to bubble up from his stomach into his chest. The queue was not long, but there was only one person serving and the man at the front was clearly doing an office run, an unnecessarily expensive and needlessly complex daily exercise.

“No, that’s 3 flat whites, one decaf soy latte and four cappuccinos, chocolate on two, no chocolate on one, and chocolate on exactly half of the last.” The man rudely bellowed out his order to the poor flustered girl, whom Jasper recognised as the one that would refuse to meet his eye ever since she forgot to lock the toilet door and he entered to see her sat mid shit. Frustratingly, it was the closest Jasper had come to an erotic experience for a long time. His penis was purely a decorative appendage these days.

“So two flat whites?” She asked smeared in coffee grinds.

“No three flat whites!” The man retorted.

Jasper had no idea what a flat white was, he only knew he hated them just as he hated the man ordering them. He wished it wasn’t illegal to beat him to death with a chair leg, or melt him in a vat of boiling flat whites.

“Here’s the decaf soy latte,” said the girl popping a paper cup into a cardboard holder.

“Is it super decaf?” Asked the man critically.

“Erm… no,” said the carefree shitter.

“It needs to be super decaf. If Wendy even has so much as a whiff of caffeine she immediately dies!” the man exclaimed sending the girl back to the whirring spluttering machine.

Two hours later Jasper left with his coffee, angrier than he had ever been in his life. It was at that moment his brain decided to remind him of the third step to the leaving the flat dance. It doesn’t stop after wallet. It goes Phone… Wallet… Keys. He had left out what was perhaps the most important step. He frantically started patting down his pockets with his one free hand. Modern clothes are made with what he viewed as an unnecessary number of pockets, so this took him some time his anger growing all the while.

He had no keys.

His flat mate, who was possessed with more self-control than him, was still employed. Although that may have something to do with the fact that she had a made up job title and a good day’s work consisted of saying the words “E-learning environment” over and over again. However, at work she was and her work was in the next town over.

At times like these, Jasper found him awash with inconsolable anger. He would froth at the mouth and hurl out expletives by the dozen. He would be angry with himself first and foremost, for forgetting his keys. He would be angry with humanity as a whole, for being so shit that the concept of a lock and key need be invented, lest people come into other people’s houses to murder them and/or steal their shit. Thirdly, he be angry with his parents. His existence, and subsequently his current predicament was all their fault.

Taking a deep breath he reasoned he could just go to the estate agents. They would have spare keys and if he explained the situation in a calm manner, they would get him back in.

He pressed the buzzer to the estate agents. After a lengthy pause a voice rasped through the speaker.

“Yes?”

“I’m Jasper!” he declared his coffee having amplified his rage to untold levels. It took him sometime to see through the red fog to realise that announcing his name would not be enough.

“From 7B!” he said, “I did the pat down dance wrong.” He said.

“Locked out?” said the estate agent.

“That I am. Have you spare keys?”

The door was buzzed open and he entered the run down little office building. In a small room were his agents in a cluttered, open plan office. A man who looked very estate agenty, with smart black hair slicked back and a shirt and tie approached him. Jasper did not think himself a judgemental man, but if pressed he would have to describe the man before him as a bellend.

“7b you say? Let me have a look, we have spare keys.” He said before disappearing. Jasper stood glaring around at the wretched scum and tosspots about him, feeling very exposed. He felt that if he lingered too long he might catch a serious case of arsehattery. The agent returned with a smug look of accomplishment on his face. He handed Jasper a pair of keys. Jasper regarded them with an unimpressed look.

“There are only two keys.” He said.

“Yes!” The man said, chest swelling with pride.

“There are three doors to the property.” Jasper explained. The man regarded him with a dubious look, tinted with a healthy dollop of suspicion.

“Well… that’s all we have.” He said. Jasper frowned wondering just what sort of moron he was dealing with. At a loss for words he retreated from the office and headed back to his flat. Needless to say neither key worked on the outside door. However, quick thinking as ever he formulated a plan. He had forged an alliance with those who worked in the milkshake shop, who also had access to that very door.

