There are few things I hate more than litterbugs. Call me old-fashioned, but what is so ruddy difficult about putting something in a bin? Hmm? Anyway, yesterday I had such a dreadful litter-themed encounter that I was driven to liquid pudding for recovery. And all because of a silly piece of paper.
Imagine the scene: I, Pud-Hog, am trotting through the park after a hard day’s work, enjoying the evening scene and keen to get home for my pud-fix, when a numpty by the Boris Bikes screws up a piece of paper and just drops it to the ground. What’s more, he is not more than TWO FEET from a bin.
Now, the Man tells me I should ignore these things (because one day somebody will stab me), but – as you’ll know by now from my eating habits – restraint has never been my strong point. So I stopped where I stood, and – in my politest, least angry voice – said ‘Excuse me. Did you know there’s a bin right there?’
The numpty in question turned round to face me – early twenties, floppy black hair, quilted green Barbour jacket – and promptly pretended to be blind. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Nope. I can’t see it.’ At which point he and his mate burst out laughing. And I became seriously peeved.
‘What makes you so special?’ I said. ‘Why should other people have to clean up after you?’
‘Er,’ he droned (in a voice full of swagger and arrogance), ‘that’s somebody’s job, isn’t it?’ More guffaws.
I probably should have walked off. But the paper was still on the ground, threatening to blow into the lake. So I picked it up and attempted to thrust it in his quilted pocket. He wasn’t having any of it. A small amount of scuffling followed, I threatened to call over the police car that was parked nearby, and was swiftly informed that it was actually an ambulance. Much more laughter from the numpties, of course, a spot of swearing from myself, and our frustrating exchange was over.
I felt defeated.
And as I tried to throw the paper in the bin, my arm got stuck in the opening.
Well done, Pud-Hog. Real smooth.
I had tried to do good, but ended up feeling a bit of a pillock. My journey home was miserable: I imagined the numpties skipping through London in hoots of laughter, dropping plastic and paper wherever they went. And it made me sad.
Still, masochist that I am, I’ll probably do it all again the next time I see someone littering. One can’t give up one’s principles, after all – even if it does mean a bit of light stabbing one day.
Anyhoo, I’ll stop ranting. You’re here for puddings after all, so here’s a little solution if you ever need a mood boost. Perhaps you’ve even had one before…
The soothing cocktail in question is called a Mudslide, and involves equal measures of Irish cream liqueur (i.e. Baileys, or a cheapo equivalent), vodka, Kahlua (i.e. coffee liqueur) and thick double cream (approx 20ml of each).
Sound heavy? It is… but it’s also an excellent way to take your mind off pompous a-holes.
A few deep sips and this sweet, creamy drink had me sighing on the sofa. If you’re like me and you like Baileys, I imagine you’ll be in heaven. Good times. Make sure you only have a few sips, mind: after half a glass I was starting to feel a bit queasy. Three types of booze in a single drink? A glug of double cream? I shouldn’t have been surprised that it tickled quite hard on the tummy-buds.
Clearly, when it comes to liquid puddings, moderation is the key. Next time I’ll do half measures.
Still, now I come to ponder on it, thinking of vomming is better than thinking of numpties in Barbour jackets…
Chin chin, then Ogglers: go wallow in a Mudslide – you’ll be happy as pig in… mud.