I don’t know if it’s a national campaign or not but Subways in Manchester were today and Friday offering a free 6-inch sandwich if you bought a drink. This was enough to tempt me and my boy Dave (he – intermittently writes a superb blog, there’s a link on the left you dicks, read it) to go there on a lunch rendezvous. Selfishly, everyone else seemed to know about this. And when everyone else constitutes one of the largest congregations of students in Europe it makes for a clamour if there is an opportunity to get a deal.
The nearest Subway is literally just round the corner – this had a queue of about 40 people in it. There is another 5 minutes walk down the road – the queue was of a similar length. Should we give up? Not a moment of it. This was the stage where common sense would no longer be an issue. I had started on a journey and I fucking damn well intended to get the fucking Subway deal whether I wanted it or not – to be honest, I was nonplussed at the idea and really wanted a pasta salad. Fortunately Subways are more common than polished shoes these days and so the next nearest Subway was only about ten minutes walk away.
The third Subway had a reasonable queue outside (not quite Goldilocks is it this?). And by reasonable I mean still quite big – and big enough so that in normal circumstances I would have given up the dream and gone to Greggs. But it was reasonable enough for Dave and I to join it – and be smug when 5 minutes later, and still only halfway to the counter, the queue outside was twice the length it had been when we joined. The staff at all these Subways must have been fucking loving it – I doubt they were on any kind of bonus for all the extra work. Though, as Dave pointed out they would be entitled to a free sandwich (one per visit) on the proviso they bought a soft drink.
Of course, if someone had asked me how much I would have paid to avoid all the queuing, it would have been much more than the 70 pence I saved on the price of the sandwich. I DID get a drink as well – but I didn’t want it. As with most things I do with Dave, though, it was a right good laugh. And the kind of thing most people would stare blankly at if I tried to explain why it was funny.
Such was our journey, though, we were both out of our comfort zone in terms of places nearby to sit and enjoy the fruits of our bounty. And so we ended up eating our bargain sandwiches (both had Subway clubs – different breads though: me – wheat, Dave – Italian Herbs) in a bus stop in the middle of the Hospital grounds. Quite the bon-viveurs.
My life isn’t all enjoying special offer sandwiches, though I am not quite sure why it isn’t. No – there are parts of it sat on the bus thinking over the signs used by students on their campaign posters for student office. The one that caught my eye today was a pun on the 50 Cent album title Get Rich or Die Trying worded ‘Get Ridge or Die Trying’. Yeah it’s alright isn’t it? Only it doesn’t really make sense, I believe the implied meaning is that he will die trying to get elected. Other than being a ridiculous notion it doesn’t quite fit anyway. It is the electorate who would ‘get’ him if he won. So is he suggesting the student body should die trying to vote for him? It is hardly Libya on the harsh streets of the Manchester University campus.
Of course I could have mis-read the sign. It could have simply been someone with the surname of Get trying to avoid breach of copyright – and thus he had simply changed the word rich to ridge so Fiddy didn’t sue him. One further option, and I realise this is the least likely, is that is not a campaign poster at all – and merely an advertisement for the two main contenders in the election one person called Get Ridge (“Mr Ridge?” “Please, that’s my father – call me Get”) and anther called Die Trying (perhaps the child of some illiterate Welsh people), and so the poster would be saying that these were your options Master Get ‘Don’t Call Me Mister’ Ridge or Die ‘Childe ov the Vallee’ Trying. Or perhaps not.
For once my bus timing was great and I arrived for football with time to get changed at a leisurely pace. It did also mean I was able to overhear a phone call from a member of the gym staff to what I supposed was his boyfriend or girlfriend. He was trying to tell he/she about who had got some job but he/she, apparently, could not hear him. “WHY NOT?” he repeatedly said quite aggressively, “WHY CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?”. Well though I was only operating on overhearing half the conversation the solution seemed to be only one of two possible alternatives.
His voice was clearly working, as were his ears as he could obviously hear her/him saying they couldn’t hear him. So it could only be one of the following (1) the speaker on the phone of the girlfriend/boyfriend wasn’t working, or (2) the mouthpiece on his phone wasn’t working. I suppose also the boyfriend/girlfriend could have been struck deaf. Whichever of these three was the actual reason – continuing to shout “why can’t you hear me?” down the phone was seemingly some futile act of self-flagellation. The cock.