Archive for the ‘Smug Gits’ Category

For once I was winning!  If you can call it that.  During my last visit to my favourite most hated shop (here on named as “Tescon”) I noticed that they had a number of “special offers”.  We all know these bastards don’t give anything away, you need to be ever vigilant as you perform your role of modern-hunter-gatherer, watching out for the genuine deals whilst avoiding those products whose prices fluctuate more erratically than the stock markets.

Having reached the detergent aisle I spotted a “reduced to clear” deal on Fairy Platinum.  Being a somewhat antagonistic person I accepted the challenge and grabbed six bottles from the shelves, marked down to half-price.  I say “antagonistic” as my primary motivator for my purchase was not making savings over the coming weeks / months of use of the new washing-up liquid, it was in fact the anticipation of the smugness which I would assume on my return home as my wife hopped onto her high-horse to inform me yet again that we’d be better off buying Aldi’s washing up liquid which “is better than the branded equivalents as judged by Which magazine” or some other miserable shite-rag.  My comeback would indeed by glorious as I proudly informed her that these were indeed half-price bargains.  Win for me, no less.

My glory was short-lived on my return home when I eventually engaged smug-mode only to check the receipt to demonstrate proof of my retail-prowess, only to find that the shit-head-bastards had charged me full price for each of the six bottles as well as the “bargain” marked down packs of multi-surface-wipes” that I’d procured.

To say that my other-half was enjoying her new-found excuse to berate me for “not checking the receipt before [I] left the store” is under-egging it somewhat.  Though I’d never go as far as to mention the words “pig in shit” for fear of… well… being given the “silent treatment” for days on end.

Hope was momentarily restored as she reminded me that if I went back, Tescon would provide me with “double the difference” back if I were able to point out their error.  Jubilant I was.  But there was no way she was letting me off lightly.  She quickly dropped me back to the ground with a bang as she pointed out that if somebody else complained about the same mistake before me, then Tesco would remove the offer from the shelves and I’d have no comeback at all.

Fairy Liquid offer

I burned rubber and arrived back at Tescon promptly to find that, well, to cut a long story short they honoured the deal and gave me £16 back and also allowed me to keep the products which caused all the fuss.  The wife was correct however as they noticed their mistake (the offer was for a 650ml bottle but the shelf contained 625ml bottles – go figure that one out!?!) they promptly removed any trace of the offer, effectively fucking over every other customer who’d put faith in what they had seen on the shelf but hadn’t checked their receipts.

Total con-merchant bastards.  I wonder how much money they make per week through such stunts, I bet it far outweighs the gesture of giving back “double the difference” to the eagle-eyed amongst us.

Moral of the story: be wary.  Fuckhead supermarkets are aplenty.

Oh what a strange day, particularly the start bit. That was certainly unusual. So really it all started on Friday night, but before I get to that its probably best to warn you that this is going to get a bit personal, but that’s ok, I have very little shame anyway.

To get to the point. I found a lump. On Friday night. Way to ruin the evening. I was up for some action and it has to be said, finding “a lump” is a sure fire way to kill the passion. For at least 5 minutes anyway. Really, I’m married, I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of my weekly sex.

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Needless to say however, the lump got me slightly upset, for the whole weekend. I went from moping around to angry and all the while obsessively fondling my nut-sack. Every cloud eh?

Naturally, I followed my established routine of google-based self-diagnosis. “Fucking hell I’ve got testicular cancer!”, this despite the fact that what I could feel, did not quite match the descriptions or diagrams I’d found on-line, but never mind that, some of the symptoms matched. My bollocks did indeed feel heavy. And there was a lump.
By Sunday I’d practically convinced myself I was doomed, but on the way back from swimming I noticed that my balls were hot, really hot. This was new. Back to Google.

