Gordon Ramsey Wannabe

The table was set and the gammon was roasting away in the oven. The new potatoes were prepared, lightly scrubbed ready to boil along with the vegetables. I couldn’t find a tin of pineapples, every other tin of fruit Tesco’s stock except a tin of fucking pineapples, and she was due home in three quarters of an fucking hour.

Don’t fucking panic, I told myself. There was plenty of time. I’ll go to the local and buy a fucking tin; I don’t normally go shopping, but it was a one off, how fucking hard can it be, I thought. After all, people go shopping everyday. I lit a small gas under the potatoes, and left to go to the shop. Extreme, you might think for a tin of bloody fruit, but the one thing I pride myself on, it is my fucking cooking. You will never hear anyone talk about a bad feed in my house.

On my way to the shop, I met Billy, nothing unusual in that, Billy’s like a bad fucking smell, always around when you don’t want him to be. Billy is one of many unemployed scavenging bastards around here, and the last person I wanted to talk to.

He talked about shite, how he was on his knee’s, and promising he would pay me back the next time he was flush.

Well I just couldn’t be arsed.

‘Billy before you start,’ I said raising my hand, ‘I’ve got fuck all for you, and another thing, I don’t want to hear any fucking hard luck stories, not today. So if you don’t mind, just fuck off.’

All said without breaking stride.

The sad useless bastard just stood there looking like a gold-fish giving a fucking blow-job. Well, what else could I do, I was on a fucking mission, and those fucking potatoes weren’t getting burned because he fancied a fucking chat, and besides, the smelly git was already due me twenty quid, and I’m not a bloody charity.

Right, remember I don’t usually do shopping. Shops, and the people in them get on my fucking nerves, but needs must as they say. I had it all worked out; I’d waltz in, find the pineapples, make my way to the till, pay my money and fuck off out off there.

Only two people before me at the check out; a young mother with a kid, and an old woman.

The brat in the pram dropped a toy rabbit, and the fucking mother didn’t notice. She was too fucking busy working out whether she could afford another twenty cigarettes. I picked it up and gave the kid it back. Just then the mother turns around, and smiles.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

I never answered the silly cow, her yellow teeth were making me heave. The skinny bastard thinks she’s got a figure; shite, she’s suffering from malnutrition. Buying cigarettes and booze leaves no money to buy fucking food. She’s dressed in fucking jogging trousers, and the fucking things haven’t been washed since she bought them. I’ll bet she takes it up the arse on the first date.

The little one waves, when they leave. As if I was going to talk to the little bastard, no fucking danger.

The old woman started emptying her trolley onto the check out, and she had a fucking trolley full of shite she’ll never fucking use.

I’m fucking standing there with a fucking tin of pineapples. Any cunt with the slightest bit of decency would have said, ‘oh is that all your buying son, on you go.’

The old bastard never flinched no matter how much I sighed. Pissed me right off, and by this time, cold sweat was running down my back.

I’m standing with my hands on my hips trying my utter most best not to run out of the fucking shop screaming with rage. Boiling, I was fucking boiling, listening to this old fucking retard complaining about the price of the fucking things she’s picked. I’m thinking, Just get fucking on with it you smelly old cunt, buy your crap and, fuck off.

Half way through her trolley load, and this junkie bastard came in waving a fucking gun about. The aids ridden bastard, he’s that skinny his fucking head was moving inside the balaclava he was wearing. Every time he turned his head too quick, all he could see was the inside of the balaclava, and rendering himself blind every time he did; the thick ignorant cunt.

‘GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY, GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY,’ he shouts waving the gun at the check out girl.

By this time she was blabbing like a fucking two day old baby. The fucking old woman she’s that fucking deaf she’s still fucking complaining about the price of food as this is unfolding, and the poor woman who appeared behind me in the queue stood trembling, and pished herself right there and then.

Well enough is enough, I thought. There was no fucking way some skinny junkie bastard was ruining my fucking day, so, I picked up a tin of dog food from the old dear’s trolley, and I fucking threw it at him with enough force to fell a fucking elephant.

I didn’t even wait to see if the stupid bastard was dead, I had potatoes on the boil, and no one was stopping me.

The potatoes were fine and, almost perfection. Another five minutes and she’ll be home, I thought, so I opened a bottle of wine and lit two candles.

So, in she comes all smiles and chatty.

‘How was your day love? Take your jacket off. The dinner will be five minutes I’ll give you a shout,’ I said, trying my fucking best. I know how to be nice.

I sat through dinner listening intently to stories about that days events, and heard all the fucking office gossip. I couldn’t fucking care but I listened, I nodded, I looked shocked, I looked concerned for old Mr Jenkins, and I agreed that Mr Dick Head was in fact a dick head.

The fucking least she could do was eat the fucking pineapple.

‘That was lovely,’ she said.

Lovely, fucking lovely, well if it was so fucking lovely what’s wrong with the fucking pineapple, I felt like screaming.

She was lucky, I should have shoved the fucking plate down her throat, but I was dying for a shag. It had been a while and my balls were down at my knees begging to be emptied. So, I said fuck all.

I’m only telling you this because, here I fucking am, two day’s later reading a fucking letter from the CO-OP. The bastards thank me for my efforts in stopping an armed fucking robber. They’re telling me how fucking grateful they are, and at the bottom of the letter, fuck I cannot fucking believe this. At the bottom of the letter, after they have said how fucking wonderful I am, how fucking heroic I was, the fucking CO-OP are reminding me that I forgot to pay for a tin of fucking pineapples. I can’t speak I’m fucking mad.

Thirty-two fucking pence and these bastards have written to say, they don’t want to involve fucking lawyers.