The 4th and final single released from the Spice Girls’ 1st album “Spice” in March 1997 in the UK, and their 4th single to reach number one in the UK charts. It became the official Comic Relief single for 1997 and 2,200,000 copies were sold world wide.*
Who do these people think they are?
And they call the Police “Scum”?
*Please note: I am not a Spice Girls fan.
Showing posts with label Observing stupid people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Observing stupid people. Show all posts
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Back So Soon?
I accompanied Mr Man to a Table Tennis match tonight. I didn’t have much choice; I’m his chauffer and the match was too far away for me to drop him off and pick him up again later. I don’t get any extra pay for waiting around though.
So faced with three hours of watching a ping pong ball flying to and fro before my eyes, what else could I do but get out my pen and note pad?
Being in a permanent bad mood, as I am at the moment, I had absolutely no desire to talk to anyone and took an instant disliking to everyone I met. Well, everyone in the opposing team anyway.
The middle aged woman was far too chirpy and chatty for my liking. Don’t you find that when you feel like you want everyone to die you always want the happy ones to die first?
“I hope she doesn’t speak to me” I said to Mr Man.
At least when she played she wasn’t afraid to give credit where it was due to the opposing player, which is more than I can say for the young lad who was in their team.
I suppose he must have been in his late teens or early twenties. Spraying his bat with a fancy solution and using a specialised cloth to wipe it with, he obviously fancied himself as a serious player. Do you know what Mr Man uses? Gob. Yep, he spits on his bat and wipes it on his trousers* and that’s enough to give his bat the sticky surface he requires for his spiny shots.
This young lad was so incredibly confident of his own abilities; he oozed arrogance. He first played against our Rastafarian player, who is so laid back that when I first saw him play last week he was actually whistling. I’m sure that’s all part of his hustler routine. Picture the scene; an old man with a grey beard, turns up to play wearing a jumper and a woolly hat over his mass of locks. During warm up he moves slowly around the table and you’re not quite sure if that’s because of his age, his Jamaican “soon come” attitude, or the weight of his hair. The young, athletic looking player was obviously confident of an easy win and even during the warm up he smirked as he smashed the ball across the table and past our old Rasta man. Now that's just not cricket.
The game started and our Rasta player allowed his opponent to win the first few points before deciding it was time to play. Even Mr Man was fooled.
“I bet he smokes Marijuana” Mr Man said.
“You can’t be so prejudiced and stereotype people like that these days” I replied.
“Yeah, but I bet he does”
Whatever he lights in his spare time, tonight he was on fire at the table. As he won point after point I could see the young lads’ frustration growing, and finally he retreated back to his chair with his tail between his legs, after being beaten 3 - 0**.
The only player from the opposing team who seemed inoffensive to me and least likely to irritate was the round bald man who spoke with an Irish accent. But when he got up to play I didn’t know where to look to stop myself from laughing.
“What the hell was that?” I asked Mr Man, referring to the bald mans serve.
He looked like he was juggling a hot hard boiled egg between his bat and his free hand, and when he finally decided to hit it across the table he cocked his leg at the same time. I didn’t know if he was playing or peeing. So that brightened up my evening somewhat.
When it was Mr Mans turn to play the cocky young lad I whispered in his ear:
“Annihilate”
Ok, I know I said annihilate but 11 – 3** in the first game? I almost felt sorry for the boy. Almost.
Mr Man played a killer shot, right across the table to his far right. The lad nearly did the splits trying to reach it.
“That was mean” he said to Mr Man.
No, that’s Table Tennis.
The final outcome of the evening for the team was 10 – 0**. Is this the silver lining you were referring to Aiders?
*He's not the only player to do this I have learnt. Some of the top players in the county lick their bats like lolly pops. Eurgh. Where's the mouthwash?
**There are 3 players in each team, and they all play each other. Finally two players from each team play in the doubles, which brings the total number of games played to 10. In each game, the players play the best of 5 (or the first to 3). In each individual game, or “end” as they call it, the winner is the first to win 11 points by 2 clear points.
So faced with three hours of watching a ping pong ball flying to and fro before my eyes, what else could I do but get out my pen and note pad?
