An Open Letter to Myself

Dear Chris,

You think you’re pretty clever eh? Writing all these letters to people who have pissed you off, thinking no-one will call you out when I make a mistake or get something wrong?  Well guess what dickballs, the tables have turned and I’m calling me out now.

See, being the same person I know that you’ve always been one to get a cheap laugh off anything you consider even remotely amusing.  You know very well that my favourite type of joke is that at someone else’s expense.  As do our long suffering friends, who to be frank should probably hate my guts as much as I hate people that piss you off.

Never have we admired a line of text as much as ‘Caution, Contents Hot’ on coffee cups.  How I laughed at that story / urban legend about the (probably fatter than a house) American person who sued for their coffee being too hot.  Who wouldn’t expect coffee to be hot?  Only a fat American bucket-o-chicken munching sweatfest probably.

So this story should perhaps come as some surprise.

I’m not one to forget the elation we share at that point in time when all our stars align and you are able to seek out the holy grail.  When you realise that you’re out of the house, near a town centre, and that it’s before 10.30 AM, and that I have a spare 15 minutes.  That smile that spreads across our face can only mean one thing; McDonalds breakfast day.  How we love the build up, as we merrily skip towards McDonalds, my nose leading you along the scent of sausage McMuffin in the air like Yogi Bear towards a picnic basket.

You don’t care that I look like a grinning idiot as you stride up to the counter and place the order to the infinitely less excited staff member that’s been there since 6 AM, even on a Sunday.  Do you remember how we know that fact?  That time I stayed up all night waiting for them to open on Sunday morning at 6?  That was a great night.  Those were the days.  Like those times you used to bunk off maths on a Thursday morning to go and get that lovely, slimy, rubbery, how-the-hell-is-that-called-a-sausage-when-its-clearly-a-burger treat.  It was always the same order, Sausage and Egg McMuffin (double if I’m feeling adventurous), hash brown (not brown, not containing any hash – another weak joke – same goes for when it’s about corned beef hash) and orange juice.

It’s only now that you’re getting on a bit that I decided to change it up a bit, make a substitution.  You’ve come to realise the awakening powers of coffee, so decide to make the switch, ditch the orange juice in favour of something that will prevent me falling back to sleep on the train and missing your stop.  The ear to ear grin still intact as you stride over to a table to sit down and eat.  Grateful that you decided to get the later train and save ourself half the fare, even though I’m claiming it back from work anyway.  The grin turns to a smirk as you see that ever constant source of merriment, the ‘Caution, Contents Hot’ embossing on the lid of the coffee.  “Of course it’s hot, I’d complain if it wasn’t”, you think to myself as you stir in the metric shit-ton of sugar you need to pretend you are grown up enough to enjoy coffee.  It’s then, as you well remember, that I raise the cup to our mouth to take a sip.

And your whole face evaporates.  Starts with the tongue melting, then your jaw has disintegrated, next thing you know my nose has turned to steam and the whole front of your brain is exposed.  Luckily that’s the bit that likes the sausage and egg McMuff, so now you can just wipe it on there seeing as there’s no chance of chewing it as your eating equipment is starting to form a condensation on the ceiling.  You could probably pick the hash brown apart and stuff it down my newly exposed throat to make sure we get our money’s worth, plus considering we’re probably going to die before that coffee cools down, this could be my last McDonalds breakfast.  My only regret was that I never got to try a bacon and egg / sausage and egg McMuffin combo, double stacked eggs and meat. MMMmmmmm.

I’m fairly sure a similar thing happened to us as a child, but with a McDonalds apple pie.  It was probably at that birthday party you had where actual Ronald McD turned up.  Mum said to wait a bit cos it would be hot but we were too excited to wait for something as trivial as thermal energy transfer.  I think before then I wasn’t even ginger, it must have been then that you were burned to the hair follicles and blessed an entire generation of bastards with comedy material.  This probably goes a long way to explaining why I don’t eat apples anymore, or trust men dressed as Rondald McDonald, let alone the real Ronald McDonald.  I’ve always been a Hamburglar fan since that day.

