Saturday, 6 September 2008

Why, oh why..

... do people not look at themselves in the mirror before they leave the house?

Yesterday I 'did the recycling' - part of the going-to-Waitrose routine, only because Waitrose themselves have fairly primitive recycling bins (almost hidden in a discreet corner of the car park) I call in at Tescos on the way. They have an all-singing, all-dancing recycling facility which takes plastics, glass and cans; there are also massive skip-type thingos for cardboard and tetra-paks.

Now, 'What is remarkable about all this?', I hear you ask. Well, nothing in itself, it's true - since the Stormtroopers at Cotswold District Council changed their rubbish policy this summer I've noticed a fair increase in the number of people who ARE doing-the-Tesco-bin thing. Doubtless my ranting on the mindless manner in which CDC implemented their ludicrous new regime will occupy my observations in the future, so be warned, gentle reader: but that is not the point of today's little tantrum. No, instead I am going to have a less-than-gentle pot at the guy who was in front of me queuing to use the glass/plastic/can machine (one of the windows was not working, as usual - also the topic of a rant in the future, I can see).

The person in question, for starters, saw me approaching the machine window from the other side of the recycling bay and got his daughter (I assume, judging by the fact she closely resembled a plump slug in a particularly unforgiving school uniform) to slither over and lurk by the window, taking her time over processing a few items, whilst he decanted his bulk from their car and dragged a truly massive bin-bag of stuff over; thus making sure I was second in line. This, admittedly, was rude, but no more so than many incidents occurring every time I stick my nose out of Chateau Angevin. I contented myself with giving the pair of them a truly filthy look, at which they had the decency to look fairly ashamed. It was raining persistently after all.

As the hapless pair took their time shoving the evidence of their many TV dinners into the window, item by item, I had more than enough leisure to examine them in more detail; suffice it to say I wish I hadn't. I'm not the sort of person who looks down on people because they are wearing cheap clothes, driving old beaten-up cars etc - I've been there and I know what it's like - but I'm afraid I draw the line at dirt. And there was no getting away from it: this guy was DIRTY. Nor was it the sort of dirt which results from spending a day doing grubby jobs; this was real, ingrained filth - his fingernails were the sort my grandmother said you could 'grow potatoes in', the knuckles had grime ground into every pore and the back of his neck was positively grey. Added to the scurf on the said neck, whether coming from the neck itself or having had a scurf-slide down from the untidy, greasy mess which was his hair, the filth was really quite incredible. This is completely inexcusable - soap isn't expensive after all, and as doing the recycling isn't a life-or-death thing he didn't really have an excuse to be seen in public in that revolting state.

As if all this wasn't bad enough, I now have to turn to the clothes he was wearing. Anybody with a weak stomach should really give up now and go and have a cup of tea - don't say I didn't warn you. I won't stamp my feet about the fact he was wearing 'sports gear' which, given his immense bulk, was a bit of a joke really as the only sport I could see him actually doing would be sumo-wrestling - very popular in Cirencester, that. Not. No, I've trained myself out of noticing sports gear or 'leisure wear' these days (although I don't promise not to have a rant about that some time in the future) because I just wouldn't be able to leave the house without raising my blood pressure to fatal levels if I bothered about all the 'trackie-victims' wandering around. However, this particular set of (grimy, how did you guess?) trackie bottoms were of note NOT because of their spectacular state of grubbiness but because of their position on the guy's body - ie. almost falling off his more-than-ample buttocks.

Now, again, I'm no prude. What people choose to amuse themselves with, or do in the privacy of their own homes is their business and not mine - whatever makes them happy is fine by me as long as they aren't hurting innocent people or bothering me with it. However, inflicting the spectacle of a large, grimy, hairy and spotty bum on me in a queue does not fall into that category. It's offensive and completely unnecessary. Unfortunately this particular sight was of the sort which holds such macabre fascination that, no matter what I tried to stare at instead, my eyes were drawn back to the quivering mass in front of me - I was expecting the trackies to fall down any minute and it's a marvel of modern fashion engineering that despite their obviously venerable age and the degree of abuse they'd been subjected to they did not do so. It did indeed cross my mind to ask the guy to pull them up, but I'm afraid to say, gentle reader, I was too cowardly to do so - he was considerably taller than me and his slug-like daughter looked as if she could have had a handy left-hook too. So I kept my mouth shut, tried to convince myself the petrol filling station opposite was totally absorbing and moved out of the leaping-range of any creatures he might have been harbouring on his person.

With hindsight, I'm sorry I didn't say something. He is probably still out there, roaming around, inflicting the vision of his bum-hair on other innocent souls; impervious to his own hideousness. Would a polite request from me have jolted him out of his state of ignorance with regard to the offensiveness of his appearance? Would he have felt so embarrassed by having been asked to render himself decent by a total stranger he might have actually gone home, looked at himself, realised what a mess he is and actually used some soap-and-water? Or would he merely have told me to 'eff off and mind your own business'? Who knows? All I know is, there is too much of this sort of thing - the English aren't known for their sense of style, but the combination of poor-taste, apathy and dirt isn't exactly going to a very good impression of the country to the rest of the world. Not is just letting this situation go on going to instil any notion of self-respect in those engaged in the aforesaid poor-taste, apathy and grubbiness. I've visited parts of the world where people are so much poorer than even the poorest in this country and yet they still make an effort, so money is NOT the problem here; it's self-respect and also the recognition that going out looking like a swamp-creature shows a lack of respect to those who have to look at you - realisations which seemed to have passed the English by in the last 30 or so years.

Might I suggest to Gordon Brown that instead of dishing out £250 to every new-born child he installs a full length mirror by the front door of every house in the land? In my opinion, making people confront their own offensiveness head on and in a practical way on would probably have far greater impact on the way they approach the world than giving them some dosh to blow on more booze, fags, Anne-Summers-ware and trackie bottoms. The sad fact is, that although superficially unappealing as slug-girl may have been, if something isn't done she is merely going to perpetuate the example her father is setting. Yo ho ho for the sportswear manufacturers....

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