The sky darkens along with my mood. There was a time when I enjoyed the rain, the drama of it, but no more. What’s to enjoy about it when eventually it will begin seeping through the ceiling again, dripping down the wallpaper?
I should move out, but I can’t. I’ve moved too often and I’m sick of the upset.
Again with the bus! These days I spend more time on the bus than I do walking which is a change from before when he must have walked half way to the moon and back. Probably because of the bus pass or maybe I am just tired of schlepping about the place.
Mind you, it is very easy to get irritated on a bus. People are just plain irritating. Farting about trying to locate a bus pass they should have had ready at the stop while up ahead the lights are changing back to red, folk having intimate conversations on mobile phones. I wonder how many American-style gun rampages would have taken place on buses if it weren’t for strict gun laws. Mind, nothing to stop you knifing a few folk.
I can easily board a bus in a perfectly good mood and three stops later be a quivering mass of fury. Inside, at any rate. Not the done thing to show that one is a quivering mass of fury just because someone is talking foreign on a phone. That sort of behaviour would have you in court faster than you could turn around.
“Mr Gibbs. You were a visible mass of quivering fury simply because this foreign gentleman was speaking to an elderly relative on his phone?”
“Yes, your honour. I’m afraid I very much was, but I am o so penitent now.”
Everyone has a wee scintilla of
prejudice inside them. I’m sure if I went to Poland or wherever and spoke
English very loudly on a bus then folk would get irked. Who knows? Maybe they’d
get more than irked?
It’s maybe because this irkiness had need to be suppressed for so long that the beast Brexit came along. It became the only means by which folk could express the irkiness.
All these petty irritations one faces on a daily basis could certainly trigger the most awful carnage. Just look at those Columbine boys. Mind you, without the availability of serious armoury – bombs, automatic machine guns, etc – would they ever have attempted to cause anyone serious damage? Nah! They’d have simply grown up into cynical, bitter Americans. Trump-fuelled right-wing agitators at worst. Wife-beaters and alcoholics. The tall, geeky-looking one (and wasn’t that part of his trouble?) might even have turned out OK. Wife and kids and manager at PC World. It was the wee guy that had real evil in him.
If I wanted to get me a gun and go loop-de-loop in Morrison’s I’d have a bit of a chore on my hands, For a start, where to get a gun? Hang about the Kirkgate until someone offers me one? Sidle up to a hard looking cunt in The Central Bar and ask ‘know where I can buy a gun, pal? I’ve got money…!’. I’d get dragged in the bogs and battered and crawl home skint. By the time I’d managed to get any sort of armoury together my rage would have spent, and I’d return to looking for ‘reduced for sale’ stickers as per usual.
Even the whole ‘reduced for sale’ scenario could get pretty hairy these days. I’ve seen hostility over the ownership of a 30p cheese and onion quiche before now. Up at ASDAs around seven when the girl with the sticker gun hoves into view a line of nervous sweat already visible on her brow, she’ll find a mob has formed awaiting the final reductions of the day.
And tactics? A gang of them will crowd round the poor girl and fire things back to their co-conspirators waiting in an outer ring. I’ve seen wifie’s using trolleys as barricades against unwanted competitors. One day someone is going to get hurt over some 10p ready-meal or two lamb chops for a pound.
‘Carnage in Supermarket – 10 killed. “A big gala pie for 20p. Emotions were high” says survivor’.
I felt real rage just the other day in Scotmid’s when some wee arty middle-class guy plundered the five or six ready-meals on offer. I felt like walking over and smashing them and him to fuck.
If I’d had a gun…fuck knows
what would have happened?
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