So after a bit of eDoctor and then a bit of Wikipedia I found out a little (a lot) about Epididymitis (google it yourself lazy boy), the symptoms sure did sound very familiar, and the outlook was a lot more appetising for sure, so feeling a bit more relaxed I spent the evening with my scrotum elevated (nice image, I was just lying down) enjoying watching the american version of The Office having decided to visit the doctor first thing in the morning.

Right, so its Monday morning (again) and I’ve already signed up to Bupa, I tell you one thing, I am not going through this shit again with the thought of spending time on a public ward on my mind! Next thing, get a doctors appointment. Done. 10:50 it is. Get your cock and balls out for a stranger time!

Between 9:00am and flashing time I had several reasons to pull out, but one very big reason to go ahead. Hell I didn’t want to get my balls out for a stranger! No way, but then I really didn’t like the downside much either. Time to man up.

I’m in with the doctor, I get straight to the point. I found a lump, I foolishly self-diagnosed, I reviewed my self-diagnosis and with my vast knowledge and experience I’ve come to the conclusion that I am happy with my diagnosis. “Epididimdididididisiss (or something)”

“Epididmytis” – he repeated.

“Yes, thats the one”.

“Ok, come with me” he said. Already reaching for the latex gloves. Hold on cowboy, no need to be so eager I’m thinking!

So he tells me to take my trousers off. I wish my wife was this keen. So I drop my trousers.

“I suppose you want my pants down too” I said.

“umm yes” he replied.

I’m not too sure which one of us is more uncomfortable with this part of the conversation.

He tells me to lay down and relax. I’ve heard this before, relaxing is NOT that easy. Whilst he feels around with my jewels I distract myself by recounting to him my exploits with Wikipedia and why I came to the conclusions I did.

Annoyingly, I already know I’ve been feeling a bit better this morning, but what really grinds my gears is that he confirms this by saying “Ok, I can’t find any signs of a lump, so I don’t believe that you have testicular cancer, can you find where you think the lump was?”

Well, I’ve not touched myself this morning, the constant man-handling of my “wheels” had contributed to my weekend of soreness, so I said “Yes, of course”.

Of course my arse, nothing feeling out of place, I point him to the right area. He confirms it may have just been a cyst, but he will refer to me for ultrasound anyway. Great, another stranger can look at my bollocks.

Whilst this is being explained to me, and I am being told that I did the right thing by coming in to see him, I am laying there, nuts out, cock out thinking two things to myself.

“Why am I just laying here with my knob out?”

and

“When is a good time to get up and put myself away?”

It feels like two minutes have passed, in actual fact, its probably been about 20 seconds. Am I enjoying the air on my man-parts?

I sit up and look down at my genitals. WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO THEM?

“Hey Penis!!! Where have you gone!?!?” (ok, I thought this, I didn’t say it. I hope).

I can’t believe it! It’s retreated into my body. FFS! Seriously. I look at the doctor, I am sure he is smirking. Fucker. So ok, it’s not normally something majestic to behold, but its a typically somewhat more magnificent than this!

Talk about mixed emotions, I mean, the temporarily relief that there is nothing wrong together with knowing that a complete stranger things I have an inverted penis!

Bring on the ultrasound.

You know the ones. Joggers. New Years Joggers. A vile and disgusting species. You only see them in January, perhaps a few remain in February, they can be found on almost every street and any time of day, though mostly its evenings.
They will be bobbing along with smug looks on their puffed out red-faces wearing the most disgustingly tight-fitting-lycra-based trousers and brightly coloured tops, kitted out in clothing that will spend the rest of the year being eaten by moths in the back of their wardrobes.

Why is it that they look so pleased with themselves anyway? I can only imagine its the feeling of having got one up on the vultures that run commercial gyms who trap other less fortunate people with their joining fees and minimum 12 month contracts.

“Look at me, look how committed I am, I am out here running. I don’t care that its raining, I am here soaked by a mix of sweat and rain because I have made a new years resolution to get healthy. For a month or two.”

I have two words to say to you people…. “FUCK OFF”.