“Good afternoon. I am locked out, could you please let me through the front door,” he said entering the milkshake shop, one of many that had burst into existence in recent years. He had no idea how they stayed in business, as he had never heard of anyone express an interest in an Oreo flavoured milkshake, let alone think to buy one at one in the afternoon on a winters day.

“We can’t let anyone upstairs for insurance reasons.” Said the girl in a state of panic. Jasper frowned. The girl was young, a little plump and dim looking. He was confused, as he had not mentioned stairs, he had certainly not said anything that would be in breach of insurance policies.

“No… I need you to open the door for me.” He said as softly as he could, the girl, like a startled elk looked ready to bolt at any minute.

“What door?” she asked.

“The front one. The black one. Has a large 7 on it.” He explained taking care to use one syllable words.

After some time, the girl opened the door for him. He was home at last. He thought.

Only to find neither of the two keys the estate agent had proudly bestowed upon him worked in the second door either. Just what he held the keys too was beyond him. Perhaps they were the keys to someone’s heart. He hoped they were the keys to the estate agent’s heart, so he could return repeatedly and jab them deep into his ribs.

It seemed… he had to get the bus to the next town over.

***

The bus driver looked like an older, slightly fatter Harry Potter, who having been kicked out of the wizarding world had resigned himself to driving a bus. As per usual, getting the bus during the day was like being in Dawn of the Dead. Hordes of shuffling old people dragging their ridiculous wheely bags clogged up the busses, huffing and puffing at the audaciousness of the young, daring to sit down. Each one seemed to enjoy a lengthy conversation with Harry Potter about nothing. Jasper asked for a return to the next town.

He did not hear the price, but simply handed over a fiver, the face of the queen giving him a mocking look. The driver took the note and stared at him expectantly. Jasper looked around wondering if Harry had finally snapped, or whether he had had a stroke.

“£5.50.” said Harry. The rage was rising once again. Five pounds and fifty pence, for one bus journey. For the third time Jasper enjoyed the idea of murdering someone.

He handed over another fifty pence and off they went.

It was at that point that Jasper realised just how talented the bus driver was. He was driving the bus, whilst reading a newspaper and eating a sandwich. Jasper would struggle to do any one of those things on their own. Just how much attention was being paid to the road was another question entirely, but it was impressive nonetheless. If they were to crash and die, Jasper knew his grave stone would read “it was an article on Brexit.”

It took over an hour to get there, collect his flatmate’s keys and then return. At which point he decided that the day was a right off and drank himself into a stupor. The next morning he received an angry call from the estate agent demanding he return the spare keys as soon as possible as they were their only spares and would not be able to access the property in case of an emergency. Jasper did his best to explain that there was only two keys for three doors, and those two keys did not work anyway, so even if they did have them they would not be able to enter the flat in an emergency. He also did his best to explain that any ‘emergency’ would probably require people to leave the flat not get in. He asked under what circumstances they would need access to the flat. There the phone call ended.

Two days later he received a letter saying the landlord had to get extra keys cut and he would be charged for this.

Jasper checked his emails for responses to job applications. He found one from Red Strip estate agents saying that he did not seem qualified to be an estate agent. He closed his laptop and went to get a coffee.

 

 

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The Start of Something Mediocre

Two choices exist for someone with greater knowledge than most. One: use such knowledge for the betterment of mankind, or two: use such knowledge for the betterment of a man[1]. Samantha Gardner knew of other worlds, she had visited some and read brochures on others. Due to a drunk driving incident, a Darubian pilot crashed his spacecraft into her bedroom. Fortunately, Darubian’s are four inches tall and the only damage done was a broken window and a wireless radio. However, that one event opened Samantha’s eyes to the real world, or rather universe. In exchange for not going to the police the drunk Darubian offered Samantha knowledge and technological wonders that other humans could only dream of.

