Tales of daily life from a 20-something Student from London.

Sunday, 31 July 2011

Jack and the Beanstalker

It's safe to say that, at least once a day, we have those awkward moments where we end up feeling like an absolute goon. Be it falling over a pile of shirts in the stockroom and planting myself firmly into a hoodie (luckily I was on my own at this point), starting a deep conversation with someone who wasn't actually talking to you in the first place (this time, I was drunk, and thought he genuinely wanted to talk about him losing his job to me. Instead of telling me to  'fuck off', I think he should have been touched), or in the case I'm going to talk about now, walking exactly the same route as someone for roughly a mile and having them speed up and constantly look behind them to avoid you. Creepy.

I mean, I didn't mean to follow her. I walked out of one comic shop and began walking to another. Naturally, to avoid competition, they aren't exactly close together, even in central London. I saw her in front of me and as she turned every corner, I realised I needed to go the same way. I can't blame her for getting creeped out. I'm a fast walker so it probably looked like I was trying to poorly chase her like a paedophile with a dodgy knee that can't run properly (just to add, totally not comparing myself to a paedo). She kept turning round and spotting me and the look on her face showed confusion and mild fear...maybe more than mild. When it turned out she was going into exactly the same comic shop as I was, I opted standing outside for a minute, but thought waiting for her outside to continue my stalking may have seemed a bit worse. I went in. I perused this weeks new releases, and went downstairs to see some other bits they had.

She was downstairs. Just the two of us. She saw me, and we did one of those 'oh no, we're walking toward each other, and we're both dodging the same way' things when she said 'are you after me?'

Naturally, my response was 'no, I'm not'.

"I didn't mean it" she whimpered.


Then a fat man came down. Then she left. I was clearly the more scared one at the end of this encounter.

Over and out.

P.s. Sorry for not being busy much lately. I've been busy doing absolutely nothing for most of the day, and even less for the other part. Life is a bitch.

Monday, 25 July 2011

Can'tCan'tCan't Kick the habit.

With a title like I've given this evening's blog, you may think it's about the tragedy of Amy Winehouse's untimely passing. As sad a matter as that is, I won't dwell on it, as I'm sure everyone needs a bit of a cheer up after the week that has gone by, so instead I'm going to talk about a more amusing addiction than heroin and cocaine.

Ham and sleeping pills.

Yes, you read that correctly. Over a cool ginger beer, Matt Hooton revealed to me that the sleeping tablets he 'needs' taste so foul when they touch his throat that he needed a way to try and nullify this. Cue various food stuffs. Now, absurd as this is, bear with me. First, he tried inserting the pill into a small cheese cube, which proved to really give him nightmares as the cheese kept on crumbling. Along comes cheese's natural ally, ham. So yes. Matt gets some ham and folds it around the tablet, ready for swallowing. How mad is that? Wham, bam, thank you ham, down in one. So, in a twist from the usual formula, I'm going to ask you, what unusual habits do you have? If any good ones come in, I might even write about them in my next entry. You can either comment on here, on facebook, or tweet me @_JackHart 

Also experimenting on a new style, I'm going to talk about this absolutely wild story I read on the web this week. 


It's a tad old now, but it's a great story that shows no matter how big a star someone is, they can still have time to show how much they appreciate fans. 

Apologies about entries being few and far between recently, as my life has been a bit boring. If I were you, come find me and force something stupid or annoying to happen to me so that I can write it down in a comical fashion.

Over and out.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011

ChooChooChoo (most uninspiring title ever)

The East Coast trainline has become somewhat of a spiritual home to me. The £1.40 bottles of water that, although extortionate, don't exactly give you much of a choice as to go to a different establishment (although the prospect of 'back seat dealings' in a dark, dank back carriage where passengers are playing craps and clicking their fingers to a bassy beat). The odd toilet locks that leave you petrified that someone will walk in on you and your business. Even the plug sockets that don't have an on/off switch which annoys me and my slight OCD hugely. Having suffered a journey up to the Midlands with an annoying woman playing Bollywood at full blast through her laptop speakers (I was unable to engage with the lead character, possibly due to the language gap, but more likely due to a shoddy per-korma-nce), I was hoping for a better return journey.

