Ballet / Twat.
Saturday morning. An unreasonably early hour.
I am sitting in the draughty ante-room of a Church of England–owned Village Hall. From the main hall, behind closed doors, comes the sound of classical music and frantic foot-falls.
It is Favourite Daughter’s ballet class. I am surrounded by a dozen or so Mummies discussing the relative merits of various forms of child discipline. And the general usefulness –or otherwise- of Men.
I have opted-out of this debate, and immerse myself in my newspaper.
An opinion-piece suggests that a contestant on a recent reality show is in fact not racist, but is merely stupid. So that is O.K. then. The inference is that only university-educated middle-class wankers actually know how to be properly racist, and that anyone else who has a crack at it are not privileged enough to do it right. What with racism and stupidity being mutually exclusive and that.
Fucking hippies. With some irritation I cast my newspaper to one side and look about me.
I notice that there is another Man in the room, about my age. He does not look happy, and after a moment leaves the room to –I assume- get something from his car.
From the main hall I hear ‘Oooh-be-doo, I want to be like you-hoo-hoo’. For the two-dozenth time I try and recall a National Ballet production of the Jungle Book. I cannot. But tap my foot anyway.
The Man returns, brandishing a Man Bag.
Fucking hell, I think.
He unzips it and produces a laptop-computer. Oh. It wasn’t a Man Bag. It was a Laptop Bag. Is that better or worse?
Powering-on said laptop, he begins to earnestly tap away. Occasionally glancing around to make sure everyone can see that he owns an expensive computer, and is a person of such importance that he needs to use it now. There is a whole forty minutes until the end of his daughter’s ballet class. Valuable time. Time a gentleman of his stature cannot waste.
I try and ignore this Master of the – well, not Universe but perhaps Village Parish – but am consumed with curiosity. What with not being able to read the newspaper because it makes me cross and not being able to partake in Mummy conversation of this variety-
Random Mummy: ….And do you know, the odd occasion Brian DOES do the washing-up, he does it so badly I have to spend half-an-hour yelling at him afterwards pointing-out all the things he’s done wrong. I mean, I could do it MYSELF in that amount of time!
-for obvious reasons.
Perhaps he’s checking some important emails, I think to myself. Really time-sensitive ones. (Fucking hell. ‘Time Sensitive’. Even being near this man is turning me into a cunt.) I mean, really urgent ones.
I examine his laptop for evidence of one of those PCMCIA GPRS cards. Nothing. Upon reflection, I find it unlikely that this Village Hall is a Wi-Fi hotspot. They don’t have heating for goodness sake. Besides, the owners have a direct line to God. An internet-connection without-the-wires would surely be a secondary consideration.
Ruling-out any online activity, I can only assume that Master of the Village Parish is so dreadfully important that he is actually working on a Saturday and is preparing some sort of PowerPoint presentation for a meeting he has this afternoon.
Yes. That must be it. Blimey. And he finds the time to squeeze-in taking his daughter to her ballet class. What a gent.
I shift my chair a little, so as to better shower this man with my gaze of new-found admiration. From my new vantage point I can actually see the screen of his computer.
I should have known.
Solitaire.
Fuck me, I think. Do you know how much a pack of cards costs? Jesus, I knew I was going to have a bit of time on my hands so I bought a newspaper. It cost £1.40.
No-one gives a tepid shit about you or your fucking WANKY two-grand computer you hopeless hopeless FUCK. I myself possess a laptop-computer. And do you know what? I have never felt the need to use it in a public place. Do you know why? Because I am not a CUNT. If a person were to pull out their cock and begin vigorous rubbing their wilted miniscule genitalia they would be arrested before they had chance to lovelessly dribble their watery grey useless spunk down the front of their Next casual slacks. And yet TWATS like you get to walk free.
I rather miss Enchanted Dad. He was nowhere near as tiresome as this gentleman.
I am sitting in the draughty ante-room of a Church of England–owned Village Hall. From the main hall, behind closed doors, comes the sound of classical music and frantic foot-falls.
