We’re All Saints in our own way


4th June, 2015


I’m having one of those saint days: charitable act after charitable act.. And the benevolence is repaid.
I got on the bus this morning, and at the stop after where I got on I noticed a poor old chap struggling to get his trolley on the bus. Using my 21-year-old-shewolf strength, I lifted the trolley up using my little finger (no, now I’m just exaggerating.. I used telekinesis) and the old guy, overcome by infinite gratitude, showered me with praise and thanks. You’re welcomemy aged friend, and people who don’t help the elderly are nasty wankers.
However, my martyrdom is far from being over. A few minutes after the trolley episode, I noticed that the girl sitting next to me had brought a tissue to her mouth, thus concealing half of her face. “How embarrassing,” I thought “At least I’m not the only one that shoots internal organs, massive bogeys and a part of her soul from her nose when she sneezes.” I was just about to kindly offer her a tissue to clean up that unpleasant nasal diarrhoea of hers, when the bus screeched to a halt and she was forced to draw the sacred tissue from her face. Her entire mouth and jaw and just everything were drenched. “You mug, you’re not supposed to mix cocaine with water when you snort it,” I was about to say, but then she erupted. A flood of bile, a waterfall of a most putrid body cocktail, the genesis of “Pungent Stench” lagoon.

When I’m in an awkward situation, or I say sorry repeatedly for no particular reason or I go totally Collin Firth (stiff, stilted perhaps, sealed mouth, I tend to stare at the cause of unease and start to mutter). Today I was a bit of a Collin Firth, as I started off “Errr… Hmmm…. Would you.. Perhaps… Maybe.. Like a tissue?” But the spluttering young lady promptly replied: “No thank you, I’ve got oneBLLLARGHJRGHHG”.
This went on for another two minutes. I didn’t get up or move, because it must have been shitty enough just leaving a smelly puddle of yourself on the bus, let alone becoming some kind of public transport outcast. The Pukey Pariah. So I figured out that I just had to bear with it… Sealing my nostrils and mouth, breathing through my pores…
Now for the retribution, Karma’s little pat-on-the-head: although I was extremely near to the subject in question, not one single drop on puke landed on my leg, shoes or rucksack. Not. Even. One. Praise the lord (of the rings). It’s almost as if Jesus flew down from his crib and used his robes to protect me from the “acid rain”.

I’d like to end this story by quoting Borat: “VERY NIIIIIICE”


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