Damned if you do...
I'm going to make it a new rule, when in a taxi I'm going to say nowt unless we're talking about the weather, and/or the property market.
I had an early meeting this morning and as if often the case I jumped a bus into town (quicker than driving and looking for parking). Had said meeting, grabbed a coffee, read a paper and decided to head home to work/enjoy glorious sunnyday/work.
So, I grabbed a cab.
Well sweet fucking Chulutha. We hadn't gone two metres when my driver-about fifty five and English- starts in on the release of the 15 sailors captured by Iran and how disgusted he was with England's 'pussy actions'.
''Facking gift bags! They got facking gift bags. Can you imagine?'
'Better gift bags than body bags I suppose.' I said.
He made some weird noise then, a sort of cross between a 'peeef' and a 'flaarrrrp'.
'They should 'ave bombed them the moment they took 'em.'
'Who should have?'
''The British.'
'Do you want a war with Iran?"
'They started it, it's an act of war kidnapping our facking troups.'
'Well, weren't they in Iraq waters?''
'Media lies.'
''Right.'
I have always wondered about this media lies thing. How does anyone know the truth of anything if both sides of the meeja are big spoofers?
'Well, ' I said, at least they're coming home safe and sound and no blood was shed.'
'No blood? No blood? There's no blood, ya don't need to spill blood when you can rip the spine out of a country that easily. No blood? Ffffttpprrfht. We're a laughin' stock, no blood? Fpttthhtht'.
His jaw mucles bunched.
'Hum,' I said, 'Plenty of blood shed at the Man U/Roma game last night though wasn't there?'
And he was off. I'm not even sure how he managed to draw breath such was his invective. Occasionally I would sense him flagging and I would casually say things like, 'Did you see that guy with the blood all down his face?' or 'I heard that there are 18 fans in hospital ' and 'at least they kept them seperated.'
By the time I reached my front door he was red faced and wild eyed. I paid him and began to climb out. 'Still with all the craziness going on, it was nice to see a photo of Bertie and Ian Paisley shaking hands like that, wasnt it?"
He roared off without another word and I let myself into the house and made a nice cuppa.
I had an early meeting this morning and as if often the case I jumped a bus into town (quicker than driving and looking for parking). Had said meeting, grabbed a coffee, read a paper and decided to head home to work/enjoy glorious sunnyday/work.
So, I grabbed a cab.
Well sweet fucking Chulutha. We hadn't gone two metres when my driver-about fifty five and English- starts in on the release of the 15 sailors captured by Iran and how disgusted he was with England's 'pussy actions'.
''Facking gift bags! They got facking gift bags. Can you imagine?'
'Better gift bags than body bags I suppose.' I said.
He made some weird noise then, a sort of cross between a 'peeef' and a 'flaarrrrp'.
'They should 'ave bombed them the moment they took 'em.'
'Who should have?'
''The British.'
'Do you want a war with Iran?"
'They started it, it's an act of war kidnapping our facking troups.'
'Well, weren't they in Iraq waters?''
'Media lies.'
''Right.'
I have always wondered about this media lies thing. How does anyone know the truth of anything if both sides of the meeja are big spoofers?
'Well, ' I said, at least they're coming home safe and sound and no blood was shed.'
'No blood? No blood? There's no blood, ya don't need to spill blood when you can rip the spine out of a country that easily. No blood? Ffffttpprrfht. We're a laughin' stock, no blood? Fpttthhtht'.
His jaw mucles bunched.
'Hum,' I said, 'Plenty of blood shed at the Man U/Roma game last night though wasn't there?'
And he was off. I'm not even sure how he managed to draw breath such was his invective. Occasionally I would sense him flagging and I would casually say things like, 'Did you see that guy with the blood all down his face?' or 'I heard that there are 18 fans in hospital ' and 'at least they kept them seperated.'
By the time I reached my front door he was red faced and wild eyed. I paid him and began to climb out. 'Still with all the craziness going on, it was nice to see a photo of Bertie and Ian Paisley shaking hands like that, wasnt it?"
He roared off without another word and I let myself into the house and made a nice cuppa.
Labels: lack thereof., spines, War
posted by fatmammycat at 10:31 am
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