STONE COLD HAVEN
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Do we have to???
Posted: July 24, 2009, 8:39 pm by Darius Stone
Impulse buying for me, has this ability to evoke certain blood thumping emotions. It must be a man thing – one of them that easily defines an exercise in futility if you try to understand it. There are certain conversations that trigger such emotions – say, like “let’s just pop into the supermarket for a sec and grab some things” or “I’m thinking of grabbing a few bits before we get home”. They have a similar effect to the male psyche when we hear statements like “we have to talk” or “sweetie, I missed my period” or “babes, you remember when I told you that…” – yeah! That kind of feeling.
So when a pit stop at a Tesco petrol station this week turned into a shopping expedition in the supermarket next door, my body defaulted to the “I don’t really wanna be hear” mode. There’s just something about shopping that repels my DNA, and while I accept that it’s a necessity in life, there’s a very big difference between picking a few bits and bobs and going out for “shopping”. I never really get to know how much drama is involved until that humongous trolley is pulled from the trolley parking zone and before I can even utter the words “do we really need this giant thing for a few bits”, there’s that almost dismissive “we’re here anyway, I think we should just do all the shopping now” response, served straight with her ‘“what you gon do’ face.
Well, one option is to go back to the car, roll the chair down and just sink off into the music, but once you’ve reached the stage of being at the supermarket door and seeing that ‘what you gon do’ face, you’ll swiftly rule out this option with a quick reminder not to get out of the car next time. Call it the pragmatism of maintaining world peace and harmony. But even then, world peace has its own casualties, and for me, its that nightmare of being in a mega store that I really don’t want to be in.
I don’t know what it is, I’ve just never liked long shopping trips. Even in my bachelor days, I wrote up a list and either made a painful trip with a very short and specific mission of getting only what was on the list, or I sweet talked a shopaholic friend to do the honours for me. I don’t remember taking many supermarket trips during college as I was broke most of the time anyway. In fact, I spent more time in the store cafeteria having a meal because of their unbelievable bargains than I did while shopping.
Online shopping was God sent. Whoever thought that folks can just sit at home, browse what they need on the web, click a few buttons and lo and behold, a chap would appear at your door with your groceries is a saint. I became a sucker for typing what I needed in the search box, ticking the check box and adding it to my shopping basket.
I guess my laziness in anything shopping doesn’t prepare me well for the sights and sounds of the modern supermarket. At least with a shopping list, you can make a quick bee line for what you need and you’re out of the place in a short time. Most supermarkets even allow you to check out your own groceries with this hand held thingybob so that you don’t waste time smiling with folks in the queue for the till and for nosy people to peer into your trolley to examine your habits.
So this time, I resolved that I should indulge in the spirit – you never know, I might like it and its better than precipitating an atmosphere that could easily land me on the sofa. I’d already lost the battle of staying in the car.
‘Er indoors however, enjoys going through the whole supermarket, aisle by aisle. I’m made to understand that this is a normal state of affairs. I never even knew that a supermarket could have a whole aisle of bread and bready like products. I think actually what surprised me more is that we spent more than 15 minutes in this bread aisle looking for cheap, good quality bread. You see, where I come from, bread is either cheap or it’s good quality but it’s not both. So this is a totally new concept for me. It also occurred to me that I didn’t know the price of a loaf of bread…Is this normal? Actually, forget I asked….
Let’s just say that the trip to grab a few bits and bobs ended us with a huge trolley that I could easily sit comfortably in being full with stuff that I didn’t even realise we needed in the house. Just set aside the fact that we were meant to do this shopping anyway, it’s just that we moved from “let’s just pick a few bits and bobs” to a full blown shopping trip under duress.
There was a bonus though – I got to understand those figures in my bank statement better. Like I said before, the price that I thought bread was apparently was the price in 1996. Go figure.
Next time, I’m carrying my 12 point guide to shopping for men who have to do it under duress. Guys, this was sent to me a few years back by a friend and it works if you’re dragged kicking and screaming for them shopping trips. I should have had it with me. Health warning though: You might end up in the doghouse, or worse still, the only hanky panky you’ll be getting for a while is from late night adult TV subscription.
My fellow brethren, if you’re dragged into a shopping trip under duress, this is what you should do to get out of it next time:
- Take boxes of condoms and randomly put them into people’s trolleys when they aren’t looking.
- Walk up to an employee, tap them on the shoulder and say in an official sounding voice “code 3 in house ware” and then watch what happens.
