Don't you hate them?
You know, as if the corporate world doesn't impinge upon our "free" time enough as it is - all those bibbed, t-shirted graduates trying to get you to sign up for regular donations to some poxy charity at every turn (and while we're on the subject, how much do those b & t-s'd g's have to clear before the poor orphans/crips/underprivileged Romanians/orphaned-crip-underprivieged-Romanian-Africans etc. start getting a slice of the action? Graduates ain't gonna get out of bed for less than 18K P/A are they ? Not even to spend 14 hours a day standing around in the freezing cold waiting for the opportunity to be sniffy when law-abiding citizens try to avoid being collared by them when they invade our personal space on the street). Then there's the adverts on bus tickets. What's the point of those, other than to make any reasonably-minded person decide to give the wares of any company cheapskate enough to advertise on a poxy bus ticket a very wide berth. Claire Nasir's weather forecast on GMTV - "sponsored by Nestle" ffs. And don't get me started on the changing it from Nestles to "Nez-lay". Swiss Bastards. Perhaps if they put the odd fecking nutritional element in their baby milk, there wouldn't be so many under-nourished African kids and we could lose a few of the b and t-s'd g's trying to guilt-bludgeon a wage out of us. Medecins sans Frontiers? Medicins sans Loot if I had my way.
But I digress.
Last night, the fairer half and I were enjoying a lovely aggregation of the choicest Indian food this side of the sub-continent, relishing the tang of the Paneer Tikka, gourmandising on the melts-in-the-mouth Bombay potato and generally having a cosy, quiet time of it with a couple of similarly lovey-dovey couples and the obliging and friendly staff.
All of a sudden, in breeze a handful of business types and before we know what's hit us, we're hearing the quarterly maximisation forecasts for the coming trimester, all bellowed out in that braying, dick waggling tone of the sort of public school wanker who finds their number-crunching/profit obsessed little racket so thoroughly absorbing that it's not even possible for them to take a sip of Perrier water without letting someone (anyone!) in the vicinity know their views on natural wastage in the toboggan-glazing sector.
A good meal spoiled.
Cunts.
L.U.V. on ya,
Bob
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Apologies to Bob and S, next time we'll take The Dave Howes Band meeting somewhere else.
ReplyDeleteYou know what Bob you can't go into any drinking or eating establishment in good old Brum without finding packs of Business types comparing their anual expenditure and quaterly budget reviews. You get to a point where you start to will them to choke on their incredibly expensive Bulgarian lager
ReplyDeletexx baggie
There's a superb Sarf-Indian restaurant near Sarf Wombledon that's excellent value for money with a wide range of meat AND veggie dishes. 99% of that establishment's clientelle are Tamil speaking peoples. Why? Because it's authentic grub 'from back home' and you never get any of these loud-mouthed city shmock-broker types in there.
ReplyDeleteI hope you told them to shut up or go outside?
ReplyDeleteChuggers get about £8 an hour here in the provinces. Probably loads more Up London.
ReplyDeleteYes Ro-Mo, of course I did - whilst bludgeoning their crania with a luke-warm balti dish...
ReplyDeleteL.U.V. on ya,
Bob
Assaulti with Balti - like your style Big Boy x
ReplyDelete