Being in a permanent bad mood, as I am at the moment, I had absolutely no desire to talk to anyone and took an instant disliking to everyone I met. Well, everyone in the opposing team anyway.
The middle aged woman was far too chirpy and chatty for my liking. Don’t you find that when you feel like you want everyone to die you always want the happy ones to die first?
“I hope she doesn’t speak to me” I said to Mr Man.
At least when she played she wasn’t afraid to give credit where it was due to the opposing player, which is more than I can say for the young lad who was in their team.
I suppose he must have been in his late teens or early twenties. Spraying his bat with a fancy solution and using a specialised cloth to wipe it with, he obviously fancied himself as a serious player. Do you know what Mr Man uses? Gob. Yep, he spits on his bat and wipes it on his trousers* and that’s enough to give his bat the sticky surface he requires for his spiny shots.
This young lad was so incredibly confident of his own abilities; he oozed arrogance. He first played against our Rastafarian player, who is so laid back that when I first saw him play last week he was actually whistling. I’m sure that’s all part of his hustler routine. Picture the scene; an old man with a grey beard, turns up to play wearing a jumper and a woolly hat over his mass of locks. During warm up he moves slowly around the table and you’re not quite sure if that’s because of his age, his Jamaican “soon come” attitude, or the weight of his hair. The young, athletic looking player was obviously confident of an easy win and even during the warm up he smirked as he smashed the ball across the table and past our old Rasta man. Now that's just not cricket.
The game started and our Rasta player allowed his opponent to win the first few points before deciding it was time to play. Even Mr Man was fooled.
“I bet he smokes Marijuana” Mr Man said.
“You can’t be so prejudiced and stereotype people like that these days” I replied.
“Yeah, but I bet he does”
Whatever he lights in his spare time, tonight he was on fire at the table. As he won point after point I could see the young lads’ frustration growing, and finally he retreated back to his chair with his tail between his legs, after being beaten 3 - 0**.
The only player from the opposing team who seemed inoffensive to me and least likely to irritate was the round bald man who spoke with an Irish accent. But when he got up to play I didn’t know where to look to stop myself from laughing.
“What the hell was that?” I asked Mr Man, referring to the bald mans serve.
He looked like he was juggling a hot hard boiled egg between his bat and his free hand, and when he finally decided to hit it across the table he cocked his leg at the same time. I didn’t know if he was playing or peeing. So that brightened up my evening somewhat.
When it was Mr Mans turn to play the cocky young lad I whispered in his ear:
“Annihilate”
Ok, I know I said annihilate but 11 – 3** in the first game? I almost felt sorry for the boy. Almost.
Mr Man played a killer shot, right across the table to his far right. The lad nearly did the splits trying to reach it.
“That was mean” he said to Mr Man.
No, that’s Table Tennis.
The final outcome of the evening for the team was 10 – 0**. Is this the silver lining you were referring to Aiders?
*He's not the only player to do this I have learnt. Some of the top players in the county lick their bats like lolly pops. Eurgh. Where's the mouthwash?
**There are 3 players in each team, and they all play each other. Finally two players from each team play in the doubles, which brings the total number of games played to 10. In each game, the players play the best of 5 (or the first to 3). In each individual game, or “end” as they call it, the winner is the first to win 11 points by 2 clear points.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Love Today
A single from the album “Life in Cartoon Motion” by Mika. It reached number 6 in the UK charts in 2007.
You must be kidding – I hate today. I am so stressed I feel like my head is going to explode right off my shoulders.
Feeling absolutely exhausted after a sleepless night, I just scraped my unwashed hair back into a pony tail and threw on some sloppy joes to pop into town this afternoon. But deciding which sloppy joes was a nightmare! What sort of stupid weather are we having at the moment? How do you dress for this time of year? Looking out of the window it seemed like it was blowing a gale outside, so I decided to go into town wearing a jumper. Surely that would be cooler than wearing a jacket…?
So with unwashed hair, and feeling extremely hot, flustered, and sloppy, I go about my business in town. Why do I always bump into someone I know when I look and feel like an absolute minger?* How embarrassing is that?
