The Tale of the Jackson 38.

After the moderate success of my debut, I feel that I can start writing about things that really matter, with the twitching light that I can shine onto the proceedings being treated with respect and overall grandeur that it so rightly deserves. With that, lets start discussing this posts topics.

Workmen.

For the last week and a half the great unwashed one and I have been under the duress of having our old and pretty disgusting kitchen removed and replaced with a brand new and shiny kitchen, with everything replaced. New tiles, new cooker, new floor, new cupboards and drawers, everything that was horribly shite and fixing it good and proper. So far, so good as some say. But...

I don't mind the banging. I don't mind getting up at 8am and having to leave the flat to survive, that is no problem, I see it as a rather annoying, but perfect alarm clock. I also don't really mind the inconvenience of not having a kitchen for five days, as I used it as an excuse to have dinner at hazels, spend a ridiculous amount of money on a meal out, and leech off the parents for food. No, my problems do not lie therein...

I hate the mess. Now, don't laugh. Anyone that knows me knows I don't mind being untidy, but messy and dirty really pisses me off, and that might be surprising to a few readers. Don't call the Daily Mail though, it is not that scandalous. The problem is that the workmen, Tam or Tom the joiner (his name is an enigma, even Hyder does not know it for sure) and the plumber, who does not speak, the electrician, who switched the power off without checking if I was using it, and the Tiler, someone who decides that "Fuck them, there is no law against smoking indoors" and promptly proceeds to light his fag inside the living room. Now, that is just plain impolite, especially considering that none of the present flatmates smoke. What a total tosser. Now, he is good at his job and all that, but really is an ignorant person that makes me averse to conversation with him.

Onto the mess. The joiner created all the cabinets with little mess as they only needed to be screwed together, but when it came to creating the cabinet that goes onto the wall from scratch, he builds it in the living room, sawing, planing and even gluing in our main room of residence. Now, if he put down sheets or what ever that would be fine, but nope; straight onto the carpet.

The conspiracy theorist in me thinks this is planned. You see, the carpet is now ruin effectively, and Hyder's dad was thinking about replacing the carpet in the end... maybe he wants a new car.

Buses

My distaste and general hatred for buses is something well publicised, but I feel that I have a new experience to draw is conclusion from. On Monday I headed over to Hazels for some food and she decides we will get the bus back to Giffnock, which at most times of the day takes about 30 minutes or so, which is already more than double the amount of time it takes the equivalent train, and the train is closer to her house than the bus. But, we choose the bus. After getting on it on Renfield Street, it starts to make a loud PARPING noise, similar to that of a car horn, continuously, loudly, for a solid few minutes. Hazel asks me "What is it?" to which I sit and smile, I have no idea but begin to think a new bus will be needed.

So, what does the driver do? He pulls in, and a member of the public no less tells him how to stop it. So, instead of finding out why the bus is making this alarming noise, he just stops it from making it. Kind like taking the batteries out of a smoke alarm that is ringing.

Once we got to Bridge Street, some marvelous prick gets on the bus and is listening to music on his iPod. Now, I am going to ignore his fallacy of owning an iPod, but really, he should know better. Even more compounding, he is using the shitty headphones you get with it! And, I swear to God, he was listening to it at maximum volume, and these headphones are truly inefficient. The noise pollution coming from them was akin to just setting up some speakers and playing his personal music through them for the whole bus. This would not have been a problem if he was listening to some music of note, but no. Fucking Michael Jackson, but not just an album, some sort of dance mega mix where all the tracks were spliced together making some sort of horrific car crash of 80s pop everyone pretends to like, but no one does anymore. He got off the bus at the Merrylee Shops, so someone reading this might actually know him.

Pool Tables in the Gameszone

Really, these need fixed. On Monday night Colin, Steven and I went to the pool hall on level three of the Union to get our pool fix, which was boosted by alcohol consumption. Our table choice was hindered by the fact that some are unplayable, with too many objects in close proximity and the fact that most of them were out of order. The one we chose was good enough. It had all of the balls needed, a cue ball and an okay set of cues, but the table was pock marked to the extreme. It was like a freshly painted white wall in Drumchapel; covered in horrible. The table was marked with stains of booze, probably vomit and a hole the size of the bottom of a pint glass sat right in the middle of the cue ball D. All of this was bad, but no where near as horrific as the fact that the table cloth could be unfolded around this hole, with slashes in the axes of a compass, each of similar length. This gave us a table surface equivalent of Rugby field.

I blame these factors for the poor performance of my self that night.