Happy-Go-Fucking Lucky McPositive and the Fork in the Road...

KABLAMMO!!

That's the noise of a bad moment, a little percussive volley as my corpus callosum is rent in twain and my head explodes, brainz n' all, like an egg in a microwave.

So about 5 months ago (Monday the 12th April in fact) I wrote a piece about my ill-fated and toe-blistering initial attempt to get back into shape as part of my (woefully inadequately fulfilled) 101 things to do and haven't really written anything since.

A cynic would suggest that my pot bellied attempt to be less dough-like stopped my brain working for almost half a year, but I don't think that's the case.

Basically, I had an exam in June, but thanks to the dual forces of working two jobs, and being a lazy earfucker, I managed to fail...spectacularly. Then, after spending the summer studying...I failed again. And lost my job as a lawyer.

KABLAMMO!

So that was yesterday. Now I'm one of the 99.9999% of the world again. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing with life.

Since 2008 I've been approaching my career as a lawyer who was going to become a writer at the first opportunity. It was comforting; financial security, quite prestigious, challenging and keeping with the 'artist' bullshit scenario that we all paint about ourselves in our minds.

That's the problem. When you spend enough time convincing yourself of a fact, it becomes all too easy to see it as a truth. Now I have to rethink some other things about myself that I though were true, like being a great lover, having the physique of a gladiator, or being an original member of The Sugarhill Gang.

So cut throat corporate law is probably not for me. Small-town Atticus Finchery maybe, but not the Michael Clayton red-braces-and-Porsche-Boxter type. Some cliché is coming to mind about heat and kitchens, but it escapes me.

So what now?

I think the next stage for me is a masters degree of some sort. I've been looking at either an MA in radio production or print journalism. I want to give the writing future an actual attempt.

What do you think? Become a nicotine/adrenaline headline jock or an NPR/Radio 4 type doing radio dramas and producer 'Gardener's Question Time'? Both sound good.

Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Work/Life Skullfuck

Aloha,

So I've been a bit of a phantom-man around the old blogosphere, popping my head up to bitch and moan about work, or put some innane and useless video up. In short, my posts have gone seriously downhill in terms of quality this past while. There are a few reasons:

1) I have SERIOUS writer's block at the moment. There are a few things that I really want to start working on, drama and comedy, and I can't for the life of me get my thinking hat to stay on my head. I can't even string a sentence together that is not something that I am reading from a page, or as in this case, reporting back.

2) I am tired. I know, I know, I complain about insomnia all the time, but this is fucking ridicularse. It's like I've got a mild concussion or a case of fume-induced delirium. I kinda feel a bit stoned, but in a way that's not cool, or relaxed or appetite-exaggerating in the slightest. It's like a warm cosy feeling mixed with a little scratchy squirrel trying to burrow his way from behind my eyes. Grrr

3) I'm a depressive person. If you spend enough time with me you get to know that, even in spite of the buffoonery. I honestly can't really give a larger-than-small shit about the old cyber world when my own head is so firmly ensconsed up my own arse. I'm also pissed-off more easily these days, like when I want to momentarily shove a barbed-wire dildo up the arse of the smug Corporate type passively aggressively whacking his suitcase into me on the Tube for more space. It's like a little madness.

BUT, most of all...

4)

Work. I used to roll my eyes when people talked about a 'work/life balance' as being something elusive and vaguely whitewhalish. "Who the fuck do you think you are, Ahab?"

Well, keeping with the Moby Dick theme, the only recurring character who I'm honestly representing at the moment is Mr Starbucks. I'm a caffeine-fuelled automaton, obsessed with the next source of a Joey boost at my job.

(NB: As it turns out, I was massively wrong about the people I work with. Again, I've jumped before looking and my first impression (and an uncharacteristic judgmental mood) was completely out of whack. It turns out I just hate working, the people i do it with are actually lovely, it's not their fault I'm a lazy cunt.)

