It all started On 15th February 1957, 11.37 in the evening. Yes, my birth. My beautiful wife, the gorgeous Alison, says I have a persecution complex on account of the fact that I am of Jewish decent. True, very true in fact. On one of my many Anti-Apartheid actions, a trolley push at Bloomsbury Waitrose, a loud mouth cockney git of a woman pointed at my dear friend Dominic and said, "You're middle class" and then pointed at me and opined the legend, "AND, you're Jewish!" This was crazy. What the freakin' hell has the ethnic/class origin of an individual got to do with protesting against the abomination that was Apartheid?
Bizarre, but I digress, as usual. This week, the gardening rounds have tested my patience, faith in humanity on several different levels and, finally, made me want to get pissed out of my brains tonight - this I am currently attempting to achieve...
That tee shirt, a present from the wonderful Comrade Marsden, has carried me through the week, along with my Hare Krishna tee shirt given to me by the monks at Bhaketivedanta Manor near Watford - the place George Harrison bought for the Krishna movement.
Anyway, I guess I should start the story. Apart from the fact it's rained on me in several levels of awfulness all week, several human gits have attempted to wind me up all week.
First, drivers. What is it with people getting behind the wheel of a car and turning into fuckwits? I will never understand the human psyche in unison with the automobile. Perfectly nice people - I'm guessing here - turn into monsters capable of all manner of abominations. Cut me up. Turn without indicating. Drive like you're driving through treacle. Slam your brakes on when all that's happening is a car has appeared on the other side of the road. Come up to my bumper and drive six inches away from me for five miles, while I am doing the fucking speed limit. Stick your middle finger up at me like it's my fault they set the speed limit.
OK! This is the first specific story. I need fuel. I go to the nearest petrol station, fill up with £20 worth - yeah that's gonna get me a long way, whatever - and go and pay. A petrol tanker pulls up and cuts off one of the exits, meaning that I will have to back up to go out another of the exits. I go back to my car, get in, switch on and go to back out. I might add here there is a woman in front of me, obviously needing to get out too.
As I look in my rear view mirror a car draws up to me, stopping all of six inches away from me. I think, "He's bound to see the enormous tanker blocking our way out." Two minutes later, we're still sitting there. I sigh, open the car door, get out and walk to my fellow driver's car door. This is the conversation:
Me (smiling): Sorry mate, could you back up please?
Cab Driver (for that is what he is): Why should I?
Me (not smiling): Ummmm, because we can't get out, there is a petrol tanker blocking our way.
CD: Why's that my problem?
Me (incredulous): Because if we don't get out, you don't get to fill your car up.
CD (did I say he was Asian - and I hate even having to mention it): Chaaaaar!
Me: I'm sorry mate-
CD: I'm not your mate.
Woman (from the car in front of me): Can't you just reverse so we can get out please?
(So the cab driver backs up, but not really enough.)
Me: I'm really sorry, but I can't-
(He backs up a bit more)
At this point I just wanted to ram him out of the way, but of course didn't. I pulled up to his bumper (baby!) and let the woman get out before me. He sounded his hooter like there was something wrong. I got out of my car again.
Me (getting annoyed): What now?
Me: Seriously mate, you need help with that anger thing you have.
I got back in my car and drove off. Seriously, I would never have a problem with anyone because of their colour, race, creed, religion, whatever; ask my friends, not a racist bone in my body. My problem is if you're a twat.
Later that same day, I drove into a close and slightly over shot my turn to park. I clipped the grass verge by about 3 inches. As I got out of the car and old fella opened his window and the following conversation happened:
Old fella: HOW DARE YOU!
OF: You drove over the grass verge!
OF: YOU, moron! You should know better than to do that!
ME: OK. I said I'm sorry.
At this point I looked very closely at the tiny piece of grass I assume I had killed and stretched my arms out in a kind of, "no problem" gesture.
OF: Don't you argue with me!
Me: I'm not, I apologised.
OF: How dare you!
Me (totally flummoxed): I AM SORRY!
OF: Don't shout at me.
I shrugged my shoulders and thankfully my colleague had turned up and we just got on trimming the hedge we were there to trim. Apparently the old fella is 90 and profoundly deaf, but cor blimey, that's no excuse...
Almost finally, and I must add that this is only one of many weird and persecutory notions that have bugged me all week, I turned at a job to trim a hedge, knocked on the door and no one replied. I tried to get into the back garden, home of said hedge, no luck. I knocked and rang on the door this time, for about two minutes in all. Still no reply. I also had to trim another hedge in the front garden, not the priority, but I got on with it.
About an hour and a half later a woman walked up the driveway with the children who lived in this lovely detached house in Chesham Bois, Bucks and knocked on the door. The door opened and the woman who rents the place accepted delivery of her three kids. I was up a ladder, hedge trimmer ablaze and, quite frankly, gob smacked! How I didn't sever something important I do not know.
What the fuffing hell was THAT about?
AND finally, driving into Tring this evening - Tring being the lovely market town in which I currently reside with my lovely family - I heard a gunshot, looked out the window and saw a wood pigeon falling from the sky. I pulled over and went to investigate, checking whether it was legal to kill the blessed animal with Alison as I walked over. Apparently it's all right to shoot wood pigeons - wellllll, let's face it they are bastards, flying about like they do, all on the wing like that; bastards. I really could have done with seeing the fucker who was perpetrating this particular crime but couldn't find him, even though he let off another two shots in the mean time. On reflection he did have the gun I s'pose, but hell I was in such a mood the shots would have bounced off me, perhaps.
Point is; what is the point? The world would be a lot nicer place if it was just me, my family and the few beautiful people I call my friends; wouldn't it?
HOLLY HOCKS TO YOU ALL!