- Move the ‘CAUTION: Wet floor’ sign to a carpeted area.
- Make a trail of tomato juice on the floor leading to the feminine products aisle.
- Set off all the alarms in house ware to go off in 5 minute intervals.
- Set up a tent in the outdoors clothes department and tell the customers that you’ll only invite them in if they bring sausages and a gas stove.
- When the manager asks if they can help you, just burst out crying and scream “why can’t you people just leave me alone?”
- While picking and choosing kitchen knives in the housewares area, approach a member of staff with the knives in hand and ask them where the anti depressants are.
- Hide in the clothing rack and when people are browsing, yell “pick me, pick me”
- Run around the supermarket suspiciously humming loudly to the theme tune of Mission Impossible
- When an announcement comes over the loud speakers, coil down in a foetal position and scream “No, no, no – it’s those voices again”
- Walk into a changing room and lock yourself in, and after a while, shout loudly “there’s no toilet paper in here”
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Meeting the Outlaws
Posted: July 20, 2009, 9:34 pm by Darius Stone
Recently, a good friend asked me for some advice as he prepared for a rare trip back home. As I write this post, I wonder quietly whether he came through unscathed, but I guess I’ll have to wait for him to get on a plane and for us to eventually sit and chat with a cold beer in hand, before I can find out the true extent of the said expedition. For many folks who have settled abroad, a long overdue trip back to the motherland is something to get excited about, and it’s something you plan for a long time.
Granted, a holiday trip home, especially with ‘er indoors and the kids is a project in itself. However, the benefits say for folks at home who genuinely want to see you (as opposed to those who get pissed off that you’ve spent thousands of pounds on air fare for you and your kin – money which would have been better spent via a western union transfer to them), far outweigh the financial and emotional investment and stress involved. Well, with the exception of that dreaded trip to the outlaws.
“Come we stay” has been the de facto option for most immigrant couples from home who meet abroad, and I suspect that at the back of every man’s mind (at least those who are not just interested in the convenience of in-house booty as opposed to a serious relationship), there’s that daunting feeling that the time will come when you’ll have to make an honest woman of the lady you’ve been waking up next to for most part.
It’s the sort of trip that despite constant assurances from your other half aka mshikaji, its extremely naive and negligent for a man to embark on such a trip to the wild west solely on the assurances of a loving partner. I mean, how would she know it’ll be OK unless she’s been married before and has forensic evidence of how your outlaws (I mean in-laws) to be will react? Call it a duty to the survival of fellow man folk, but seeking and giving advice from those who have experienced that dreaded trip to the girl’s family to, shall we say, atone for and explain why their precious daughter has been living in sin with you for however long.
I’m not talking about weddings here. Weddings are side shows and opportunities for drama and fairy tale showbiz that a significant amount of folks don’t have the opportunity to indulge in. Where I come from, a marriage is a done deal once the traditional formalities are given a nod by the powers to be. This would involve that dreaded visit that I talk about, complete with the delivery of “cows” to the homestead of the outlaws. This concept of a wedding in church is a more recent western oriented phenomenon that those who can afford to, go ahead with to compliment the process of a traditional marriage – and as my aunt Rhodah would say – “forget the wedding – once they let you leave that boma with their daughter, it’s a done deal. Otherwise, that girl won’t be allowed to leave”. Aunt Rhodah should know, she’s been around the block a few times and left her father’s gate several times – and she ain’t a spring chicken.
So when a friend asks “what can I expect when visiting the outlaws” – the best advice to give is:
- Get a good negotiator – you’re too emotionally involved. Get a chief of staff you trust, a consigliere who can competently represent your wishes and that of your mshikaji. Also make sure you have a good delegation of friends – peers you grew up with and your tight with, an aunt you trust, and perhaps one of your dad’s peers – call him an elderly statesman who is in the delegation for good measure. You’re going to need them.
- There’s always a fixer in the girl’s family – identify that person quick and get on their side. It’s usually (but not always) a grandmother, or an elderly female mother figure like an aunt. This is the person who has the ability to smooth things as and when (yes as and when and not if and when) things go pear shaped.
- Forget all the assurances your partner has given you or all the “it’ll be OK sweetie – my folks are really nice nonsense”. Consider everyone an outlaw. Only those at the table will negotiate the bride price and she’s not going to be there, and in most cases, will never be told how ugly it got.
