I’m as mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore

Right. We’ve had a lot of badness mentioned here over the last few weeks. We’ve had murderers and rapists. Kiddie-fiddlers, frauds and violent thugs. Crooked cops. Traffic wardens. Barry Manilow Other awful bastards too numerous to list.

But this evening, I just want to say a brief word about a crowd of bastards that enrage me more than all of the others put together.


I’ll tell you who if you’ll just give me a minute.

I was in the supermarket this evening. Superbuying a superload of superfood because it looks like I’m having a supercrowd of superfuckers at the weekend for a superdinner, where they all drink my superbeer and fuck off.

Great. I don’t mind. It wouldn’t be the first time I hoovered out the contents of somebody’s fridge. Speaking of which, I also decided in the last week or so that I need a second fridge exclusively for beer, because somehow there never seems to enough room in the one I have and I end up throwing out a large amount of food every week because I can’t fit it into my fridge with all the competing beerage. But anyhow, I digress.

I was in the supermarket this evening and when my trolley was full of beer vital provisions to keep my guests happy and my child fed, I trolleyed on up to the check-out, as one does. Bouncing along, you know? Laid back, with the old iPod tucked into the shirt pocket, just strolling along with my new Tom Waits album growling away quietly. Just me and Tom and a bottle of whiskey and forty thousand cigarette-blurred nights behind us but we’re still here, me and Tom. Still standing upright, somehow or other.

There’s a woman ahead of me with a huge pile of shopping loaded onto the belt, and the stuff begins to move. The check-out guy is really efficient (cos he’s Polish or Hungarian or something and he has a PhD in quantum physics) , and pretty soon the whole lot has gone through the check-out and there’s this kid from Young Munsters rugby club packing bags to raise money and he’s really efficient too so that, before you know it the whole lot is packed away neatly in the trolley.

What’s the woman doing?

OK, let me put it another way. What would you be doing?

You’d be getting your money ready, wouldn’t you? Or your credit card, or whatever you plan to use for paying.

Is that what the woman ahead of me is doing?


The woman who is ahead of me simply stands there until the Czech or Polish guy says, that’s 157 ninety four please. And then, and only then, does the woman who is ahead of me realise Oh Jesus, you have to pay for this stuff!! And then and only then does the woman who is still ahead of me reach into the trolley, search for a handbag, open the handbag and take out a small purse, open the small purse and slowly, very slowly peel out eight twenty-euro notes, one by one. And when the Polish or Czech guy hands her back the two euros and six cents, she slowly places it into the small purse, and replaces the small purse in the handbag, and then slowly replaces the handbag in the shopping trolley.

While the rest of us stand there. Looking. Thinking It would be wrong to act on this rage, but it might be worth it.

Now, what is wrong with these people?

I’m convinced they’re part of something bigger, because they’re everywhere. There you are, walking up to an ATM, when suddenly, from behind a parked van, here comes this fool with a wallet full of cards, and you just know he’s going to use them all. Every fucking one of them. He’s going to use each of them twice because the cretin gets the PIN wrong the first time on each one. Sometimes, he’ll even put the card in, check his balance, eject it and put it back in again just to piss you off. I have actually killed several of these people before the banks started putting cameras on ATMs to take pictures of Romanians.

Do you know what these people do at the weekends? No? Well, I think I know. I think they put on hats and go driving old Ford Anglias in the middle of the road, swerving out to stop you passing them. I think these are the same bastards who drive tractors at twelve miles an hour in the middle of the road. The same motherfuckers who get on a bus and then realise, just like when they’re in the supermarket: Oh! You have to pay?

Bastards. I hate them all.


Update: Mr Sneeze points out that he has posted in a similar vein recently. Here

10 thoughts on “I’m as mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore

  1. Hate to top your checkout story (he lied), but I was doing the Xmas shop behind a couple with 2 trolleys, each groaning with buckled wheels under the weight of chav-fodder. Total: over £250. Meanwhile my frozen stuff was melting on the conveyor belt. “At last”, I thought, “they’re done!”

    “Oh,” says the woman, “I nearly forgot. I have coupons.”

    From her handbag she brings a wad of those money-off things you see in women’s magazines at the dentist’s. 15p off your next purchase of Bisto gravy powder; 25p off cat suppositories; 1p off your inheritance tax bill if you die before 3 p.m. today, that kind of thing. Each one has a message to the retailer, an expiry date, terms and conditions, all in 5 point type, in pale grey on a grey background.

