Definitely not a dildo!

“What is that?” he said in his thick Brummie accent.

“What is that?” I repeated, with my now trademark eyebrow raise.

“Yea, what is it?” he said again raising the phallic shaped object in his hand as if to get a closer look.

For all of you still trying to guess, the answer is not a dildo, you filthy minded individuals! Who am I kidding? You’re in good company here!

“That,” I said, “is a courgette.”

The man working on the till at Tesco looked at me bemused.

“Is that like a cucumber?” he asked.

Of course it isn’t you cretin. Surely to work at Tesco you should at least be able to identify your produce, shouldn’t you? Then I noticed the Trainee badge that he sported proudly on his nylon uniform.

“Yes,” I say, taking the easy way out and avoiding any further conversation. I even gave him the smile that I save for the terminally stupid. Now if that isn’t sympathetic then I don’t know what is?

“Innit?” he replied, nodding his head in approval before putting it into my bag. Goodness knows what he would make of the aubergine that was still to come!

Why is it that every time I go to this particular superstore that I end up having such ridiculous conversations?

I was chided by my work colleagues recently after a trip to Britain’s favourite supermarket where I had an altercation with the check out worker. On placing my Twilight DVD on the conveyor, the attendant examined it carefully.

“You like Twilight?” he said with a sneer.

Don’t. Even. Get. Me. Started.

And then before I realised what I was saying:

“You like working at Tesco?”

I know, that was a pretty low blow and he did look (quite deservedly) downcast. But hang on, this was one of those few occasions when I actually thought of a witty retort and managed to use it. Yet I still felt like a dick.

Oh God, then there was that awkward silence. That LONG and ever increasing silence. How do I escape this? Being vaguely aware of the fact that I was reddening through a combination of embarrassment and exhilaration (at the fact that I actually managed to say what I wanted to, when I wanted to, not some perverted excitement at terrorising Tesco’s uneducated employees!) I plumped for the customary glare. Never fails! Scared into a frantic exaggerated frenzy by the sharp tongued, glaring southerner, I would like to point out that following my outburst I did receive exemplary customer service! Silent! The best kind!

It’s not all one sided though. Oh no! After turning 25 a couple of weeks ago and revelling in the plethora of cards highlighting the fact that I am now officially old, or as one more sympathetic friend’s card denoted; dangerously close to being old, Tesco decided to kick me whilst I was down. On one of my standard trips to the local Express store near my apartment to buy the customary bottle of red after another gruelling day, the Caribbean lady working on the till asked to see my ID. Feeling almost smug as I look up to show her my driving licence she saw my face and responded;

“Oh no, definitely over 25,” she said in lilting Jamaican tones and waved my driving license aside.

Bitch!

Oh well. It’s still Jack: 2, Tesco: 1.

Do I look like a parking warden?

“Can I park here?”

A perfectly reasonable question you might say? Of course. So reasonable in fact that I didn’t think this question was destined for me! Yet as I walked across the village car park whilst back home in the ‘shire I hear this question repeated once again.

“Excuse me? Can I park here?”

I glance around. Nope, no one else within ear shot so this disembodied voice must be talking to me. It was way too early in the day to be having auditory hallucinations so I start looking around for where this question is coming from and notice the man in the blue car. He is staring at me intently even though I am wearing my usual neutral slash uninterested slash I haven’t had my morning coffee yet so you can fuck right off expression, yet his questioning persists.

“Well can I?” he says again with added gravitas.

“Er... yes?” I say uncertainly, as it does seem to be a pretty silly conversation to be having... in a car park. Come on, it’s not exactly cryptic.

“Yes I know that,” he says, “but do I have to pay?”

As I have already established, yes this is a car park and, to elucidate further, yes, it is pay and display. Still with me? I know it’s complicated but I’m sure you can keep up.

“Well it is pay and display. Has been since the start of May,” I say before yet again discussing the 10p for four hours parking charge debacle that has been, well, quite possibly the most controversial thing that has happened in Ellesmere in pretty much forever. Or at least since the last murder, sex scandal or the like. I’m kidding. No, that all happens in the next village along. It’s all go in Shropshire, that’s for sure!

“Can you make an exception?” he then asks, looking at me earnestly.

This is getting ridiculous I’m thinking, looking down to check that I haven’t by some miraculous coincidence somehow acquired a parking attendant uniform or even the appearance of someone who gives a shit.

My bemused silence is obviously not what he was hoping for.

“I only need a piss,” he says as if that will somehow validate this whole conversation, “Do you want me to just do it down my leg?”

If we are talking about stuff that I want him to do, urinating in front of me is not exactly high on my list, in fact it doesn’t even feature within the top ten.  I could quite easily provide him with a range of ideas of things that I would like him to do, starting with this; leave me alone, you weirdo!

“I’m disabled,” he continues.

