My Dump

Last night, I dreamt that I was 18 years old. I was in a place I'd never seen before and talking to people I'd never met before. An old man told me to take my time deciding on what I should study in university. 'You have your whole life ahead of you' he said. I felt like I could fly. I woke up, 20 years older and full of regrets.

I am a collossal hypochondriac and a germophobe. For this reason, the universe always sits the coughing wheezing snifflers in front of or next to me on trains and buses (and airplanes). Today I found myself in front of a violent throat clearer. Everytime he did it, I shook in my seat. But that wasn't it. As he read his free paper, he picked his nose. Not just lightly or fleetingly. He was digging deep. He was fracking for shale gas deep. Having satisfied himself, he rolled his quarry between thumb and index and wiped it on the seat. Now I don't want to sit in a train or read a free paper or even leave the house ever again.

The London Underground was in meltdown today. I was forced to walk from Baker Street to Rathbone Place. I had to get in on time or I'd be toast. A lot of people were out on the street. A short guy in skinny jeans walked very slowly in front of me near Portland Place. I could see he was brandishing something in his left hand by the way his elbow hung out. He was giving it his full attention. 'Hey Dickhead', thought I. 'I'm late for work. Shove that smartphone up your arse and step out of my way!!' When I walked past, I saw that he was holding not a phone, but a paper tray holding three cups of hot coffee.

I decided to attend the Softimage Übertage event in Siegen, Germany today. It would be the last one held in the wake of Autodesk killing Softimage. I thought it would be nice to see off my favourite tool and network with some German VFX people. After a long and enjoyable day (including a great demo from Eric Mootz), a majority of us went to a nearby restaurant for drinks and burgers. I sat at a table with some wonderful artists from Amsterdam and Brussels and some reps from Side Effects software. We talked about our jobs, our countries and our views on a great number of things. I regaled them with tales of adventure during which I distilled the heart of man's darkness and got a fair few laughs. Finally, having gorged on my burger like a pig at the trough, I rose and bid them all goodbye. I shook each one by the hand and ran like hell to my train. Once on board, I realized that I had forgotten to pay for my meal. The German VFX industry now knows me very well b

I'm sure everyone knows that awkward moment when you come across a stranger walking in the opposite direction; when each of you tries to bypass the other, but you both repeatedly step in the same direction, forever perpetuating the blockage. After the seventh time you feel the need to find humor in the situation. You grin idiotically and shake your head. What a lark, eh? Your opponent doesn't see the funny side; he or she will decide to blow past you with an exasperated huff that non-verbally says 'fuck off idiot'. I hate it when that happens. I would rather walk into a raging stampede of burning buses than go through it. But every time I walk down Oxford Street, I have to endure this shit three or four times on a good day. Anyway, I think this situation needs a name that everyone can recognize. How about calling it the 'Block 'n' Grin'? Or the 'Awkward Mutual Impasse'?

When travelling on the London Underground, one is expected to allow passengers to get off the train before getting on. It's polite and conducive to efficiency. This morning as always, I stood to the side of the door as should be done. As soon as the door was open, a throng of arseholes (basically everyone but me) stampeded on-board with little regard for etiquette or rules. I eventually managed to squeeze in backwards, pushing against the mass with my buttocks just long enoug h (I hoped) for the doors to close. A short and rotund Indian schoolboy approached the carriage. To get an idea of his appearance, imagine a brown billiard ball in a navy school uniform and a teenage moustache. He made for my door. If Archimedes had it right, the train would overflow if this little soldier tried to come on board. I was having none of it. I took advantage of the fact that those by my side were facing inwards while I was facing outwards. They would not see what I was doing. As the

Today didn't go well. The trains in the morning were a shambles (hey, what's new). I realised that I'd missed another deadline. I skipped lunch to fix a problem which was not my fault (I swear, it was ZBrush fucking with me). Finally, the workday ended. It was raining buckets when I started for home. I didn't carry an umbrella, despite owning several. In my experience, it has rarely come in handy when I remembered to take one out. I got very wet. I got even wetter when walki ng under the scaffolding outside Bodyshop (or was it Uniqlo? I'm not sure). When walking down the escalator in Oxford Circus. I slipped on the wet floor with both feet. I flew up in the air. I flew so high that on the way down, I had a go at the Sudoku in yesterday's Evening Standard (the easy one. I could never manage the middle or hard ones). When I finally landed, the thud I made with my 90 kilo mass caused tremors that will have surprised any local seismologists. I was

I just arrived in Bonn for the weekend. The whole flight was dominated by an army of London wide boys on their way to a booze-up in Cologne. Or maybe a football related thing. They are certainly not here for the Cologne Cathedral. They were a rowdy bunch. Waheeeys and Raaarrrghs a-plenty. A number of them congregated with Budweisers in hand by a seat in the middle of the plane. It was like a Pub huddle in Soho - but in midair. They ignored the crew and the seat belt alerts. T he din was immense. Just when I thought they couldn't tick another cliche for the English lout abroad, they went and did a conga as they exited the plane on arrival. Oh God.

