Video: Frappawhores

Starbucks rant-ette and more nothingness.

Spring has Sprung, but What to Wear?!

The clocks went forward on Sunday and so did the season, in an instant. Driving home from the gym yesterday, it felt really strange not only to leave in daylight, but also bathed in warm sunlight. It was a really great day and I felt soooo good.

So many people have commented on how much better they feel already. Amazing what a difference it makes. Look, it may be cliché that Brits only talk about the weather, but we get a lot of it, usually all in one day, so get over it.

Today I had to go out for a haircut, the sun was shining and I was looking at the different ways people approach this sudden warmer weather phenomenon. Most people were in t-shirts and jeans. Others were in shorts already, complete with tanned legs.

Cunts. I never tan. I have to use SPF 3000, which blocks all sunlight, otherwise I just turn bright pink and it all peels off in a week. So, at best, I get freckles.

Anyway, there are a few people like me, wearing a light jacket over a t-shirt, trying not to look too warm. I find it hard to switch modes so quickly. It’s not so much that I’m being cautious for my own sake as not wanting to tempt the weather gods.

You see, if I were to have gone out today in just a t-shirt in March, it would almost certainly have rained or turned cold all of a sudden. And that would mean it was all my fault, and everyone’s nice day would have been ruined.

It’s the same if I go to the beach in this country – it clouds over, or it rains. I can almost feel people glaring at me. “Freak! Should have stayed in the shade!”

They’re probably right.

Attack of The Cheesescraper

I think the last person I complained about in the gym was shaving in the nude (which would have been fine if he wasn’t fat, old and ugly). Today’s incident was a little more disturbing.

I’m in the showers after the gym – they’re communal – and I feel these eyes on the back of my neck, or somewhere. It wasn’t quite the same as being gawked at, it was actually a little more creepy than that.

So, next time I turn around I see this guy who looks like a fat Uncle Fester, paying a little too much attention to his bits and pieces.

In fact, while the rest of him was wet, only his genitals were soapy. His look darted from this soapy mass to me, and back again.

Massaging, rubbing, squeezing.

I didn’t take a good look, and frankly there wasn’t all that much to look at, but I’m pretty damn sure he was cleaning under the hood, and that’s just going a touch too far for the gym showers if you ask me.

He could have been circumcised, but I have Experience in these matters, the colour of the glans is a pretty good indication and I don’t think he was, with this bright pink thing poking out.

In itself, that may not have been so bad, except that by the time I’d showered, shampooed, rinsed and was drying myself he was still there, still at it and had spent most of that time either looking at his cock or at bits of me.

You do not need to spend that fucking long cleaning anything, not even for an annual cheese-scrape.

Nobody else was in there. It was creepy. I half expected to get jumped from behind.

I don’t actually mind being gawked at, in a nice way. It’s all good conversation for the rowing machine, with Miss Chick.

“Guy at 2 o’clock checked me out last week!”

So, I have to wonder what he was playing at. I just don’t know. All I can offer to wrap up this post is the following advice to Mr Under-the-Hood Cleaner:

“You wanna stop playing it so much, Mary, or it’ll fall off!”

Spit

Sometimes, strange things happen and you’re not quite sure how to deal with them. Take today, for example. I was walking along, minding my own business, when someone spat their food all down my leather jacket. It looked like chewed up bread. Nice.

If operating entirely as a creature of instinct, you generally know how to handle acts of aggression. Someone hits you, you smack them in the mouth; someone pours their drink over you, you smack them in the mouth; someone double-crosses you in a deal or invades your protection racket, you smack them in the mouth then throw them off the nearest motorway bridge. It’s all very simple.

But there are problems with this: I am not entirely a creature of instinct, I’m also pretty passive and instincts don’t do you much good in this situation. Babies sometimes spit their food over you, you wipe it off. When given medicine, cats will return the favour by depositing it back into your eyeball, so you get it surgically removed. And logic doesn’t help either, because said jacket is wipe-clean, the guy didn’t say anything and was walking away.

In my case, the Instinct Advisory Board had to call an emergency meeting, recommending that I immediately call him a “fucking cunt” to buy some time so the issue could be debated, votes weighed up, minutes written, etc.

He stopped, turned around. He was only about 14, clearly missing a few important pieces of brain and had a sensible-looking girl in tow. She was older, seemed to be about 16 or 17. She begged me to leave it. He unzipped his chavvy sports top to reveal scrawny teenage chest, shouting “come on then!”, while staying at a safe distance.

The board advised that it was all starting to look very pathetic. I felt not in the least threatened or angry. It was just too WTF. So, I gave him the death stare, gave her the “keep your psycho on a lead” look, turned around and walked away.

That was nothing compared to the devastation caused when the Any Excuse For Retail Therapy Committee got wind of this incident. Its recommendation was for a visit to Starbucks for a latte and Choc Crunch Cookie, to be followed by a visit to River Island for a new pair of jeans and cool belt. And I’m telling you, gentle reader, it was only when I was informed at Tesco’s cash machine that there were insufficient funds in my account that I didn’t cause much more damage.