The worst student cookbook

Before I came to university I was given a book called “The Ultimate Student Cookbook” by Fiona Beckett, which is a book that aims to provide realistic recipes for students to cook. Here is a picture of me with that book for a face:

If only this was my real face. It would be so useful.

If you look at that front cover there you would be forgiven for thinking that it does actually provide simple and easy recipes for students to cook. I mean out of onions, flour, eggs and pasta even an idiot like me knows how to cook three of those things (which is a pretty high ratio in comparison to most pictures of food that I generally see). However the front cover of this book is an absolute lie. Here are just three of the ridiculous dishes that they genuinely believe an incompetent student like myself is able to cook:

• Irish soda bread.
• A red onion, chicory and gorgonzola tart.
• Unami salmon, which includes ingredients such as demerara sugar, fennel seed, cayenne pepper and nam pla (which is some sort of thai fish sauce apparently).

Out of all those words I just used I think I understood less than half of them. How many students have nam pla in their cupboards? But this is not my main reason for hating the book. No, it would be ridiculous of me to hate a thing based on it not fulfilling its one and only simple function. The real reason why I hate this book is because of the smug and irritating former students they have to put in their expert advice (as both students and cooks, you'd think they would be qualified to do so; but they aren't). My least favourite of all these students is a man called James. First of all I obviously hate James because he cooks. Who likes cooking? Nobody likes cooking; get some hobbies or dedicate your life to something more worthwhile (like having a less smug face). The second reason why I hate James is because of this stupid thing he calls a "Top Student Tip." You don't need to try and read this photo, I just thought I would give you a picture of his stupid face:

So blurry and smug.

So he's talking about ways to avoid hangovers and then right at the end he says “One method I tried, and it was effective, if hard to maintain, is to drink the same volume in water every time you get a drink. Pint of cider? Pint of water too, please. It really pulls the birds as well. They love it."

Let me just repeat that last bit for you: "It really pulls the birds as well. They love it."

Do they James? Do they really love it?

First of all; birds? Who says "birds?" Yeah birds. Wahey birds. Top birds. Wahey birds. Tits wahey birds. Tits birds. Tits football birds. Wahey nuts football birds. Tits football wahey beer football birds. Football birds tits nuts beer geezer birds tits. Wahey tits birds geezer football beer nuts birds tits lads football. Birds lads football top geezer beer tits birds. Football birds tits beer lads geezer nuts lads bird tits birds.

Secondly, I may not be very good with women, but I have seen at least two films in my life and I am therefore under the impression that girls are meant to like bad boys. But according to James' logic, what attracts girls is not bad boys, but boys that regulate their blood alcohol levels through a sensible hydration system. The only way in which I can see a woman being aroused by a man buying a pint of water with every pint of beer or cider is if he was trying to chat up a woman working for the Drink Responsibly advisory committee. If you saw her sitting among her friends, all of whom have an alcoholic beverage and a glass of tap water in front of them, then maybe you could seduce them using pick up lines centred around James' very sensible hydration system. I imagine in that instance it would work incredibly well actually. They'd see you coming over and she'd start whispering to her friends “oh my god, is he... keeping hydrated by purchasing an equal measure of water with every alcoholic beverage? I've never been so turned on in my life. We could probably have sex in the morning too we'd be feeling so fresh and clear-headed. Of course we would have to go to the bathroom first and urinate for about 10 minutes each, having essentially just drank a bath-tub full of liquid.”

But unless you can find such women, buying water with every beer would just be a hindrance. I mean instead of calling it “The Ultimate Student Cookbook” they should probably call it “The Ultimate Student COCKBLOCK” (pun intended). And it wouldn't just hinder you when trying to pick up birds (birds! Tits! Football!), it would also just be a nuisance to carry around two pints full of liquid around with you. What if you had to catch something? What if somebody threw you a packet of crisps or some fruit? What if you were standing there, pint in each hand, and somebody said “here catch this” without looking and threw a tennis ball at you? It would either hit you in the face, which would of course be irritating, or you would have to dodge out of the way while probably spilling some of the two pints of liquid that you are carrying around.