Naturally, this was not the case. There I was, bright and early at Grantham station waiting for the 14.08. For half an hour, I mulled my coffee. Then, at 5 to two, horrow struck: I needed the loo. I was petrified I'd miss the train but just had to risk it. At five past two, I was out of the loo, and the train was on the platform, so I darted on. Perfect. But all was not right. A man was in my seat. 

"sorry pal, think you're in my seat there"
"No, I'm not"
I showed him my ticket

"That's wrong"
"clearly it isn't"
"I'm not moving"

This swung back and forth for a few minutes. Harsh words were exchanged. He was still sitting. I was still standing. Luckily, the ticket inspector arrived.

"This guy is in my seat mate!"

He looked at my ticket.

"You're on the wrong train"

The man sitting down took of his jacket. He made himself comfortable.

I made myself scarce. 

Over and out.

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Tuesday, 5 July 2011


I've mentioned it before, but holy shit, retail workers can be on the wrong side of the sanity tracks. I decided that I needed a new pair of shoes, preferably something plain, maybe grey or navy, so my first port of call was Schuh. After the usual awkward pleasantries a girl asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. Remember this moment. This is where you say "No, just browsing".

I said "yeah, something plain, maybe grey or navy" to which she immediately dived onto her database to look for some shoes that matched my description. I had been lured into her trap like a moth to a flame and now I was committed. "Any price range?" she said. Oh god, now I'm ever further into this path to the till-of-no-returns. What should I say? "Oh, anything under a tenner" would make me look cheaper than a (insert whichever city you want here to avoid offence) on a night out. I went with a max of £30 which she must have thought was a paltry amount as her lip raised a bit as though she'd been offered KFC on a first date (not that I know that look...) when she wanted, at least, Nando's. I had no intention of purchasing the shoes she then found me but I decided there was no way to bail now, so she brought them out.

I admit, they were a snug fit. I was being persuaded, slowly, to part with my cash, but I then snapped back into reality. What was I thinking? I couldn't afford these. But how would I get out? It felt like running away from the altar on your wedding day, but I had to. As soon as she took them up to the counter, I'd dart for the stairs. "Yeah, leave them behind the counter, and I'll head up in a sec", I said tying my shoes. Now was the moment! I was away! Halfway up the stairs, I could almost smell the freedom. 

"Excuse me?"
"You er.. forgot your wallet"

"...right...thanks...I was just going to get money out for the shoes y'see"

I never came back.

Over and out.

Friday, 1 July 2011


I don't quite know how to put this. I'm sure that's how the business moguls behind the popular candy brand started their pitch, too. Sitting their, drinking their Sunkist and eating their free sweets, and an idea so crazy, so unexpected comes to them, that they feel destined to take this idea as far as it will go. And then expand it. It started as small bags in the local Tesco. Then advanced to Waitrose. Then got their own online store. Normal store. Theme park. Football sponsorship deal. Travel company. Petrifying. 

M and M's now have their own physical shop at Piccadilly Circus. A shop that is dedicated to selling everything that is either M or M. I know what you're thinking, what can they possibly sell other than the sweets? This was my first thought, but I was swiftly told 'there are three varieties y'know'. Right. Three. Well, I appreciate the number of possibilities that peanut, crunchy, and normal create, but does this really mean that the West End needs a three-floor behemoth to stock them? 

As much as I couldn't bear to go in to such a strange place (I was pretty skint) I looked through the window into the pit of colours and kiddies to see teddies, phones, clocks, everything with those annoying colourful New Yorker arseholes on it than one could ever dream of. In a time of such economic downturn, who in their right mind thought this would be more profitable than a small shack that sold M and M's and a few novelty touristy items like a keychain with a crudely painted phonebox on the end or a t-shirt that says 'my parents when to London and all they got me were three different varieties of M and M's, a clock featuring said company's mascots, and this crappy t-shirt'. It would need to be a big t-shirt, but if you're buying them a bucket load of sweets, you can expect they'll probably fill it. I can even tolerate a one floor shop, but three floors? The rent must be bloody extortionate, and the lighting and so on. Utter madness.

But then again, I don't know why I'm complaining.... I kind of fancy some M and M's now.

Over and out.