Checking Out
[Interior. Courtroom. Day. Up before the beak: Tired Dad.]
Judge:You sir have heard the charges. Please state your name for the record.
Tired Dad: My name is Ti-
Judge: SILENCE!
TD: Sorry.
Judge: Was that silence?
TD: No. Oh. I see. I mean, Mmmmm.
Judge: What is your name?
TD: My na- oh. Mmmmmm.
Judge: YOUR NAME IS BITCH.
TD: Kinell.
Judge: WHAT?
TD: Nothi- mmmmmmm.
Judge: What is your name?
TD: (Now?) [Judge nods] My name is, erm, Bitch.
Judge: And what business are you in sir?
TD: Well, a bit difficult to say, currently I am-
Judge: SILENCE! YOU ARE IN THE GETTING FUCKED BY US BUSINESS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
TD: Bit ‘Usual Suspects’ but I get the gist-
Judge: SILENCE!
[Pause. The tension is unbelievable.]
Judge: You speak when I allow you to speak. You are now the property of the state. Do you understand? We OWN you.
[Pause.]
Judge: Good. You have heard the charges Mr.Bitch. How do you plead?
TD: Thing is, it’s all a bit silly really. There’s been a huge misunderstanding and-
Judge: ENOUGH! [He has grown tired of his ‘SILENCE’ catchphrase].
[Pause.]
Judge: What was it? Did you have a craving? Did you need the money for rock?
TD: Rock? I don’t even like Blackpool. Believe me, I’ve been more times than-
Judge: ENOUGH! I mean ROCK. Rock cocaine. CRACK.
[Pause. Silence.]
Judge: You, my good man, are going down. And not in a ‘about to orally pleasure a lady’ way. Oh no. You can kiss goodbye to those days. Those tomato, mozorella and fresh basil salads you like? You know. With just ‘a bit’ of olive oil? Kiss those fuckers goodbye an’all. We’ve got a nice cell ready for you. Do you know a chap named Johnny?
TD: I don’t believe so.
Judge: No? Apparently he is quite partial to the rock himself. Do you know, he’ll even su-
TD: NOOOO!
Judge: Ah. So you have. I’m sure you will both get along famously. SEND HIM DOWN! WHEN I SAY DOWN I DON’T MEAN IT IN A GOOD WAY.
……………………………………………………..
It all starts quite normally.
I am in our local supermarket. I don’t truly feel it has earnt its ‘super’ status, but it's not a corner shop either. Tired Mam craves yeast and tomatos. This does not bode well for dinner.
On my way, I stop at Local Hardware Shop. I wander the aisles. I savour the smell of oil. I love these places. Never used to.
I longingly finger some contraption I will never know the purpose of. I eventually decide upon a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Christ – the actual Stanley Knifes are four quid more expensive. I mean. Sharp is sharp.
Head toward the counter, flushed with my new purchase.
The effete intellectual-type I was several years ago would sneer at me. The handy-round-the-house-family-man I have become would promptly kick him in the bollocks.
I pay. Being a handy pocket-sized item, I slip it into my pocket. In the bag they supply me, I keep the four high-ball glasses I have also purchased. For our Bloody Marys you know. Fuck off.
Anyway.
I’m at the checkout (this is the supermarket now).
I am sure I have forgotten something. I keep looking around in a distracted manner, hoping to see something that may jog my memory.
The woman shows my few items to the ‘bleep’ machine. Tells me price. I hand over card.
She puts it into thing (am I meant to put it in? Am I causing an inconvenience to her by superciliously making her do it? Modern fucking life).
Cashback? No. And it isn’t really having it BACK is it? So don’t phrase it like that.
PIN number. Beep beep beep beep.
Receipts spool. She pops open the till for said receipts.
It occurs to me. Actually, walking about with a not-really-Stanley-Knife in your trouser pocket isn’t the best move. I mean. I am short, skinny, relatively well-dressed and white. I could be stop-and-searched by the police AT ANY TIME.
I take out the not-really-Stanley-Knife in preparation for putting it into the hardware shop bag.