You may have noticed that I am not persuaded by James' argument that a pint of water with every beer is like some sort of watery woman magnet; I am still of the opinion that women like bad boys.

Speaking of which, ladies, I'll have you know I can drink at least three pints of beer before needing a glass of water. Don't act like you're not impressed.

Training a dog isn't mission impossible

I didn't watch this year's Britain's Got Talent, but nonetheless it still managed to annoy me. This is because the competition wasn't won by one of the 60 million or so human beings currently living in the United Kingdom, but by a small dog named Pudsey (WHICH IS A BEAR'S NAME. STUPID BITCH). When this dog isn't busy eating it's own shit it is miraculously able to climb on things with a ludicrously dressed woman to the sound of the Mission Impossible theme song. That's right, it was able to climb on top of things, in the manner in which it's trainer desired. It's talent is basically obedience.

First of all I have a problem with obedience being a classified as a talent; mainly because it isn't a talent. Obedience takes no skill whatsoever. I could be obedient if there was such a person to be obedient to and a reason to be obedient for. If I was in the final of Britain's Got Talent and somebody told me to be really obedient for five minutes I think I could manage it. Of course I would have to hump someone's leg and shit somewhere really inappropriate first. But I could do it; it would be easy. In fact you could go as far as saying that blind obedience is more of an impairment than a talent. If you willingly subjugate yourself to the whims of random dog-trainers then you never know what could happen. They might make you take part in a ridiculous dance routine to the theme song of an average Tom Cruise film.

Do you know what would be a better talent? Disobedience. The ability to stand up for what you believe in; the ability to resist the oppressive grasps of teenage control freaks armed with dog treats and a dangerous lack of self-awareness; the ability to say no to badly dressed women and Simon Cowell's flat head.

I know a lot of people may say “but David, it's a dog. Have you ever tried to get a dog to climb on things?” And the answer is no. No I haven't. But I imagine if I tried for long enough, using techniques learned from dog-trainers more competent than myself then I might be able to succeed in getting him to climb on top of a step or a small footstool at the very least. Perhaps after a few weeks I could get him to climb on top of a desk or a large chair.

The thing is: dogs can be trained to do things that you don't expect ordinary dogs to be able to do. But the reason one doesn't expect such behaviour from ordinary dogs is because dogs are rubbish and lack the basic abilities that humans (or even most monkeys) can perform with ease.

But with enough training dogs can do mad things. We've seen that now. There have been many dog acts on television whereby dogs jump on things or walk on their hind legs (just like humans but worse!), and we just need to accept that they can be trained to do surprising things. So now that you have made that mental leap; now that you have managed to process that information; now that the realisation of the capabilities of dogs and their trainers has migrated from your short-term to your long-term memory, consider this: what is there left to be excited by in a dog act?

No matter how many things a dog climbs on or how many legs it manages to walk on, the simple fact of the matter is that they are still not as good as humans. They haven't developed language, they have made very few tangible scientific advancements and they are less acquainted with the arts than a Coventry bus driver (those public service providing philistines). They haven't even developed the most rudimentary of bodily waste disposal procedures, and instead they rely on humans (a more capable species) to pick up said waste for them. To suggest that a dog is not only equal to humans, but more talented than every single human being in the whole of the United Kingdom is ridiculous.

If a dog was successfully trained to sing like Pavarotti or play guitar like Hendrix, then I might start to be impressed. But such talents are reserved for a more advanced species. The lowering of expectations for dogs is a reflection of the uselessness of the animals. If I went on Britain's Got Talent, being a human male I expect the judges would want me to actually have a talent in order to progress through the competition. If I got down on all fours and crawled about to the Mission Impossible theme song people would think I was an idiot.  

So the next time you see a dog act on a talent show and you find it impressive, ask yourself: is it really impressive, or is it a small furry animal climbing on things and occasionally walking on the same amount of legs as a far more amazing species?

Videos of my face

Hello gang. I thought I would upload some of my recent videos in one post so that you can watch them all. If you enjoy them you should subscribe, although I probably am going to force them down your throat on this blog/twitter anyway. It's really important that you watch them from oldest to newest, as there is a finely woven narrative that runs throughout them (the NARRATIVE OF LIFE).