It is Favourite Daughter’s ballet class. I am surrounded by a dozen or so Mummies discussing the relative merits of various forms of child discipline. And the general usefulness –or otherwise- of Men.
I have opted-out of this debate, and immerse myself in my newspaper.
An opinion-piece suggests that a contestant on a recent reality show is in fact not racist, but is merely stupid. So that is O.K. then. The inference is that only university-educated middle-class wankers actually know how to be properly racist, and that anyone else who has a crack at it are not privileged enough to do it right. What with racism and stupidity being mutually exclusive and that.
Fucking hippies. With some irritation I cast my newspaper to one side and look about me.
I notice that there is another Man in the room, about my age. He does not look happy, and after a moment leaves the room to –I assume- get something from his car.
From the main hall I hear ‘Oooh-be-doo, I want to be like you-hoo-hoo’. For the two-dozenth time I try and recall a National Ballet production of the Jungle Book. I cannot. But tap my foot anyway.
The Man returns, brandishing a Man Bag.
Fucking hell, I think.
He unzips it and produces a laptop-computer. Oh. It wasn’t a Man Bag. It was a Laptop Bag. Is that better or worse?
Powering-on said laptop, he begins to earnestly tap away. Occasionally glancing around to make sure everyone can see that he owns an expensive computer, and is a person of such importance that he needs to use it now. There is a whole forty minutes until the end of his daughter’s ballet class. Valuable time. Time a gentleman of his stature cannot waste.
I try and ignore this Master of the – well, not Universe but perhaps Village Parish – but am consumed with curiosity. What with not being able to read the newspaper because it makes me cross and not being able to partake in Mummy conversation of this variety-
Random Mummy: ….And do you know, the odd occasion Brian DOES do the washing-up, he does it so badly I have to spend half-an-hour yelling at him afterwards pointing-out all the things he’s done wrong. I mean, I could do it MYSELF in that amount of time!
-for obvious reasons.
Perhaps he’s checking some important emails, I think to myself. Really time-sensitive ones. (Fucking hell. ‘Time Sensitive’. Even being near this man is turning me into a cunt.) I mean, really urgent ones.
I examine his laptop for evidence of one of those PCMCIA GPRS cards. Nothing. Upon reflection, I find it unlikely that this Village Hall is a Wi-Fi hotspot. They don’t have heating for goodness sake. Besides, the owners have a direct line to God. An internet-connection without-the-wires would surely be a secondary consideration.
Ruling-out any online activity, I can only assume that Master of the Village Parish is so dreadfully important that he is actually working on a Saturday and is preparing some sort of PowerPoint presentation for a meeting he has this afternoon.
Yes. That must be it. Blimey. And he finds the time to squeeze-in taking his daughter to her ballet class. What a gent.
I shift my chair a little, so as to better shower this man with my gaze of new-found admiration. From my new vantage point I can actually see the screen of his computer.
I should have known.
Solitaire.
Fuck me, I think. Do you know how much a pack of cards costs? Jesus, I knew I was going to have a bit of time on my hands so I bought a newspaper. It cost £1.40.
No-one gives a tepid shit about you or your fucking WANKY two-grand computer you hopeless hopeless FUCK. I myself possess a laptop-computer. And do you know what? I have never felt the need to use it in a public place. Do you know why? Because I am not a CUNT. If a person were to pull out their cock and begin vigorous rubbing their wilted miniscule genitalia they would be arrested before they had chance to lovelessly dribble their watery grey useless spunk down the front of their Next casual slacks. And yet TWATS like you get to walk free.
I rather miss Enchanted Dad. He was nowhere near as tiresome as this gentleman.
posted by Tired Dad at
2:29 pm
26 Comments:
how loudly did you think that? there's always a risk that your rant will just manifest itself out loud - as happened to me one day at the clarins counter at debenhams ... but that's another story. may i suggest you take something with ear phones next time to drown out the cliched bleating of the yummies, and some blinkers so you don't have to witness such blatant twattery - EVER AGAIN! that way, you could regain your well known inner serenity. or, there again, out-twat them all by reading chekov in the original, or by playing your tibetan singing bowls, or by having loud imaginary mobile conversations with your hedge fund manager...
