Happy slapping, the hokey-cokey and strawberry jam

In many ways I’m not suited to living in the country – what with being a townie and all that. The main problem is that I’m just about the most impatient fucker I know on this planet. Yet, here I am, slap-bang, in the land of ditherers, dawdlers, delayers, dunno-ers; shufflers who aimlessly wander one pace in front of you no matter which way you turn, yakkers and chatters who shamelessly hold-up growing queues as they regale their bollocks to the hired help, fussers, cluck-cluckers and (moreover)…knobs in caravans*.

Naturally, if happy-slapping weren’t a crime, I’d be at it hammer and tongs.

And that’s not even taking into account the dreaded trips to The Post Office. Jesus H. Christ. I wouldn’t mind so much, but they actually have the audacity to disguise the place to make it look like a business, with products like calendars and jigsaws in the window and stickers advertising a selection of services. There’s even a bright red letter box on the pavement outside, and to further deceive – a sign, boasting the words ‘Post Office’ above the painted wooden door. But when you get inside, it’s no more a Post Office than my garden shed is. It’s a fucking social club. And ain’t dat the truth.

And moreover, the level of cluck-clucking is permanently set at fever pitch.

As a helpless onlooker, matters are seemingly presided over (doubtless to arrange bingo, whist drives, the hokey-bleeding-cokey and the such) by someone housed behind a counter with a glass window. I imagine that this person may have some form of auctioneer’s gavel to keep the crowd in some form of order. Although I’ve never got close enough to see for sure.

Fifteen minutes at the back of what, some might call a queue, although I prefer to refer to it as a ‘gathering’ and I’ve had enough. At that point I wave the white flag. And bugger off out of it.

                       They don't fuck about in Spain. Hokey-cokey's are well known for spilling out
                                                             of  Post Offices and onto the streets.

Of course, in the words of Ziggy (Big Brother – year wotever), it’s not them – it’s me. Obviously, there’s something fundamentally wrong with my lack of ability to appreciate (and readily engage in) the warblings and twitterings of local gossip. You see – I just didn’t have to put up with any of that bollocks in London as a) no fucker cares b) no fucker speaks to anyone else. Post offices are gloomy halls with trailing queues, where automated voices instruct you to advance towards ‘Till Number Seven’ and so on. You might not get anyone’s life history whilst you’re waiting, but you’ll get you’re parcel sorted.

Lucky for me, my local Spar also sells stamps. Although it appears as though the same punter from two days ago is still clamped to the counter regaling a lengthy yarn about strawberry jam…

I swear…if it weren’t for the stonking scenery, I’d be on Crimewatch. And then some.

* Very obviously, the whole topic of the detested caravan warrants an entire blogfest to itself… and will follow in due course.