Here I explain my ethical and emotional issues with Bryan Adams' 80s pop classic, Summer of 79:

Here's an open letter to the rogue bread thief:

Here's me putting my GCSE in Fine Art to good use in an instructional arts and crafts video about drawing pirates:

Just how much can you learn about the economy from the price of Freddos?

Here's me talking about apples and other fruit:

And here's my very first vlog:

In case you hadn't realised, you were meant to start at the bottom of this post and watch upwards. If you haven't done that I'm afraid you've ruined the experience, and you will never get that chance back again. To be honest if you've managed to get through all of the videos without getting bored or distracted by a plastic bag or something, then I'm flattered. 

Tesco Everyday Value

I don't know if you've noticed but the Tesco Value range has been replaced by Tesco Everyday Value. It's not special any more, that sort of value just comes along every day. There's no sense of panic now. It's not like Sainsbury's Basics. You can't go without the basics can you? It's not like Waitrose Essentials. You can't go without the essentials can you? They're essential aren't they? It's not like the Asda Smart Price range. You wouldn't go without those would you? You'd be an idiot to pay any other price, regardless of whether or not it was more expensive. But Tesco Everyday Value. Well, that sort of value just comes along every day.

“Shall we buy this?”

“What is it?”

“It's a bit of ham. It says it's Tesco Everyday Value.”

“Well... we can just get it another day can't we. It's Tesco Everyday Value. I imagine we could come back any day within a reasonable time frame and we could still buy it for a similar price. It would be a different ham, obviously, but it would basically be the same ham at the same price. It's the sort of value you get every day.”

“But I quite fancy some ham now.”

“Yeah but there's no rush. We can get that sort of value every day.”

“How about today?”

“Well... you don't need to jump the gun do you?”

“What?”

“You don't want to false start.”

“Yeah but-”

“Look, if you were running in the 100 metre sprint final at the Olympics, would you start running before the gun went off?”

“I don't really see how that's relevant.”

“Don't jump the gun, is all I'm saying. Of course you'd like to go before the gun went off because you'd get a head start. You're forty-five and a bit overweight after all; you could probably do with the head start. But you can't jump the gun, you'd get disqualified.”

“But we're just buying some ham, it's got nothing to do with running.”

“Yeah but it's a metaphor isn't it? Don't jump the gun and buy the ham today because, well... it's Tesco Everyday Value isn't it? It's the kind of value that comes along every day.”

“But if you're running a race you can't just start running at a random moment. You don't want to jump the gun, that's a given. But you don't want to run a long time after the gun has gone off, because then everyone else would have started running. In fact there's a very specific time when you need to start running, and that is more or less the exact moment that the gun is fired.”

“Yeah well it's just a metaphor.”

“Yeah but my point is that my craving for this bit of ham is like that gun being fired at the start of the race. Basically, we need to buy the ham now, because the perfect time to buy ham is when you have a craving for a bit of ham.”

“Yeah but it's Tesco Everyday Value though isn't it? It's the sort of value you can get every day.”

“YES BUT MY FUCKING CRAVINGS FOR HAM DON'T COME EVERY FUCKING DAY DO THEY? CAN WE JUST BUY THE FUCKING HAM?”

“Jesus, I never knew you liked ham so much.”

“I DON'T. I JUST WANTED TO EAT A BIT OF HAM, IN A SANDWICH, MAYBE WITH SOME CHEESE, BUT DEFINITELY WITHOUT YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT.”

“Okay okay. We'll get the ham. Calm down.”

“Thank you.”

“But we could have bought it any day at all.”

“...”

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“BECAUSE IT'S TESCO EVERYDAY VALUE!”

“I hate you.”

Swimming to save us from tedium

As those of you who are white, middle-class and living in predominantly white, middle-class areas of Britain will know, last Saturday there was the Oxford-Cambridge Boat race. The rowers for the boat race trained six hours a day for six days a week. It's exploitation. We've taken muscular men from foreign countries that don't really understand what they're being trained to do, and we've tricked them into thinking it means something. I can just picture the scene now: dozens of men on rowing machines as ageing former-heroes of the rowing world whip them from behind.

