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Friday, 12 December 2003


Why do people keep chatting to me? Do I have friendless and gullible tattooed on my forehead?
'Talk to Me; I Don't Run or Scream for at Least Ten Minutes'?

Scene: The Garage. Late afternoon.
Wanker: Are you going to be buying diesel or petrol?
Gullible Twat: Neither. I want to wash my car.
Is this a Pepsi petrol taste challenge? The car is covered in bird shit. Is he blind?

Scene: The Supermarket Checkout. Evening.
Wanker: Is that The Times?
No, love, it's a pigeon. Are the two inch high letters confusing you?
Wanker: Are they tabloid now?
It is, I suppose just about possible that I shrank the newspaper in the wash, smuggled it back in here, and now I want to pay for it.
Gullible Twat: No, they publish a tabloid option. You can choose. I think they're trying to compete with The Independent.
Mistake number one. Don't engage the nosey fuckers in conversation.
Wanker: (nods at the front page) Have you been following that case? Has he admitted it?
Dunno. Have you got halitosis? Oh, I see you have.
Girly Twat: Dunno. I think he has.
If I read the sodding paper, I might know. But that would involve you shutting the hell up and letting me buy the damn thing.
Wanker: What?! Her, too? Admitted it.
Oh pur-lease: talk in full sentences if you want a bloody answer.
Girly Twat: (sigh) No. He admitted they died in his house. He blamed her for the lies.
Wanker: Have you got a loyalty card? I did read about it, but I didn't ... it was a bit ...
Say goodbye to the Lady Coherence and all her little followers, folks.
Please God, just let me pay and extricate myself from this.

Girly Twat: It got a bit horrible reading all the details, didn't it? Yeah.
Oh great. Now I feel guilty and voyeuristic for buying The Times. The least hysterical newspaper I can find, and you infected it with prurience by association. Bastard. Gimme my change.

But why the hell were so many strangers chatting to me today?

Scene: Car park. Late evening.
Wanker: Excuse me, but where do you get your hair done?
In the bathroom, with the nail scissors, whenever I feel horrifically depressed, love. Why?
Girly Twat: Toni and Guy in Canary Wharf. Erm ... er ... uhhhh ... why?
Wanker: (whips out advertising brochure for a beauty salon) mmmfle murmur mumble ...
Okay, it got too boring even to type out.
He wanted a #50 downpayment on my next haircut, right there in the car park. If it hadn't been well-lit, I'd have thought he was offering to do it himself, with this shiny big hunting knife ...

I thought the point of London was a belligerent malevolent glare can replace ninety percent of normal discourse.

This page graced by sarsparilla at 7:59 AM GMT
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Friday, 12 December 2003 - 8:36 AM GMT

Name: Legomen
Home Page:

Are they checking out the Cats moist tush stains on your face?

Friday, 12 December 2003 - 12:27 PM GMT

Name: NC
Home Page: http://none

>Scene in car park.
Enlightenment! so that is what they're after! I've always scuttled away crab wise when beseiged near anon. Central London Tube Station too scared to respond to smarmy geezers. I've been wondering for 2.5 years about the EXACT details of that scam. Plus 50p DOWNPAYMENT, I think a 50p at Toni and Guy was enough of a setback.

Friday, 12 December 2003 - 1:28 PM GMT

Name: Looby

I always found Londoners quite chatty as well. You ought to come up here for a rest and I could show you pubs where even you and Scarygirls would fail to rouse the men standing silently staring into their pints. Great it is. A BIT OF BLOODY PEACE AND QUIET!

Friday, 12 December 2003 - 9:35 PM GMT

Name: paul
Home Page:

I've found that often more than a glare is necessary to dissuade the stupid from attempting conversation. Flat out ignoring people or telling them that they are beneath your notice works wonders both on your self esteem as well as theirs. Sometimes you cannot beat a well placed word, it's like a sword.

Friday, 12 December 2003 - 9:48 PM GMT

Name: yidaho
Home Page:

Oh, I so agree! Supermarket cashiers are the worst offenders. It's seldom I escape a running commentary on my shopping as it makes it's way from trolley to bag. Why do they ask "Ooh, is this nice?" whilst waving one's Lloyd Grossman stir in sauce through the air. "No, it's @#%$! vile, that's why I'm buying it". *sigh* Needless to say, I buy all my feminine hygiene products from the local petrol station.

Saturday, 13 December 2003 - 12:08 AM GMT

Name: fridgemagnet
Home Page:

I pretend to be that charming London combination of drug-@#%$! and mad. Widen your eyes, keep flicking them around, twitch occasionally and, whenever someone says anything, jump and say "What? What?" For extra effect, keep one hand in your pocket where you are obviously holding something.

Sunday, 14 December 2003 - 6:15 PM GMT

Name: Vanessa

Oooh, good detail. I can almost see their eyes: is it a gun? Is it a KitKat? Flee for your lives!

Friday, 19 December 2003 - 7:30 PM GMT

Name: Cyn
Home Page:

*Do I have friendless and gullible tattooed on my forehead?*
This is priceless, Vanessa. I wish I'd said it.

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