What I'm finding at the moment is a bit of a cliché. I'm like the female protagonist who can't balance her trendy media job, her angst-ridden (less pretty) friends and the relationship with her oh-so-hunky-but-in-revelation-a-bit-of-a-dick boyfriend in a shite RomCom. I need some serious balance. At the moment, I come in from work, eat, drink tea, eat some more and go to bed. Occasionally I might read for 20 mins or halfheartedly chat online to some buddies, or even play some useless flash game. When I do finally get to bed, the atheistic panic streak before I turn the light off of 'Wow, life is seriously short. I need more time!' that would gnaw at me during my more-stress-but-less-miserable unemployed Chest Shaving/Escalator Tumbling days seems to be absent. Crikey bejikey, maybe I've conformed.

("Like, oh no man, what a drag.")

ANYWAY, I had this plan about work. I was thinking I'd go on some really strong dose of anti-depressant (oooh, like, say a 60mg daily dose of Citalopram or something) and just coast through the next while in a bit of a coma. It seems that that might not work (I haven't implemented it anyway) because I have to talk to people a lot at work....but we'll see. And by 'we'll see' I mean, 'Of course I won't do that'.
-
-
--
--
-
-
A part of me has been wondering about the whole blog idea. When I began, about 10 months ago, I was intending it to be a forum to write about the law and politics, and definitely not use words like 'skullfuck' or 'barbed-wire dildo' to express my thoughts. It's like everything in life, you start with good intentions but before you know it, out come the dildoes.

So, and not in a 'girlfriend test' way, I'm going to think for a while about why I actually have this blog, and whether I want to keep it. I'll keep blogging, and actually try a wee bit more, but I may soon come to the conclusion to shut down the treehouse for a while. We'll see.





HAHA, how ranty and self-obsessed. There have been good developments in my life too, for example...

Dah dah dah daaaaaaaaaaaah!

I've done more of my 101 things to do...
1) Quit smoking cigarettes (that was fucking HARD!)

35) Get tickets to be in the audience for the radio recordings of what will be a TV comedy show (I'm claiming this as done because of the Twitter-based Sarah Millican tickets, that was an awesome night!)

Completed 7/101

So there, it's all relative I guess.
xx

Here's to 2010...an en masse resolution

Okay, so can I find anyone who actually liked 2009? Actually, can anyone say they actually enjoyed the Noughties?

(btw - i'm gonna swear like a fucking cunt in this post, and because I'm watching American Psycho at the same time, I might also kill a hooker...just saying)

I've realised that this year has been a fucking shit-show of a bollocks-fest, a drawn-out, melodramatic pile of itchy goat testicles. The only relative positive to this putrid, mediocre year is that we can throw a helluva massive hoolie to wake this horrible fucking decade to the Underworld.

There have been a few highlights of course, little things have made the year quite nice at times, and downright hilarious at others. A few classics spring to mind:
-the many happy hours with my partner Dr McQuillan writing, presenting and editing our radio shows ‘The Conor(s) Show’. We were nominated for an award for it, but the best times we had were the off-air moments when we’d stuff our faces with chocolate, wine and crisps.
-visiting my brother in the Czech Republic and hill walking with the boys in France.
-somehow graduating without losing all my hair or killing anyone
I’m sure there are more but I can’t think of them right away. There were a few bad times too, but let’s not go into them, any more whining Fort Boloxi nonsense on this old Pizza Box and things’ll get fucking ridiculous.

There have been a few really cool things that changed my perspective. These life-defining moments have given me a weird insight into how I look at the world and have changed my attitude in their own ways. The ‘Boom Boom Pow’, the crazy tumble-drier fall down the escalator at Waterloo Station both taught me to toughen up and helped give rise to Mr Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, and his little brother The Pizza Devil. The mad snow and horrible fucking flight schedule have made me realise that I love and miss my family, and the sheer fucking horribleness of October-December have made me want to get a job and start being productive with my time, and make sure that because I have the next 6 months free means that I have to make something of my time.

There was one great thing that happened recently though, which I believe is a hugely good omen for the year to come. My flatmate, Sparky (Mark) recently had a spot of good news. On Christmas Eve, he took his girlfriend for a drive to Navan Fort, a lovely ancient fort in Ireland, covered in snow and looking absolutely beautiful. He got down on the knee and popped the question...and of course, she said yes. I’m absolutely delighted for them both, and I know that 2010 will be a phenomenal year for them both. I’m going to make it a great year for me too, it’ll just take a bit of work.

