So I would like to meet the idiot who came up with Facebook Messenger 'calling' service. WTF. For the uninitiated, FB messenger enables you to phone people that you are friends with on the site, even if you don't have their actual number. I know of at least 4 people - myself included - who have therefore accidentally called ex-boyfriends, ex-shags, random instructors in America.... I don't think I am exaggerating when I say that the biggest threat to Western civilization - after ISIS - is the phone 'enabler'. I would like to return to the days when you had to connect to an operator to contact someone. If we had to go through another person to reach our telecommunications destination, I think we can all agree that many embarrassing situations would be avoided. For example:
OPERATOR: TO WHOM TO YOU WISH TO PLACE A CALL?
21ST CENTURY CALLER: THAT BLOKE I HOOKED UP WITH LAST WEEK, THE ONE WHO VOMITED IN MY WASTEPAPER BASKET.
OPERATOR: (SLIGHT PAUSE) OK.... ARE YOU SURE YOU WISH TO CALL THIS PERSON?
21ST CENTURY CALLER: OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NO! SWEET JESUS THAT'S THE LAST THING ON EARTH I WANT. THANK YOU OPERATOR, FOR MAKING ME THINK TWICE.
OPERATOR: YOU'RE WELCOME. AN EMINENTLY SENSIBLE DECISION.
You see? I think Obama should move this up to the top of his presidential priorities. Alongside bringing video rental stores back. I can't be the only person who is mourning the loss of Blockbuster? Now I have to download Netflix. And I don't know how. WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH (cue dramatic wail).
Cause I know you're all wondering, what is the update with Vibrator-gate? It's here, it's still in the packaging.... principally because I bought a kitten and have realised that I can only contend with one pussy at a time. And that's despite the weekly questions from Mr Air New Zealand about my pocket rocket, preceded by him sidling up to me in the office going "BZZZZZZZZZZZZ..... how's it going?" I'll tell you how it's going: looking after Kathy Shortt II (AKA Kitten) is so stressful that I have realised that I can never have children. I feel guilty every day when I leave her to go to work. She's furious in the morning that I haven't let her sleep in my room. I had to give her oral medication this week that involved capturing her and prizing open her mouth to force the pill down - an experience that traumatized us both. Taking her to the vet is a military operation which requires the use of a broom to get her out from under my bed, pushing her into her little carry case, and enduring her heart-breaking cries for the entire 15 minute journey that it takes us to drive there. And at least I know she's not going to outlive me (I hope). How on earth do people breed, knowing that their offspring is going to be with them for the rest of their natural lives?
As an aside, when I told the Physiotherapist I was getting a kitten, his response was "well you shouldn't. You're an immigrant. You could leave the country at any given moment, and I'll be stuck with it." Er, right. Speaking of immigrants, I've decided that there are far too many English people living in my area. And yes, I realise that that's rich coming from me - but honestly, I can't go to my local supermarket without hearing a cut-glass accent saying, "No Jasper, put that down! Now where can we find the Rocket?" It's like being back in bloody Waitrose.
Also speaking of dating - we weren't, but I want to tell this story - my sister's friend went on a horrific online date in London last week. They met in the train station - he had texted her in advance to say, "I'm the fat, sweaty, bald bloke standing in front of Greggs". And fat, sweaty and bald he was indeed. They went for a few drinks, whereupon she discovered that he was 42, divorced, and from Planet Dullsville. Apparently his wife left him in the middle of the night - literally, she woke him up to tell that she had another man in her life: "I've found Jesus". He saw her 2 weeks later in Sainsbury's carpark with another bloke. (Presumably, Our Saviour likes their 3 for 2 on readymeals). After 3 drinks (yes, this girl stayed for THREE) she said to him,
"OK, I've gotta go, I've just had a call from Jesus."
"That's not funny."
"Right, sorry. OK, well, bye"
"Can I have a kiss?"
"No"
"Please?"
"No."
"PLEASE?!"
"No!"
How AMAZING is that story? I am going on a date on Monday and I can only hope that it is as disastrous as Fat Gregg's was.
So what happens when you get a whole load of instructors together and give them pizza? The Great Paleo Divide. At a post-workshop drinks session I witnessed a BODYATTACK instructor lose his s*&% when he went to get a piece of pizza. He stormed back to our group shouting, "THOSE PALEO MOTHERF*&^ERS HAVE TAKEN ALL THE TOPPING OFF AND LEFT THE BASE. OOOOH, I CAN'T EAT BREAD, I MIGHT DIE. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!" Well, yes. Rest assured, my American roots do not fail me: I eat the whole pizza and I always order dessert. Someone here has to.
OVERHEARD AT THE MILL
INSTRUCTOR TO ANOTHER INSTRUCTOR: You can't go wrong with "chest up, abs braced". If in doubt....