Mentally? I want to ask yet think better of it. By this time my patience is wearing thin and I now have only 3 hours and 55 minutes of my own parking time left in which to buy the newspaper so I’m sure you can appreciate the urgency of my predicament.

“It would appear that you have already made the decision that you are not going to pay the 10 pence, so I think that regardless of what I say it will make very little difference to your final action,” I retaliate, flashing a winning smile at the same time to diffuse the mounting venom.

At this, I decide this is a logical point to stop this conversation before it turns into a whole to-do. Judging by the fact that following my last comment he then drove off to park his car, in the car park, so did he.

On my return to the car park a few minutes later, I see the man once again, this time at the ticket machine. He must have heeded my advice, I think and feel a momentary swell of triumph. As I carry on walking I smile at the lady passing by only to hear this from behind me as she reaches the machine a few seconds later:

“Do I have to pay for parking? I’m disabled!”

And so the cycle continues.

High Standards?

I sometimes wonder if I’ll turn into one of those grumpy old men who sit around moaning on about the youth of today, discussing the good ol’ days and handing out Werther’s to anyone under the age of 30 in the vague hope they might help me across the road or clean my gutters. Or worse, become one of those toothless old men who sit in their recliner chairs ogling the lusty widow across the street, uttering the groan inducing “In my day...” or “When I were a lad...” at the beginning of every other sentence. If I do, then it’s probably time to have me committed. Either that or bump me off and inherit... well... whatever’s left to pay on my student loan and the various Premium Bonds that seemed like such a good idea at the time.

But then I got to wondering about who I’m going to share my latter years with? Who’ll be the Bonnie to my Clyde; the Kate to my Wills; and more importantly who’s going to be there to help me try out some of the stuff from Sex for the over 60s?

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships recently; mainly the fact that I’m not in one and everybody else is. This was reinforced by the fact that I had to separate two thirteen year olds from exploring each other’s tonsils only to be greeted with, “But Sir, they’re in love.” Love? What do thirteen year olds know about love? The only love they know is for the latest emo pop princess, or the most recent incarnation of a sultry blood-sucker.

Fear not; I have a solution!

I have signed up to online dating, because let’s face it, if that doesn’t result in true love, then what will?

Now the first time I dipped my toe into the pool cesspit of internet dating, this was courtesy of the old housemate and her friend. I should have been suspicious that something was going on; after all there is only a certain amount of time two girls can stay quiet before a plan for world domination (or fixing up single friends) comes about.

“Have you checked your emails recently?” was the innocent tag to my imminent romantic humiliation. On opening my inbox I saw this message;

Re: Registration for My Single Friend

What?! Am I really so socially inept that even my friends realise that I’m not going to be able to meet someone without a) serious external influence of relationship veterans, or b) a page about me on what can only be described as an online cattle market!

“What is this?”

“Well you’re not exactly doing much to help yourself, are you?” was the response.

I would just like to point out at this stage that as a 24 year old male, I see nothing wrong with sitting in at 8 o’clock on a Saturday night, wearing my pyjamas, drinking hot Ribena (it was a cold night!) and watching X Factor (although it might be slightly unforgivable that I was actually quite enjoying it!) I mean what woman wouldn’t find that an attractive combination? Surely all I’m missing is a copy of Reader’s Digest and a snowflake print jumper and I’d be quite the catch!

Needless to say that after a few minutes of perusing the various talent (if that’s the right word) that Birmingham has to offer, and finding out that I actually had to pay £30.99 for the privilege of admitting that I couldn’t find love like a normal person, that I quickly put this idea to bed. But then I discovered...

Free Online Dating.

Score! What can possibly be wrong with that?

(Now did you want the full list or the abridged version?)

The first thing that should have started the alarm bells ringing was the fact that as well as the usual Are you looking for a relationship, dating, friends etc, there was a button that said intimate encounter. Let’s face it, it may as well have said, No strings fuck, can’t guarantee it will be great but if you are desperate enough to use this site what do you expect. STI included in the package. Needless to say I didn’t tick that box.

Anyway as luck would have it, soon after I signed up to this site I received notification that BubblyBunny176 (or one of her equally desperate friends) had sent me a message.

“Hey babez, yu luk cute. B wikid to hear from ya chick. Msg me bak. Xxx”

If anyone can translate what that actually means through the plethora of phonics and substitutions, then please enlighten me!

I should mention that on my profile I said that I was a Masters student and that I worked within the generic area of “Education”, so what on earth made BubblyBunny176 think that I would be attracted to poor spelling and appalling grammar? I mean seriously? I spend enough of my life correcting shoddy grammar and adding punctuation at work. I’ll tell you something love, nothing gets me going like a girl to can punctuate; use a semicolon correctly and I’m yours.

Let’s face it; I’m going to be single forever.