Becky says things about … rage

Most treasured Listener, I have been reduced to a violent, ire-spewing volcano of fury. I have been filled with such mania that I fear for those around me. I have been consumed by a raving anger that I cannot be sure hasn’t ruptured my spleen.

What has caused this surge of rage inside me, you may ask.

A sandwich.

A sandwich, Listener.

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Allow me to explain.

I bought a shop-made sandwich. I bought it because my greedy eyes liked the look of the bulge of sumptuous egg filling that ballooned from the bread and smattered against the plastic wrapping. I went all Samuel L. Jackson on myself, and muttered ‘That looks like a taaaasty sandwich’.

I skipped home, joyful at the prospect of mouthful after mouthful of lavish eggy delight.

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The first couple of bites were as I had hoped: bloated with generous, chunky egg. The third and fourth mouthfuls were strangely disappointing. There was a distinct lack of filling. The fifth and sixth mouthfuls were annoying. The seventh and eighth were a downright insult. The ninth was an outrage. Twas nothing but bread.

You see, Listener, sandwich manufacturers are deceitful toads. They will construct a triangular sandwich so that it appears to be consistently spread with a generous, nay, munificent amount of filling. It is only when the innocent, trusting customer has purchased and nibbled the initial hypotenuse of the triangular sandwich, that they discover there is no more filling. 

I shall demonstrate using this helpful diagram:

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This seemingly trivial incident made me shockingly and bafflingly angry. I ranted about it for a full 20 minutes. I was livid. Why? It was only a sandwich. It obviously touched a weak spot in me, that spot that makes my normally calm demeanour bubble over into a venomous frenzy.

I can only deduce that I experienced the phenomenon that occurs occasionally in life that I shall call ‘Moments of Inexplicable and Disproportionate Rage at Minor Incidents’. Those inconsequential things that send a normally laid-back human being into a torrent of wrath. Everyone has stimuli that send them into unadulterated, uncontrolled, unjustifiable rage, and, if you will allow me, dearest Listener, I shall exhibit the most potent of mine.

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People Unnecessarily Reading Out Words

I can already feel my blood pressure rising.

People who feel the need to vocalise every single word they see around them makes me inexplicably livid. I had a boyfriend many years ago whose lovely mother cultivated this rage in me. On car journeys she would sit in the front passenger seat gazing serenely out of the window. What’s wrong with that? Nothing. But what would you do if someone in your car, from which you cannot escape, reads out loud every single road sign and every single billboard and every single shop name you pass?

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Exactly. You would set fire to your own foot.

Just imagine it. An entire journey filled with a relentless oral commentary of geographical wordage. With every turn into a new road she would say dreamily ‘Albert Crescent… Rose Drive… Edridge Road… Samson Street…’ And just when I thought we were safe on long roads with no turnings, there would be ‘McDonalds… Marks and Spencers… Vision Express… Starbucks…’

And with every harmless vocalisation from the front seat, I would sit in the back seething quietly to myself and wishing this lovely, blameless woman would have a sudden heart attack.

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Complicated Clothing

Oh, cherished female listeners, how many times have you seen a dress or a top on a shop window model and thought ‘Oh my goodness me, that is a gorgeous dress. I would love nothing more than to add that charming garment to my wardrobe,’ and you have taken it to the fitting rooms to discover that this dress has been made by people with a streak of such sickness inside them, such malice, that you wonder at the very continuation of humanity. For this dress is literally impossible to get into.

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It is made of gratuitous straps and erroneous gaps and with such heinous anatomical disregard, that you cannot help but exclaim ‘THE VERY EXISTENCE OF THIS DRESS IS FUTILE AND OFFENSIVE, FOR NO HUMAN BEING WILL EVER SUCCEED IN WEARING IT, AND WHY THE FLYING F*** WAS IT EVER INVENTED IN THE FIRST PLACE???’

This makes me want to line up a row of baby meerkats and machine-gun them.

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People Who Dawdle at Ticket Barriers

We all know that terrifying moment of panic upon approaching a station ticket barrier, when we are fumbling for our tickets, and that terrible fear sears through our mind: What if I don’t find my ticket before I reach the barrier???

We all know that feeling. But we step to one side where our physical presence will not be an obstacle to others, and we rummage in our bags and pockets, cursing wildly under our breath, until we find our ticket and rejoin the stream of people through the barriers. All is well.

Except not everyone does that, do they? No. Some people choose to search for their missing ticket in the entrance to the ticket barrier thereby preventing any other poor sod from passing through. 

This makes me want to discharge my own kidneys.

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I tell you what, Person Searching for Your Ticket at the Ticket Barrier, why don’t you just sit down and have a rest while your there? Maybe get a book out and have a read for half an hour? Got a vase that needs mending? No problem, I’ll fetch you some superglue and you can do it right there.

You monster.

Irrelevant Detail in Stories

Being told a story by a friend is a lovely thing. Whether it’s humorous, sad, or nail-bitingly exciting, it should be a joy. However, so many verbal tales are ruined by narrative detours of such abominable irrelevancy that they make me want to run head-first into exposed brickwork.

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Observe the following scenario:

Chum: Did I tell you the story about when I found a dead body in my airing cupboard?

