Dad here LOLing, LMAOing and ROFLing all at the same time

Saturday, the day my father often calls me. You might know Clive he has appeared on these pages before, mostly being angry about some uncouth customer with a tattoo and an Arsenal shirt wanting to know why they don’t have ketchup or why the sausage roll had chocolate inside it.

‘It’s a pain au chocolat!’

Aside from this my father is a very ambitious, driven and passionate man. But he is also frustrating, completely disorganised and well, a bit mental. He owns something called the Town Mill Bakery; a company which ‘puts fresh bread straight back into the hands of our customers by bringing baking and bakers back to the high street and away from soulless, faceless industrial units and lorries trundling up and down the motorways’.

‘Yeah whatever mate, have you got any sticky buns? No? Well this is too poncy for me; I am off to Gregg’s for a cheese and ham slice and a can of Coke.

Anyhoo, being the pioneering businessman that he is, he knows that he needs to use Internets to get his message out there on how they bake bread in an organic, fair trade, all the ingredients contain real artisan baker’s fingers in type way. And my Dad fucking loves the Internet, he thinks it’s brilliant and by far the most significant invention of the last 50 years. Trouble is he has not got a single fucking clue how to use it.

The best analogy that I could come up with today, is that he is like a 13 year old boy with a hard on, £100 and a date with Kelly Brook. He knows what he wants to happen, so desperately he can visualise it in his head, but has no idea whatsoever on how to get there or where to even start. In short Dad has no strategy. For Dad, strategy is an obstacle not a means for getting from A to B.

Now this can be charming, people say ‘oh he’s a bit out there’, ‘he’s an enfant terrible who lives life by his own rules and consequences’. For me, who has dealt with this for the past thirty odd years, it’s just psychological equivalent of rubbing your knuckles on a cheese grater. Not least when we have our Saturday talk and he asks how Twitter/Facebook/Tumblr works and how he can get one. His logic for asking me is that as a teenager I was able to tune in the telly and therefore am an IT genius and a social media expert – well why not, everyone else seems to be?

Have you ever had to try and teach someone in their sixties how to use a social networking site? Then have you tried it with someone who is as belligerent and impatient as my father? I think only probably bomb disposal in Helmand Province might beat it for stress levels. All the little niggly bits that we are use to doing to get these accounts, like put in your email address (’I don’t know it, I never use it’), some pictures and set a password that you can fucking remember are the norm, but Dad does not see why HE has to. So then asks me to show him, then gets bored and asks me to do it for him, because according to him I am good at this sort of thing and like it.

His timing is impeccable when asking for this advice. I am normally in the middle of a meeting, making dinner or (ahem) otherwise engaged. In other words, doing things that are of personal interest, but these are of no concern as he needs know to how he can register his Oyster card right now. He lives in Dorset but still has to have one. No, me neither. My default response has now become ‘JFGI’, which I had to explain means ‘Just fucking Google it, Dad’. Now, Internet abbreviations that’s the next minefield for us to cross, as not only is Dad dyslexic but he has whole a new language to learn.

To give you an example, when I told Dad I was writing this blog I sent him the title. He responded with:

‘Very funny, when I read that I laughed out loud’

To which I responded

‘You mean you lol’d’

Eight hours later I got another email saying

‘Lol…I just got that!’

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So it came to this: after months of inaction and sitting idly looking at my computer, not being arsed to write because if I put the computer at my desk then I am not connected to the internet (courtesy of the shitty router provided Orange) and so can’t search for funny pictures, films and witty writing (i.e. porn) while I am meant to be contributing to something I am paying for. So what broke the silence? Something that for reasons I can’t fathom, because it really makes so angry, I have not talked about before.

It’s Tesco and more precisely, Tesco Bishopsgate. Since it opened I have never any better than disappointed when I have visited, sometimes I have been apoplectic with rage at its ineptness. And I am not the only one; I have spoken to neighbours who have expressed the same level indignation at this shithouse excuse for a supermarket. They were all over 60 mind you.

