Saggy titted, unwashed, smelly, uninformed...
More bombs in London. Not good.
Yesterday, I had dinner and drinks with Odette and Rob. We went to The Royal Oak which is my favourite pub in Oxford. There are lots of small rooms and nooks, candles, each light fixture is different, the music is background noise rather than deafening, there is an outside seating area, there is a good selection of beers, ales and wines, the clientele tend to be attractive. The only downside is the extortionate sums they charge. The food is okay but the portions are small and after my main course of Thai noodles I was fucking STARVING. Thank fuck for chips, I thought. I could do with a bowl of chips, lots of salt, ketchup, maybe even some mayonnaise. Clutching the menu, Odette scurried eagerly to the bar to order 2 bowls of chips. Did they have chips? Did they? No, they fucking didn't. No potatoes apparently. Who the fuck runs out of potatoes. If I'd known there was going to be the slightest possibility that the pub would run out of potatoes, I would have brought my own. I have more potatoes at home than I know what to do with. Everyday this week, dinner has consisted of potatoes in various incarnations.
Odette ordered pizza instead and it was DELICIOUS.
I had a couple of pints of Sleemans. It's Canadian. I'm Canadian. We're all Canadian. Hur-fucking-rah. Wasn't very good though.
Today has been quite good. I finished a big piece of work for evil Bosslady (only to be given another one), having drunk 4 litres of water so far, I'm fully hydrated but desperate for a piss, I was coiffed yesterday so have been running my hands through my hair like they do in shampoo adverts etc...life is good.
Anyway...haircuts. Went to a new place (in Little Clarendon Street) yesterday. Even though I was on time, I was kept waiting for 15 minutes. The bint then proceeded to wash my hair (I HATE those sinks with the indentations for your neck) in an unnecessarily vigourous manner. Anyway, her attempt at a head massage was pitiful. Pitiful. AND she hadn't fastened the smelly polyester gown thing around my neck securly so I had water down my back. She then whipped out a rubber thing which looked to me like the mats found on the floor of a car. It weighed about 10lbs. I jerked my head away. I'm sure I have whiplash. So, I was sitting there, trussed up like a chicken, reading Vogue (if they are going to cut men's hair, they should have MEN'S magazines, no?) There was a very informative article on cleansers though. And of course, the usual "how to keep your man happy and give yourself multiple orgasms" type articles.
And so, I was sitting there, reading this girlie magazine (I'm sure they thought I was a bender) when the bitch finally turns up and says "what are we having done today?". So, I dutifully explained in words of one syllable or less, what I wanted done (the same thing I had, only shorter) and she got to work. Of course, my hair was bone-dry by then so she proceeded to drench me with a spray bottle. It was like being caught in a typhoon. Not only was my face now soaking wet, but some moron cranked the music up so she couldn't hear me when I asked for a tissue and had to resort to 'tissue required' gestures.
Having my hair cut is an unpleasant experience but the guy I usually go to knows not to speak to me. I HATE being spoken to whilst I'm being coiffered. The only things I want them to say to me are "would sir like something to drink?" and "what can I do for sir today". Nothing else. NOTHING. I don't do chit-chat. I don't want to know where the bitch is going on holiday (invariably some Costa somewhere or Magaluf or if she's really classy, Lanzarote) or about her boyfriend (Kevin, Barry, Gaz, Trevor) or her dog. I don't care about what she watched on TV last night or what she's doing at the weekend. Just cut my hair, bitch.
The moron I got, clearly subscribed to the 'cram in as much incessant, mindless chatter as you can' school of though. I now know EVERYTHING about this woman. Scary shit, man. AND she kept rubbing her colossal breats against me.
End result: me not terribly happy with my new 'do and regretting ever having set foot in that fucking 'salon'.
Currently listening to: August Day Song by Bebel Gilberto
Yesterday, I had dinner and drinks with Odette and Rob. We went to The Royal Oak which is my favourite pub in Oxford. There are lots of small rooms and nooks, candles, each light fixture is different, the music is background noise rather than deafening, there is an outside seating area, there is a good selection of beers, ales and wines, the clientele tend to be attractive. The only downside is the extortionate sums they charge. The food is okay but the portions are small and after my main course of Thai noodles I was fucking STARVING. Thank fuck for chips, I thought. I could do with a bowl of chips, lots of salt, ketchup, maybe even some mayonnaise. Clutching the menu, Odette scurried eagerly to the bar to order 2 bowls of chips. Did they have chips? Did they? No, they fucking didn't. No potatoes apparently. Who the fuck runs out of potatoes. If I'd known there was going to be the slightest possibility that the pub would run out of potatoes, I would have brought my own. I have more potatoes at home than I know what to do with. Everyday this week, dinner has consisted of potatoes in various incarnations.
Odette ordered pizza instead and it was DELICIOUS.
I had a couple of pints of Sleemans. It's Canadian. I'm Canadian. We're all Canadian. Hur-fucking-rah. Wasn't very good though.
Today has been quite good. I finished a big piece of work for evil Bosslady (only to be given another one), having drunk 4 litres of water so far, I'm fully hydrated but desperate for a piss, I was coiffed yesterday so have been running my hands through my hair like they do in shampoo adverts etc...life is good.
Anyway...haircuts. Went to a new place (in Little Clarendon Street) yesterday. Even though I was on time, I was kept waiting for 15 minutes. The bint then proceeded to wash my hair (I HATE those sinks with the indentations for your neck) in an unnecessarily vigourous manner. Anyway, her attempt at a head massage was pitiful. Pitiful. AND she hadn't fastened the smelly polyester gown thing around my neck securly so I had water down my back. She then whipped out a rubber thing which looked to me like the mats found on the floor of a car. It weighed about 10lbs. I jerked my head away. I'm sure I have whiplash. So, I was sitting there, trussed up like a chicken, reading Vogue (if they are going to cut men's hair, they should have MEN'S magazines, no?) There was a very informative article on cleansers though. And of course, the usual "how to keep your man happy and give yourself multiple orgasms" type articles.
And so, I was sitting there, reading this girlie magazine (I'm sure they thought I was a bender) when the bitch finally turns up and says "what are we having done today?". So, I dutifully explained in words of one syllable or less, what I wanted done (the same thing I had, only shorter) and she got to work. Of course, my hair was bone-dry by then so she proceeded to drench me with a spray bottle. It was like being caught in a typhoon. Not only was my face now soaking wet, but some moron cranked the music up so she couldn't hear me when I asked for a tissue and had to resort to 'tissue required' gestures.
Having my hair cut is an unpleasant experience but the guy I usually go to knows not to speak to me. I HATE being spoken to whilst I'm being coiffered. The only things I want them to say to me are "would sir like something to drink?" and "what can I do for sir today". Nothing else. NOTHING. I don't do chit-chat. I don't want to know where the bitch is going on holiday (invariably some Costa somewhere or Magaluf or if she's really classy, Lanzarote) or about her boyfriend (Kevin, Barry, Gaz, Trevor) or her dog. I don't care about what she watched on TV last night or what she's doing at the weekend. Just cut my hair, bitch.
The moron I got, clearly subscribed to the 'cram in as much incessant, mindless chatter as you can' school of though. I now know EVERYTHING about this woman. Scary shit, man. AND she kept rubbing her colossal breats against me.
End result: me not terribly happy with my new 'do and regretting ever having set foot in that fucking 'salon'.
Currently listening to: August Day Song by Bebel Gilberto
posted by OrlandoCatastrophic at Friday, July 22, 2005
1 Comments:
damn, that reminds me I've still got to get the new Bebel remixes double release...
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