    The checkout girl starts squinting at them. “Did you buy Campbell’s soup?” she says. “Cock-a-Leekie?”

    “O yes,” says the woman, and starts searching through the bags for it.

    “It’ll be on the receipt,” I say. I am ignored, as usual.

    “Where is it now, Norman? Did you pack the Cock-a-Leekie?”

    At that point something just goes, inside my head. “Excuse me,” I say, squeezing past, barely noticed, and head for the car park.

    I understand very well now those WW1 soldiers who just “walked away from the guns”.

  2. Let’s not forget the fuckers who wait until everything is done and then ask “do you take cheques?”. Should result in being put up against the wall in the supermarket and being shot on the spot.

  3. Oh! I nearly forgot! I’m visiting friends in the States. The evil cabal must’ve gone international because it happens over here as much as it does at home in Ireland. More, maybe. Matter of fact, this might be the International Headquarters, so don’t think a nice visit to, say, Chicago, will give you respite. Only difference is, here, I understand, in many places it’s legal to carry guns (those zany Americans!), so at least you’re a bit more likely to get the satisfaction of seeing one of these bastards gunned down…

  4. Good God, man! You too? I thought I was bearing the burden alone for the rest of you. I always get stuck behind these evil fuckers. I think they belong to some kind of underground club or association or something, because their behaviour is eerily similar. Two weeks ago, at the Dunnes in Ennis, I was behind a woman who must’ve won the grand master club trophy of all fucking time. She was a clever one, playing a diabolical variation on the theme: After Natasha tallied up a heaping trolley full of shit, she announced the total (“Dot vill be being 2 hunnert tree euro”) at which point, our intrepid shopper asked Natasha to subtract four items, as she only had 190 euro, and, hmmmm, which items should be set aside. Hmmmmmm.

    One of my children celebrated a birthday while we waited. Given the teeth grinding going on among the four people behind me, it would have been no problem at all getting a crucifixion party together, it being Lent and all. Instead, I abandoned the trolley and took the lad to Brogan’s for a pint. He was old enough now.

    I feel yer pain, brother Bock.

  5. this is not a good sign…EVERYONE is fucking pissed off already..and it’s just barely the weekend! dammit

  6. In Guatemala they have government sponsored death squads roaming the streets to shoot fuckers like that on sight. I believe they feed the victims to the poor.
    That’s what i call an efficient society!

  7. Right so, we’re getting slightly misogynistic, and I’m ready Bock, oh I’m so ready. You didn’t mention the pony-tailed, pink cushioned, playboy stamped golf, or micra, which appears behind you on the motorway, and starts to buzz incessantly, until you comply by driving into the only available space occupied by a big fuck-off truck or a brick wall. That’s a more recent kind of sexual discrimination. We’re just not on the same agenda, never have been, and it’s getting to the stage where they do what they fucking want and devil take the hindmost. We love ‘em, we do, just like your mate who took his girlfriend to the French match on the train, cause he luved her for herself. And because we luvs them so much we put up with their bullshit, but then you get to an age when you start to prioritize the blood supply to your brain over (the supply to) your penis, and of course there’s only so much blood, and it can’t run both organs simultaneously (thanks for that one Robin Williams). Anyway, you get to a place where you say fuck ‘em and it’s just not worth it anymore, so go fuck off and figure out yourself why I’m mad.

    The ATM thing is head wrecking, why two or three cards? Are they getting money for their friends, is it their turn now? Why do they wait for the slip, and then stop again and check to see that the money they just double counted, twice, and placed carefully into their cavernous handbag, is the same as on the slip of paper.

    Bock apologies for using your blog for the rant but I’m experiencing technical difficulties getting started with my own.

    Mikell for Sniffle&Cry

  8. And theres the hideous fat bitch who stands in front of the Quick Lodge machine in the AIB on the Ennis Road every Friday afternoon shoving cash into a multitude of envelopes while the queue for the quick lodge stretches down past the Gaelic Grounds. Bad cess to the ol bint.

  9. Being a poor soul who works in the retail sector, I regularly witness such events. The girl who’ll stand in the queue with a single item for which she knows the exact price, for a good 10 minutes and wait untill the very last second to wrestle her purse from the depths of a bottomless handbag while the rest of the line looks on in horror.
    Having said that though, we’re no fucking treat to deal with either. “15cent for a BAG! You should be ashamed of yourself!” Yes, how dare I try and relieve you of your hard earned 15cents. It’s not a government imposed tax or anything, I’m actually hoarding it all in a savings account. Eventually I’ll have enough to purchase a club to hit you with…

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