I decided to go into the “Pound Shop”. Every town probably has one. You know the ones; every item in the shop is £1. “Yes that’s right! Every item is just £1!” says the over enthusiastic voice over the tannoy as you walk around the store. One shopper pointed to an item on a shelf, and grabbing the attention of a shop assistant asked:
“Excuse me, how much is that?”
Yes, people really are that stupid in this town.
I go into another shop and whilst searching for my diet Pepsi I notice a shop assistant looking very important with her clipboard and pen, obviously supervising stock control in the store.
“Excuse me” (we’re very polite in this country apparently) “do you have any diet Pepsi?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, we don’t at the moment” she replies.
“That’s ok. Thanks anyway” I say, and as I turn the corner into the next isle I come face to face with a shelf full of diet Pepsi…
I tend to get rather stressed when I’m shopping, and when I’m stressed I have personal space issues. I can’t even stand people walking past me or being in the same isle; it makes me want to scream at people “Just get away from me! You have the whole damn store to shop in; why do you have to stand in the same isle as me?” I swear I’m going to freak out in a store one day and end up getting myself arrested. Ok, when I’m feeling sane I realise that this is a little over the top, but when is it ever acceptable to stand so close to someone in a queue that you brush against them?
So it was just another ordinary day really. Lack of sleep; feeling exhausted; stupid people everywhere; people trying to walk through me; people standing too close to me; and bottles of pop rolling around on the floor.
Nothing much to love if you ask me.
*The Urban Dictionary also describes Minger this way:
Nice huh? So I’m either a septic vagina or I’m a Chav. At least I know how to use a spell checker.
You must be kidding – I hate today. I am so stressed I feel like my head is going to explode right off my shoulders.
Feeling absolutely exhausted after a sleepless night, I just scraped my unwashed hair back into a pony tail and threw on some sloppy joes to pop into town this afternoon. But deciding which sloppy joes was a nightmare! What sort of stupid weather are we having at the moment? How do you dress for this time of year? Looking out of the window it seemed like it was blowing a gale outside, so I decided to go into town wearing a jumper. Surely that would be cooler than wearing a jacket…?
So with unwashed hair, and feeling extremely hot, flustered, and sloppy, I go about my business in town. Why do I always bump into someone I know when I look and feel like an absolute minger?* How embarrassing is that?
I decided to go into the “Pound Shop”. Every town probably has one. You know the ones; every item in the shop is £1. “Yes that’s right! Every item is just £1!” says the over enthusiastic voice over the tannoy as you walk around the store. One shopper pointed to an item on a shelf, and grabbing the attention of a shop assistant asked:
“Excuse me, how much is that?”
Yes, people really are that stupid in this town.
I go into another shop and whilst searching for my diet Pepsi I notice a shop assistant looking very important with her clipboard and pen, obviously supervising stock control in the store.
“Excuse me” (we’re very polite in this country apparently) “do you have any diet Pepsi?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, we don’t at the moment” she replies.
“That’s ok. Thanks anyway” I say, and as I turn the corner into the next isle I come face to face with a shelf full of diet Pepsi…
I tend to get rather stressed when I’m shopping, and when I’m stressed I have personal space issues. I can’t even stand people walking past me or being in the same isle; it makes me want to scream at people “Just get away from me! You have the whole damn store to shop in; why do you have to stand in the same isle as me?” I swear I’m going to freak out in a store one day and end up getting myself arrested. Ok, when I’m feeling sane I realise that this is a little over the top, but when is it ever acceptable to stand so close to someone in a queue that you brush against them?
So it was just another ordinary day really. Lack of sleep; feeling exhausted; stupid people everywhere; people trying to walk through me; people standing too close to me; and bottles of pop rolling around on the floor.
Nothing much to love if you ask me.
*The Urban Dictionary also describes Minger this way:
“Although now more commonly used to define an extremely visually challanging appearance, the word minger originally came from scottish gaelic, meaning 'septic vagina'.Spelling mistakes and lack of capitalization courtesy of Urban Dictionary.
Now often used by chavs all over Britain to define anything remotely disgusting”
Nice huh? So I’m either a septic vagina or I’m a Chav. At least I know how to use a spell checker.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
The “Yoof” of Today
I saw an elderly man mowing a front lawn the other day. He looked so frail that I couldn’t believe he had the strength to push the mower; he looked like he was holding on for support if anything.
