Chavs and basket cases

I was sitting beside a pub drinking a beer (as per usual), congratulating myself on a productive morning (I spent 5 hours looking for jobs and housing), forgetting the embarrassing affair in Boots and reading Boris Johnsson’s “Friends, countrymen, voters” and having a right old giggle to myself when…

No, let me start in Boots.
I needed nail clippers.
At the entrance to Boots it states, quite clearly and certainly undoubtedly, that I should, must and would take a basket with me. So, hoping to avoid authority, I did.

I picked up my nail clippers (ranging from 1.99 pounds to 6.99 pounds…who in hell would pay 7 pounds for nail clippers, just because they have a brightly coloured plastic coating…who in hell would subsidize such extravagance? I bought the 1.99 pound pair, which inevitably will be blunt, dangerous, or Health and Safety failed…) and marched off to pay-booth nr. 8; with the clippers in one hand and my basket in the other.

“You didn’t need the basket then?” asked the spotty faced girl from behind her desk.
“Oh yes, it says so at the entrance.” I replied, surprised she didn’t know the rules.
“Does it?” she answered.
“Yes…” I slowly said, my eyes narrowing like Yoda’s listening to a Palpatine speech.
“’Ere you go.” She eventually said after she’d stuck my 10 pound note away and given me coinage change.
“Oh…”, said I confidently, “I won’t need the slip.” And I handed her the blue “paid” slip back.

How wrong one is. Sometimes, obviously.
I was stopped before leaving and asked to show the receipt.
Eventually the girl from pay-booth nr. 8 verified my story and I was allowed on my way. But the embarrassment of suggested theft clung like the sweaty odour of forgotten deodorant… all completely coincidental, I’m sure you’ll understand…

But as I was suggesting, I was sitting at a pub; in the sun, giggling to myself and this lad with long curly hair said: “So, yir a frikkin’ tory thin…” or something along those lines.
“Pardon?” I replied, not entirely sure what he was on about, or to be quite truthful, what he was saying at all.
“Yir frickin’ laughin’ at Boris, ye mist be a tory thin!”
“Oh Lord no!” I laughed, “the man is full of shite.”

“So, yir a frickin’ communistic environmentalist then!” he concluded, his mates nodded their long curly heads in agreement.
One part of me wanted to imply that I used to have long curly hair as well, but that would only have led to more complications…
“Well…”, I said, “just because I believe in the equal distribution of wealth, doesn’t mean to say that I’m an environmentalist.”

“Whit?” the lad answered.
“I don’t give a fuck about the environment.” I concluded. “The faster the ice-caps melt and we all perish in a ball of hazy fire of doom, the better!”

There was a bit of a muddled silence as I put Boris’ book away.
Eventually one of the long, curly haired boys replied: “Whit the frick does that min.” or something along those lines.
“Well,” I said as smartly and as wisely as I could, “the sooner London drowns in a puddle of Thames filth, the sooner the Brits will have to have a new capitol. And what better place than Manchester! I mean, Birmingham…hahahaha.,”

It turned out I was the only person laughing.
“We’re frim Liverpool, we are.” The lad said.
How is one supposed to diagnose accents, when one hardly understands what anyone is saying anyways?

On the positive side of matters though, I do have a job interview lined up…
In a business I’ve already had loads of experience in…
Yes…I’m applying for a job in the movie business!

It might just be selling tickets in a cinema, but hey, I starred in a Bollywood production, what are the chances of being turned down with that kind of relevance!