I’ve been involved in enough of these expeditions to pick the signs of how things can transpire, and the one thing you always say to yourself is this is the time to be a boy scout – always be prepared…LOL! My expedition was comparatively and thankfully a straight forward one, but by being part of many other expeditions of friends and those close to me who asked for my support – I have seen enough that will traumatize any fully grown warm blooded male.
In one particular case, the whole marriage was nearly called off because of the brinkmanship of some of the folks on the outlaws team, and the insistence of the elders on our delegation that their boy was not going to be taken for a mug…LOL! It’s only in such cases that you ever get to see the value of the “fixer” from the girl’s side.
You see, in my culture, its customary that the suitor takes no part in any aspect of the negotiation. Their job is to sit down and look pretty and occasionally remind folks by standing up to answer the question of “who the gentleman is that is seeking to take away their daughter”.
It’s also customary that after the niceties and warm welcome, there is a sidebar session where the girl’s mother is given her own time with our delegation outside the main negotiating table. This task is usually assigned to the chief negotiator aka consigliere and perhaps a female in your contingent like an elderly aunt or something who step outside with the mother of the bride. During this sidebar, the mother of the bride has to be “sorted” out in her own terms.
And boy don’t some mothers know how to milk this one. I’ve heard lines like “You know that girl kept me in labour for 18 hours and she was a very difficult birth” or “she was a very stubborn child when she grew up” or “she broke all my favourite plates”…LOL! The point is – until the mother of the bride goes back to the negotiating committee and declares that “wameniona vizuri kando” (they’ve sorted me out properly), can the proper negotiation of the bride price go ahead. It doesn’t matter how much the mother of the bride relieved you off, or what arrangement you came to – whether in full or in instalments, that part was a side show that plays no part in the bride price negotiation.
It is at this point where it’s possible to see grown men cry….LOL! particularly in cases where more than just the immediate family of the girl is involved – uncles and cousins are notorious for this. But let’s face it, the negotiation and payment of bride price has become a cottage industry of sorts – and for the most part, it’s immaterial what a girl thinks or hopes will happen. They have no influence in what her “peeps” are capable of. And some of these guys play hard ball. All the girl can hope while hanging out with her own peers and kina auntie is that her husband to be will get past the outlaws. The longer it takes, the more nervous she gets, especially when she gets insider whispers during those very frequent and essential sidebars for “consultation”.
The ante is seriously upped when the bride price is dramatically increased for things like perceived virginity (dare you try and call their bluff and suggest their daughter was not a virgin when she met you – this is not the time and place to stand your ground…and considering you’re the first suitor she’s brought in front of this committee, they have a case for the presumption that she was a virgin before she met you – and you don’t want to take this case on LOL), the girl having a university degree and a job of her own (read: our western union remittance will reduce), the fact that you both live abroad and you’re balling it like a nonsense, or that you have a good job and can afford it. It brings a whole new meaning to “we raised our daughter well and we are pleased that you appreciate our effort – and the bride price is a token of your appreciation to the work done here all round”.
So as you can imagine in lore’s case, things weren’t going well on the negotiating table. It was another pal Kim who noticed Lore was in distress – mainly from the throbbing vertical vein that had formed on the left side of his forehead and his eyes developing an unnervy shade of red. Kim swiftly whisked Lore out of the house on the pretence of having a cigarette break – but clearly, the man was being distressed by the very thought of the brinkmanship that was threatening his impending marriage. A few of us joined the so called fag break at the fence and were even approached by one of L’s girlfriend’s peers to find out if we were OK and if we needed anything.
Clearly Lore’s girlfriend and her peeps had seen L being led out in distress and wanted to find out what was cutting – but the only thing you could say is “wazee bado hawajamaliza” (the elders are still talking). Though it was hard to see at that time, we suspected that the folks negotiating on behalf of the bride had their own agenda…LOL! They were there to get paid and they knew that Lore had a good job abroad.
There was a timely break in the protracted negotiations when you had to admire the skills of the elderly statesmen and women we had with us. They had insisted on coming for the ride, though most of us were convinced they were there for the feast. But their value begun to show by the way they maintain conversation and a light hearted spirit to pass the time by with laughter and old timers stories. For most people in the house who weren’t part of the negotiation, it seemed that everything was going on well – if they only knew…LOL!