TIME FUCKING STANDS STILL.
I am at the till.
I have been acting nervous, and looking around a lot.
The till drawer has just popped, exposing Christ knows how much in fives, tens and twenties.
I have a fucking sharp knife in my hand.
A not-really-Stanley-Knife no less.
If anyone notices, things will not go in my favour.
No-one did. Put it back in my pocket. Walked free.
No trial. No kangaroo-court judge who keeps referring to me as bitch. No prison cell with a crack cocaine addict convinced I have some ‘rock’ secreted in my sphincter and forcefully insisting that he fellate me in return for a ‘hit’ on it.
Everything is GREAT!
I get home.
SEVEN FUCKING TOMATOS!
Judge:You sir have heard the charges. Please state your name for the record.
Tired Dad: My name is Ti-
Judge: SILENCE!
TD: Sorry.
Judge: Was that silence?
TD: No. Oh. I see. I mean, Mmmmm.
Judge: What is your name?
TD: My na- oh. Mmmmmm.
Judge: YOUR NAME IS BITCH.
TD: Kinell.
Judge: WHAT?
TD: Nothi- mmmmmmm.
Judge: What is your name?
TD: (Now?) [Judge nods] My name is, erm, Bitch.
Judge: And what business are you in sir?
TD: Well, a bit difficult to say, currently I am-
Judge: SILENCE! YOU ARE IN THE GETTING FUCKED BY US BUSINESS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
TD: Bit ‘Usual Suspects’ but I get the gist-
Judge: SILENCE!
[Pause. The tension is unbelievable.]
Judge: You speak when I allow you to speak. You are now the property of the state. Do you understand? We OWN you.
[Pause.]
Judge: Good. You have heard the charges Mr.Bitch. How do you plead?
TD: Thing is, it’s all a bit silly really. There’s been a huge misunderstanding and-
Judge: ENOUGH! [He has grown tired of his ‘SILENCE’ catchphrase].
[Pause.]
Judge: What was it? Did you have a craving? Did you need the money for rock?
TD: Rock? I don’t even like Blackpool. Believe me, I’ve been more times than-
Judge: ENOUGH! I mean ROCK. Rock cocaine. CRACK.
[Pause. Silence.]
Judge: You, my good man, are going down. And not in a ‘about to orally pleasure a lady’ way. Oh no. You can kiss goodbye to those days. Those tomato, mozorella and fresh basil salads you like? You know. With just ‘a bit’ of olive oil? Kiss those fuckers goodbye an’all. We’ve got a nice cell ready for you. Do you know a chap named Johnny?
TD: I don’t believe so.
Judge: No? Apparently he is quite partial to the rock himself. Do you know, he’ll even su-
TD: NOOOO!
Judge: Ah. So you have. I’m sure you will both get along famously. SEND HIM DOWN! WHEN I SAY DOWN I DON’T MEAN IT IN A GOOD WAY.
……………………………………………………..
It all starts quite normally.
I am in our local supermarket. I don’t truly feel it has earnt its ‘super’ status, but it's not a corner shop either. Tired Mam craves yeast and tomatos. This does not bode well for dinner.
On my way, I stop at Local Hardware Shop. I wander the aisles. I savour the smell of oil. I love these places. Never used to.
I longingly finger some contraption I will never know the purpose of. I eventually decide upon a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Christ – the actual Stanley Knifes are four quid more expensive. I mean. Sharp is sharp.
Head toward the counter, flushed with my new purchase.
The effete intellectual-type I was several years ago would sneer at me. The handy-round-the-house-family-man I have become would promptly kick him in the bollocks.
I pay. Being a handy pocket-sized item, I slip it into my pocket. In the bag they supply me, I keep the four high-ball glasses I have also purchased. For our Bloody Marys you know. Fuck off.
Anyway.
I’m at the checkout (this is the supermarket now).
I am sure I have forgotten something. I keep looking around in a distracted manner, hoping to see something that may jog my memory.
The woman shows my few items to the ‘bleep’ machine. Tells me price. I hand over card.