And so it came to be that you made such a massive mistake and learned a life lesson.  That lesson: don’t make jokes at ridiculous American lawsuits because one day you might get burned by whatever it was that the fat American was suing for in the first place.  It’s quite a specific lesson, and leaves enough wiggle room for me to laugh at most ridiculous American lawsuits, but still, it’s a lesson you should remember for life.

So don’t let me forget it.

Chris

An Open Letter to the Fat Woman in Front of Me on the Stairs

Dear Fat Woman in Front of Me on the Stairs,

I’d like to start by complimenting you, in saying that you’re by far not the fattest person I’ve ever seen on the tube. That’s certainly not to say I would, but I’ve seen some people that, had you seen them above ground, you’d find yourself wondering if they would be allowed on the tube or if maybe they’d just plug it up. But then these fatties were generally just sitting down, taking up four seats and I generally don’t mind having to stand on the tube whereas you’ve practically doubled my journey time today.  Granted, that wasn’t helped by me leaving work 20 minutes late, waiting 20 more minutes for a tube with some room on it for my slightly large frame, giving up, walking 15 minutes to the next station, waiting another 10 minutes then squeezing onto an already full train just to get the fuck home, but at this stage of the journey all those parts are complete and all that’s left of this journey is to get to the top of these stairs and get the fuck home so I can waste the evening doing nothing and do all this shit again in the morning.

Let’s consider my reasons for trying to get out of here as quickly as possible.  Firstly, I edged/pushed my way in front of a man on the platform to get here and I’m fairly sure the old bastard is stood right behind me now cursing my youthfulness and lack of manners.  I, of course, have my headphones in which means not only can I not tell if that’s what he’s saying, but also that even if it is, he’s wrong because I can’t hear him and therefore can’t defend myself.  Secondly, theres the fact that it’s the summer, and with those flying bastards we call bees and those fucking bastards we call new Big Brother contestants, the summer brings the hot girls.  We all know the science behind it; as temperatures drop in autumn many female humans develop a thick semitransparent fur which not only shields them from the harsh winter cold but also acts as camouflage, blurring their appearance as if they were stood behind frosted glass to the point where they can generally go about their day to day life unnoticed, safe from the prying eyes of the male.  Thankfully when the summer comes around they shed this fur and wear dresses and shit which makes them a thousand times hotter.  I could be staring at them right now up on the surface, but instead I’m forced to watch your elephantine arse sway from side to side as you waddle up these fucking stairs.

It was a tough decision to take this staircase, one which I did not take lightly.  I assessed my options: there are two staircases here, and each is wide enough for two people.  Thats four possible paths to take.  Now, this isn’t like me deciding which traffic lights to cross at, there are significantly fewer factors at work here, it has to be a quick evaluation then a snap commitment otherwise I’ll hold up the people behind me and probably get a whack from the old geezer.  If he’s got up yet, I’m not sure if I knocked him over (not my fault – headphones, remember?).  My decision making process went along the following lines:

Staircase 1, left side – Old lady walking slowly

Staircase 1, right side – no blockages except a lot of people avoiding the old lady

Staircase 2, left side – morons with suitcase (AT FUCKING RUSH HOUR?)

Staircase 2, right side – people coming down (this is acceptable)

Clearly the choice was to go with staircase 1, as we both elected to.  I made sure my head was clear and prepared myself for the iminent merge of people flows as everyone else avoided the old lady, I dont mind people nipping in front of me when they’re only going to move back out of the way when they get in front of the old bird.  I’m considerate like that.  Somehow this didn’t quite go to plan though did it.  For some reason, once you’d got past the old biddy, you decided it was your rightful place right in the fucking middle of this staircase.  At such a pace that even the old dear looks like she wants to watch you get eaten by bears.  She’s not the only one,  since you stepped in front of me I’ve actually been trying to evolve bears from the gunk underneath my fingernails.  By the time you’d made it up 5 steps I’d almost managed to breed a couple of angry fish with lungs instead of gills, but then I tripped over the incredibly long beard I’ve grown and dropped them.  At least one good thing seems to have come of this, and that’s that I now know I can grow a full beard.  I find myself wondering what life is like above ground these days.  Maybe North Korea bombed the shit out of the whole planet and we’ll get up there to find that radioactive dinosaurs roam London, or maybe it will be more like the Jetsons.