Considering Samantha was working as an estate agent at the time, she decided it was in her best interest not to go to the police to report an interplanetary incident of drunk driving. Three days later, as promised a ship arrived in her driveway complete with camouflage. To the casual observer it resembled a car[2]. From that point on, she dedicated her life to the acquiring of knowledge and the study of the known universe. This swiftly became boring so she instead set up her own detective agency.

Of course she had tried. She visited great powerful civilisations to find the secret to a lasting global peace. Unfortunately, the answer went against every pacifistic notion ever conceived. As it turned out the only way to achieve a lasting peace was to flock to likeminded people and instigate a long and bloody war with other groups of likeminded people, until there was only one group left. Once everyone else was dead, peace and harmony could reign. As it was some of Samantha’s best friends were earthlings so the idea of dealing out death and destruction was unappealing to her.

She didn’t want to give up on diplomacy, alas a sympathetic Nyoiman of the Selabon system told her.

“All civilisations develop diplomatic institutions as a means to delay. As they talk about peace and trade deals they’re really just waiting until they’re sure their arsenal is up to the task of annihilating their enemies. In diplomacy, people can lie, they can twist words to mean whatever they want them to mean, some people are adept at using hundreds of words to say nothing. They can hide their weaknesses with their words, shield themselves from the strong with treaties and agreements. When your enemies are burnt to ashes, nothing needs to be said.”

So humanity had that to look forward to.

In the meantime, Samantha had to earn a living somehow.

***

 

 

[1] Or Woman as it is in this case.

[2] A blue one, 2016 plate.

What Will Trump Say Next?

Even he doesn’t know. When you watch him speak, he seems perpetually surprised that his lips are able to flap about like that, and like a giant toddler first learning the basics of speech, with every word he seems to express a great deal of self-satisfaction. Unlike most politicians, who have a team of speech writers, a director, make up artists and special effects team, Trump appears to enjoy the old school approach of just winging it.

In some ways I respect that. I adhere to that school of philosophy myself, just opening your mouth and hoping for the best. The ‘let’s just do it and see what happens’ approach to life is an admirable one. Unless you happen to be a deluded, bigoted, self-righteous cunt. In this case, the “see what happens” aspect of the ethos is easy to guess.

I thought Trump had lost it when one of his major proposals was to build a huge wall to separate America and Mexico, to stop those pesky Mexicans coming in and doing whatever it is that they do that the American populace hates so much. In particular the bit where he suggested that the Mexican government would be the ones footing the bill. A part wants him to become president, just so I can see this plan put into action and watch the farcical nonsense unfold, like a sit-com episode from the 70s. It could be called ‘To Be Trumped’ … or something better, that was just off the top of my head and I’ve only just woken up and not had coffee yet. Trumped should definitely feature, it makes it seem wittier.

I can only imagine the way that conversation will go.

‘Mexico, I’ve started work on the wall to stop you lot just wandering in and seeking a better life. Can we have the first payment?’

‘Who is this?’

‘The President of the United States. We need you to pay up now, because those building the wall have unionised and are demanding money. If only we had hired some hard working Mexican immigrants.’

‘What’s to stop people just tunnelling under this wall?’

‘Beg your pardon?’

‘Never mind, cheque’s in the post.’

There was once a time when a weird, startled manatee of a man would make these sorts of pledges and be laughed at. World wide we be joined in ridicule, it’d make us glad to be alive. Alas, we seem to have entered a dangerously, bitterly angry time in which people vote for them instead.

Recently, Trump has been seen telling mother’s to remove their babies, who we can only assume were crying because they could see their future being shat upon by their grandparents and their parents. And he has also compared any sort of sacrifice he made to make money from real estate to that of a soldier giving his life for his country, and subsequently his family losing their son. I don’t know quite what sacrifices he is referring to, or if he even knows the meaning of the word sacrifice, to quote the man himself:

“I think I’ve made a lot of sacrifices. I work very, very hard. I’ve created thousands and thousands of jobs, tens of thousands of jobs, built great structures. I’ve done ― I’ve had ― I’ve had tremendous success. I think I’ve done a lot,”

Donald “The Bloated Manatee” Trump.

