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Apr. 29th, 2005 08:12 pmRarr! I am, as they say in Robot Opera, angry.
So today I went to pay in my maintenance grant, and also a few Manx notes that have been lurking in my pockets from the last time I was on the Rock of Smell. I get to the front of the line, and the fucking cashier has to do the usual "Oh, you're from the Isle of Man?" spiel I am forced to listen to every single time I go to pay Manx currency in.
No, fucktard. I just like collecting notes from the Rock That Time Forgot and carrying around with me, despite the fact that nobody on this stinking mainland will accept them. Also, my grant cheque says "paid by the Isle of Man government". What do you think?
This in itself would justify wishing some mildly unpleasent fate, such as anal violation by weasels, upon my tormenters, but alas, the ordeal had only just begun. Cashier Tard felt compelled to show this "novelty" money to Old Biddy Cashier, who proclaimed she had never seen such a thing either, and that she wasn't sure they could accept it (!!) and they had to call a supervisor, who of course felt compelled to add her "I've never been to the Isle of Man"-esque remarks to the conversation, along with the inevitable "Oh, isn't it quaint, they'll put Anything on money these days, won't they, teehee".
Listen, Spacktardius Natwestius. Treating me and my home country like we're some kind of fucking exhibit when all I want to do is make sure there's enough money in my account to cover my utility bills this month is Not Fucking On. Stupid remarks about cats with no tails (Oh, HAHA! So original!) and three legs are just going to make me wish the mill had collapsed on your dour, humourless Yorkshire ancestors, or that your tweed jackets with leather elbow patches come to life at night and strangle you.
Seriously, you gloomy Dale-dwelling bastards. Don't you have some Lancashiremen falling down holes you should be guffawing over?
I was going to say something mean about Gwyneth Paltrow and how her stupid, simpering voice ruined Seven for me here, but I used up all my anger and now I'm going to paddle my coracle and maybe build a giant waterwheel or ride a steam train. BECAUSE I'M MANX! HAHAHAHAHAAA I AM SO RUSTIC AND AMUSING!
So today I went to pay in my maintenance grant, and also a few Manx notes that have been lurking in my pockets from the last time I was on the Rock of Smell. I get to the front of the line, and the fucking cashier has to do the usual "Oh, you're from the Isle of Man?" spiel I am forced to listen to every single time I go to pay Manx currency in.
No, fucktard. I just like collecting notes from the Rock That Time Forgot and carrying around with me, despite the fact that nobody on this stinking mainland will accept them. Also, my grant cheque says "paid by the Isle of Man government". What do you think?
This in itself would justify wishing some mildly unpleasent fate, such as anal violation by weasels, upon my tormenters, but alas, the ordeal had only just begun. Cashier Tard felt compelled to show this "novelty" money to Old Biddy Cashier, who proclaimed she had never seen such a thing either, and that she wasn't sure they could accept it (!!) and they had to call a supervisor, who of course felt compelled to add her "I've never been to the Isle of Man"-esque remarks to the conversation, along with the inevitable "Oh, isn't it quaint, they'll put Anything on money these days, won't they, teehee".
Listen, Spacktardius Natwestius. Treating me and my home country like we're some kind of fucking exhibit when all I want to do is make sure there's enough money in my account to cover my utility bills this month is Not Fucking On. Stupid remarks about cats with no tails (Oh, HAHA! So original!) and three legs are just going to make me wish the mill had collapsed on your dour, humourless Yorkshire ancestors, or that your tweed jackets with leather elbow patches come to life at night and strangle you.
Seriously, you gloomy Dale-dwelling bastards. Don't you have some Lancashiremen falling down holes you should be guffawing over?
I was going to say something mean about Gwyneth Paltrow and how her stupid, simpering voice ruined Seven for me here, but I used up all my anger and now I'm going to paddle my coracle and maybe build a giant waterwheel or ride a steam train. BECAUSE I'M MANX! HAHAHAHAHAAA I AM SO RUSTIC AND AMUSING!