A few days ago I was on some stairs that were being blocked by someone else.  This, however, was a very young girl who had clearly only just learned how stairs work and was taking one step at a time, making sure both feet were solidly on each step before progressing to the next.  Did this make me mad?  No.  It was actually quite cute.  Maybe it was because I’d been drinking but I actually didn’t even consider hoofing her down the stairs just to get down a bit quicker.  What I’m trying to get across here is that I don’t hate all slow stairs users.  Just you (this is a lie to get my point across, I actually would quite happily slaughter anyone that moves slower than me with a rusty chainsaw) (As long as I had earphones, because the rust would probably squeal like nails on a chalkboard) (If I didn’t have any earphones, I’d be happy to use a fresh chainsaw).  You’re like that guy with the big 4×4 who parks across two disabled spaces and then when anyone looks at you like a cunt you shrug and you’re all like “what? disabled?  Oh, I didn’t know, I can’t see the sign from up here.  Oh, two spaces, yes well it is a big car and after all, I’m in a hurry.  What about that actual disabled person behind me looking for a space?  Well no I’m not going to move it now, I’m only going to be 5 minutes (HOURS-CUNT).  What’s that, ran over someone in a wheelchair?  Well, they should have run out of the way.”

If there’s one thing you should take away from this encounter, it’s that I hate you and I wish you were dead, because then I could step over your body and actually get up these bastard stairs.  If you want to take something else, maybe learn that when there are 2 rows of people, then you decide that you need both those rows EVEN THOUGH YOU’RE NOT MORBIDLY OBESE, you might piss off a few people.  Or maybe just one.  But one with the fury of a thousand rabid wolves.  Hows about you go and eat a few bucket meals, get yourself so fat that even thinking makes you sweaty and then maybe you’ll be wide enough that I’ll change the tone of my letter to rip into you for being a fucking fat bitch rather than just a fucking stupid one you oblivious retarded cunt.

Lots of love

Chris

An Open Letter to People Who Use Cash Machines Twice in a Row

Dear People Who Use Cash Machines Twice in a Row,

What the hell is the matter with you people? As if the whole cashpoint ordeal wasn’t enough, what with the ridiculous fees levied by greedy bankstards (£1.75? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?), the constant threat of being mugged, card-cloned, pressing the wrong number of zeros and withdrawing 10x what I wanted, the machine being out of tenners and NO I DON’T WANT A FUCKING ADVICE SLIP, now it turns out it’s not even my turn yet?

I knew I should have walked a bit further to the Halifax machine, but I have a strange sense of loyalty to Nationwide. I wouldn’t want them to think I was cheating on them. Even though their machines are significantly slower than others. I mean, NatWest machines are the fastest, with them the card is in and out and you’re done before you’ve even worked out that the strange shadow on the screen is the NatWest logo burned into it. NatWest machines are like seasoned porn stars. You can see from the worn off number pad that she’s had a lot of experience, she swallows your card like a pro and then spits out your cash whilst loudly beeping expletives straight into the camera.

I know she’s a slut baby, but why do you Nationwide machines take it so damn slowly? We don’t need hours of foreplay when I’m just trying to get a tenner to buy some lunch. Why is your card reader so slow? And how long does it really take you to retrieve my account information?

So I didn’t want my card to get an STD which is why I joined this queue. It’s only 3 people long, shouldn’t take too long. I don’t like that it’s across a busy pavement and we’ve had to leave a gap for people to get through, I mean what if some queue jumping bastard decides to get in that gap? I’m not gonna tell him to fuck off, he might have a knife. Why does no-one ever queue along the wall to the side of the cash machine?