Of course it’s easy to do a lot in real estate if your father is already rich and well known in the construction industry. This is perhaps typical of self-righteous rich white men. Of course they will not know what personal sacrifice means, they’ve never been exposed to it, it is a concept forever out of reach of their limited understanding.

Whereas any sensible politician (and I am aware of how cynical I sound) would have seized an opportunity  in the case of the Khan family and adopted a sense of faux sorrow and solidarity and praised the sacrifices of a brave soldier and invited his parents around for dinner. Trump chose to insult them and insinuate misdeeds. Of course they weren’t white enough for Trump so he wouldn’t let them in his house. They also had the audacity to be Muslim and we all know where he stands in that regard.

And to quote the man himself:

“They’re not coming to this country if I’m president. And if Obama has brought some to this country they are leaving, they’re going, they’re gone.”

Donald “The Bloated Manatee Fuckface” Trump.

Imagine if they were Mexican?

Again, in a different time these actions would probably have him removed from politics and locked away in some kind of hole somewhere, a racist hole – for racists. Incidentally that will be another television show I’ll be working on ‘The Racist Hole.” Instead, he still stands a good chance of becoming the president of one of the most powerful nations on the planet. If Theresa May (British PM – I know, I keep having to Google it to remember too), has no qualms with sentencing hundreds of thousands of people she doesn’t know and have done her no harm, to death by nuclear devastation, Trump would probably drop the bomb himself riding it “Dr Strangelove” style, probably onto Mexico, stating all the while “this is a good thing. Oh yes, I think it’s a good thing, I’m not worried at all.”

In his great delusion, he probably won’t even fear his own death, as he probably thinks he can rise again.

And to quote the man himself (probably, I’ve grown bored of research):

“Actually, I have a lot in common with Jesus. We both worked in the family business…”

Donald “The Bloated Manatee Fuckface Jesus (apparently)” Trump.

 

To be fair to him on this occasion, the pair do have a fair bit in common – neither he nor Jesus would have gotten anywhere if it wasn’t for their fathers. Now, if only we could nail Trump to something.

… I may have just lost my moral standing on this one. Criticizing the man for bigotry and then belittling the death of Christ. But at least I’m aware of my own hypocrisy. It’s fine, you’re allowed to insult the Christians without fear of recompense, because Jesus told them to turn the other cheek. If they don’t they’re being bad Christians, and Jesus will judge them! The only thing that made him mad was setting up market stalls in a church. Imagine that – going to a place you know people will be and trying to earn a living… this was in the depths of history too in a land where basic amenities were scarce and expensive. Selfish entrepreneurs trying to provide for themselves and their families.

Anyway, I got side tracked.

I can only hope that this is all a bit of satirical performance art, and if Trump gets to the White House, he’ll grin rip off his face and it’ll turn out to be Sacha Baron Cohen and we’ll all have a good laugh. Unfortunately, I feel satire is lost on most Republicans.

I’ll leave you with this last quote from the man himself:

“I’m a massive tool and I like to put vegetables up my wrinkly ass. I think it’s a good thing. I’m not worried at all. I murder puppies with golden hammers in my big house. I sneak into your children’s bedroom at night and urinate in their face.”

Donald Trump.

 

I feel in the interest of transparency, a lot of the quotes were lifted straight from newspapers, and of course as such, could well be misrepresented or false as we all know journalists have their own political agenda to promote. I have done little in the way of verifying these quotes were actually said, and I can say for certain that one of them is definitely made up.

 

TheFuzzyRambler.

 

Planet Drifting Out of Orbit

Scientists across the globe are showing extreme concern in regards to the latest findings that the planet is slowly drifting further from the sun. A recent scientific study, overseen by scientists, using science has concluded that since Tuesday the Earth has travelled as much as one hundred thousand miles outside of its usual trajectory. If it continues in this manner, we will on the outskirts of the solar system by the end of next week, which will be a bit chilly, it is recommended we all go out and buy woolly hats.

