Blue and Brown's Page of Rage

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Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Faulty Tea

Wow. Look at that: Pictures. Blue and Brown enters the 1990s. There’s no stopping us now. But look a little closer…

At first glance, there is nothing wrong here. It’s the Rhinolast mug, which means it’s my tea. That makes me happy. But what is this? I haven’t drunk any of the tea and already the mug is a third empty. Plus it’s too milky. I hate milky tea. I don’t drink black tea, but overly-milky tea is vile stuff. Warm milk is just too flavoursome. A bit too straight from the teat in a way.

Agh. There’s a sugar in it too. My tea does not have sugar in it. Not even the granules stuck to the wet spoon that you used to make Tommy-Twelve-Sugars’ tea. No sugar at all.

Before you think that I’m overly fussy about tea (heaven forbid), I should make myself clear. My anger is not directed at the tea itself. It is merely a weapon of the true criminal here: The person who asks you how you want your tea and then blatantly ignores you.

I often get asked if I want a cup of tea. I tend to say ‘yes’. I am then asked how I have my tea. I tell them and no, I don’t go into the milk and volume of liquid aspects. I just say: ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Ten minutes later I will get a tea with a sugar in.

I don’t know why this is. I have tried several approaches. I say: ‘Milk, NO sugar.’ I say: ‘JUST milk.’ But all is to no avail. The only sure fire method for getting the brew you want, is to make it yourself and that’s no good.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had conversations with the same people who make me tea every week, where they say: ‘I thought you had sugar.’ No. No, I don’t. I didn’t last week. I didn’t the week before. I never did. The only reason that you think I have sugar is because you’ve now made me tea with a sugar in on forty-five consecutive occasions. Why you started doing this, I don’t know. Why you can’t hear me when we have this EXACT SAME conversation every week is beyond me. Don’t you dare say I’m ‘sweet enough’. Don’t you dare. I will run you through with a teaspoon, you extra-sugar-adding piece of shit.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Being Made To Dance

Now I’m not one of life’s dancers. I’m one of life’s standers.

When I’m in some sort of social situation where there is music playing, I don’t walk up to people on the dance floor and drag them off, saying: “Come on. Stop being so demented. Come and stand with me. You’ll look less ridiculous”. So why do people do the reverse to me?

I don’t want to dance. If I did, I would be dancing. Furthermore, I would have danced regularly in the past. Have I? No. Why? Because I hate it. What do I hate most of all? Being forced into doing something that I hate.

Dancing is something that you can only pull off if you are relaxed. If you are relaxed, you go along with the music and people don’t really notice that you’re basically just flailing around as if you’re having some sort of fit. You blend in. On the other hand, if you’re feeling a little tense, you stick out like a sore thumb sporting flashing lights on a pedestal. You’ll be the only tense person dancing, because anyone feeling tense won’t be dancing. You will also be aware that you are the only tense person dancing. How will this make you feel?

As a result of this, you will be lucky to remain on your feet. The combination of a full-blown panic attack and the necessity to move in an unconventional manner will ordinarily cause you to fall, so factor in a few balancing manoeuvres and you start looking monumentally stupid. At this point, the sadist who dragged you onto the dance floor will say: “See. This is fun, isn’t it?”. They will usually only escape by dint of the fact that your mind will be fried by the conflicting emotions of panic, desire to eat their internal organs and the urge to break down and weep.

Never dance. It sets a precedent.

Having Danced

There is no way of describing the disgusting feeling that comes of having danced the night before.

Try as you might, it is impossible to take your mind of it. You dwell on every little detail, every ill-advised shuffle and finger point. You put it to the back of your mind where it lurks – a dark shadow colouring and poisoning every over thought in your head.

I imagine that this is how it feels to have killed someone and to regret it. You try and go about your life, but you always know that something is deeply wrong and that it’s too late to undo it.

James Blunt Again

I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Blunt releases one of the most abominable audio defecations in history and then manages worse with his follow-up.

How long must he have honed it to reach such a low? It’s like he’s performing some sick experiment on the public, seeing just how poor he can be and get away with it. We must stop him people. We must rise as one in a show of united apathy and renounce his putrid offerings. It really shouldn’t be that hard. They’re abject shit.

Childlike Egocentrism

Up until a certain age, children think that you experience and know everything that they do. Children are stupid. There’s no news there, but they are still developing, so we have to let them off. Usually this ends at about the age of three. Occasionally it continues into later life. This is not forgivable.

Once upon a time I had a telephone conversation with a woman from Preston. The details are unimportant, but I wanted to arrange a convenient time for something with her and was negotiating this. For a start I suggested – and ‘suggested’ is of great importance here – that 2pm might be suitable. She was incensed. She was one step away from hanging up, driving over and beating me with a club with nails in it.

“Two o’clock? Er, no. I don’t think so love. What do you want me to do about the pie delivery, eh? How are we supposed to do two things at once? Am I supposed to just refuse the pie delivery? It’s no problem for you. You don’t give a shit. It’s me who’s going to be here trying to sort out both.”

I didn’t know there was a pie delivery at 2pm. I didn’t work in the same shop as her. I didn’t even know that the 2pm pie delivery was such a big deal that it required an hour or more to complete. She seemed to think everyone knew this.

I explained to her that I didn’t know that there was a clash in her schedule and would later be all right?

She talked to me like I was an idiot, as if I should have come up with this idea first. She couldn’t believe that I hadn’t factored the pie delivery into my thinking. As I was putting the phone down, I could hear her telling someone else that I had wanted to do something at the same time as the pie delivery and they were laughing about how stupid I was.

I couldn’t convince her she was being stupid. She was too stupid to know that she was stupid.