The guy before you wants an advice slip. Rookie. How has he not learned by now that they don’t really give that good advice? It’s generally just your balance. If you really want advice, ask your parents, they’re normally full of it. Or better yet, don’t ask them, they’re probably gonna tell you anyway. That’s what they do. What kind of advice are you asking for from a cash machine anyway. It’s a really basic computer, it’s not some advanced artifical intelligence. It’s not like that fortune telling machine in Big that Tom Hanks chatted up then she made him into a man boy (that looks strangely boy like still compared to Tom Hanks these days). Its just a cash machine. The best advice it could give you is either ‘stop spending money’ or ‘don’t ask me, I’m just a machine and in the 4 seconds it’s taken me to impart to you this advice, the ginger guy two behind you in the queue has got so angry that he might have beaten you to death already if you didn’t at least step to the side of the machine before reading this’.

And then you step up. Greedy Jim the cash machine hog. It gets a bit annoying when you stab your retarded fingers at the buttons on the keypad like you’re you’re playing whack a mole with the numbers. Then when you realise you got your pin wrong and have to start again, but instead of pressing clear, you press cancel and have to wait for your card to come out, the machine to be ready again and then start all over again. Then after putting in your pin you look round at everyone to make sure no-one’s looking over your shoulder. Guess what dickbrains, if anyone’s looking over your shoulder now, they’ve already got your pin because you already poked it in, plus I’m fucking definitely looking over your shoulder because I want to know how much fucking longer you’re gonna take before I can get a fucking tenner so I can eat some fucking food because I’m fucking hungry and my fucking lunch break is almost over because I’ve been stood behind you practically since I was fucking born.

By now I’m already contemplating the cost of a gun, I’m pretty sure that guy with his hood up could sell me one, and I’m wondering if he’ll take payment after I’ve shot you and had a chance to use the bastard cashpoint. I’m wondering if there’s enough in my account, but decide against it because I don’t know how much is in my account and I don’t want to hold up the queue behind me when it is my turn. It’s a pity you don’t think like that, as you’re currently browsing your transaction history and appear to be confused over a £5 transaction you can’t quite remember making. I wish you were dead. I wish your father had never met your mother on that street corner, or that the cash machine had been out of order when she demanded payment up front. Or that he could only afford a hand job so you and a million of your other potential brothers and sisters ended up in a drain instead of in front of me in the fucking queue.

What’s this, did you just press no to wanting another service? You don’t want any money? My emotions are torn right about now. I’m glad you’re finally about to cock off, but this means you’ve wasted all my time for nothing? Could you not have waited until after lunchtime? I think even the guy in the hood looks disappointed, I guess mugging you would have got him quite a bit of crack. Ah well, now why don’t you step to the side whilst putting your card back in your wallet?

Hold up you festering fuck hole.  We all just saw that.  Did you really think that the whole queue of 3 people would miss you slipping another card out of your wallet and into the machine?  What gives you the right to twosies on the cah machine?  Maybe if you’d had a friend queue up behind you and you used his turn we could maybe accept that, but you didn’t.  You probably don’t even have any friends.  They probably realised they should give up on being your friend when they all died of old age whilst you fucked about with your fucking personal finances on the bastard cash point.  I wish you were dead so hard it hurts me a bit.

You should be aware that when you finally leave this machine I’m going to give you a slightly off look because I’m really pissed off.  Then, if you’d like to stick around I’ll demonstrate how to properly use a cash machine whilst following my own unspoken cash machine rules:

1) have your card ready as you approach the machine

2) try and poke it in the slot before it’s ready so that as soon as it is ready you’re already in

3) enter your pin and press enter just in case.  Not all machines need you to press enter, but if it does and you don’t press it then I’m going to kill you

4) cash, no receipt, done, fuck off

Notice that my process took all of 45 seconds (30 on a NatWest machine) and yours took so long you missed your firstborn daughters wedding despite the fact that you’ve not even met the mother of your child yet because any woman that had met you would have run a mile when you explained to them that your hobby is conducting your personal finances on cash machines with a queue behind you.  Lets say it takes you 5 years to get over this, then another year to meet that blind, deaf and dumb woman that’s going to fall for you, a further year before she gets pregnant and that your daughter gets married at 23.  This means your transaction took a whole 30 years, 8 months, 30 days, 23 hours and 15 seconds more than mine did.

