Tag Archives: queen

Princes of the headache

I’m in the middle of a bastard of a migraine right now so concentration isn’t coming easily. As such the blog today will be a song you should all listen to because we did so the other day at about 4am, to the massive detriment of anyone trying to sleep in my house.

Fuck ’em, they slam doors.

Also: Clancy Brown.

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Do you not know who I think I am?

I’ve just had some shopping delivered by Sainsbury’s (it’s alright, I had a voucher), and it reminded me of something. See, I allowed Anna to handle most of the ‘deciding what to put in the CYBER-TROLLEY’ stuff, so I didn’t have to bother. Also I would just get £50 worth of noodles. But in doing so she evidently decided, without me noticing, that for this particular delivery I would be Captain Dransfield. Hence when the pleasant delivery chap arrived, he kept addressing me as “Captain”.

This made me laugh.

But it’s not the first time it’s happened, and I hope I’m not alone in this, otherwise we may have discovered some bizarre proto-fetish I have and didn’t formerly know about. Aside from the obvious “King”, “Sir” and “Queen” titles I’ve had on post, packages and other such deliveries, I have had one wonderful experience in the Leeds branch of Specsavers.

My friend Kat worked there at the time and so, when I went in to get some new specs, she filled out my personal details. In it she decided I would be Viscount Dransfield. I laughed, then immediately forgot about this. Half an hour later when it was my appointment time, the waiting room was addressed by a slightly confused-looking employee of the shop (who wasn’t Kat), asking for “Viscount… Dransfield?”

I stood and strode confidently toward her, knowing full well everyone in there was probably stupid enough to think I actually was some form of special person. Special in the good way, that is. Later on I overheard another employee discussing with her colleagues how the shop had “royalty” in that day, and how everyone should be on their best behaviour.

I laughed. Kat laughed. But Specsavers had the last laugh. £300 for a pair of fucking glasses? Do you not know who I am?

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