On the driveway stood a younger man who spoke to him occasionally and then stood and watched the old man struggle. Morbid curiosity made me turn the car around to drive by for a closer look. By this time the younger man had been joined by two teenage boys.
The elderly man continued mowing. The other three continued to watch whilst chatting. Teatime TV ain’t what it used to be.
On the driveway stood a younger man who spoke to him occasionally and then stood and watched the old man struggle. Morbid curiosity made me turn the car around to drive by for a closer look. By this time the younger man had been joined by two teenage boys.
The elderly man continued mowing. The other three continued to watch whilst chatting. Teatime TV ain’t what it used to be.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Oh listen sister, I love my mister man
From the song "Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man". Lyric by Oscar Hammerstein II, music by Jerome Kern. From the musical "Showboat" 1927.
Ok, I’m writing this blog from the (rather cold) upstairs room of a working mans club. Following on from Mr Mans success in last years table tennis league*, he has decided to play in this years season also. Being the dutiful wife that I am, it is my great pleasure to sit here for 3 hours, freezing my butt off, sitting on a padded bench that is less than comfortable, watching a ping pong ball fly backwards and forwards at varying speeds.
Watching the players is more amusing than interesting: an old lady in shorts enthusiastically bounces the tiny plastic ball on the floor several times before serving, as if she was playing at Wimbledon, and then crouching low she sways keenly from left to right, clutching her bat and staring intently in anticipation for the return of serve, just like they do on the telly – only she misses nearly every ball that comes back to her. It’s then funny to see how she switches from “Wimbledon player” mode to “little old lady” mode as she scurries off in search of the ball. No ball boys here I’m afraid.
There are three players in each team. On our team we have a young lad with his proud parents sitting about 8 feet away from me. With each shot he tends to step forward, stamping his foot hard on the floor, as he pushes his bat from his chest in a deliberate and forceful manner, as if pushing a lawnmower. If he’d like to strengthen that back hand further he’s more than welcome to train on our lawn - lawn mower provided at no extra charge. I almost forgot to mention the hilarious flick of the head that he does each time he serves, which is obviously funnier to see than to read about, not to mention the facial expressions. I’d love to have taken a photograph of him but obviously this would interfere with anonymity.
The other player in our team is the only Chinese man in the league – a nation notoriously good at table tennis, it being their national sport. He gives us the pleasure of being able to see his legs, which are shaped like chicken drumsticks (although clearly shaved rather than plucked), and make me feel even hungrier.
In the opposing team is the old lady mentioned previously and also an old man who is quite tall and lanky, and he poses at the table like a Tyrannosaurus Rex; legs apart, knees slightly bent, leaning foward at a 45 degree angle, and holding his left wrist to his chest, dangling his hand in front of him. I couldn’t resist taking a photograph of this man; I’m not so concerned about anonymity with him as I guess one Tyrannosaurus Rex looks pretty much the same as another.
Later…
I’ve just been downstairs to the bar to get myself a drink, and the prospect of sitting there in an empty bar with my drink, which tastes more like fizzy water than the Pepsi it’s supposed to be, and listening to Lionel Richie with the ugly young barman, is far more appealing than the alternative. Still, I trundle off back up the stairs in time for Mr Mans match. He’s quite a lazy player; he hardly moves his feet at all, unlike the third member of the opposing team, who is forced to run 20 feet back from the table to return Mr Mans shots. The opponent is quite normal looking, even quite good looking (sorry Mr Man), although a bit goofy... and he has a big nose... and his eyes are a bit small... ok, he’s actually only good looking from a distance. He’s almost given up hope after losing the first two games 11-2 and 11-2 but after some mid match coaching from one of his team mates (you’d never get away with that at Wimbledon), he finally manages to triumph over Mr Man, although probably not through a huge change of his own game play; Mr Man is not yet as fit as he used to be, and was hanging over the table by this point. Obviously his opponent thought this would be an easy match as Mr Mans team has just been promoted from a lower division, but suitably impressed by Mr Mans technique, he approaches him after the match to “fish” for information about his table tennis back ground. “You must have played for quite a high division before your break away from the game” he prompts. Mr Man, preferring to remain the enigma that he is, simply replies with “yeah” **. I love that man.