Is it any wonder that everyone hates you so much?

Yours frothing at the mouth in rage,

Chris

An Open Letter to Pricks Who Wear Retarded Kanye West Style Glasses

Dear Pricks Who Wear Retarded Kanye West Style Glasses,

Well, now it’s become clear that you know who I am, and are acutely aware of my planet sized hatred of all of you.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t even know these glasses were inspired by that wonky jawed egotistical talent vacuum when I first saw them, but that does go quite a way to explain some of what the actual fuck is wrong with you people. George Bush doesn’t care about black people? What you mean is people with an ounce of intelligence don’t give an AIDS fuck about Kanye West who is coincidentally black. I pretty much hate all people because Kanye West is one, as are all you little fuckbags who wear his arse specs. Don’t ever say I discriminate.

In fact, don’t ever say anything.

I mean, there are enough taboos for you to break with regular sunglasses, do you really need the extra dickness? What was wrong with just wearing your sunglasses indoors? Or at night? I’m fairly sure that before these twat-slats were released to general sale you were probably the guy we all looked at and hoped you would walk into something. Let’s be honest, in this country there’s probably only 30 odd days total that you even need sunglasses. I’m sure this fact makes the average cost per hour quite high compared to international sunglass wearers, but still, get your extra wear during the day. Outside. With real sunglasses. Or at least well away from me.

I bet you’re that guy who wears sunglasses on the tube. I mean, what THE FUCK is that about? You cruising for bitches on the tube? Hows that working out for you? How have you not learned yet that NOBODY TALKS ON THE TUBE. In a group of nobody talking to nobody, how likely is it that anybody is going to talk to the guy wearing sunglasses on the motherfucking tube?

Hell, I even saw a black dude wearing these glasses the other day. Even he couldn’t pull them off. Even a black dude looked like a fucktard wearing these things. You don’t stand a chance. You know what’s even worse? He was wearing pink ones.

I think we can tell a lot from your choice of face-wear. Like the star of David in Nazi Germany only you idiots choose to wear this. We can tell you’re bad at science, we can see that socially you’re about as useful as a bag of broken hammers and you’re clearly racist as you’re trying to look as good as black people. We can deduce from this that you’re likely to end up fucking skanks in the toilets at the job center so they can get more benefits by having more children they can neglect to the point that 20 years down the line they’ll probably end up wearing the same fucking glasses you’re wearing now, mouthing off in the street to people, claiming they could take 3 of us in a fight but actually struggling with one at a time.

Here’s an idea, next time its sunny why dont you test the effects of your fantastic glasses by staring at the sun through a magnifying glass, maybe that’ll burn some sense into your retinas so you can realise that your glasses look about as good as my face whenever the media mentions Jade Fucking Goody.

Next time, I’ll rip your fucking head off.

Chris

An Open Letter to People Who Stand at Pelican Crossings and Don’t Press the Button

Dear People Who Stand at Pelican Crossings and Don't Press the Button,

I'd like to set the scene, just to remind you of when we met. I was in a hurry, briskly walking past / around all those people who walk slower than me (don't even get me started). You might have noticed the concentration on my face as I considered my options for the fastest way to get to the tube station. Along this route, I pass four pelican crossings, leaving me with three possible choices:

1) Stop at crossings 1, 2 or 3 and press the button, wait for the green man and cross.

2) Pass each crossing in the hope that by the time I reach crossing 3 (the busiest), someone will already be there waiting, thus eliminating some waiting time.

3) Try my luck with crossing 4, a series of crossings which allow me a number of possible routes and depending on the phase of the lights could allow a very speedy crossing or the slowest of the four.

As it turned out, I didn't have to take the gamble on option 3 as by the time I was halfway between crossings 1 and 2, I spotted you waiting at number 3 and was confident in my ability to get to you in or before the short but exciting green man phase. I'm not averse to starting my tarmac traversal whilst the green man is flashing, but that's about as far as I'm willing to bend the green cross code. Especially on such a busy road, especially when I'm in such a hurry and have no time for hospital treatment if I get hit by a motor vehicle.

