A lovely weekend. The usual sort of friday experience – the work managed to pile up and so by the end of the day a select few of us sought refuge in the Union where the beer is cheap, and the giggles are free. For various reasons I had to blow out a meeting with Toby on Friday, so instead we met up on Saturday and spent the afternoon chatting in the Watch House…a bog standard Wetherspoon’s pub. Great stuff. The second good saturday in a row. After a little siesta, Michele and I watched the Eurovision song contest which was one of the best I’ve seen for years – truly bloody awful.
As the sun came out today we arranged to meet Mod and Ian in Greenwich for a picnic. Being a woman, Mod was an hour late so Michele, Ian and I had to have a couple of pints in the Mitre. Beautiful day, nice picnic (smoked salmon taramasalata is even better than it sounds), and then home to Humph.
As we were walking back from the park I had a tune stuck in my head – “how sweet to be an idiot”. Imagine my surprise when seconds later, at the bus stop, we met one of the worlds biggest idiots! What are the chances of that happening eh ?
A squat, twatty-looking geezer, in a fab retro nylon shirt, talking to a young bloke. The conversation went something like this:
“I was born just after the war, and we ‘ad none of this. Na, nuffink like all you ‘ave. National service…blah blah…money…blah clothes…rant…so if I was in charge, I’d get rid of all the immigrants from all the world. I wouldn’t get rid of the busses, as long as they ran on time.”
Ignoring the paradox of the last couple of assertions, the young man asked if he himself would be out of favour being Irish.
“Naaaah. You’re English”
“No, I’m Irish.”
“Naaah you’re English. If you’re Irish, you’re English.”
“No, I’m Irish.”
“Ahhh naaaaaah, you’re English aint ya ? I mean, Irish, Scottish, Welsh and that – you’re all English really aint ya.”
Michele and I had to walk behind the bus shelter to conceal our belly-laughs.
The 177 bus arrived. In order to demonstrate, to the rude throng of uncivilised immigrants around the bus stop, how we do things in ENGLAND, he barged right to the front of the queue and waved his bus pass angrily at the driver, who, having a full load, closed the doors and drove off.
Clearly it was now time for this proud Englishman to demonstrate the correct response which is to shout:
“BOLLOCKS. That’s fucking bollocks that is. Fucking bollocks.”
The young Irishman, still amused, fueled his anger by suggesting that perhaps the bus was over full because of the immigrants…which caused a pridictable response. The idiot ranted for a bit about having hundreds of pounds on him and how no-one would mug him because he “runs things round here” and then another bus arrived. The 199. Now, this bus takes a different route, and goes to a totally different part of London, but, so as not to let another single immigrant take a seat which was rightfully the property of an Englishman (be he Welsh, Scottish or Irish), he once again elbowed his way to the front of the queue, and barged on. What an ambassador for the country.
On the journey back we wondered how anyone could have such firm views on things which were so utterly stupid. The answer can only be that he spends his life drinking with men of equal, or greater, idiocy. Every time he makes one of his lunatic assertions, eg
“If it was up to me right, I fink that everyone, in the whole world should be English”
Rather than walk away in astonished disgust, laugh or punch him, they probably say:
“This is it!”
or
“Zackly!”
“I reckon the only reason the trains dont run on time is because the government give all the money to the blacks and the pooftahs.”
“Zactly, this is it.”
Thus strengthening the field of stupidity around them all, and making them all feel more justified.
I mean, this is it!
Zackly!