The last game of the evening is a doubles game, played by Mr Man and Chinese Chicken Legs against T Rex and Navratilova’s mother – Goofy and the Lawnmower Kid sit this one out. Soon it’s time to finally go home. Just before we leave though the Wimbledon woman wants to examine Mr Mans bat. It seems she can't quite believe that someone else could possibly possess more skill than herself and outplay her. Baffled by his very ordinary bat, she hands it back and we set off.
Cold, hungry, aching, and looking at chicken legs all night, how could I resist nipping into good old KFC on the way home?
* His team finished at the top of the division and he won the highest percentage of games in his division, winning himself a nice shiny trophy.
** Mr Man previously played for the Premier division before a break away from the game of about 7 years, due to illness.
Ok, I’m writing this blog from the (rather cold) upstairs room of a working mans club. Following on from Mr Mans success in last years table tennis league*, he has decided to play in this years season also. Being the dutiful wife that I am, it is my great pleasure to sit here for 3 hours, freezing my butt off, sitting on a padded bench that is less than comfortable, watching a ping pong ball fly backwards and forwards at varying speeds.
Watching the players is more amusing than interesting: an old lady in shorts enthusiastically bounces the tiny plastic ball on the floor several times before serving, as if she was playing at Wimbledon, and then crouching low she sways keenly from left to right, clutching her bat and staring intently in anticipation for the return of serve, just like they do on the telly – only she misses nearly every ball that comes back to her. It’s then funny to see how she switches from “Wimbledon player” mode to “little old lady” mode as she scurries off in search of the ball. No ball boys here I’m afraid.
There are three players in each team. On our team we have a young lad with his proud parents sitting about 8 feet away from me. With each shot he tends to step forward, stamping his foot hard on the floor, as he pushes his bat from his chest in a deliberate and forceful manner, as if pushing a lawnmower. If he’d like to strengthen that back hand further he’s more than welcome to train on our lawn - lawn mower provided at no extra charge. I almost forgot to mention the hilarious flick of the head that he does each time he serves, which is obviously funnier to see than to read about, not to mention the facial expressions. I’d love to have taken a photograph of him but obviously this would interfere with anonymity.
The other player in our team is the only Chinese man in the league – a nation notoriously good at table tennis, it being their national sport. He gives us the pleasure of being able to see his legs, which are shaped like chicken drumsticks (although clearly shaved rather than plucked), and make me feel even hungrier.
In the opposing team is the old lady mentioned previously and also an old man who is quite tall and lanky, and he poses at the table like a Tyrannosaurus Rex; legs apart, knees slightly bent, leaning foward at a 45 degree angle, and holding his left wrist to his chest, dangling his hand in front of him. I couldn’t resist taking a photograph of this man; I’m not so concerned about anonymity with him as I guess one Tyrannosaurus Rex looks pretty much the same as another.Later…
I’ve just been downstairs to the bar to get myself a drink, and the prospect of sitting there in an empty bar with my drink, which tastes more like fizzy water than the Pepsi it’s supposed to be, and listening to Lionel Richie with the ugly young barman, is far more appealing than the alternative. Still, I trundle off back up the stairs in time for Mr Mans match. He’s quite a lazy player; he hardly moves his feet at all, unlike the third member of the opposing team, who is forced to run 20 feet back from the table to return Mr Mans shots. The opponent is quite normal looking, even quite good looking (sorry Mr Man), although a bit goofy... and he has a big nose... and his eyes are a bit small... ok, he’s actually only good looking from a distance. He’s almost given up hope after losing the first two games 11-2 and 11-2 but after some mid match coaching from one of his team mates (you’d never get away with that at Wimbledon), he finally manages to triumph over Mr Man, although probably not through a huge change of his own game play; Mr Man is not yet as fit as he used to be, and was hanging over the table by this point. Obviously his opponent thought this would be an easy match as Mr Mans team has just been promoted from a lower division, but suitably impressed by Mr Mans technique, he approaches him after the match to “fish” for information about his table tennis back ground. “You must have played for quite a high division before your break away from the game” he prompts. Mr Man, preferring to remain the enigma that he is, simply replies with “yeah” **. I love that man.