Going to go play Spider Solitaire right now.
Personally I do use my laptop in public - mainly when travelling to/from work, but it's for work, rather than solitaire.
So I don't know, does working on websites (where I don't need to be super-connected, but can just do it on t'laptop) make me a twat?
I always figured it just made me self-employed... *grin*
where abouts, in you archive, is enchanted dad?
Remember your weirdo, that's possibly still shouting cunt? I think you should have taken a leaf out of his book. The look on the children's faces would have made quite the comedy photo.
that was very very funny.
i never do the 'important tap tapping on laptop in public' thingy, but i must admit to the occasional random mummy rant. i shall make sure not to irritate any stray dads in the future.
I'd be interested to know what further provocation it would take for you to jump up and punch this man in the mouth.
As I read your post (in a public place on my comment), I chuckled. And, was reminded of a similar cunt who conducted a phone conversation about nothing on the treadmill at the gym. The world abounds. With cunts.
What the fuck is wrong with man bags?
What the fuck is wrong with man bags?
Woops. Sorry. How did that happen?
You are very angry. I like this.
my first thought literally was: its grey???? Then I politely remembered you were mid rant. So, my second thought is: man bag??? No, that won't do. how about: A WHOLE BIG COMPUTER FOR SOLITAIRE? ARE YOU SHITTING ME???????
your judgement of character is unfailingly accurate (unless you think I'm a twat in which case you're always wrong). Pissed meself. Got arseholes like this down the gymnastics club. One got caught checkin' out porn on his laptop. A coach called the police n they walked in n caught him red handed. Seein' as the place is full of kiddiewinks n teenage girls in leotards he ended up on the sex offenders register. Even better he's a merchant banker.
thanks all. i cannot post proper replies now - my only net access is via a mobile fucking phone. this took ten minutes.
You're right. You're always right. Are you by any chance related to a vengeful, old testament kind of God?
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Right.
Muthas: I used to carry around a copy of Beyond Good and Evil with a prominent Big Bird bookmark within. Perhaps I shall dig it out again.
Jali: Do it in private.
Lyle: I don't know.Is your journey into work more or less than half an hour?
Muthas: Christ, there's only about ten months. Use the search thingy if you must. If you can't be bothered, I certainly can't.
Liam: One always thinks of these things after the fact.
me: I don't know why, but the Yummies assume that because we are men we are also deaf. And stupid.
M_G: He didn't once use a mobile phone. Or have a 'fashionable' haircut. Or have a pair of those fussy 'I'm in the meedya' spectacles.
Clarissa: Agreed.
Quick: If you have to ask...
And welcome.
Lee: Thanks.
Olives: I know. I know.
Dinners: Superb.
MM: No. But I rather like the sound of it.
I have a friend w/a "man bag". Him & his wife joke about the '38'pistol he carries in it.
Don't mock the "man bag" too much!
What is going on? I am ruthlessly plastered, yet I can type drunk. But odds on favourite I can't get it up. Surely this is a crime against the Gene Pool. And what you said in your post or something.
I don't know what's going on.
i'm ashamed to say i didn't even realise there was a search thingy cos i'd never bothered to - y'know - search for it. anyway, i found enchanted. i know him so well! he's often wearing sensitive-looking footwear, have you noticed?
l>t: I shall bear that in mind. Probably.
F: How's the headache?
MM: Glad you found it. I don't know if you it is possible to buy shoes made of hemp, but if you can, this cunt owns a pair.
I love your use of the word cunt!! It is possibly my favourite word yet I am shunned from female society for saying it with earnest, yet in your blog I feel at home. And yes he was abit of a cunt.
I am glad. It is truly one of the finer words, and is criminally underused in polite society.
The Alpha Mums probably didn't talk to you in case you thought they fancied you.
By the by - I've managed to get Spider Solitaire (4 suits) out 3 times... yes three times.
Not in public though, but in the sad, time-wasting privacy of my own home.
Where I should be working.
Hello and welcome
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