My mind made up, I strode rapidly towards you and took up residence on the kerb next to you, ready to embark on this fateful journey taken by so many comedy chickens in the past. As I'm sure you can read, I had not taken this decision lightly and as such was beginning to grow frustrated with myself as time passed and our friendly green man was nowhere to be seen.

With the dangerous communist red man staring at me from my desired destination, my concept of time seemed to dissolve to nothing. In my head, seconds drifted to hours, and I'm sure minutes would have felt like days if I'd have been there for more than one. The whole nerve wracking time I have to put up with the little red bastard gloating at me in his thick Russian accent. “You cannot cross road now, gingerman.” He knows that even when I do eventually reach his kerb, he's still too far up a pole for me to reach him and can thus avoid physical punishment. Plus I'm in a hurry and have no time for his shenanigans.

Before long I'm panicking. I've only got, at best, 10 minutes to make this 2 minute walk to the station. That only leaves me an 8 minute buffer. If it turns out my oyster card needs topping up, that'll cut me down to 3 spare minutes in which who knows what could go wrong? What if one of those newspaper dudes is really persistent? What if I'm stuck behind a fat woman with a pushchair? Things are really starting to look bleak. If I miss this train, I'll have to get the next one and run the risk of only being 10 minutes early. In my heightened stress I start to look for comfort.

My brain knows what it needs but I cant think straight under the constant barking and glaring from the red man. Now I realise why the green man is always walking, desperately hoping to get away before the red man gets back. I clear my thoughts and look down. I know what will make me feel better. I need to repeatedly hammer the button on the crossing, just to make sure it's been pressed thoroughly and knows that I'm in a hurry. I hammer my thumb into it and it barks back at me…

“WAIT”

Wait? What? Why didn't it say wait before? That WAIT sign wasn't lit up before?

My fear and panic vanish, swiftly draining from my body as my emotional channels all fill with the burning rage I've experienced so many times before. I turn to look at you and you barely even notice. Your vast idiocy finally revealed to the whole world and you don't even seem to care. Perhaps your intelligence is so lacking that you're unable to comprehend what has just happened. Let me spell it out for you.

You've just been standing, at a pelican crossing, without pressing the button.

What the fucking fuck were you thinking would happen? Some kind drivers would take pity on your stupidity and stop for you? This is a 3 lane road, do you really think there are as many as 3 considerate drivers in London? Hell, if I was driving past and saw you stood there and somehow had the fortune of noticing the wait sign not lit up I'd swerve and put my foot down to run you down. Put you out of MY misery. I still want to run you over now, just to see your stupid face try and comprehend what the fuck is going on. Maybe I'd even wait until my green friend is there and roll up on you just to confuse you further. You see how angry you've made me? I DONT EVEN HAVE A CAR.

Could it really be the case that you've never crossed the road on your own before? Do you just think that pelican crossings for some reason don't like you? That they're discriminative against people like yourself with negative IQ's? Maybe you think people like me get to cross the road quickly because I'm so clever. I mean, look at how many long words I've used in this. I'm clearly incredibly intelligent. BUT NO that's not it, its because when I get to a crossing I PRESS THE BUTTON. I don't assume that somehow the magical road crossing machine just detects my presence. You know that chill you get down your spine when you think someone's watching you? Traffic lights don't get that. They don't have spines. They don't have any bones at all. That's not their face, its a light bulb behind a coloured filter. Pressing the button won't hurt them, its not like tweaking someone's nipple. They don't shout 'STOP THAT FUCKING HURTS', they shout 'WAIT' and that's for your safety, not because they're not ready and you're hurting them. Its not like punching someone in the stomach before they tense it up. That beeping noise isn't them screaming and the rest of us aren't running away, we're just crossing the road.