The last game of the evening is a doubles game, played by Mr Man and Chinese Chicken Legs against T Rex and Navratilova’s mother – Goofy and the Lawnmower Kid sit this one out. Soon it’s time to finally go home. Just before we leave though the Wimbledon woman wants to examine Mr Mans bat. It seems she can't quite believe that someone else could possibly possess more skill than herself and outplay her. Baffled by his very ordinary bat, she hands it back and we set off.
Cold, hungry, aching, and looking at chicken legs all night, how could I resist nipping into good old KFC on the way home?
* His team finished at the top of the division and he won the highest percentage of games in his division, winning himself a nice shiny trophy.
** Mr Man previously played for the Premier division before a break away from the game of about 7 years, due to illness.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I feel like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight!
A line from an irritating song in a British advert for a chicken cooking sauce.
Mr Man and I went to KFC for dinner tonight. I accidentally asked for a McFlurry instead of an Avalanche, which brought back some funny memories for me of when I worked there. We had people coming in all the time asking for things that were on the McDonalds menu, including the fillet-o-fish and the McChicken sandwich! The best was when little old ladies used to come in and ask for fish and chips!
I know it must sound like a rubbish job to have, and in those days I only earned £2.50 an hour, but I had a fantastic time working there - despite my managers! I got on really well with all my other colleagues, I got to meet people every day (which I love), and I got to listen to whatever music I wanted all day long. I still miss those days sometimes, and the people I worked with. At the time I swore I could write a book on life at KFC as you could guarantee something funny would happen every day. I wish I had now, or at least taken some notes at the time because it was all a very long time ago now and I can only remember a few funny things.
One thing I remember, going back to the funny things that people used to ask for, is one time when we had a new food item on the menu. We always had to wear T shirts to advertise the new product, and we also had these square bits of cardboard hanging from the ceiling with a picture of the product on them. One day this bloke walks in and says “I’ll have one of those please” pointing at the piece of cardboard. My work colleague, who we will call Tom, instantly replied with “Certainly sir” and reached up and took the cardboard down and handed it to the customer!
There was also the time when I had a customer ask me for “three wings”. At that time the “hot wings” were a new product and being heavily advertised so I asked him “Would you like the ordinary wings, or the hot wings?” He replied with “I want three wings”. “Which wings would you like though? The hot wings, or the original recipe wings?”
“I want three wings”
“Well these are the hot wings” I said as I pointed to them “And these are the original recipe wings. Which ones would you like?”
“I want three wings”
This went on for an extremely long time, and in the end I just gave him “three wings” and I can’t even remember which ones. Thankfully he didn’t then complain that I had given him the wrong ones, which I was expecting. They were the only four words that he said though, so maybe he didn’t know how to complain.
Some of the funniest stories are the things we saw on the screen upstairs while we were having our break, via the CCTV camera. People seemed completely unaware that it was there. What made it even funnier though is that the person serving the customer would be completely unaware of what was going on over the other side of the counter. One time these two women came in, and while they waited for their food one put her arm around the other and smiled. “Ahh, that’s so sweet” I thought, watching from upstairs “you don’t often see two sisters show affection for each other like that”. How naïve could I possibly be? The next minute she had put her hand down the back of the other ones trousers! “Oh, maybe they’re not sisters then” I thought. And there was Tom, completely unaware of what was going on right in front of him!
The same sort of thing happened to me one night as well, when Tom was upstairs watching. A couple came in, one male, one female this time, and as I was busy packing their order the man got his “thing” out, nudged his girlfriend, and glanced downwards, indicating to her to look. She looked and then quickly turned away trying to pretend nothing was happening. He carried on nudging her and trying to get her to look, and then he started gyrating and “swinging” it about! And there I am in the background packing their food and wishing them farewell with “Enjoy your meal”, completely unaware of what had just happened! When something like this happened and one of us were lucky enough to witness it “live”, we would always come down stairs laughing and tell the others to rewind the tape and watch the last customer. They had no idea how much entertainment they created for us.
Sigh, they were the days.
