Amsterdam
This is my first post for about ten days, mostly because I have been having birthday celebrations during this time.
Yesterday, I got back from Amsterdam (a city which I love) after what was pretty good two a half day break: a fantastic meal at Janvier Profloekaal (and if you are in Amsterdam seek this place out, it's brilliant); a bigger room because of a booking error; not too many tourists because of the time of year; and one of the best sex sessions of my life (courtesy of fucking whilst stoned on mellow Jamaican dope).
It should have been brilliant and would have been, had it not been for the last day when some slimy, scrawny, sleazy eastern-european tube steak decided to hawk a nice green phlegm ball on my expensive new jacket.
Why he did it? Fuck knows.
I was walking along the shopping street with my girlfriend when this skinny guy and his friend (talking in loud eastern european accents) started walking behind us. He spat once loudly and then spat again on the floor beside us whilst he and his friend walked past, quickly. My girlfriend wrinkled her nose and said to me, 'That's such a disgusting habit!' She then went into a make-up store whilst I reluctantly followed her. We were talking about something when she noticed my back in a mirror. She groaned and said, 'Oh Christ!'
'What?' I asked with some concern.
'That guy...'
'What guy?'
'That guy's spat all over your back,' she said in voice tinged with disgust.
I took the jacket off and saw it. Slimy, green, gooey and clinging limpet-like to the fabric. 'That filthy fucking cunt!' I bellowed, loud enough to alert customers in the store to my rage.
I dropped the jacket on the ground and charged out of the store and ran down the street at full pelt, blood pumping with rage, somewhat eager to get my hands on this cum-gargler's scrawny fucking neck.
Needless to say, I didn't find him. And part of me is glad I didn't.
Had I done so I would be writing this from prison as I would have kicked the prick back to the stone age where he belongs.
There is something about spitting that I find truly repulsive. It is a sign of true contempt, the sort of thing which most of us wouldn't even do to our worst enemies, and yet this man did it to me (and for absolutely no reason). I wish I could say it didn't spoil my day, that I was able to rise above it, but I can't: it did put a dampener on my day.
And it cost me £7.50 today to get the jacket dry-cleaned.
Absolute fucking crab-munching scum.
Yesterday, I got back from Amsterdam (a city which I love) after what was pretty good two a half day break: a fantastic meal at Janvier Profloekaal (and if you are in Amsterdam seek this place out, it's brilliant); a bigger room because of a booking error; not too many tourists because of the time of year; and one of the best sex sessions of my life (courtesy of fucking whilst stoned on mellow Jamaican dope).
It should have been brilliant and would have been, had it not been for the last day when some slimy, scrawny, sleazy eastern-european tube steak decided to hawk a nice green phlegm ball on my expensive new jacket.
Why he did it? Fuck knows.
I was walking along the shopping street with my girlfriend when this skinny guy and his friend (talking in loud eastern european accents) started walking behind us. He spat once loudly and then spat again on the floor beside us whilst he and his friend walked past, quickly. My girlfriend wrinkled her nose and said to me, 'That's such a disgusting habit!' She then went into a make-up store whilst I reluctantly followed her. We were talking about something when she noticed my back in a mirror. She groaned and said, 'Oh Christ!'
'What?' I asked with some concern.
'That guy...'
'What guy?'
'That guy's spat all over your back,' she said in voice tinged with disgust.
I took the jacket off and saw it. Slimy, green, gooey and clinging limpet-like to the fabric. 'That filthy fucking cunt!' I bellowed, loud enough to alert customers in the store to my rage.
I dropped the jacket on the ground and charged out of the store and ran down the street at full pelt, blood pumping with rage, somewhat eager to get my hands on this cum-gargler's scrawny fucking neck.
Needless to say, I didn't find him. And part of me is glad I didn't.
Had I done so I would be writing this from prison as I would have kicked the prick back to the stone age where he belongs.
There is something about spitting that I find truly repulsive. It is a sign of true contempt, the sort of thing which most of us wouldn't even do to our worst enemies, and yet this man did it to me (and for absolutely no reason). I wish I could say it didn't spoil my day, that I was able to rise above it, but I can't: it did put a dampener on my day.
And it cost me £7.50 today to get the jacket dry-cleaned.
Absolute fucking crab-munching scum.
posted by The Nothing Man at 23.1.07
5 Comments:
You texted me that. It may have been an accident, perhaps. The fact that someone would do that on the street to a complete stranger goes beyond all rules of civilised society, but then he may have been a cnut.
I spit a lot, sadly, but only while cycling. For some reason, it creates a hell of a buildup.
I don't do that walking about in public though. They do it a lot in India for some reason. Very uncouth.
It wasn't an accident. He was too close for it to be an accident.
And he is a cunt!
Ugh. That is disgusting.
Now...tell us about the Jamaican dope / best sex session. :)
As much as I would like to go into details I don't think I could do it as well as you do, LFM!
But, between you and me, it was great. A great time was had by all!
Spitting makes me feel sick and want to slap the spitters face, it's just that damn gross.
And I'm jealous of your good dope and fabulous sex.
Bastard.
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