“Please sir, you jus' say why you make me does this, ye?”

“No Xavier,” he says as he whips him for his insolence. “I ask the questions here. You're going to have to pull that imaginary oar back and forth for another hour now because of that.”

“But sir, me has wife and childrens back home, six hours a day is too many. I need see my babies, no?”

“Listen Xavier,” he says as he whips him again for bringing his personal life into the gym. “If you win this race, you will earn fame and riches throughout the land. Everybody will remember you, Xavier Mendez, as one of the eight men who won a rowing race. Everyone remembers rowers. Just think of Steve Redgrave, and... well... and Steve Redgrave dammit. Most people know his name.”

“Actually sir, back in Mexico Steve Redgrave not big name in most household.”

“Just be quiet and push the imaginary oar! You don't get a choice in this,” he says as he whips him again for sharing how Steve Redgrave doesn't really fit into the Mexican cultural frame of reference.

That is undoubtedly exactly how rowing works. Why else would anybody train for thirty-six hours a week when they could be taking drugs, having sex with prostitutes, getting drunk, going to the cinema to see a good film, listening to a decent album (or maybe not even a decent one, just one that other people have said “oh my god this album is terrible” and you finally get round to listening to it and yeah, it was terrible, and now you have something to talk about), seeing a friend, lying on the sofa watching T.V. and scratching your balls, sitting on the floor and doing nothing, lying on a patch of soil and doing nothing, eating some unpleasant food, like some rotten fruit or stale bread, being insulted by someone for whom you have a lot of respect, stubbing your toe on a door, eating a shard of glass, getting punched in the face by your childhood hero or rubbing your genitals against a cheese grater for thirty-six hours a week. All would be at least marginally more pleasant and worthwhile.

As you can see, rowing is not really 'my kind of thing,' and hence I find a three mile boat race between two universities which I am not smart enough to go to slightly boring. That's right I said it, I think the Great Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race is slightly boring. I don't know why, but watching two boats run parallel against each other for a quarter of an hour, followed by interviews with rowers about rowing, doesn't really get my blood pumping. Which is why I was delighted when a man in a rubber suit managed to add a bit of controversy to the whole thing. It raised so many questions! Questions like, “I wonder why that man has decided to go swimming on a cold day in April? Why has he chosen to go swimming in the Thames at all? Is he not aware that muscular academics in rowing boats are trying to come through here? Is it a desperate proposal of marriage for Oxford's female cox? Did he see her warming up (for sitting down? Ha!), decide immediately that she was The One, run a couple of miles to get safely ahead of the boats and swim out across to meet her, shouting proclamations of love and promising his eternal devotion?”

Whatever his reasons, it made the race far more exciting, which is an inherently valuable thing. But fans of the Boat Race weren't congratulating the man but condemning him. For the first time ever people actually had something to say about the Boat Race other than “Hey, did you acknowledge the difference in speed between those two boats? Wowzer.” And that's a bad thing apparently.

I don't know, maybe I'm a bit out of touch with the contemporary rowing scene (the 1920s had the most exciting rowing scene if you ask me. Personally, if I was to go on Mastermind, my specialist subject would probably be “Cambridge and Oxford rowers of the 1920s,” but alas I think I'm just not cut out for the newfangled rowing of the 21^st century). All I know is that when the next Boat Race comes along I will be watching just in case a man gets his head cut off with an oar on live television. You don't want to miss out on that sort of thing. 

Like women? Like music? Hate Chris Brown.

Hello. Today I'm trying to become more relevant by blogging about popular culture. I am therefore going to talk about a song that was released almost a year and a half ago. I know what you're thinking: but he only posted that retrospective analysis of Cressida Dick less than two months ago! How does he manage to stay on top of the ephemeral nature of current affairs? Well, the truth is I actually have a team of bloggers and joke writers working around the clock in order to ensure that I have important things to say about very pertinent issues, like an old Chris Brown song (in my defence you still hear it in clubs). Fans of Chris Brown's music may want to stop reading this now, I genuinely don't want to belittle the music tastes of any of my friends.