Just as a side story, we had a piece of chicken left over tonight so I asked the girl behind the counter for a box to put it in to take home. We couldn’t figure out how to close the thing! The girl was laughing as I went back to the counter again, and she closed it for us. I said “It’s like something out of the Krypton factor, but I don’t suppose you know what that is, do you?” “No” she replied, shaking her head. “No, I expect you’re too young”. I then walked away, realising what I had just said and thinking, “How is it that the things we hated in older people when we were younger are the very things that we do when we’re older ourselves?”
Mr Man and I went to KFC for dinner tonight. I accidentally asked for a McFlurry instead of an Avalanche, which brought back some funny memories for me of when I worked there. We had people coming in all the time asking for things that were on the McDonalds menu, including the fillet-o-fish and the McChicken sandwich! The best was when little old ladies used to come in and ask for fish and chips!
I know it must sound like a rubbish job to have, and in those days I only earned £2.50 an hour, but I had a fantastic time working there - despite my managers! I got on really well with all my other colleagues, I got to meet people every day (which I love), and I got to listen to whatever music I wanted all day long. I still miss those days sometimes, and the people I worked with. At the time I swore I could write a book on life at KFC as you could guarantee something funny would happen every day. I wish I had now, or at least taken some notes at the time because it was all a very long time ago now and I can only remember a few funny things.
One thing I remember, going back to the funny things that people used to ask for, is one time when we had a new food item on the menu. We always had to wear T shirts to advertise the new product, and we also had these square bits of cardboard hanging from the ceiling with a picture of the product on them. One day this bloke walks in and says “I’ll have one of those please” pointing at the piece of cardboard. My work colleague, who we will call Tom, instantly replied with “Certainly sir” and reached up and took the cardboard down and handed it to the customer!
There was also the time when I had a customer ask me for “three wings”. At that time the “hot wings” were a new product and being heavily advertised so I asked him “Would you like the ordinary wings, or the hot wings?” He replied with “I want three wings”. “Which wings would you like though? The hot wings, or the original recipe wings?”
“I want three wings”
“Well these are the hot wings” I said as I pointed to them “And these are the original recipe wings. Which ones would you like?”
“I want three wings”
This went on for an extremely long time, and in the end I just gave him “three wings” and I can’t even remember which ones. Thankfully he didn’t then complain that I had given him the wrong ones, which I was expecting. They were the only four words that he said though, so maybe he didn’t know how to complain.
Some of the funniest stories are the things we saw on the screen upstairs while we were having our break, via the CCTV camera. People seemed completely unaware that it was there. What made it even funnier though is that the person serving the customer would be completely unaware of what was going on over the other side of the counter. One time these two women came in, and while they waited for their food one put her arm around the other and smiled. “Ahh, that’s so sweet” I thought, watching from upstairs “you don’t often see two sisters show affection for each other like that”. How naïve could I possibly be? The next minute she had put her hand down the back of the other ones trousers! “Oh, maybe they’re not sisters then” I thought. And there was Tom, completely unaware of what was going on right in front of him!
The same sort of thing happened to me one night as well, when Tom was upstairs watching. A couple came in, one male, one female this time, and as I was busy packing their order the man got his “thing” out, nudged his girlfriend, and glanced downwards, indicating to her to look. She looked and then quickly turned away trying to pretend nothing was happening. He carried on nudging her and trying to get her to look, and then he started gyrating and “swinging” it about! And there I am in the background packing their food and wishing them farewell with “Enjoy your meal”, completely unaware of what had just happened! When something like this happened and one of us were lucky enough to witness it “live”, we would always come down stairs laughing and tell the others to rewind the tape and watch the last customer. They had no idea how much entertainment they created for us.
Sigh, they were the days.
Just as a side story, we had a piece of chicken left over tonight so I asked the girl behind the counter for a box to put it in to take home. We couldn’t figure out how to close the thing! The girl was laughing as I went back to the counter again, and she closed it for us. I said “It’s like something out of the Krypton factor, but I don’t suppose you know what that is, do you?” “No” she replied, shaking her head. “No, I expect you’re too young”. I then walked away, realising what I had just said and thinking, “How is it that the things we hated in older people when we were younger are the very things that we do when we’re older ourselves?”
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