So now, with one of my best friends getting married (at some wonderful undisclosed future point) and with the crazy humming noise in my head spurring me on, I’m going to make a resolution. Not some vague ‘eat less, work more’ promise to myself, just a promise to say (in the words of Jay) bollocks to the middle and make the year a great one.

So, we're going to have a great year okay? All of us. There'll be low points too, obviously, and we'll feel the normal highs, and lows, but let's make a resolution to actually try and make ourselves happy this year, to live proactively and make a productive difference. Let's take this next decade by the balls, us 20-somethings, and try to make the Tweenies (my name for the next, looming decade) as fucking happy and good as possible...WHO'S WITH ME???


Oh, and here is a great song about what I like about this time of the year, it makes me cry every time...





Here's to 2010, folks...

Quick Update

Just to let you know that I had a bath there, something which I've been apprehensive about doing since the 'Razor Incident' and it's aftermath.

It went well...I didn't feel the (conscious or subconscious) need to shave anything off.

Guess I can cancel that therapy course, "So you think you get too bored in the bath?''

Phew

Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Law Degree

SO now, at last, I officially have some vague letters after my name, denoting my learnedness in law (*stifle laughter*). Ladies and Gentlemen, please say hello to Conor B. C. Darrall, LL.B.

Thank you.


The day was the longest in a long long time. I had to get up at 3.30 am in time to get ready and drive from Derry to Dublin. Then after 19 coffees, being dressed in wizard's robes (which felt simultaneously bitchin', thrash, gnarly and awesome to wear) organising photos and saying hi to friends, we were all led into a massive hall, spoken to in Latin for about an hour, then called up to receive our catskins sheepskins. Sparky (Mark) my flatmate was there, and he received the highest mark in the class, I am very proud of him. My folks were there, looking cool and everything, and after the ceremony we got to hang around and chat to each other, and catch up with friends we hadn't seen in a half-year.

----------
---------
--------
-------
------
-----
----
---
--
-

Then the boozing. Wine for breakfast...followed by a day of drinking cosmopolitans and whiskey...for almost 18 hours.

We went on a MONUMENTAL bender, drinking in a few bars until going clubbing (still tux'd) until about 5 or 6 when I stumbled back to my hotel to greet the night. I had to get up at 10 this morning to drive back to Derry with the parents. Needless to say, I'm still feeling quite rough...

I'd been convinced that I didn't miss Trinity, or Dublin, but being back yesterday really made me glad that I'd gone there and met the people and friends I've been lucky enough to know.

So, now I'm happy, and with things going well and having a great time with the someone who I've 'kinda sorta started seeing' (she's great; smart kind and beautiful, but I'm not going to talk about her here at the moment) it's really hard to be in a bad mood.

I'm flying back to London tomorrow, then I'm going to sleep for a month.


Here are a few wee photos of the day:


Maw, Paw and I


Home-Blondie, my best friend.


Me and Spark, the flatmate. Ever increasing the persistent rumours that we're a couple.




Very very drunk at 4am in Envy Nightclub, Dublin.


Oh also, with another friend of mine (Home-Blondie and Sparkie were with me when we lived in the USA for a year, as was --) Cíara, and other friends, we had tapas before we went out. Lady GeeGaw and I (and GG's boyf, Nick, who is a cool ginger guy with dreadlocks) made a video on Grafton Street for my blog, this blog.

They are awesome, such good sports.

My camera skills are not, but here we go:





Anyway, hope you're all well.
x
Con


(ps - interesting fact about Trinity College Dublin. Only women wear mortarboard caps on the day of their graduation, the reason being because it is supposedly symbolic of the degree being a 'cap on their education', meaning they could traditionally rise no higher than an undergraduate degree. Problem with this theory is that our class was 85% female, and of the 14 people who got First class honours degrees, the was only one male amongst them -Sparky...take that chauvinism!!)

Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Curse of the Hairy Man-Bra

The Devil makes work...

Being the 70-year-old retired widow that I am, I’ve begun to have a bath a few days a week instead of a shower. Basically, I read in some important man’s magazine (like Elle or Cosmo or Gaghappy Cumdumpster Cheerleaders something) that if you have trouble sleeping, you should have a bath.
Apparently, your body relaxes in the hour following a bath; your heartbeat slows, your blood pressure drops and you become sleepy. As I have pretty heavy-duty insomnia, I desperately try most old wives’ remedies and have started having a regular radox hour…plus, baths are fucking thrash!
(ps, when I say I’ve started having baths, I mean that I’ve started having a bath in lieu of my usual shower. I’ve not just learned how to clean myself or anything, it’s okay… also, when I say I try everything to sleep, that may or may not include using an lavender linen spray for my pillow – surely that’s worthy of a TMIT)

So tonight was no different. After my penultimate (37th) cup of tea of the day, I drew a ridiculously over-hot bath, brought in my laptop to listen to music (it sits on the toilet-I have a system, critics) and sang ‘I am what I am’ as the mirrors steamed up.

It. Was. Awesome.

Overheated Conor, listening to the Ricky Gervais podcast, drinking soda. Fucking bliss.
Anyway, there I was, listening away, soaking in the steaming water, and letting my mind wander when I realised that I was holding my razor. They say that ‘the Devil makes work for idle hands’, and that’s definitely true because, without realizing it, as I listened and chuckled away, I had sorta begun to shave my belly. Why? I have no idea, but for some reason I had subconsciously begun to shear my happy trail.

(happy trail = the little desire line of hair from a guy’s belly button to his man-candy)

“Okay, my right hand has, without recourse to conscious thought, begun the process of de-hairing my body. That’s a bit odd.” I thought, but I let it run.

Before long I was hooked. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I can get absolutely obsessed with little simple things. Give me a tap and an empty bottle, and I can spend ages refilling and emptying it, like I was a six year old doing science. Within ten minutes, the Trail was gone, and the area where well-toned people have abs (what I call my ‘Guinness Baby’) was hairless, pale and looking somewhat forlorn.

I panicked. WTF? Grown-ups don’t do this do they? They don’t experiment with shaving themselves. I mean, all guys do it to some extent when they’re drunk, giving themselves handlebar moustaches and falling asleep to wake and realise they look like daft pricks, but I was sober. Perhaps the hours and hours of free time I have, the empty hours of insomnia and the listless days of unemployment, those 165 free hours a week have gotten to me? I mean, instead of working on writing, or practicing music, here I was…shaving my belly in the bath. What if my Mother called tomorrow?


[‘Hello Con?’

‘Hi Mum!’

‘How’s the job hunt going?’

‘Not the best Mum, it’s harder to find work than I thought’

‘Oh well, just keep at it..’

‘Okay, I will’

‘So, how are you spending your days, are you volunteering? Studying? Writing?’

‘No, Mum, I spend my days waiting for free internet and eating cherry bakewell tart then I buy the paper, have a bath, and shave my torso’

‘Oh, good lad, we’re so proud son.’

‘Thanks mum, I do try.’]

So I had a bald pink belly…what next?

Even as the thought manifested itself, my hand had begun to inch up my sternum (is that the word? Maybe thorax?) and was shaving shapes and patterns into the trail of hair leading to my tits.

So far so cool.

Before long, I had a white belly, a pink sternum and a sorta man-boob bra, made of hair.

Single file,ladies…single file. No pushing, please.

Anyway, by that stage I was legitimately fucked. Seriously. How could I ever risk anyone, anywhere, ever seeing the hair-bra? Not that I imagine I’ll ever be taking my top off (despite the obvious sex-appeal of the hair-bra) but on the off chance of one of the following two potential scenarios happening:

1) Being caught in a nuclear explosion and in the millisecond between the shockwave from the blast ripping my clothes off and my skin catching on fire, someone seeing the wispy, underwired home for my bosom, distinctive only because of the Casper whiteness of the rest of my torso. Even a nuclear holocaust deserves to be as non-socially-awkward as possible, right?