Although I'm not sure fans of Chris Brown's music are capable of reading (I told you you should have stopped there).

It's easy to dismiss Chris Brown's music as banal, mindless, repetitive, unoriginal, boring and meaningless drivel, but I'm willing to look at Chris Brown's music from a professional, objective perspective. Even if the malicious, woman-beating, mentally ill (come on he must be) 'musician' does not deserve my fair-minded dissection of his popular faecal matter. I am too good to him I know. Chris Brown, if you are reading this: there's no need to thank me; an anonymous cash donation will suffice.

You may have noticed that I have alluded to the fact he beats women. It was subtle but it is there. I'm sure you all know about the fact he physically harmed his ex-girlfriend Rihanna after an argument. Maybe it is unfair of me to use the plural term 'women.' I do not know the exact number of women that he has beaten, and if he has only beaten the one then I'm sorry, but I have no moral or ethical issues with slandering Chris Brown. I think that would be a pretty poor defence to put forward anyway: “yes, we'd like to take David McIver to court because he has misrepresented the number of women that our client Chris Brown has beaten on an online blog that receives about a dozen views per week.”

One could argue that this one incident of domestic abuse alone should rid him of any manufactured success in our pop charts; and one would be right. The argument should end there really, but it doesn't. It turns out that fans of Chris Brown love domestic abuse, and hence he continues to see his name in the UK music charts. I assume these charts are painted on some sort of wall somewhere in London, and teenagers gather round the wall chanting the names of their favourite 'artists' and throwing money at the charts until the person(s) of their choice makes it to the top of the pops, hence becoming 'King of the Charts' and winning Reggie Yates and Ferne Cotton as butlers for the week.

So if we disregard his violence against women as playful antics, (because when has violence ever hurt anyone?) we must instead turn to his music for analysis, which in many ways is far worse than domestic abuse (and worse than many other violent crimes too. I'm unable to pinpoint his exact place on the scale of terrible psychopathic atrocities, but I think his music lies somewhere between paedophilia and genocide.)

One song of his that is particularly fertile ground for analysis is something that goes by the name of “Yeah 3x.” Firstly, the name of this song is problematic. By incorporating a mathematical symbol in place of words he has created a song title with no clear way of saying it. Is it pronounced 'Yeah Three-Ex?' which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Or is it pronounced 'Yeah Three Times?' which is not so much a title so much as a rough guide to the words that will be appearing in the song and their respective frequency, but also begs the question, why not just call the song 'Yeah Three Times?' It gives the exact same message as 'Yeah 3x,' while at the same time being a more aesthetically pleasing song title to read and eliminating all confusion. It's almost as if he has a certain level of self-awareness about himself and is trying to create a song title with ambiguous pronunciation possibilities in order to pose some sort of subversive artistic statement. Except of course he is an idiot, and you can't make art out of shit. Unless of course you are Piero Manzoni, who, despite being an Italian man that made a living out of shitting in a can, still has more self-awareness and artistic credibility than Chris Brown.

Let us delve into the frightening body of this song shall we? Let me present you with a verse or a chorus or something, I don't know I'm not a musician:

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, girl, I wanna

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I wanna see you tonight

Yeah, yeah, yeah, girl, I gotta

(Yeah, yeah, yeah)

I gotta, I gotta, I gotta see you tonight.”

Now, seeing as Chris Brown has demonstrated such enthusiasm for maths in the naming of his song, I thought I should approach the criticism of his song through mathematical analysis. Not many people these days approach musical criticism from a strictly mathematical perspective. I guess my methods are just to radical for 'The Man.' Maybe that's why I'm not a music journalist. (I can think of no other reasons.)