One cubicle was engaged. The other had a bowl full of toilet paper. A very thick blanket of the stuff, obviously concealing an embarrassing body of work. I couldn't take a leak before flushing it away. I would have risked back-splash. I pulled the flush. The result was a maelstrom of faeces and soggy toilet paper. It rose to the very top. I ran. I yelled to the occupier of the other cubicle to run for his life. He didn't make it. I could hear his blood curdling screams as I ran to the top floor where I work. I'm still desperately holding the pee in. I dare not return. It's gonna have to be McDonald's at lunchtime.

Another day, another morning on a vacuum packed Bakerloo line train. I couldn't move my hand up to my face to scratch my nose. It itched like mad. An Israeli man was intimately close to me; closer than I've ever been to another man. There's some sort of an inspirational message for peace in there but I'm not sure what it is. I felt someone's knee go right up my arse. Enough to feel violated. When the train reached Oxford Circus, the doors opened and as everyone came off, I realized that there was no knee there. It was the back of a very small woman's head. What you might call a midget if you were of a politically incorrect persuasion.

I came to work on a Saturday. What dedication. I've got the whole building to myself; all 4 floors. I have the stereo playing loud and there's nobody complaining. It's wonderful. Crucially, I don't have to wait for the toilet to be free. I have it to myself. I went down just a moment ago while Bridge Over Troubled Waters played on the stereo. I sang along to it as I skipped down the steps and into the Men's room. I sang as I lifted the seat and unzipped my fly. I sang my hear t out. # SAIL ON SILVER GIRL, SAIL ON BY!! !# And that's when I heard a cough in the other cubicle.

The southbound Bakerloo line platform was dangerously crowded at Baker Street. I stood in my usual spot - I always board at the same door because it stops right by the exit at Oxford Circus. I was apprehensive about being pushed onto the tracks, crowded as it was. A guy pushed in front of me. Okay, no problem thought I. Then the train came, a miniature Hillsborough disaster as usual, and the masses started to get on board. The guy in front of me kept letting people go in before him. That's okay up to a point, but he wasn't allowing much room for those behind him (me). He finally squeezed in last. I knew his game. He wanted to be the last one in, first one out. Motherfucker! I couldn't get on. I so wanted to throw a punch in his face just as the doors were sliding shut. But there was no guaranteeing they wouldn't open again.

A short woman in a big coat stood in the gangway wearing a badge that cutely said 'baby on board'. I saw her before with that badge, months ago. Without the badge, absolutely no one would have thought this woman was pregnant. A gallant knight in shining armour gave up his seat. She took it with an air of entitlement; like it was hers and he was just holding it for her. I don't think she's pregnant. I think she bought a cheap badge and the investment has paid off a thousandfol d. Cow. I later saw a small man of the same build being led through a crowded station by an attendant. He had a cane and was clearly pretending to be blind. The bastard. I could no longer take this abuse of people's kindness. I pushed the rascal to the ground and began to beat him with his cane. He put on a great show of being in distress, rolling on his back and crying like a baby. The attendant screamed for help. I ran off as I could hear the gendarmes approaching. I think this

A bearded man walked out as I entered the men's room. He looked displeased to see me. Inside it smelled like someone had choked on their vomit and died; was re-animated as a zombie and eaten it's own arms off and vomited again. Normally, I'd have looked for another toilet, but needs must when the devil drives. The toilet seat was down. I wrapped a lot of toilet paper around my hand as a makeshift glove and lifted the seat. The horror. The horror...

I accompanied my dad to the hospital as he underwent cataract surgery. After the operation, while my dad awaited being discharged, a nurse with a Belfast accent asked us if we wanted some tea. Yes, we said. We’d love some. Milk or sugar? she asked. Milk but no Sugar for me, Sugar but no Milk for my dad, said I. Huh? I’ll take milk but no sugar. My dad will take sugar but no milk, please. I’m sorry, what? I like my tea with milk but without sugar. My dad wants it the other way around. Errrrrrrrrr…... After about ten minutes, the conversation had descended to the following: Small man glug glug milky, Big man glug glug sweety! You’re making this very difficult, she said. Two teas with milk and sugar please, I finally said. Okay, she said. In the end, nobody was happy.

Before catching my train home from Baker Street, I treated myself to a bag of cashew nuts. Having found a seat on the northbound Metropolitan line train, I ripped the bag open and dug in. I soon noticed that a shovel faced woman sitting opposite me was giving me a disapproving look. As soon as she noticed me seeing her, she looked away. I looked away too. I ate another cashew nut and looked out of the window.   I was able to feel her gaze burning a hole in my temple. I looked her way. Her face was contorted with apparent disgust. Did she not like cashew nuts? Did the sight of someone gorging himself on a bagful of them repulse her?   I refrained from   putting another nut in my mouth. I decided to wait and enjoy them after departing   the train at my stop. This was easier said than done. As we rolled on northwards, the thought of those delicious honey glazed cashews obsessed me. I decided that she could go to Hell. I pulled the bag open and scooped a handful into my salivati