Despair

Here is my new theory. Get ready for it: everybody hates me. I'm not sure what I did to deserve this, but I'd imagine it's either something incredibly heinous that's spilling over from a previous life, or something to do with those prostitutes I murdered. But whatever. Today God gave me a good taster of his vengeful wrath by bombarding me with a smelly gasman, an idiot courier, and a dead bird.

I arrived home to the welcoming smell of solder and the unfortunate sight of a lard-arse gasman bent over the kitchen radiator, ferociously melting the paint off the wall under the pretence of fixing a leaking pipe. He had an insulating heat mat but I didn't buy that shit. He was relentlessly trying his best to destroy the wall, there's no doubt, with the steadfast determination of a brain-damaged person trying to read. He was breathing heavily, like a stalker down a phone watching his next victim from behind a privet hedge. In fact, he probably was a stalker. I've had several gas men round here recently and they all seem like social outcasts with body odour and strange hands. The last one I had was complaining about blind people and how they're a menace to society (or something along those lines, it could have been criminals). This latest guy didn't say a word. He just sat there with his solder. In fact, that's a lie. He did say something; he asked if I had an "old rag" to hand. I considered asking him if it was common practice to keep dirty rags in food preparation areas (just in case you need to clean your hands!) in his house but I relented. That would be like asking a convicted man-rapist to inspect your prostate: asking for trouble.

So I prepared my cheese on toast in the uneasy silence of the kitchen, broken only by the crackling of melting wall and the heavy stalker breathing. Not very pleasant. The cheese was grated and melting merrily under the dancing flames of gas (if you don't grate for your cheese on toast you're a moron, it's infinitely superior) and my stomach braced itself for cheese-topped toasty goodness. The cheese was ready. I tenderly lifted the toast off the grill - when suddenly - a ring of the doorbell. "Get it Peter!" shouts my mother. Damn her, why couldn't she get it? I wanted my cheese on toast. Still, needs must.

I open the door.

"Yeah alright mate, I've come about a replacement monitor or something."

Oh joy. There is a little story about this replacement monitor which is about as boring as it is long. Suffice to say that I'd spent many pleasurable hours listening to the "hold" tone that populated my several calls to PC Service Call, or in other words the call centre branch of the Spastic's Society. Manned by spastics. These retards are responsible for servicing all the computers sold by The Dixons Group, so I'd imagine they're usually only talking to people of similar intellect who have had the stupidity to buy something from a Dixons Group shop. Anyway, the eventuality of my parlance with them was indeed a replacement TFT screen. It may have taken them FOUR FUCKING DELIVERY REARRANGEMENTS but at least it was here now. The end, as they say, was in sight.

This particular end, however, was obstructed by one thing: the courier. A man of no more than 19, I'm surprised that he'd passed his Key Stage 3s, let alone his driving test. He looked like an extra in a skateboarding video. Back in the kitchen, the gasman's phone started ringing at an improperly loud volume. I ignored it.

"Yeah, the monitor, cool. Did you want to take the old one?"
"Yes please mate."

I hand him the defunct monitor.

"Whoa, whoa, I need this packaged up."
"What? I was never told that."
"Yeah well we need it packaged up."

I was already annoyed. I felt like telling him it was his fucking problem and he could cunt off out of my doorway with the pissing monitor and shove it up his arse.

"Don't worry," he says, "maybe it'll fit in this box," indicating the new monitor, snug and secure in its own box. He then proceeds to violently unpackage what is, to all intents and purposes, MY monitor, distributing the various parts over the doormat.

"Look at that, bloody idiots have given you a French plug," he says, holding up an American plug, before throwing it down on the floor. I briefly despair, but luckily, there's a British one in there too. Score one for PC Spastic Call. I rescue the new monitor and balance it precariously on the stairs. He then takes the old monitor and tries to ram it into the box.

"I don't think it'll fit in there mate," I add unhelpfully. I'm just stood there watching with no intent of getting actively involved in the obviously difficult packaging process.

"Yeah well I have to do it here... maybe this stand will come off?" But the stand is firmly attached. After several minutes he manages to force it in, although the all-too-small box is now thoroughly lacerated.

"Best pad it out as well."
"Do you need to bother? It is broken after all."
"Yeah, well, best be safe."

He glances around to find some suitable padding material... spying the polystyrene blocks that accompanied the new monitor.

I'm not sure when I started losing my faith in the human race. I'm pretty sure it started when I was about 12. But now, at the tender age of 18, I see it all before me, encapsulated by the image of a man bent over in my doorway, systematically hacking up chunks of polystyrene and shoving them haphazardly into a box which is already bulging due to its oversized contents. Little chunks of white plastic flew everywhere for a steady two minutes. As this was happening, the gas man walked by, going up the stairs with his clunking boots on, narrowly missing the brand new monitor by taking three steps in one stride, frantically grasping the antiquated handrail for balance.