This time it was new the packaging for the newly sized chorizo they sell, but there’s a fuckload of things wrong with it. From those stupid self-service machines that now require as many staff to make it work as could be working fucking tills. The fact that it only has two freezers and it stocks neither oven chips or ice cream in them (two things that my local Costcutter, that is bloody ace by the way, always has in its freezer) and that it never, in all the time it has been open, been able to sell me coriander after 5pm on weekday – why can’t you just buy more you fuckwits!

But mainly my hatred stems from the shop itself having a vendetta against me, no really. Don’t ask me how it knows, it just does, but it seems to be able find out what I want to cook for dinner and remove the key ingredient before I arrive. I have come to believe that it’s bit like the Overlook in The Shining, it has some supernatural power that utilises for evil to stop me making a broad bean and feta fritatta.

And if I am making stir-fry they’ll be out of the black-bean sauce , if it is burritos then they’ll be out of tortilla wraps or if it’s an omelette they’ll be out of eggs. What sort of supermarket runs out eggs for fuck’s sake? One time I needed cumin seeds and I worked out that that was the only spice in their range they didn’t stock. There wasn’t even gap where it should be and according to Wikipedia it’s the second most popular spice in the world after black pepper. So why don’t they have any?

What I should do, is what I keep telling myself to do and always end up doing is going to Waitrose. Saying that, I went to the one at John Lewis today (flagship fucking store I’ll have you know) needing cheap tomato sauce. And what was the only condiment they didn’t stock in their essential range? That’s right, tomato bloody sauce. See, they’re all in on it. Colluding to prevent me having what I want for my tea. Bastards.

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Enjoy while you can ladies, because soon it will all be mine

I have realised that in my cupboard I have a large number of pieces of Tupperware. The thing is, I did not buy a single piece of it. It has all been hoarded from ex-girlfriends. So: some people take money from their partners and rip them off; some keep underwear as trophies; I, however, keep stuff that stops my bread from going stale. I don’t see this as thievery but merely practical and environmentally friendly, because Tupperware’s never something a man sets out to buy – not when he’s single anyway. That’s because lunch normally consists of a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle and two packets of pickled onion Monster Munch.

So how does a guy come to be in possession of, and keep Tupperware? You know how it is: she does a nice thing and makes you lunch and then you go off with the box it came in, saying you’ll clean it and bring it back but you never do. But that also means that’ll be the one and only time that she makes you lunch, as the next time she offers to do it she’ll say that she didn’t have the last bit of Tupperware back, so until then she’s not lending you anymore… But already the deed is done and you have the Tupperware in your cupboard for keeps. And on the whole, I would say that I have come out of the deal quite well.

Because when is there an appropriate time to give the Tupperware back? You don’t just turn up with it if you’ve used it that day and you’re staying at hers, because you will have never, ever, washed it up at work. Who would do such a thing? It’s not even proper Tupperware until at some point in its life it has supported its own ecosystem for at least a week, then you can marvel at the smell you’ve created and then impress her with it.

There is great intellectual profit to be had from comparing the lover to the calibre of Tupperware I managed to snaffle. One particularly good piece comes to mind: made of sturdy thick plastic that is unlikely to buckle under any severe pressure, and can be locked reliably, which meant that it stayed clean on the outside and dirty on the inside – a bit like the girl I got it from.

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I found this at the ever excellent Film Drunk website this week. I really don’t know what to say about it, but it still looks fucking excellent. And I have no idea how I am going to get to see it, but if anyone know if it’s going to get a screening in the UK then please let me know.

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Oh my good God! Once could have been a mistake, then second was annoying, but the third time is going to make me completely stop going to a clothes shop to get a garment for a lady friend. You see, I asked for full details of a specific item to be written down, she didn’t want to initially, but I insisted because I am right. And now you have all you need, because you’ve prepared this like an SAS strike. This is so there will be no uncomfortable moments of being in a women’s department or shop, looking like an undie sniffer. Confidently, you walk up to the shop assistant with all the relevant details in your text, email or printed-out web page with a picture of the fucking thing on it. You ask her:

“Can I have the so-and-so in this size? Look there, I have even brought along the specific stock code to make sure that this is exactly what she wants.”

She looks at you, smiles and says:

“Yes of course, we have it in stock. But …”

What do you mean “But”? I did everything I could; I have the picture and everything!