What we didn’t know at the time, is a group of the mercenary negotiators who were hell bent on getting paid, had accosted the bride to be during this negotiation and meal break– apparently to get her to confess how much money Lore had with him. In fact they literally threatened the girl to tell them how much they had brought with them from “ngambo”. It’s an understatement to say that they scared the living shit out of the poor girl who was in tears for most of the time after that. I guess you could be if you’re being told that your “man” is too stingy to pay the bride price and that his people are threatening to walk away – which I guess was an option, but never one that had reared its head on the table.
Lore’s girlfriend’s distress didn’t go unnoticed and a savvy aunt approached us at one of our famous fag breaks at the fence with that re-assuring “are you guys OK out here” greeting and smile – and a coded “you guys are not leaving this girl here” message, with cryptic instructions of how we could find the back door. Of course we were too stupid then to figure this out and more focussed on the fact that there were totally unreasonable demands being made on the high table and walking away now seemed an option to consider…LOL!
After indicating to our consigliere that auntie so and so had given us a coded message by saying we were not leaving that girl there – the consigliere, who now looked like a man who needed a break… – had a word with the oldest member of our delegation, a neighbour of Lore’s dad who had travelled with us. He disappeared for about half an hour and on his return, the consigliere asked for another break.
Honestly by that time, few actually had any hope we were going to pull this off – yet we had to maintain our smiles and pretend that all was well. The truth is that if we had guns – her 2 cousins and uncle (the mercenaries) could have easily been dead – though you have to question whether that would have done any good for Lore’s marriage…LOL!
The key was the grandmother. She had been out in the background and no one took notice of her – and it was the old man from our delegation who went to have a cup of tea with her. From what we gathered, she was well aware of the mercenary tactics of some of the members of the outlaws team though the hope was that the rest will tame them. But I guess pay day is pay day. The deal that was brokered was for what Lore was willing to offer to be an upfront payment of some sort – and that a small token of appreciation will be on-going – kind of like to keep a bond for the family.
On our part, we gave way to not demanding and being given assurances about what future instalments and demands will be, and on the granny’s part, she guaranteed that the girl will leave that homestead with us and an assurance that tomorrow was another day – this will pass.
Even as people celebrated the new traditional union, there were some very bitter people in that room. Some of our friends went as far as loading everything that the girl owned, including presents from her folk into one of the SUV’s we had, and by the time all the good-bye’s and crying was taking place, all the drivers were revving the cars outside the gate. All that was left was for that girl to be smuggled into one of the cars….LOL! She was ours and we weren’t taking chances that them mercenaries were going to change their minds.
Funny thing is that over a year later at Lore’s wedding, the two looked so happy in church and lapping up the event. If only folks there knew that that wedding might have never happened…LOL! I guess it must be harder for the couple especially since they normally have to take a back seat as others see to their business. I don’t blame Lore for never telling his wife what was said in that room. There is some truth that sometimes you have to protect the ones you love and some things she just did not need to hear.
And to think of how she was a bitch to everyone during the wedding preparations – “Guys, no one is going to fuck this up for me – this is the most important day of my life”. Lordy Lord, if she knew the hoops Lore and his boys had to jump to give her the freedom to say that…LOL!
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They don’t do it like it says on the tin anymore…Part I
Posted: July 15, 2009, 6:06 pm by Darius Stone
I sometimes find myself in a zone where not much seems to happen – kind of like being stuck in traffic without much hope for movement. You know the general direction you’re heading in life, but there’s zilch you can do about the sheer pile up of a jam in front of you. Some folks prefer to call this state of affairs as being in limbo, but I prefer to think of it as downtime that I can justifiably take pleasure at doing absolutely nothing as I wait for the proverbial car in front to move a few notches.
This past “doing nothing” moment found me talking on the phone to an old pal who I keep in touch with once in a blue moon – and for some reason, we were lamenting about how our sons (who are roughly the same age) are growing up on a totally different planet from where we live. I guess before concluding that we were just a bunch of old geezers, we found ourselves reminiscing about the good ole days of growing up the hard way. Nostalgia does have this amazing habit of filling voids that seem annoying at best, and a recipe for procrastination at worst.
My pal and I went to the same high school and we were just thinking of our experiences there. Much has changed these days and a few years ago, I gave my wife a guided tour of my old high school and erroneously expressed my wish that one day our son would follow in my footsteps by attending the same school – only to be met by that “over my dead body” steely no-nonsense look. You know that look – yes, that look that you sometimes get say when you occasionally do something stupid during them drama central moments like suggest that, let me see – “maybe I should just get a second wife”…LOL! Yeah! That look – you know it.