"Right, I reckon that'll do. Have you got any parcel tape?" I turn back. Monkey man has finished his polystyrene killing spree and stands proudly surveying his work, like a small child who has found an open bottle of paracetemol. The box is in dire need of fortification. I fetch him some tape, which he wraps around the box like a bandage. He slaps a new barcode on the box and takes out a PDA, trying to scan the new barcode.

"Whops, wrong one".

He then spends two or three minutes peeling the new sticker off and typing the OLD number in. Then he looks at the PDA.

"Oh... did you give me the power cable for the old one?"
"You didn't ask me for it, so no, I didn't."
"Well, I, err, need it..."

Oh great, FUCKING GREAT. He grabs a pen and hurriedly removes all the parcel tape, opening the box up again to insert the cable - of course, there's no room for some of the polystyrene, so out that comes, all over the floor. I think longingly of my cheese on toast, surely now gone cold, and how life would have been different if I hadn't answered the door. I sign and thank him for the great service. On his way out, he remarks, "there's a dead bird on your doorstep mate." And so there is. A bloody corpse festering with ants. Call it a present from my cat. But still, it's the most pleasant thing to arrive on my doorstep today.

Permalink || Posted 10/5/2005 by Pete

22 comments »«

  1. Ray Travers - 10/5/2005 - 4:43pm

    i dont hate you pete. i DESPISE you. you fucking SHIT. with your hair. and being-sick-after-two-pints-ness. i hope you die.

  2. Dan the man - 10/5/2005 - 4:48pm

    all people are idiots. FACT

  3. Pete's old Beard - 10/5/2005 - 4:55pm

    maybe the bird was trying to nest in your hair but got killed on the way?

  4. Pete's old Beard - 10/5/2005 - 4:57pm

    maybe the bird was trying to nest in your hair but got killed on the way?

  5. The Natflap - 10/5/2005 - 6:58pm

    Yes, it's all true.

  6. Alex Crane - 10/5/2005 - 7:17pm

    Ray, noticed you were having some trouble with that small child in the park, you sick bastard.

    Nattress, good rant. Some people have got to tak the shit obs in the country, good thing its cretins.

  7. Adam Sawyer - 10/5/2005 - 7:31pm

    Computer man sounds like the UKIP canvassers I had an hour-an-a-half argument with a few weeks ago, except they were about 65 and 80.

  8. Adam Sawyer - 10/5/2005 - 7:34pm

    Computer man sounds like the UKIP canvassers I had an hour-an-a-half argument with a few weeks ago, except they were about 65 and 80.

  9. Courier - 10/5/2005 - 7:46pm

    i was only trying to help :*(

  10. Rupert Arnold - 10/5/2005 - 7:50pm

    an hour and a half? get a life sawyer

  11. Matt Wakelin - 10/5/2005 - 9:04pm

    Fuck off Rupert you tramp. Nobody likes you.

  12. Kyle - 10/5/2005 - 9:26pm

    Is it actually possible to rant that long pete? I blame it all on labour getting back into power!!!

  13. Chris B - 11/5/2005 - 2:24pm

    I doubt any other political party would've made stupidity illegal. Fuck, if only I realised, I could've set up my own one with promises to deport all spastics and kiddy fiddlers to France. We would've won for sure since stupid people generally don't vote, or don't think when they do (we will call ourselves the 'Travel The World For Free Party' to attract this type of voter)

  14. Chris B - 11/5/2005 - 2:25pm

    Oh, and don't get your hair cut, I know it's getting hotter but the birds will need somewhere to stay after the forest fires.

  15. Riach - 11/5/2005 - 5:23pm

    woo labour

  16. Dan Beer - 11/5/2005 - 10:37pm

    Rupert likes Hentai porn!!

  17. YOUR MUM - 11/5/2005 - 10:54pm

    YOUR MUM

  18. Joe - 11/5/2005 - 11:13pm

    You long winded bastard!

    You need a psychiatrist boyo!

  19. Mr Clist - 12/5/2005 - 3:43pm

    Come on boys, dont use rude words.

  20. Rupert Arnold - 12/5/2005 - 5:30pm

    i don't actually like porn so give it a rest riach or there'll be trouble

  21. Chris B - 13/5/2005 - 2:05am

    Everyone likes porn - what do you think your mum's doing when she locks the bathroom door? YOU WOULDN'T! And that's how they get away with it...

  22. Peter Fattress - 22/7/2005 - 4:38pm

    I'm fat.

Add a comment



captcha image
Please Wait