Me: No? Gosh, that sounds exciting. Pray tell.

Chum: Well I’d just got home from work one Wednesday – or had I been to yoga? It could’ve been ballet conditioning, come to think of it… perhaps it was a Thursday, in which case it would’ve been cookery class. Anyway, I got home and – no, it was definitely Tuesday because I had my swimming kit with me and my hair was wet – unless it had been raining… We’d had a lot of rain, I know that much, because I remember saying to Gary how the marigolds were going to suffer…

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Chum: Anyway, I got in and made myself a tuna sandwich – or was it salmon? No, definitely tuna, because we hadn’t had any salmon in the house for ages because Sainsbury’s had been out of them for at least two weeks – could’ve been a month, come to think of it, I know they were very short for a good long while… So I ate my sandwich, had a glass of squash and an apple, maybe even a banana, although I don’t tend to have bananas in the evening because they give me gas, and I took some washing out of the washing machine… or was it the tumble dryer? I think I put another load in, you know, of jeans, shirts, socks…

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Chum: … and I took some ironing upstairs – we’d just had Ian and Bev over to stay, so I’d had some extra linen to iron, and the steam iron had packed in so we’d had to go to B&Q to get a new one – sixty quid, can you believe it? Gary was furious. Yeah, so I’d gone upstairs with this pile of ironing, which had taken me all Saturday morning to do … or did I do it on Sunday? It could’ve been Sunday because I think we’d gone to Gary’s mother’s on Saturday and she’d made this awful marmalade tea loaf – or was it a lemon drizzle?

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Listener, I do not have it in me to endure such flagrant contempt for narrative pertinence.

And recounting all those things has sent me into such a bluster I shall be forced to smash myself in the face with the picture frame I bought from Debenhams. Or was it Bentalls? It could have been John Lewis. Actually, I’m pretty sure it was Ebay…

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Becky says things about … bad moods

I am in a very bad mood.

I was in a very bad mood yesterday, too.

I’m not sure why. I just hate everything and everyone and I wish everything would just disappear and leave me in a world of blackness so that I can fully contemplate my dark terrible mood.

(I wanted to write ‘dark terrible mood’ in different sized fonts, but apparently WordPress won’t let you change the size of individual words in a sentence. No. You have to change the entire paragraph. THAT has just taken the ruddy biscuit. I HATE WordPress.)

Yesterday, everything made me angry. The ticket gates at Surbiton and Wimbledon stations were open and unmanned. SO WHY DID I SPEND MONEY ON A TICKET THEN???? Look, National Rail, if you can’t be bothered to man your stations, then I can’t be bothered to buy a ticket. That’s how it works. But you can guarantee the one time I DON’T buy a ticket, your stations will be manned up to the max. You probably wouldn’t be able to MOVE for mans.

I got annoyed in Nero’s, as well. The man in front of me changed his mind SIX TIMES about what muffin he should get.

‘Blueberry. No – spiced apple. Actually, wait – chocolate. Oooh, no, that’s a bit heavy for this time in the morning…. I’ll go for blueberry. Hang on, no, definitely rasperry and white chocolate. OH NO WAIT I meant apple.’

I WILL BUY YOU ALL THE MUFFINS IN THE F***ING WORLD, JUST GET THE F*** OUT OF MY WAY AND NEVER DARKEN MY DOOR AGAIN WITH YOUR INDECISIVE F***ING QUIBBLING

Then later, on the train back to Surbiton, my carriage was filled with happy smiling schoolgirls, obviously on their way back from a BRILLIANT school trip to London, probably involving the London Eye, or packed lunches in Hyde Park in the sun, or basking on top of London tour buses, or a graceful boat trip down the Thames, and their happy sun-blushed faces made me want to ASSASSINATE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM. 

Then, Sainsbury’s didn’t have the salad dressing I like.

OH YOU ARE KIDDING ME

I shouted to myself, not even caring that I’d made a toddler look up at me in alarm. Stupid toddler.

I arrived home to a small pile of window cleaning and pizza pamphlets by the front door.

WHY CAN’T PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?????????????????

I cried at the very small pile of paper.

Today has not fared much better. I popped into University, and was faced by a boy walking around in shoes with very loud yellow soles. Man, it annoyed me.

(That photo just took three minutes to load. Can you believe that? THREE MINUTES????)

And, the icing on the shitty horrible cake – I get home and am faced with THIS (here go another three minutes I’ll never get back):

It’s Blue-Tack. A ball of Blue-Tack on the carpet. Why is it there? Where has it come from?

‘OH, WHY HAS THIS HAPPENED???!!!!’

I yelled at the Blue-Tack. It said nothing. Just sat there, blue and tacky. What a bastard.

I threw it away. I didn’t even place it on a more suitable surface, such as my desk, or the bookshelf, or in my pencil pot. No. Fuck the Blue-Tack. Just get out of my sight.

Hopefully my bad mood will wear off. Maybe the sun and the cloudless sky through the window will cheer me. Maybe not. I think I’ll just have to sit it out. And I’ll tell you one thing for nothing: if that shitting pigeon doesn’t stop cooing on the roof, I will go

UTTERLY MENTAL.