Back in those days, the treatment we got as rabbles (the common terminology for first year fresh meat who had just got off the milk train of primary school) would put any boot camp worth its salt to shame. It was a rite of passage that would scare the living shit out of any parent. It’s always debatable whether some of the perpetrators who unleashed the shall we say, customary treatment, were by any measure candidates for prosecution for child cruelty or even torture. The school was renowned for this and my wife knew it, and not necessarily because my friends and I who she had been around vividly narrated stories of our hell – I guess also because a very close relative of hers was involved in making my life a nightmare in the first year.
The school had its roots in the British Navy and everything about the way it operated and the culture of the school stemmed from this. Students actually run the day to day activities and supervised each other as modelled by ranks in a military setup – where monitors, prefects and senior prefects played the symbolic roles of sergeants, lieutenants and commanders. At first, it really didn’t make sense that your fellow students had so much power over you, but once you’re immersed in the culture, you can’t really wait your turn to unleash the same treatment to those that follow you.
I couldn’t help but think that actually, it was that experience, that rite of passage, that baptism of the fiery sort – that moulded me into who I am, that taught me the virtues I had and the guile to grit through the issues in life. How can that be a bad thing for Stone Jnr. The law says here that you can’t even bitch slap your kid when they’re clearly due a good ole fashioned ass whooping and even in nursery school, they’re taught how to dial child support and abuse emergency help lines.
I vividly remember my first day as a rabble. Yeah – the exciting shopping for your first boarding school experience, the laughter at all them folks carrying buckets and colourful metal coffins on their heads disguised as suitcases trying to board all manner of public transport, and the excitement of meeting new faces and a whole new experience that means you don’t have to answer to the parents at home.
That naive excitement clearly clouded any sense of reality that I had, and even threw the small pockets of advice that I had right out of the window of the car as we turned into the main gates. It was customary that all rabbles spent their first year in a rabble only house before joining their main dormitory for the rest of their school life. I had all this worked out like clockwork, and the reason for this was that my elder brother was a senior at this school – and I figured that if life was as good as he portrayed, then what’s all the fuss – I can pull this off.
It was only while touring the house that I bumped into the two most senior prefects of the house, one of whom recognized me as I had been to the same primary school as him. So in saying hello to me by name, it totally caught the attention of the head honcho who turned around with the sort of glee you’d only see from a starving man who has just been served a platter of a sizzling rack of ribs and chicken drumsticks.
Students were always referred to by surname – and the mention of my name evoking such reaction unnerved me to say the least.
“Is this Stone’s brother”, the head honcho asked his fellow prefect?
“Yeah! It is” the answer came with laughter.
And so the head honcho swiftly directed me to wait for him outside his study – to which I made a monumental mistake of asking why the hell I would want to do that. I had other things to sort out and I figured those were more important than sharing niceties with someone who knew my elder brother. I suppose the arrogance in the manner I expressed this didn’t earn me any friends.I was very quickly brought back down to earth with a monumental slap that made me lose my senses for a split second. I don’t know if the slap would have had a lesser impact if I was prepared for or if I had anticipated it, but there was that split second where a shot of tears was gagging to chuck out of my eyes and I could have sworn I saw or heard the entire Vienna boys choir sing Handel’s Hallelujah.
My very brief moment of confused amazement was mercilessly interrupted by a hail of knuckle busters aka ngotos – and of course, it didn’t help that I had just had a crew cut. Though the assault on my bald head relieved me of the dilemma of finding out whether it was Hallelujah that I was just listening to – I did what any other person in my position would do and went into automatic defence mode throwing punches at anything or anyone that would take them.
Let’s just say that was the worst mistake I could have done on my first few minutes (let alone the first day) as a rabble. After being quickly shepherded to the head honcho’s study by other “concerned” bystanders, I quickly realised the odds were stacked against me. There was a chap called MK already kneeling down outside the said study in full games kits – and if I didn’t know what colours he was wearing, it was easy to surmise that MK was dressed as any prisoner would during work time.
“You’re new, huh?” MK asked with a smile.
“There’s a guy who has just slapped and ngotoed me and I punched back – he wanted me to wait for him here”, I responded.
“Jesus” was the exclaimed response from MK while shifting aside to make space for me.