I do have a potential explanation for your incredible lack of knowledge. Perhaps the last time you crossed the road your poor, neglected brain squeezed its way out of your ear and hopped along the kerb to climb the post and hit the button. In my mind it looks like Krang from the Turtles but much smaller. Perhaps in its journey back to your vacuous cranium it wasn't fast enough. Perhaps your stupid eyes saw the green man and ran over to give him a hug whilst your brain hopped over to try and catch up with you. I don't think it made it. I think by the time you were crying because the green man went away, just like everyone else did when you approached them in the playground, in the office, even in your own house, even at Christmas with the family, even on your birthday when all you get is a 'funny' card you got yourself and a hot cross bun because your birthday is around Easter and every time someone forgot your birthday and happened to have a hot cross bun in the cupboard when you reminded them they told you it was a birthday cake and you were stupid enough to believe them and believe that someone might have had enough horror in their life that they actually looked forward to doing something that would make you happy, that their eyes were constantly bombarded with such horror that the sight of you smiling might actually be a positive thing to them and not cause their eyes to rot out of their heads like it does to everyone else. Erm, yeah by the time you got across the road your poor brain was under the tire of a Range Rover, spilling all its knowledge across the tarmac that mere seconds ago I was itching to cross. Imagine that, the tarmac covered with all the knowledge you've acquired in life. All of it. All both of your thoughts. I imagine a squashed brain with a hot cross bun next to it, a magical traffic lights man and a few rotten eyes. I think that should roughly sum up your life.

Next time you feel like crossing the road, do the whole world a favour and make it a motorway, do it blindfolded and really slowly. If you make it across, turn around and head back. If you make it across again, choose a busier road or go for a sleep on some train tracks. I know usually it would be quite traumatic for the car or train driver that hits you. We've all seen that advert with the little ginger kid who follows that guy round everywhere even though he's dead. How do you kill a dead stalker? Why did the director have to cast a ginger kid to be the dead stalker? Imagine the advert if it were you who was the dead stalker. Sure, initially it would be a bit freaky, but imagine getting to relive the joyful experience, day in, day out for ever. In the park, at your computer, any time of day you get to relive the time you ran over that fucktard who was too stupid to press the motherfucking button at the pelican crossing.

Yours in inconsolable rage

Chris

An Open Letter to Northern Tourists on The Tube

Dear Northern Tourists on the Tube,

It was nice meeting you yesterday on the tube. Now becuase this is text you can't here the sarcasm in my voice, so I'll explain that it wasn't nice, it was the second worst experience in my entire life. It should please you to know that my 5 minute encounter with you was marginally better than my experience with appendicitis where I vomited for 12 hours straight and almost died.

From what I was able to decode from your retarded voice, you were in London for the football, so I'm guessing you were probably drunk. Perhaps blind drunk, which would explain how you failed to notice that I had massive yellow headphones on and still tried to talk to me. This theory is destroyed, however, by the fact that the reason you wanted to talk to me was to discuss the contents of the newspaper I was reading.

Most people on any form of transport would realise that someone with headphones on reading a newspaper might not be in the mood to chat. Furthermore, someone reading a paper is not generally waiting for you to ask them whats in the paper, and then take it off them to read about the football whilst still trying to talk to them. Here's some pointers for you:

Just because I am male, does not make me a football obessive.
Just because I am on a train that stops in Tottenham does not make me a Tottenham fan
Just because a paper is free doesn't mean you can have it when I'm reading it
Just because I'm a decent person doesn't mean I don't want to rip your skull out and beat your gormless, drooling, northern friends into a vegetative state so they're forced to eat turkey twizzlers and mushy peas through a straw and can only talk in even more of a slur than your stupid voice already is.

You know the saying 'When in Rome'? It doesn't end with 'do whatever the fuck you oddballs from up north do', it ends' sit down and shut the fuck up until you get to wherever the fuck it is you're going you strange little man and if you want a newspaper either pick one up from one of the trillions of people throwing them at your face outside the station or wait five minutes and I'm sure someone reading a fucking paper will be getting off the train and will leave a paper behind you packet of pricks.'

I hate you.

Chris