Anyway, in this chorus there are a total of thirty-two words. Out of these words, the word 'yeah' is used a whopping twelve times. A massive 37.5% of the chorus therefore is just the word 'yeah.' I'm not even totally sure if it is being used as a slang term for a positive affirmation, or if Chris Brown is just treating it as a random syllable in order to give his listeners more sound for their money. But the maths does not stop there. Out of this thirty-two word chorus, only eight unique words are used (yeah, girl, I, wanna, see, you, tonight, and gotta.) The chorus is therefore 25% unique words, and 75% repetition of words. They are shit words too. I'm not even sure I should be validating the existence of the words 'gotta' and 'wanna,' as I am unsure as to whether or not I could find them in the Oxford English Dictionary. When Samuel Johnson completed the first English dictionary in 1755 I am pretty sure he didn't envision the lazy bastardisation of 'want to' into 'wanna' being accepted by future lexicographers. Perhaps Chris Brown hates Samuel Johnson as well as women, and if Samuel Johnson were alive today Chris Brown would endeavour to fight him. Although he probably wouldn't because Samuel Johnson, being a man, poses too much of a danger to Chris Brown, who is timid about entering into fights with less than a 90% (yes more maths!) chance of success.

Also, despite the fact that Chris Brown uses only eight words, (and that's being kind) it is still too many words to portray the message of his chorus. I don't like to extract a single meaning from poetry as I feel this is almost always a reductive method of literary criticism, but I feel that we lose absolutely nothing from the song if we say that the chorus could be summed up with the words “Chris wants to see you tonight” (presumably so he can beat you). Those words, in perfect grammar, adequately sum up what Chris Brown took thirty-two words to say. And look, I've done it in six words, which is two less unique words than his version, and a massive twenty-six less words in total. To think people say mathematically dissecting pop songs is a waste of time!

What can we deduce from Chris Brown inability to use more than eight original words in a thirty-two word chorus? Well firstly, that Chris Brown hates Samuel Johnson, his fans, poets, poetry, all writers, eminent literary scholars, teachers, university professors, lexicographers, people's virginal eardrums, Rihanna, Rihanna's friends and family, all women in general, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Smiths, The Velvet Underground, The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys, The Talking Heads, The Stone Roses, the past hundred years of innovative pop music, choruses that consist of more than 25% unique words and any suggestion of a successful pop song so much as pretending to grasp at any shred of artistic credibility, among many other things that I don't have time to name (I'm obviously a very busy man). You can just make them up yourself if you want to. Think of something nice. Are you thinking of it? Chris Brown hates it. Your thought didn't contain enough domestic abuse for his liking. (Unless of course you are a fan of Chris Brown, in which case you probably were thinking about domestic abuse, and Chris Brown liked it.)

The second thing we can deduce from the song, is that in the attempt to manufacture a commercially successful pop song, terms such as 'innovation,' 'creativity' and 'poetry' are ugly words that get in the way of things like money, profit-margins and money.

And that is my incredibly obvious message for you all today.  

Bus drivers are bastards

Ever since I was about twelve or thirteen, I have always hated bus drivers. Now, there are about three or four separate accounts of things that bus drivers have done that makes me hate them so much, and it's going to take a while to explain. There is a risk that as I relate these stories, and as I try to explain my unadulterated animal hatred for bus drivers, I may get so angry that I have an aneurysm and die, but I'll try not to let that happen.

I think why I am so bitter about bus drivers is because as a rule, they all view anyone under the age of twenty-one as the scum of the earth. There are no exceptions to this rule, I think it must be part of a questionnaire that all bus drivers are given when they sign up for the job.

So, what is your view of people under the age of twenty-one?

a) I quite like them

b) I am ambivalent towards them

c) I think they are the scum of the earth, and I will endeavour to be obnoxious and unhelpful to all of them, regardless of how much politeness and respect they give to me.

Congratulations, if you answered c), then you have passed the only job requirement for becoming a bus driver. It would be helpful if over the next ten years you could become increasingly miserable and condescending, but that is usually a natural result of being a bus driver, and hence it shouldn't be too difficult for you.

One thing that sparked off my disdain for bus drivers was quite a small thing, but it annoyed me nonetheless. I got on a bus once, I think I was about thirteen or so, and very politely (I honestly was a very polite young teenager. These days I brandish my Pleases and Thank yous more sparingly) I asked for a ticket. He printed out a ticket, and before I had the chance to say anything, he said “say thank you.”

