The “Lunch Hour Time Bandit” experience.

Greetings loyal subjects,

Today, I wish to blog something that really gets on my tits (well, there’s an endless list really, I digress). The subject is the lunch hour time bandit.

Unfortunately, a lot of people have to work. To earn money for useful things, like food and beer for example. And, unless you are retired or a lottery winner, it eats up shitloads of your spare time. Not forgetting the pitifully short breaks, notably the most common one being your lunch hour. Other peeps out there are fortunate to have quick morning, and/of afternoon breaks of around 15 minutes or so. This can vary with the territory and what you do for a job.

Some of you out there may be fortunate enough to actually get out of your workplace on your lunch hour, to have a walk around some shops, and naturally buy your lunch while you are out and about. Or better still, have a quick pint before “returning back to the coal face”, or whatever you do. This is a great idea on paper, perhaps brilliant. Short, but sweet spells of freedom away from the workplace, that are never as long as you want them to be. Tiny little windows of time, where you can do whatever the hell you want, that must be savoured like a fine wine, or some other fine thing that you enjoy.

Until, some twat fucks up your lunch hour. Or, even a shoal of twats. Maybe, a shower of bastards. Take you pick.

They are usually the following types of people:
Retired pensioners
Dole-ite scum that skive from working, and live off the fat of the land (i.e. your taxes)
Mothers that have far too many kids for their own good, or the good of others
Self employed people that make up their own agenda (lucky bastards)
Shift workers that don’t work civilised hours (most of them aren’t twats though, and know you are pressed for time and let you in before them in the queue)

Take pensioners, for example. What the fuck is their problem? One of the most annoying things is that in their retired state, they now have all the time in the world to do whatever the fuck they want. Regretfully, they have little concept of time too, and the importance of time for others. For example, a work colleague of mine drives past a small post office on the way to The Workplace, in an area that can be best described as “Gods Waiting Room”. Strangely, they get up “at the crack o’sparrow fart”, and are in a sizeable queue at the local post office waiting to cash their pensions. For the love of God’s Tits WHY do they have to get up at that time, to go to the post office, when they can have all the “sleep ins” they want?

Personally, I believe there should be a small, 2 hour curfew. A curfew, that extends from 12 o’clock to 2 o’clock, or thereabouts during weekdays. Why is this? I hear you ask…

Because they clog the fucking place up on your lunch hour! Why the hell can’t they find the common decency to keep the fuck out of my way for a mere two hours? Is it such a small thing to ask? After all, they do have all day to do shopping, pottering around, and will still have enough time to go and watch McGuyver, or whatever the hell old people watch nowadays.

In my case, I only have 1 hour for lunch. And, a couple of days where there is only 30 minutes for lunch because of an option to have an early finish by a mere half hour (this ruling in The Workplace in my office, is dubious at best because the fucking place is stuck in the dark ages). The last thing I need, are old people trying to be flash bastards and use the self serve automated tills at the local Asda (also known as “Wall-Mart’s British Bitch”, to you ‘mericans), and fucking it up, causing massive queues

“Oooh, these stupid new fangled things! Robots are going to end up taking over the world. What happened to people being behind the tills?”

Answer:
There still ARE people at the tills. Fucking go there, because you probably have difficulty switching your fucking television on, never mind an automated touch screen fucking till. Auto serve tills are for people WHO KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING. UNLIKE YOU!

And let’s not forget the dole-ite scum and/or chavs. That can find nothing else better but to loiter around shopping centres “on the rob”. Not forgetting ignorantly standing around, chatting shit and snaring up the queue. And, being overly gobby and speaking in brash tones, that are usually punctuated with “F” this, and “F” that, and badly worded grammar. Quite often, with several pond scum children in tow. Because they can’t grasp the basic fundamentals of contraception, and doing other activities besides rutting, fighting, snorting and taking cheap anything, and out and out bare faced thievery.

We want you to have the common courtesy to keep the fuck out of our way. We do not take kindly to you fucking up our lunch hour, paying for your wares with pennies and shrapnel, or food stamps/food tokens. We do not wish to be bored about stories of how you “fought for king and country just so that you can be here today”, when you try to defend yourselves when we lose our rag. We frown upon you talking in shrill tones, thinking that you and your bastard children are the most important thing in the world while you bang into our shins with your triple prams, to be looked at with disgust as if you we were the dogshit that you unwittingly trampled in. We especially hate it when you walk at a pace so slow, that it appears to bend the laws of time and physics when we want to pass. You know the sort of slow, the type of slow that seems to freeze time, or indeed make time shift backwards. THAT SLOW.