And,

2) A horse eating my shirt because, as I suspect, horses have a vendetta for something I did when I was young but can’t remember.
The hair-bra had to go.

Now, the razor was (as all guys out there will understand) near the end of the several-shave razor cycle; that very finite, but unwritten, time period during which a razor blade will go from Gillette to ruthless Guillotine, from multi-blade face-smoothation system to bona fide nipple remover. Anyway, it was fucking awful. It was pain dot com forwardslash holy fuck forward slash ouch.

I had my chest waxed for charity last year. There wasn’t a helluva lot to remove I’ll admit, but the process was made bearable and fun by the fact that I was being toughish in public, and that it was for cancer research (and also because it was in the ‘nice’ spectrum of pain, like when I got my tattoo or used to get punched in boxing, that I’ll admit to actually liking – btw, no, I’m not a perv, you know what I mean). After the waxing, I had gone home to shave the remaining wax tears out of my chest and wash off the fake tan that the girl had rubbed over me (we really know how to raise money for charity the fun way in Ireland!)

This bath shave required a steel jaw, it was like strolling merrily towards the German trenches during the Somme. Dragging an ever-blunter razor across my chest and willing the hair to disappear, all the while waiting for that little slice that meant that I had cut off a nipple, and trying desperately not to clog the little balde-ettes with hair or dead skin. At the very least, it was a fucking great way to exfoliate…by removing a layer of skin.

So now, I sit, at 3 am, having just recorded a video. I’m trying to sleep but my belly and chest feel wrong. My only consolation is this: I’ve maybe potentially kinda sorta started seeing someone, and she’s great. I really don’t ever want to take my top off for at least two months now because of the pale stubbly itchy blotchy meringue of a mess that it will be, so I think I might as well strap the chastity belt on til February. I'll take it slowly, and hope to Christ that no horses come anywhere near me.

So yeah, tomorrow/today is Monday, and I’ve GOT to find work, and maybe hide the razor when I’m in the bath. Otherwise, who knows…maybe next time I’ll end up with Venus ‘oh baby you’ve got it’ silky legs, or a DIY bris.

Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Facebook JobApp Smile

So my friend John from school is a prospective lawyer like me, but I haven't seen him since I was 18, apart from chatting to him once on the phone to make plans for a meeting in a pub that inevitably didn't happen.

Thanks to the glories of Facebook however, we're both able to somewhat keep up to date, occasionally making fleeting contact on status updates, with the odd wall post, and by the overly-gratuitous invitation of ultimately meaningless applications that we both sorta hate ourselves for sending.

As I've talked about before, FB can sometimes throw up a rare gem, a myriad times more amazing than '__________ is totally all about the weekend woot! lololo xxx babeeeeezzzzz'

The other day (very late at night), I came perilously close to fulfilling one of my 101 things to do, by getting into a two-inches-between-the-face blazing argument with a racist. This task (#39 of 101- punch a racist in the kisser) is the only one which could ever prevent me from becoming a lawyer (cos legal chaps in Britain/Ireland cannot ever have a crim-rec) but which I believe I'll have to only talk about in the abstract if ever if happens.......
Anyway, he voted for the BNP, and we spent a few hours yelling. It was about 5am, and I was at a lock-in the bar I used to work in (and occasionally still do). The landlady: Senorina Menopause sat nervously as a skinny drunk arrogant young prick with a long coat(me) yelled into the equally shouty face of a skinny drunk arrogant middle-aged prick with dyed red hair (Mr BNP) about politics. We were within a kittens hiccup of exchanging blows when a one-armed man asked loudly whether men could get thrush. That sorta diffused the situation, as it's hard to throw a punch when you're laughing so hard you feel you might vomit.

I drunkenly returned to my house, found some free wifi, watched a nature documentary on insects, and cried at the beauty of butterflies. Then I emailed a friend to tell them I loved them and passed out.


Sometime during that drunken haze I updated my status on Facebook. It was awful, a self-aggrandising, arrogant warning to all my friends. When I woke, I had to change it.