This really irritated me, so in reply I said “I find that to be a very patronising comment. You wouldn't say such a thing to an adult. In fact you probably wouldn't even notice if an adult said thank you or not, so it is unfair to target a child out for criticism when you would not do so for an adult. It is mean and predatory; I am obviously of too young an age to retort your comment in an intelligent and articulate manner, and besides, I was about to say thank you, but you rudely interrupted me, now I don't think I'll bother, as you obviously lack the common courtesy that you wish to receive.”

But of course I didn't say any of that. What I really did, was I mumbled a sarcastic “thank you” under my breath, and then when I was safely out of earshot, I called him a dick.

Another incident with a bus driver that really made me angry happened a few years ago, I think I was probably about sixteen. I got on the bus and saw that my bus driver today was an overweight, bald man, who was probably in his forties or fifties. I asked him for a ticket, and in the most apologetic tone I could muster, I revealed to him that I would be paying with a twenty pound note. “Is that okay?” I asked shyly. “Grumble grumble grumble,” he grumbled, obnoxiously, and took my money. And as he gave me my change, he said to me, with nothing but bitterness and disdain in his voice: “get a haircut mate.”

As you can imagine I was slightly taken aback by this comment. I said, “with all due respect Mr. Bus Driver, but I don't really think it's your place to give such advice. Now there are two main reasons why it is not your place to tell me to get a haircut. Reason number one: you are my bus driver, and therefore not one of the select group of people who are allowed to tell me to get a haircut. Those people are my Mother, my Girlfriend and my hairdresser (and even then, when my hairdresser tells me to get a haircut I do usually assume that their comments are motivated by self-interest more than they are motivated by a general desire to see me have nice hair).

“The second reason why it is not your place to tell me to get a haircut,” I said, “is because you have no hair, and as a result, you are not adequately equipped to give hairdressing advice to anyone, unless you are standing in an American military training base, a Buddhist monastery, or a convention for Neo-Nazis.”

But of course I didn't say any of that. What I really did, was I mumbled a sarcastic “thank you” under my breath, and when I was safely out of earshot, I called him a dick.

The most recent incident that made me hate bus drivers even more happened when I came to Warwick University and I got on the number 12 bus for the first time. Now as you may or may not know, the number 12 bus runs between Coventry and Leamington Spa, and you have to put your money in this little box, and you don't receive any change. I didn't know at the time that you don't receive any change, so I got on the bus at Coventry station and asked him how much it was for a single to Warwick campus, and he said it was £1.60, so I foolishly thought I would just put £2 into the box and get 40p change, as thirteen years of studying maths would have me to believe. But no, the box took my change, and the driver dispensed my ticket, and I said “can I have my change please.” He just looked at me straight in the eyes, and shook his head from side to side (the conventionally accepted head gesture for 'negative'). In order to clarify the situation, I said “oh, do I not get any change? I didn't realise that was the case, being new to the area. I don't suppose on this occasion I could have my money back?”And this time he didn't shake his head, but he pointed to a sign above his head that said “our drivers have the right to work in an environment free from intimidation,” and he started the bus and drove on in silence.

Now, I don't know what it was about me that made him feel intimidated. But I took that message as a challenge, so I smashed through the plastic barrier with my face, ripped him head-first through the shattered pane, threw him on the floor and started stamping on his head, shouting “GIVE ME MY 40P CHANGE, YOU CUNT. GIVE ME MY CHANGE. YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE 40P FROM UNWILLING CUSTOMERS THAT ARE NEW TO THE COVENTRY AREA. IT'S NOT FAIR. TWO POUNDS MINUS ONE POUND SIXTY IS 40P. I DID A-LEVEL MATHS, IT'S NOT NOTHING, IT'S 40P. I HATE YOU. I WILL KILL YOU. I WILL KILL YOU, AND THEN I WILL FIND OUT WHERE YOU LIVE, AND THEN I WILL KILL YOUR MOURNING FAMILY, IF YOU DO NOT GIVE ME MY 40P CHANGE.”

But of course I didn't do that. What I really did, was I mumbled a sarcastic “thank you” under my breath, and when I was safely out of earshot, I called him a dick.