Why this is occurring is as yet unknown, though some hypothesise it is the planet’s natural response to global warming. The cows are in on it, they’re directing their gasses in one concentrated direction, propelling the Earth ever outwards. Once we’re in a safer position we’ll enter our new orbit, increasing the length of the year by two months, which will be nothing but beneficial to the global economy.

Others believe that Earth has grown frustrated with the rest of the solar system, and the fact that unelected officials on Jupiter are imposing cosmic laws upon the rest of us, impeaching individual sovereignty, so therefore is opting to leave. This will only be catastrophic for diplomatic relations and the strength of Earth currency.

Donald Trump however blames Mexico.

Terrorism is another possibility. MI6 claim Isis may have built a giant rocket and is deliberately diverting the course of the planet to cause widespread devastation. An Islamic State Spokesman, John McJohnson has gone on record saying ‘Yes… yes we have done this. Fear us Fear us all.’ But others claim there has yet to be any physical evidence to support this claim. Not even a photograph.

This shift of course, will change the face of the planet’s agriculture. We will have to learn to adapt. The one demographic that will most certainly benefit from this change are the Polar Bears. A polar bear spokesman Felicity Fluffykins had this to say.

“Grr, grrr, rarrr rarr. Grr, grrr grrrrrrrr RAWR!”

Downing Street has urged the public not to go out and panic buy at this stage, which as the general public know, means that we should all go out and panic buy. People are screaming and running around buying as much Monster Much or Anti-frizz Hair product as their arms can carry.

Is this the end of the world… as we know it? Probably, but it’s no worse than before.

Do what you love and you’ll never have to work a day in your life – apart from on weekdays

Do what you love and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.

This statement, like all things happy-go-lucky and optimistic, annoys me to no end. It sounds all well and good, until you realise the job market is becoming increasingly slim and competitive that you’ll probably have to get a job in a coffee shop, or temping in an office whilst you do what you love on the side. Which makes for more of a cumbersome statement.

I love hiding in wardrobes. No one is willing to pay me to do that, and my rent is extortionate. The idea of everyone doing what they love is not feasible. The economy would plummet. The world’s population would be made up of musicians, painters, writers and people hiding in wardrobes. If we’re going to adopt this view, we’d best hope that a lot of people love the idea of working in Tesco, otherwise we’ll never get our groceries.

Perhaps, I am taking the statement far too literally – I do operate at that end of the spectrum where I take most things at face value. Maybe what is meant is – whatever you are doing, do your best to try and love it. Focus on the plus points, on the bonuses and the people, even if you hate them. That sounds good doesn’t it? So if you work in sewage treatment, you could focus on the knowledge that you’ll get a lot of money and the job market in your chosen field will never get too competitive. Or my personal favourite perk of that job: you can get a certain level of satisfaction knowing that you literally have to wade through and sort out everyone’s faecal matter rather than just metaphorically. It makes for a good conversation starter.

Wherever you work and in whatever field, find ways to make it satisfying. Find ways to make it amusing. Find ways to get through the day. I often find not wearing underpants gives me enough of a kick to get me through to lunchtime, but each to their own. It can be anything. There is that old saying ‘only boring people get bored.’ Which ironically, is usually said by incredibly dull individuals, but for the purpose of churning out more words, I will adopt its philosophy. If you find yourself bored in the office, find ways to make it entertaining. A creative type will always find ways to amuse themselves. Insert song lyrics into emails, see how many people notice. See how many coffees you can drink before you collapse in a caffeine induced fit of anxiety and despair. Become the guy who’s memorised the company handbook so you can pedantically quote it at other people to make their day slightly worse. Stand up and loudly declare ‘life is too short for this nonsense and I shall not waste another second!’ then storm out and never come back.