My new status says: 'I just simultaneously filled in 13 applications to recruitment agencies, if I get no responses I'm gonna go postal with the molotovs...' was a venting of my frustration.

John, said something of glory

'the Dear John letter has been replaced by the ignored applications of recruiters,'

thus making me smile, as the truth, humour and comfort of his words were welcome.


Now, I like facebook. I think that for someone like me who, up until a few months ago travelled around a lot, it's important to have a forum to keep in touch with my displaced friends and family. Most of the content on it is awful, vacuous and inane, but sometimes...and I mean once in a blue moon, people can say things to make you smile.


As ever, I pose a questions to the three people who read my blog...

What facebook posts, status updates or comments have lodged in your memory and
-----
----
---
--
-
duh duh duuuuuuuuuuh....
why?

x
Con

Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Chink in the Armour

Yeah, I can totally sell as many of these as the Harry Potter books. Here's some sample titles

-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Cloak of Positivity
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Cancelled Credit Card
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Revenge of the Moving Stair
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Raging Tertiary Syphillis
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Balding Hobbit Pervert

NY Times Bestseller List here I fucking come! Oh, and the raging tertiary syphillis thing is a joke. I'm clean....ladies.


Well today's been a hard one for old Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and his cloak of positivity, the chink in the armour being that sometimes it's just a wee bit too hard to be so fucking cheery all the time. The job front is, like the Western front, as desireable to walk in as a pair of Crocs made of acid and rusty nails. Yep, unemployment is still being a houseguest who doesn't understand that he's overstayed his welcome and doesn't seem to be in any rush to take the hint.

Apart from that though, today was okay. I panicked a bit about not having booked my flights home for graduation (December 7th) or for Christmas (December 25th) and also about the usual big three (money/career/love life) but I had the radio on in the kitchen and that cheered me up. I also had a ridiculously long bath and listened to Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughn Williams, which calmed me down a bit. Lovely piece (forgive the cheesy video, just turn off your screen and listen to it)


Now, I'm still a bit down, and it's raining outside, a fierce gale blowing in accompaniment. So, keeping true to the promise of Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, I'm going to go out an walk in the rain for a bit - something that always cheers me up.

Ciaooooooo

xx

Venting My Spleen on a Bald Hobbit or Why I’m Currently Unemployed

Okay, so I know that this week is Mr Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive Week here in the Uberflat, but something has recently been building in stress terms for some time, and it finally Krakatoa’d last night. I think that it’s because I’ve been making myself be in a good mood that this event happened and I’m actually very cheerful!

Background:
Recently, I was working in a rather grim office, a modelling agency in Farringdon in central London. I recently quit and am now unemployed. Here’s why:
When I learned that I was going to be working all day with models in chixy (a mixture of chic and sexy) Farringdon, I was agreeable to the prospect of employment, and my happiness was compounded when I arrived at work to be greeted by a flock of statuesque eye-poppers all waiting nonchalantly in the stylish and airy reception area, made-up and dressed provocatively.
‘Yes,’ I thought ‘this is a good job’.
Then a side door opened and a little bald hobbit scruffled up to me, putting out his hand, and introduced himself as Neel, my new boss. He led my through the side-door and down some steps, to the basement (or the dungeons) where the admin team worked. With each step my heart sank, as I knew that the absolutely impractical nature of the models’ heels, erection-inspiring though they may be were unlikely to ever try and pick their way downstairs for a pow-wow with us shitheels.

The ‘office’ was a 15x20’ sweatbox with no windows and sweat’n’breath covered red paint over the walls. I was shown to my (tbh lovely) chair and desk and given six sheets of paper, all of which were lists of names, phone-numbers, emails address and post-codes.

“Bit creepy, but let’s just roll with it.” I thought.

My job was not exactly as secretarial or administrative as I’d thought. I had to call every number on the list and read from a script
“Hi, is that _______? Hi, _____, my name is Conor and I’m calling you from XXXXXX Studios here in Farringdon in Central London. How are you today?
Good to hear (chuckle)
Well, the reason that I’m calling is that we recently ran a huge promotion online in conjunction with ______, _________ and __________ .com and you clicked on one of our online banners indicating that you might be interested in coming in for a complimentary VIP make-over and fashion photoshoot, do you remember?
You do? Oh good, well, I’m very pleased to announce...”