“Who the hell is he”, I asked as I assumed the position.
“He’s the head honcho. Even though he’s a student, he’s more powerful than even the teachers”.
…Did I mention that MK and I got to become very good friends?
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Things that really make you go Hmmm!
Posted: July 9, 2009, 3:34 pm by Darius Stone
Gone are the days when parents lambast their kids for watching too much telly or standing too close to the TV – citing reasons like “the TV rays will mess your eyes up” or “too much TV will stunt your growth”. No no! Wafer thin plasma TV’s and flat screen varieties that don’t emit funny rays like the old school type that are too heavy and give burglars hernias during transit are in fashion.
But they too come with their own mortal dangers. Of late, there’s a growing trend in the UK (or maybe not just out here) of flat screen TV’s mounted on walls or on shelving jumping out at little 2 or 3 year old toddlers and killing them instantly. A parent’s worst nightmare is their child falling from the top of the stairs or God forbid, running innocently onto the road when playing. But I doubt there’s folks out there who occasionally remind themselves “I must do something about that telly on the wall – it’s going to fly out of the wall one day and injure someone – let me make a note of that”.
Considering 4 toddlers have died this year by TV’s jumping out of the wall and crushing them, it’s only a matter of time before ‘elf and safety Mafioso insist that TV manufacturers carry warnings on them – “WARNING! This device is capable of killing unsuspecting toddlers – Suitable for children over 6 years of age”.
On other matters, economic hardships bring out the darker no-nonsense side of tax payers who hawkishly watch how their government is using their hard earned “tak money”, as folks from the deep south of the US of A would say.
The British government have decided to outsource their prison services by building a £1 million prison in Nigeria for the exclusive use of Nigerian criminals who are currently esteemed guests being held at Her Majesty’s pleasure for various transgressions of the law of the land.
It’s the sort of gesture that would make financial sense from the point of view of civil servants rattling their brains to figure out how to cut government spending during hard times, and actually, it does make business sense. But hardcore nationalists see it as a waste of their tax dough which might be better spent in the British Isles. Apparently, there’s some objections already being cited that outsourcing the prisoners back to Nigerland is in breach of their human rights…LOL! This human rights thing is sometimes milked like a nonsense.
They’re probably just miffed that they won’t be getting satellite TV back in Nigeria, access to education and health services, and for the married ones, conjugal visits enshrined in the law of the land. You wonder what’s wrong with just putting them on Con Air straight to Lagos airport for a good ol’ fashioned reception by the local constabulary in Lagos.
In other disturbing developments, this thing called science is beginning to send shivers down my spine. Some freaks of scientists at Newcastle university are on a mission to develop artificial sperm from stem cells. Are we getting to the stage as men where our pro-creative functions will cease to be the ace up our sleeve? Granted, for centuries, there’s been moans and groans from hardcore feminishta types who will go as far as saying women can do without men.
What the hell are these punks in Newcastle trying to do to mankind….LOL! I’m not cool with any excuse that will give women an option of procuring sperm from other sources for the purpose of pro-creation….I guess I’m still the good ol’ fashioned male type who believes that ‘er indoors will continue to be the quintessential warm blooded female who will always pick the real deal for a good going over, rather than this self destructive “I don’t need a man” type nonsense…LOL!
Some scientific experiments need to be shut down, period!
…And on things that just don’t make sense…
- You go upstairs to tuck your daughter into bed, maybe read her a bedtime story – basically make sure she sleeps well.
- You leave your long term partner aka mshikaji downstairs with your best friend (by the way, your best friend’s boyfriend has blacked out on the sofa)
- When you come downstairs, you hear that eerily familiar soundtrack of sexual groans in the kitchen
- You catch your man with his trousers around his ankles and your best friend has her legs wrapped tightly around him
- Your man tells you he was just showing her his “scar” on his thigh (Clearly I’m getting too old when this is what it’s called these days…LOL!)
- You freak out in blind anger, grab a kitchen knife and stab the bastard in his back
And then, you kiss and make up right on the steps of the court that has just bailed you for GBH and you then marry the dude…
Sounds like a script from Jerry Springer…right? Maybe this couple need to be on Jerry Springer.