Maybe not. So what then?

In working life there appear to be two things of importance.

  1. A necessity to work to earn enough money not to be hungry.
  2. A personal necessity for self-fulfilment.

The trick is trying to keep the two balanced.

It’s true there are fulfilling things that don’t pay a great deal, just as there are jobs that pay enough to not be hungry, but to many are deeply unfulfilling. We seem to need both in order to live happy lives, I could get into Karl Marx’s alienation theory, but I sat through those lectures myself, and found they were incredibly boring so I shan’t.

Fulfilment may not necessarily come from occupational achievements, or doing a job you like, but from the location in which you live. If you’re not happy with this, change that first… then focus on a satisfying career… although to do so would require money, which in turn requires a job, which would directly influence where you can live. See, it’s all rather complicated. The people that live by this statement are either incredibly lucky, pretentious fuckwits with rich parents; or just find repetitive and menial tasks interesting and therefore consider themselves to be living the dream when analysing data.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I just really hate that quote, and I want everyone to stop using it.

 

Pictures of Things With Filters

That’s it, I’ve had enough. I try you know, I really do. “Keep writing,” people tell you “You’ll get somewhere eventually.” I try to give you thought provoking, entertaining pieces. I try to talk of profound things, I try to write eloquently with some sort of flair. I try to entertain, inform and other such noble things. I even wrote a good piece on the upcoming EU referendum.

A handful of likes that got.  There’s only so much my ego can take!

So I thought I’d do some research into what people like when it comes to blog posts. I checked some guy’s out, he had a post that had garnered well over 267 likes. That’s a lot right?

It seems the global attention span has become a shrunken and shrivelled thing.  Words are old news. It’s all about a collection of pictures of things isn’t it? But not natural pictures, it’s all about the filters.

So this week I sank to your level. Enjoy my pictures of things with filters.

 

Sad Dying Flowers, Which is a Bit Cliché but There’s a Filter.

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Enter a caption

2) Bane of My Life.

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3) A Woman’s foot.

This one is very artistic. You see, the foot is oft sexualised (don’t know why, they’re the things you walk on so will naturally be the most disgusting), but this one is covered in an old and battered shoe. So it represents a long dead sense of subtlety and modesty. You can also just about see my knees, which means the woman’s foot is higher than mine. This can be seen in two ways 1) the dogmatic patriarchal nature of society (I’ve put my foot down!) or 2) an ode to uber-feminism in that ultimately the woman will stand higher than me, seeing as her foot is higher.

OR I accidentally took a picture without meaning to.

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4) Addiction Will Never Die.

Many charities, health practitioners and the various police forces have done a lot of work to tackle drug crime and drug addiction. My leftist views aside (most drugs should probably be legalised and made available on the NHS), I can’t help but feel the scourge of addiction will never be washed away from this Earth. We humans are too damaged, too scared. We were born with holes in our hearts (metaphorical ones, I’m not talking about genetic conditions). These holes suck in everything and can never be filled. We will pour what we can into it. For me it’s coffee. This is what I see in front of my face most hours of the day. It’s expensive, as a desperate man I have resorted to mugging old ladies just to fund my habit.

When will the government turn their protective and vengeful gaze upon the coffee shops?

 

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5) The Forgotten Spoon.

We are  a wasteful society. An arrogant society, that takes what we want when we want it and when we no longer want it and can’t be bothered to carry it around any more we cast it aside, as if it meant nothing to us.

Cars, clothes, oil, our children… even this poor spoon.

Never again will it fulfil its purpose of scooping.

Once again my egotistical leg couldn’t stop itself from jumping in front of the lens.

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6) Poetry Lives.

Pay at Meter

Display ticket.

Pure poetry right there. I know what the sign maker meant. In many ways we are all paying at the meters of life, feeling the need or some sort of social pressure to display our tickets. Or maybe because we are constantly aware of the 24 hour CCTV watching us that makes us compelled to display them. Which in this instant is clearly meant to be the ever present eye of God.