You get the idea. I had to seduce the person on the other line before telling them the terms and conditions, and had to try and convince them to give me their credit card details.

About 15 minutes into the first day, I had a moment of clarity and thought “Hey, wait a minute, this isn’t a secretary job....this is fucking TELESALES!”

Now, if truth be told, I wasn’t very good at it. I could never really muster the enthusiasm to try and make my pitch when I was calling people at midday with ‘Loose Women’ on in the background and a screaming child beside them. Most of the people I called couldn’t afford the (refundable) deposit, and some were downright hostile, which I can understand. I was encouraged to ‘make friends’ with the customer. The only problem being that I don’t usually try to fuck my friends right in the financial arsehole within seconds of making their acquaintance...it’s just not kosher is it?
I did have some lovely phonecalls, chatting to genuinely fascinating people. Some people I flirted with, some people I was frankly intimidated by (always women incidentally, male callers are usually cool) and others were just lonely and eager for a chat.

What made the job unbearable was the athmosphere on my side of the line. As I’ve said, the room was (lovely chair and iMac aside) less-than-perfect. The Bald Hobbit was used to warm weather, as was the rest of the staff. Being Irish, anything above 0.5 degrees C is considered frankly tropical, and so I spent most of my working day sweating like a priest in a primary school. Moreover, in an attempt for the customer to hear how cool and happening we were, there was always some blaring Ministry of Sound Ibiza dance track playing in the background (which although kinda cool, eventually became irksome). The combination of thumping beats, high caffiene, booking targets (which had to be reached) and the heat made the room into some hysterical down-ward plummeting carnival.

More than anything though...the boss. Neel the fucking Bald Hobbit. This guy is about 20 cms high and still thinks he’s hard as nails. He would smile and be really happy, then start shouting abuse at you. He once came over to me, and standing about an inch from my face started to yell. I just sat there politely bemused by this tanked-up little shit screaming about targets, trying desperately not to laugh.

Anyway, Neel spends/spent most of his time fighting with his girlfriend A---- who sat beside me. Oh btw, he’s 38 and she’s 22. Ew. He would take us all out after work (there were a staff of 4, all girls apart from me, none older than 23) and try to fit in with the youth. He told me on the first night he thought I was his ‘brother’ and that he loved me. He spent half the time yelling at A---- and the rest telling me and my friend Bouf (her name is Shona, but is a ‘BOUF’ apparently and a really great friend from Klburn) anecdotes about how well connected he was before attempting (and failing) to get us into every nightclub.

Now, whilst drunk one night he borrowed some money off me, and that’s were the trouble started. Apparently Neel has had a LOT of ‘bad luck’ the past while and needed a sub til payday. Me being drunk gave him some. This being a time when I was INCREDIBLY drunk.
This occurred a few times until it came to be that he owed me a good ole whack of cash. He chatted to me one day and told me, over a beer, that he had been in jail and that he was making a new life with his girlf and that he would get the bosses of the studio to pay me directly on payday. I told him he was okay to wait a few days to get his head together, and (rather hypocritically) suggested he cut-down on the booze.

Yesterday:
I left my job soon after that. Neel’s oppressive “You’re my best pal and I love/Make some fucking bookings” swings got the better of me and I walked out mid conversation. I told him some lie about the Firm only wanting me to have a legal-based job, but that was a crock of it.

Anyway, he’s been promising to give me my money back, and always having a problem. The cheque didn’t clear. His pay hadn’t come through. He needed more time. Then, he promised me that he’d meet me on Friday. That turned into Sunday, which turned into yesterday evening (Monday 9th November 2009) Then I got a text yesterday. His new boss handed him a cheque to cahs, he had no money on him til tomorrow. Could he see me then.