Notwithstanding the fact that she actually found him with his tojjer inside her friend…LOL! How do you actually opt to live with a woman who has stabbed you. This dude is crazy – actually, both of them are crazy.Related Articles:
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Ambulance Chasers
Posted: July 3, 2009, 4:09 pm by Darius Stone
I’ve become very skilled at hitting the mute button on the remote to stop my blood pressure from rising because of sucker TV commercials. In fact, I try to break my own record of how fast I can zap the bastards off. The ones that get me the most are those that try to shop you secured loans and always start with stupid questions like “Are you a home owner? Do you have debts you want to consolidate?…” Or the ambulance chasing ones from Accident Direct or Injury lawyers for you or something like that that start with “Have you been injured at work, on the road or whilst walking in town??? We could help you make a claim!” You know them type of adverts I’m talking about…LOL!
So last week, my wife and I were approaching a roundabout and we had to slow down. My wife was driving and I was fiddling with the car Stereo trying to locate one of my favourite songs by Mwamburi – Stella mpenzi wangu (I just love the part he brings his whole clan to the airport to meet Stella his long lost love flying in from Japan and she chucks out of the plane holding a baby with a short Japanese fella following her behind…).
As we came to a halt to give way, the car behind us ploughed into us with such force I could feel the pain of the bumper hitting the ground and a woman wailing like she had just seen Elvis or something. My first thought was – “For fuck’s sake!”. I guess I was more concerned with the fact that we were going to be stuck there for a while and I had stuff to do – and I mentioned as much to my wife whose first response was to shake her head and ask if that’s all I was concerned about and pointing out that someone could be injured – or our son might have been in the back.
Well – my son wasn’t in the car and she didn’t look injured and I certainly wasn’t, and to be honest with you – the fucker behind us is the one who ploughed into us – so I didn’t see what the need for the drama about my lack of concern for injuries was. Maybe she was thinking of the screaming and wailing behind us, but honestly, not doing what I wanted on time was a bigger deal. Besides, we were literally cruising just above 0 and I really couldn’t see how it was possible for an immobile object to inflict casualties.
Boy was I wrong…LOL! Not about the casualties – but more about the state of the perpetrating vehicle. The whole of the other driver’s front grill was hanging by a thread (if you can call it that), her front bumper was on the ground full of denting and her number plate was literally under our car strewn among the broken glass from her head lamps. You couldn’t help but wish the poor lady had insurance. Actually, you couldn’t help but be more concerned for her car (not her at this point by the way), considering that ours only had minor scratches at the back – Well, they weren’t a big deal, but they looked ugly as if someone had run a key (well, a whole bunch of them) from left to right – and it wasn’t cool.
What concerned me more is that she was wailing like a baby and starting to seriously annoy with her apologies and not meaning to hit us sobs. In between picking up her number plate and having to listen to the diatribe, she crossed the line when she told my wife that she had seen us slowing down and stopping – and that was what she also meant to do…only that – she stepped on the accelerator instead of the brake.
That’s when I said fuck it – and I went back to the car. What a load of nonsense. Some people should never be allowed to drive….LOL! I carried on looking for Stella. After what seemed ages, my wife came back armed with the poor lady’s details and we headed off. Of course the drama about my insensitivity continued – but my take is simple. She was stupid – why should I be sensitive. We’re late, our car looks like a bunny boiler had given it a good going over – and for what? – Because some silly woman can’t tell the brake from the gas pedal?
A few days later, we receive a call from an ambulance chasing law firm. That’s when them accident direct adverts came to mind….LOL! How the hell did they get our number? Forget I asked, I should know better in this data savvy age of information selling. Apparently, aside from the insurance process, this company were willing to assist us in a personal injury claim.
So come the questions, were you injured? Who else was in the car? Were they injured? Yada Yada….My question to them was about their intent and how they make their money.
“Oh Mr. Stone – you get 100% of the compensation. We claim our costs from the other party and its a no win no fee arrangement”. But even after telling them no one was injured and the poor lady’s insurance company are paying for our damage they still push on and push on.
I guess you know the economy is bad when ambulance chasing law firms are willing to convince you first that you have an injury and then help you make a claim. I even asked if I can claim for the time I lost. You see, time is of value to me and I would have otherwise been doing something instead of listening to silly people who can’t drive. The answer was amusing “No sir, we only do claims on personal injury”.
I bet you these guys have spotters on roundabouts waiting for accidents and then dig your details from licence plate info – “We know you got injured sir – we were there”…LOL!
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Fish cakes
Alas a fish cake.
Yet more fish cakes
Guess what ... yeah ... fish cakes.
The end of the fish cakes
