NOTHING WORSE THAN KIDS TRYING TO ACT

– Essex

Stuff We Hate

Parsley

What is it with parsley? It’s horrid. It tastes like fields and farms and awful in my mouth. Yet every time I order food in an eating establishment that isn’t my own house it comes draped in lashings of this muck.

Bouquet for the person you fucking HATE.

 

Why must I go through my entire restaurant-dinner-eating life in dread of the inevitable arrival a thousand acres worth of roughly chopped parsley, regardless of what I ordered?

Why must I spend the first five minutes of dinner time desperately attempting to excavate the remains of the parsley free food buried several feet beneath the green atrocity? WHY?!?!?! *Bangs head on keyboard in display of desperation, anxiety, stress etc*

Does all food taste shit without the addition of parsley? No. All food tastes wonderfully much better when kept parsley free, as GOD INTENDED. And do they warn you of the arrival of parsley ALL OVER YOUR DIN DIN? Do they fuck.

 

Someone’s about to fuck this pie right up.

 

Who are the people that like parsley? Are they real? Do they spot a dinner flooded in parsley and think… oh yummy scrummy! I do love a bit of parsley. Don’t know why I didn’t just order a great big plate of it. Oh parsley, a treat indeed… and so on.

Are there people that actually buy parsley in supermarkets? Do they pay for it? My curiosity is, as you see, infinite. This, incidentally, was the general advice on living life given by Stephen Hawking at the Paralympic ceremony last night. Strange advice that… “Be curious”. Bet the cat wouldn’t agree.

Anyway I digress; I’m still pissed off about the parsley. In fact I’m half surprised when I order pudding and it doesn’t come touting a massive green parsley hat. A chocolate cake came with minted cream the other day though, which is almost as offensive.

Fucking parsley.

– Essex

STUFF WE HATE

Musicals

Musicals are horrible, torturous things. In fact I’d like to see them banned. Who could possibly gain actual enjoyment from the very thing that brought Andrew Lloyd Webber and his inside out face to our screens? Who, when watching a play or television programme or film thinks to themselves.. you know what would make this better? The protagonist bursting into an uplifting song every fucking five minutes. People must think that. These people have to exist, because musicals keep happening and people keep going to them and I think possibly some of them might even enjoy it. The entire thing beggars belief.

The musical is essentially a shit story punctuated by the shrill screech of a too-large gathering of stage school children in torn clothing. No matter what the subject matter, the children (who appear in all musicals without exception because someone somewhere likes to see children performing) are deliriously upbeat throughout the whole ordeal. In the Sound of Music, the worst of the lot, they are being chased by Nazis. You’d think that might wipe the smug smiles off of their undersized faces. But they just keep on singing and dancing and tapping their horrible little feet. It’s enough to make you retch.

P.S. The tickets to your average West End musical cost about fifty quid, because being entertained in London is bone-crunchingly expensive. They do this so that real London folk don’t bother trying to enjoy such horrors and head straight to the pub instead. Fifty quid coincidentally is enough to get yourself vehhhhrry vehhhhrry drunk.

Probably isn’t

– Essex

STUFF WE HATE

Sightseeing

Bloody sightseeing. Who goes on holiday, wakes up at 5am, bounces into a pair of walking boots and starts studying at a fucking itinerary? Twats, that’s who. Oh but it’s cultural they will say. Ohhh you simply must experience the lives of the (insert outlandish tribe name here). No, I must not. I must lie on the beach reading a crappy novel in which girl meets boy and they live happily ever after, having encountered a few stumbling blocks along the way. At lunchtime I’ll probably eat some chips. Then I’ll get pissed on cocktails thrice the strength of the ones I have at home. And I’ll fucking enjoy it. Not once will I think to myself… oh what I wouldn’t give to be looking at a big old waterfall right now. Not once.

And to all those who’ve ‘found themselves‘ in some far flung island you can drive across in thirteen minutes, know this: you are the worst kind of human.

Behold: A Twat Up A Mountain

Stuff We Hate

The M&Ms men.

They’re DICKHEADS. The red one’s an arrogant fuck and the yellow one’s got some sort of mental deficiency. They’re constantly spurting nonsense chat at one another whilst… EATING M&MS. That’s right kids, the M&Ms men want you to a) eat M&Ms but failing that b) eat each other.

And have you been to M&Ms world? Don’t. Its a giant imagining of an addicts’ late night hallucination. It’s horrible and it’s loud and nothing is free. Everything costs £8. Everything. They even sell a t-shirt which says ‘Keep calm and eat M&Ms’. It actually says that. It’s £8.

Just don’t fucking go, ok? 

– Essex

Stuff We Hate

#justsaying

 

– Essex

stuff we hate

People who use the word ‘please’ in a patronising manner.

How not to use ‘please’

“Please could you do this for me”

“Can you do this now, please”

“Could you please take a look at this”

Alternatives to using ‘please’, in ways that won’t piss people off

“Can you have a go at this for me?”

“Any chance you could do this as soon as possible?”

“Do you have time to take a look at this?”

Phrasing potentially condescending rhetoric as a question softens the blow and makes people like you.

If not, they have every right to break your legs. Peace out.

– Bumpkin

Stuff We Hate

Tourists.

Almost as bad as the London cyclist is the London tourist. The London tourist is a shithead. It is loud and annoying and pleased with itself. “I’m on holiday,” says its smirk as it gazes at you stomping about in your workwear. And I’m going to stop right in front of you and take a picture. Not only that, I’m going to expect that you stand there and wait whilst my ugly companion poses in front of (insert London landmark here). Well no, I won’t wait. I’m going to walk right through your fucking picture. I’ve got things to do. So there.

p.s. welcome to London etc.

Oh fuck off.

– Essex

Stuff we hate

Cyclists in London.

We get it – you’re morally better than everyone who’s driving or taking public transport. Did Mother Nature tell you to ignore all red lights and zebra crossings as well?

Get an Oyster card, douchebags.

– Bumpkin

And stop trying to RUN ME OVER.

– Essex

‘The Games’

Avoid the queues? Travel a different way? How about stop patronising me with idiotic cartoons and frequent references to the term ‘Londoner’. Wankers.

Am I even allowed to write this post without checking with LOCOG first?! Listen, tossers – I work in advertising and I can assure you that this whole ‘Games’ twattishness was the most misguided case of branding I’ve ever seen. Typical creative-corporate hybrid types “thinking outside the box”.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that I had to endure junk mail through my letterbox telling me to avoid travelling/work from home/leave earlier/leave later, my senses were bombarded with advertising in which EVERYTHING was based around the Games Olympics, athletes, the playing of sport, general athleticism and more that are so mind-meltingly mundane I can’t even remember what they were.

It’s a shame, because I’m from a sporting family and I like sport and I used to like the Olympics. But my enthusiasm for this year’s ‘summertime sporting event’ (that acceptable, LOCOG?) shrivelled like a grape left out in Mediterranean sunshine every time I saw a TfL poster, instance of horrendously inappropriate sport-related merchandising or endorsement, the term ‘Games Makers’, those dildo-esque mascots and Sebastian Coe’s face.

Almost as bad as seeing the otherwise-talented Kenneth Branagh flouncing round the ugly stadium looking like a lost extra from Oliver!. Thank god it’s over. Oh wait… when do the Paralymics start?

– Bumpkin