Now, ever since my Waterloo Fail, I’ve been a bit strapped for cash. As my new ATM card has yet to reach my folks’ place in Derry, it’ll be a few days til I have access to cash, and I can’t exactly sponge off Spark (my flatmate) for the rest of my life.
I fucking exploded. I text him telling him what a pathetic SOB he was, how I was gonna call the Firm if he didn’t pay me back in 24 hours. He phoned, calling me ‘Buddy’. I spent about 15 minutes flat out shouting at him down the phone, and by the end he sounded on the verge of tears. In retrospect, I should be guilty for losing my temper, but to be honest it was great. I love exploding every so often and I think that it was perfectly warranted in this situation. Not everyday do I have the opportunity to make a 38 year old man cry, less often the opportunity to feel justified.

So now, Tuesday 10th of November Anno Domini 2009, I’m walking to my local tube station to pick up an envelope. I got a call from Neel today, all smiles and ‘Buddy’ talk, but maybe it’s time for a Neelectomy. In one hour I’m walking to meet him, then I’m going to my local to use the wifi and drink (soda water) and blog. I’ll let you know how it goes.

---
--
-
20:40

Okay so it turns out he was reliable this time. Brought the money and the apology and knew that I was still furious with him. Somehow he knew that I knew that he had been drinking every night that he owed me the money and somehow he didn't really feel like having too much of an argument about how his 'hands had been tied'. I got the money and strode off into the night, coat flapping and trying hard not to a) swagger or b) feel guilty.

Either way, I'm glad that it's over and that I'll now be able to move on, a wee touch wiser.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED: Never lend money to someone. Ever. Unless you trust them, and especially not when you're drunk.

Oh, despite this post I’ve been very positive today and had some good leads for jobs. Hope you’ve all had a good one !
x

Positivity!!

Okay, so I've made a few wee resolutions about this week

Basically, I've been looking over my posts from the past while and they've all been a bit...well, whiney. Whingeing and moaning is fun, but I've been rather self-indulgent with it, and should maybe man up a little and repress those little (and large) negative feelings down, only allowing them to re-emerge in later life as a massive stroke or a shooting spree with an automatic weapon.

So from now on, well, for this week anyway, I'm going to be known as Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, my new name for the week starting Monday 9th of November. I'm going to make a physical effort to smile, to be happy and to make light of stressful situations.When something bad happens (like falling down an escalator and losing my wallet, or being mugged by a flock of pigeons or something) I'll laugh it off, it's all going to be a massively hilarious joke.


I'm also going to see if I can refrain from drinking and smoking for the week. I probably have had more than enough chemicals in my body for the last couple of months for my liver to have earned a week's respite. If I manage to get a job and actually seem to have kept it by Friday, then I'll reward myself with a pint, but not before that.

I've been watching The Thick of It quite a lot recently, and have to admit that I massively admire Malcolm Tucker; the absolutely apoplectic Scottish 'Enforcer to the PM' who goes around telling the entire political world what a cunt they are. Other than being a huge fan of Peter Capaldi thanks to the amazing 'Local Hero', I think that he's one of the greatest comic creations in the last decade, and defintely Armando Iannucci's greatest since Alan Partridge. I'm going to be like him for the week; infallible, but slightly less crazy-angry.


So, to begin the week, I've got a really random quote from a conversation I had earlier today. I was chatting to a friend (with whom I had gotten apocalyptically drunk with on Hallowe'en) who had laughed at my 'Waterloo Fail' story and invited me to a party. She had mentions it before and this was my response:

"What, the farmyard theatre with the he-she stripper and the dwarf pole dancer who spits piss at people?"

So yeah, I didn't go, but that sentence reminds me that life is bizarre and potentially amazing, even if it's just to sit back and wonder who wants to have dwarf-piss spat at them.

Maybe the week will answer the question...who knows?

Have a good 'un :)

ps - Actually I do know, at no point this week will I have any interaction with dwarf piss. If my internet arrives, as it should do on the 12th, I will celebrate by watching a dwarf-piss porn vid, or maybe by just pretending to watch it while closing my eyes tightly and trying to remember the contents of section 2 of the Irish Non-Fatal Offences Against the Person Act.