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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