 

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7) My Lamp Shades Look Like Breasts.

Or I’m just sexually frustrated… which is entirely probable.

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8) Work Poos are the Best Poos.

Notice how doing a Poo at work seems to induce a manic sort of joy within me. It’s the best part of the day. Sometimes I stuff myself with dried fruit and laxatives just so I can prolong the feeling. I hate the outside world so much that I find I gain an inordinate amount of comfort from the enclosed space.

From an artistic point of view, you can say how most of our day to day jobs are no different from this act.

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9) I was once looking beardy in a pub.

 

So I filtered that son of a bitch and now it’s here.

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There! Are you happy? Will this get me the recognition we all know I deserve! I DO! I REALLY FUCKING DO! WHERE’S MY LEGIONS OF FOLLOWERS?

 

The Fuzzy Rambler.

Ever Licked A Swan?

No? Well good, but I still don’t much care for you.

I was about to leave the house today to do something responsible. On the way out I noticed a sketch pad, and how the evening did change. Cue mindless self-indulgence. If you actually want to see them clearly, you may have to click on them. Remember I said if.

‘Excellent Choice Sir.’

 

EPSON MFP image

This piece represents the truly savage nature of the hospitality industry. See the waiter is clutching a wine list, but he has like a weird dinosaur head thing, so he’s sort of saying, here’s the wine, but if it was necessary I’d tear the flesh from your body with my teeth and my teeth alone.

 

‘The Commute’

EPSON MFP image

 

People complain about driving to work, and the traffic and what not. Why not make it fun by having everyone drive to work in Bumper Cars… or whatever the fuck they’re called. Also there’s a large snail, and he says something like ‘you may think we’re all slow, but when you’re not looking we’re as fast as trains.’

‘Stage Fright’

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Be it a literal stage, or just life with anxiety issues, this sums it up.

 

‘A Pot Plant’

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‘Sometimes I Wish I Was Like This.’

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Usually in queues.

‘Balloon Man.’

Balloon man

(Feel free to make a Cummings reference) This picture of an addict balloon looked so much better before I noticed my sister’s Mr. Maker 4years + art kit and decided I was going to colour it in with water colours. I felt so grown up, I didn’t have to put newspapers down or anything. I then stuck it on the fridge and had a nap.

 

Man Flower.

Man flower

The vanity of this man knew no bounds. In the end, it destroyed him.

 

I also did a short story which I was rather pleased with it is as thus.

 

Once upon a time there was a man named Bimsby. He had an exceptionally fat head. ‘Good day Bimsby,’ people would greet him in the street, before muttering as they passed ‘my word what an exceptionally fat head.’

   Three times he had attempted to shrink his gargantuan cranium, but to no avail. First, he soaked it in vinegar for three weeks. It was a futile endeavour, only succeeding in giving him the constant aroma of a pickled gherkin.

   The second attempt involved a carpenter’s vice. He squished his head in it so hard that he crushed his skull and his brain oozed out of his nose and his eyeballs exploded from their sockets, ruining the work bench forever. Worse still, he had to wait three whole months on an NHS waiting list to receive treatment – thanks a lot Cameron!

  The third and final attempt was perhaps the most daring. He went to visit an old gypsy lady, the old stereotypical kind who had a long nose and the innate ability to curse people for whatever reason took their fancy. He made sure it was known that he was mightily pleased with his fat head, and that the worst thing he could imagine was having his fat head reduced in size to that of a normal persons, in a bold attempt to fool said gypsy.

   He then set fire to her dog.

   He was cursed. However, she had seen through his obvious ploy (no one would want a head so freakishly fat: it was quite sickening to behold) and cursed him instead to never have the power to leave the Hammersmith and City Line of the London Underground.

   To this day he still sits on that infernal tube travelling from Barking to Hammersmith and then from Hammersmith to Barking. So the moral of the story is; Don’t have a fat head.

The end.

 If you made it this far I have nothing but pity for you.