She puts it into thing (am I meant to put it in? Am I causing an inconvenience to her by superciliously making her do it? Modern fucking life).
Cashback? No. And it isn’t really having it BACK is it? So don’t phrase it like that.
PIN number. Beep beep beep beep.
Receipts spool. She pops open the till for said receipts.
It occurs to me. Actually, walking about with a not-really-Stanley-Knife in your trouser pocket isn’t the best move. I mean. I am short, skinny, relatively well-dressed and white. I could be stop-and-searched by the police AT ANY TIME.
I take out the not-really-Stanley-Knife in preparation for putting it into the hardware shop bag.
TIME FUCKING STANDS STILL.
I am at the till.
I have been acting nervous, and looking around a lot.
The till drawer has just popped, exposing Christ knows how much in fives, tens and twenties.
I have a fucking sharp knife in my hand.
A not-really-Stanley-Knife no less.
If anyone notices, things will not go in my favour.
No-one did. Put it back in my pocket. Walked free.
No trial. No kangaroo-court judge who keeps referring to me as bitch. No prison cell with a crack cocaine addict convinced I have some ‘rock’ secreted in my sphincter and forcefully insisting that he fellate me in return for a ‘hit’ on it.
Everything is GREAT!
I get home.
SEVEN FUCKING TOMATOS!
posted by Tired Dad at
11:02 pm
8 Comments:
You jest, surely.
I doubt you would have been banged up in the slammer, maybe a little light community service pending the result of background checks....ah, I see where you are coming from now.
Never mind.
An interesting topic - the slow growth of appreciation of tools and DIY stuff by family men over the age of 30.
I do the same thing.
OK, maybe not an interesting topic, but a topic certainly.
I hate DIY. I'm just not cut out for it. But I do little bits once in a while. I think my Stanley knife is by Stanley. I think. But I can't be arsed to go down to the cellar and check. I know it's yellow, though.
And when it comes to profiling, I bet you're right up there on the CIA's Most Wanted. All you need is a bowler hat and a brolly, and you'll be Public Enemy No.1.
Seven tomatoes?! See, good things come to those who wait.
oh i loves hardware shops and tools and the smell of oil and wd-40. yummy. tis ok tho 'cause i a girl so that makes it cool... probably.
and if you count teeny, tiny, titchy, they almost not even there, green things i got 6 tomatoes. yay.
BB: What are you saying? Hmmmmm. But don't get me started. After 29 a switch is flicked and you start mocking people who call them 'wall-plugs'. You then jump on them with masculine over-30 experience and say 'any fool knnows they are called wral-plugs!!' You twat!
Actually, is it 'wral'? I'm not sure now. Grrr.
*: Honestly. What are you both getting at?
Oh and the tomatoes: I know I know. They are giving me reproachful looks all the time.
Sleepy: You continue to be odd but cool. For reasons I do not fully understand. I beat you on the tomato front. You suck. But they are only fucking tomatoes and your life sounds so much more interesting than mine.
Pie: Hello again. You do not understand. I own a POWER drill (not a drill, but a POWER drill), a hedge-trimmer and a saw, hammer and rather spectacular everything-you-will-ever-need box of allan-keys, drill bits etc.
People have asked to borrow them.
I have said 'fuck off'. There is no greater pleasure in life than informing gentlemen close to you that, in actual fact, your winky is actually much bigger than theirs. And that they cannot borrow it.
It's actually rawl plugs. And people saying wall plugs has always bugged me. And now it even says wall plugs on some of the packs you buy from Homebase. Fucks me right off.
Brilliant post! Cracked me up - if yer'l pardon the expression. DIY? That's why my bathrooms been a building site for 3 years...or is it nearly 4 now?
*: 'Rawl' it is then. Many thanks.
Dinners: 'cracked me up' - good one. Oh and thanks. Bathroom = a little man + money if you ask me.
*: 'Rawl' it is then. Many thanks.
Dinners: 'cracked me up' - very good. And thanks. Bathroon = little man + money if you ask me.
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