The character Dr. Henry Henry played so very well by Christopher Lloyd in Nick Roeg’s great film ‘Track 29’ once bellowed to his wife, “Women and trains do not mix!” I agree with those sentiments but would like to expand the idea to women and public transportation in general. (There are other things with which women do not mix: mobile phones, for example, but I’ll leave that rant for another day.) Right, this morning on the bus…a sort of posh bird gets on and offers the driver a ten pound note. Of course the driver doesn’t have change for a tenner and so the argument begins. “But I don’t want to be late for wark” the bint wimpers. Oh, oh…you are going to be late for work. Oh no. What about the entire bus load of people you are delaying because you don’t have the basic common sense to purchase an Oyster Card (things Londoners use to travel) or pay with a two pound coin? “Is there a chance that you get some change some where along the route?” Yeah…this is going to happen. And so the discussion went on. Almost equally annoying the bus driver never told her just to 'fuck-off' . So, this four minute banter between the two great brains continued until the driver backed down and let her on the bus for free. So the bitch got a free ride, while all the other customers paid and well, I just hope she wasn’t late for wark

I, however, was. Yes, because of that delay I missed my train, had to wait six minutes for another and turned up 15 minutes late for wark. I curse this ugly soulless bitch and wish her a speedy and painful death. Life would be more liveable without people who can’t think three minutes ahead, women who shuffle through great big hand bags to find there travel card while boarding a bus, after having spent seven minutes waiting for it to arrive. Women who suddenly stop at a tube exit because they suddenly realise they need their ticket to actually get out. The problem is a very simple one to work out. Just think…what am I going to need to do in the next three minutes…and what can I do to prepare myself for it. But no…and alas Dr. Henry Henry will always be correct: “Women and trains do not mix!”

Okay ladies/girls let’s just clear up one thing: right here, right now. Your Ugg Boots were fine for the winter. Great even. You managed to turn London into a female army of furry boot wearing robot manikins. One or two of you even looked good. But now…it’s almost June, ALMOST JUNE. Please, for the love of man, take them off. Take the fucking boots off, ladies. Purchase a pair of ‘flip-flops’, paint your toenails and start living in the present. I’m not asking for a lot. Please. Today?

I mean you would have to,
wouldn't you?
Viva La France...

Family outing.

Girls in old Volvos drive me mad.
Their dogs in the backseat looking so sad.
They're early sixties stylized,
my true ambitions realized.
They're so disassociated and cool
and those dogs, how they drool
on the re-upholstered seats
of discounted, faux, bengal fur.
There are sunglasses hiding

vacant stares, despondent pouts

and looks like, "WHO CARES?"

Turning signals never work

and epoxied dash attachments

and little quirks make me want to scream,

"I LOVE YOU !" each time they drive past.
Four on the floor or three in the tree,

it really makes no difference to me.

Their exhaust is noxious, but then so am I.

Cross my heart and hope to die

stick a needle in my eye but...

Fifty five in the slow lane drives me wild.

They're going nowhere and not getting there fast.
You, Volvo Girl, are rebel. You are outcast.

And it is not your fault that people do not

understand your constant and undeviating

requirement for individuality and your disdain

for the human race. So don't let them stare you in the face .

Because you'll get nothing back but a look that says, "DROP DEAD, DUDE."
I dream to find one broken down one day.
An "eighteen hundred E," my dear
what would you say to your knight in shining armor
coming to your automotive rescue?
You, in your leather jacket and paint splattered jeans,
and that interesting hair cut, you know what it means
to embrace those old Swedish machines
and make them young again
like I know you would me.
And I'd be down on my knees
and you'd rattle your keys just out of my reach.
I want to be your hairless dog
and run on the beach and pick up your sticks
and ride in your car and drool on your seats.
I want to be your ornamental pooch.
To conquer the world back
to an airbagless age with lapbelts and leaded.
So lock me in your cage of dispassionate bemusement
and let's drive, honey.
Let's just drive.

We are
mo......

Bad Friday.