Myself, and work colleagues at The Workplace have often mulled over the following idea:

A plan for working people to be granted the “Working Persons Lunch Permit”.

This lunch pass, would enable the user to enter special queues in shops that only people with said passes could use quickly and effectively. Thus ensuring that our precious break times aren’t fucked up by the morons outlined in this rlog. This pass, would gain users automatic priority, as time is money.
To obtain a pass, you would have to have proof of employment that has been signed by one manager, and one director. Along with a copy of your employment contract and a couple of valid pay slips as proof. The Lunch Permit would be similar to a passport, or maybe your driving licence, and include a current and up to date photo. The card would need to be renewed once yearly, or perhaps twice yearly, or every month. Similar to that of car tax. The queues for the till could even have some form of swipe access, and perhaps have some form of toll booth type arrangement as seen in railway stations.

This way, I believe that the lunch hour issues would be resolved. And every other fucker out there that isn’t working can take as long as they fucking want. As they can’t fuck with our program.

To draw a close to this blog, here are two examples of some bastard fucking up my time:

Example 1 – The Asda ATM machines
[Picture the scene. There are a decent handful of people standing in a queue for three different cash machines. Because of the quantity of cash machines, all transactions are mostly, by and large, dealt with in a swift manner]

Count Bastardo The 666th patiently waits his turn, and then the machine directly in front of him is free. He takes two steps forward, only to have some balding twat from out of nowhere cut him up

Twat: [scouse tones] Eeee aarrrr, I was first!

CBT666th: [mumbles] for fucks sake…

Twat: Yerr wha?

[CBT666th shoots him with a laser beam stare, Carrie style, that would have you think said Twat character was going to spontaneously combust. Twat obviously pays attention, and notices that CBT666th looks rather official in shirt and tie, glasses, tied back hair and pin-stripe trousers with Doc Martens. Maybe I could be some form of undercover shop detective? A Tax Man? A security guard for someone famous? Who knows? After all, I have been mistaken for a shop security guard a couple of times]

Twat: [sarcastically] Well…go on ‘den! Yerr obviously aav more important fings to be doin’ than me!

CBT666th: Oh no, no, doesn’t matter. Go ahead.

Twat: Nooo….go on ‘den!

[CBT666th takes the chance, withdraws some money and leaves, mumbling thanks to said Twat in sarcasm]

Example 2:
[This example clearly demonstrates the ignorance, and the “convenience deafness” of old people. CBT666th is in a queue with a bottle of wine and some other bits and bobs. A till suddenly opens and from nowhere, some old biddie steams in and cuts me up scurrying to the newly opened till to get served. Do note, this example wasn’t during work hours, it was the weekend while I was with The Countess].

CBT666th: ……*speechless, and motions in anger with a fist and attempts to strangle old person*

Countess Bastardo: Do you mind, my boyfriend was before you, let him in

Old Biddie: What? You want me to be in front of him?

[Countess Bastardo drags me by the arm and places me in front of the old biddie. My turn to pay for my goods arrives, and I fumble, to smash said bottle of wine accidentally. Chaos ensues while shop staff clean up the mess while I scurry off to get another bottle]

Old Biddie: *tuts at my alleged ignorance*

CBT666th: *says as parting shot upon exiting and paying for goods* You know what Countess, it was worth smashing a bottle of red to snare that old bitch up for being fucking ignorant. Maybe she will learn a fucking lesson!

Snare me up at a queue, and I will fucking have you. BE WARNED!

An introduction

Greetings, and welcome to Count Bastardo The 666th's blogging page.

This Blogger page has been formed for those who "don't do" Myspace. As I have noticed more of a shift towards Facebook of late, and felt that a fair amount of my blogs, ideas, ramblings and observations were too good to keep to the realms of Myspace alone.

So, welcome to my page. And I hope you enjoy having a read. Not forgetting, and most importantly...STAY TUNED, and make a note of this in your favourite linkovitches.

Regards:
CBT666th