“Which colour would you like it in?”

Oh fuck! And the assistant then presents you with every single colour of the spectrum, some of the hues only visible to women. You can’t tell the difference. And don’t even bother to try making the decision because you can visualise the disappointment in her face when you present her with it – as if to say how could you possibly think that this would be my colour, you don’t know me at all!

But all is not lost: thanks to the genius of modern technology you can call and find out what she wants. No fucking hope. It gets worse now. I call and ask her through gritted teeth.

“Hi, I’m here in the shop. What colour did you want that top in?”

“Ooh I don’t know, what have they got and what do you think?”

Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fucking motherfucker! On one occasion this conversation happened to me while I was on the other side of the Atlantic with about ten minutes to get to the airport. Tactfully, but in fact clumsily, you try and get a decision out of her.

“Hon, this really isn’t the time. Which one do you want?”

Well done son. Now you’ve fucked it.

“Look if it’s that much trouble, I’ll go and get it myself on Saturday.”

Arrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!

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You made me miss what Cheryl had to say about Olly

It’s Halloween, this means that I will be hiding from the local children with the lights off and telly muted so that I don’t have to provide them sweets and they don’t interrupt X Factor (please let Jedward sing ‘Walk This Way’ for rock week). As a single man living on his own, I feel deeply uncomfortable giving sweets to children and why would I want to give anything to kids who for past 12 months have been locally wreaking havoc on mountain bikes while talking mobile phones, terrorising the elderly and are now mugging me under the banner of a pagan festival?

Then there are adult Halloween parties that require dressing up and I hate fancy dress more than I hate a urinary tract examination. I have never in all my life been to a party where I thought ‘you know, I am having a good time, but what would make it better would be wearing some polyester monstrosity that has caused my body to produce an odour that could be used in a chemical weapons attack’.

This is fun forced upon you rather than just letting you have fun. And you’re trapped, you can’t leave the party or even stop in the pub on the way home, you already look like a knob, but you’re now a knob with nowhere to go if the party is shit.

I have been reliably informed that fancy dress is an ice breaker at parties. Really, how long can the conversation about your costume go on for and how interesting can it ever be? Firstly, if someone has to ask what you’ve come as, then it’s probably not very good or you have come as a sci-fi character so obscure that your explanation will have you boring the fuck out of others in no time.

If you are going to dress up as a character from a series that only appears on Sky1, then do it with other some sad fuckers who think it is fun shooting paintballs at each other through a life size recreation of the Stargate (this actually fucking exists)? Do not regale me with reasons why the character’s story arc is allegorical and how it mirrors your own struggle in IT recruitment solutions.

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I know, it’s been a long time since I have posted, this is due to a lifestyle change for My1MinuteRant, and so I have been of a sunnier disposition lately. But thanks to my father and his lack of anger management, I am back with his rant about people telemarketing him offering free training. It is in some way Government funded, which gets him all Daily Mail (his mother will be proud) about wasting money trying to get people back to work. I have to say that it really doesn’t make much sense, Pops you could really do with a script next time you do one of these. You know, with a beginning, middle and end type thing. Also, what the fuck is a ‘piss sip’, I’ll ask and get back to you. Lastly the irony of the man asking who if there is anyone under 50 who doesn’t know how to use a PC, then walks off with the camera still running. He is 61 I’ll grant you, but he does have previous form of him undoing his rant by conveniently missing out a detail that negates his point.

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Occasional writer and comedian Christina Martin has problem with people, who have problem with something that should be easy. I personally hate it when people start to veer towards a wall or sign in the street blocking your path, meaning that you must adjust speed and direction. Or, the fuckers that walk out of a coffee shop into the pavement thoroughfare without looking. Would you do that if you were walking into the road, well would you? These people are all that is wrong with modern British society.

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One Minute Rant’s father has let his sweet tooth get the better of him. He’s tripped off down the Lyme Regis Co-op to get himself a sugary treat. Unfortunately, in his haste to appease the hunger pangs, he has neglected to consult the cooking instructions.  It’s microwave only, and not having a microwave has resulted in one unhappy pappy.

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