Product Description

From the ubiquitious wheelie bin to the insanity of council road policy and the frustrations of interactive telephones, this volume dissects the daily hazards that besiege modern man with wit, humour and a healthy dose of outrage.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #5109507 in Books
• Published on: 2002-02-20
• Original language: English
• Binding: Paperback
• 259 pages

The Press & Journal, August 2002
If you hate mobile phones,wheelie bins, supermarkets, airports, politicians, lawyers, traffic or beauty counters, you'll enjoy Ian Prince's literary debut.

From the Author
The book is a humourous look at the things we take for granted in the 21st Century. Our hero, as he goes about is normal routines,takes us through chaotic and ludicrous situations which we can all to easily associate with.Whether it's a simple thing like a visit to a super- market or a decision to leave the car at home and take the bus, it's all there. Our hero analysis and disects every situation with humour and wit that should have the reader laughing out loud.The book is written as a series of short stories or anecdotes grouped within sections with titles like 'Off The Shelf', 'On the Road to Nowhere', 'A Moving Experience' and more. In the final chapter i've looked into my crystal ball to predict, again with wit and some synicism how the UK will look in 2008.

Excerpted from The Age of Chaos by Ian L. Prince. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
In an effort to do my own’ bit’ for the environment, I decided to take public transport to work one day. To prepare for this adventure, I had spent best part of one hour the previous evening trying to ‘crack the code’ that the editor of the bus timetable had used, the issue date of this timetable was some 6 months earlier.

I quickly realised that the little numbers, scattered at random on each page, related to specific notes like ‘this service terminates at Balmedie or runs every six minutes starting at 12 minutes past the hour and only running between 09.30 am and 10.15’
Obviously the editor of this timetable was so ‘pissed off’ at not being awarded the Pulitzer Prize’ for literature had instead decided to ‘fuck-up’ the public transport system by producing such a confusing timetable.

I calculated I should allow 45 minutes for my journey and change at the station terminal. After a very restless night in which I dreamt I was on a bus to Balmedie that had been terminated, fortunately we were allowed to alight before the bus was set fire to by a group of faceless beings from another world, (who probably did not like wheelie bins either).

Had it not been for me being knackered from my restless night, a nagging premonition of pending disaster and that this was a cold wet windy morning that I had chosen to find a bus, (after all this was late summer), I would have undoubtedly enjoyed the short walk to the bus stop.

After passing what I could only guess was an early start at building a bonfire for Guy Fawkes Night, yet some four months away, I came across all that remained of the local bush shelter.
There is something about bus shelters and football supporters that do not go together. Perhaps with the glass removed it's easier for them to climb in and out, rather than to use the door. Or maybe one goal scored by the away team equates to the need to ‘raze to the ground’ 10 bus shelters.

I should have realised that with no one waiting for a bus, something was amiss.
Those comforting words from a passing fellow traveller ‘ you’ve got a long wait mate, they’re on strike’ finally shocked me to my senses and off I went begrudgingly to fetch my car.
The strike was over a few days later; it appears that the bus owners wanted the drivers to service and paint the busses as well as drive them and for this they would not get any more money!

I’ve always been one for a challenge and so as if to temp fate I decided to try once again to take the bus. It was raining again, was I in a time warp, what was this, ‘Ground Hog Day?’
The ash from last weeks seeming spontaneous combustion of the bonfire, was being blown around in dust clouds and had an effect like someone using a Sand Blaster on my face.

This was more like it, a queue of folk snaking its way from the bus shelter. According to the timetable there was a bus every 6 minutes, after what seemed an hour I politely asked the guy in front of me when the next bus was due, ‘ how the fuck would I know’ he replied.

I noticed this man had a slight stoop, which I attributed to the weight of his necklace that seemed to have been made from a toilet chain from, which dangled something that resembled a crucifix made out of part of a wrought iron gate. I assumed he was a member of a breakaway faction of an extremist druid organisation who had taken an oath not to be civil to people.

‘The time table says’ I said, in a tone to show him I spoke in peace
‘If you believe that you’d believe any fucking thing, only thing them there timetables is good for is lighting fires ’
‘Are you a football supporter’ I asked, convinced I had found the ringleader responsible for the destruction of the bus shelters. I won't quote is reply but it was obvious he was going through a nervous breakdown.

When a bus finally arrived it was nearly full, while I patiently waited I tried to guess how many in front of me would be packed on to the bus. All but six managed to get on, before the heavily laden bus begrudgingly pulled away leaving me to wonder if there would be any more busses that day.

For the next 25 minutes before my bus arrived, I consoled myself that I would soon be comfortably relaxing on a super-duper modern air-conditioned bus that would drive unhindered and as if transported on air, to my destination. How wrong could I be?

The bus finally arrived and when my time came to board I stated my destination to the driver, parted with a £2 coin and waited for my ticket and change.
‘Move along Sir and let the other passengers on’
‘Where is my change?
‘Can’t you read? No change is given’
' but I have only bought a ticket and not shares in your bus’
He pointed to a little notice on his ticket machine about half the size of a postage stamp which said that no change would be given.
With anger quelling inside of me I blurted out ‘I'll be waiting for you at Balmedie’ and proceeded to pass down the bus.