I bought a new pair of red Converse yesterday. Yes, I exist in about 2006.
So I'm coming into work, very hungover, and tapping my heels together like some gangrel Dorothy with the booze-fear, and the train starts to fill up. I make myself as small as possible, and try to read my little book.
Eventually, there are too many people and they start to file into the aisle, to make space.
I'm reading away, trying not to think of the word 'vomit' and my right foot suddenly feels crushed, like mangled.
I look up, and there's a big fat woman repeatedly stepping on my shoes, my big fucking clown shoes, and looking the other way. The pristine white rubber toecap is smudged and blackening.
"Could you stop stepping on my foot please?" I ask, as politely as my broken foot will allow.
Fatso snaps "Can you not pull your big feet in?"
I have size 12 (US 13) so it's a fair question, and I struggle not to point out that her hoofs have the same texture, hue, shape and general appearance of two massive hunks of cowflesh, carved off a Creuztfeldt-Jakob'd bovine bloater, so I return,
'They're back as far as they can go, would you watch where you step please?"
She looks like she wants to slap (or eat) me, and her voice shakes as she says,
"Well...can't you FOLD them in at least?"
I laugh and say "I'm not a PENGUIN!", loud enough for everyone to hear, and with enough rage to allow a little raindrop of spittle to land on her fouracre, sweat-drizzled hamface.
Now my new shoes are desecrated, and I smell like the fury of an obese woman. Winning.
I'm moving flat in 2 days, the commute will be better...ins Allah!
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Saturday, September 25, 2010
So, I'm trying to break into radio...
So, following the train-wreck that is my legal career, I've decided that I want to pursue a career in radio. My parents, and their incessant desire for a 'plan' for my life, have been badgering me more than a pesky badger trying to convince a fisherman to give him his fishin' worms. In other words, very badgery indeed, and rather depressing.
Parents have that great ability to summarise what you do in negative terms. It's a skill that comes with being a teacher and trying to promote constructive criticism. Sometimes though, it's just fucking annoying.
"What's the plan, son?"
"Well, I want to work for a year, maybe try and get a part-time job and try and get some work placements or experience with a radio station before enrolling in a masters next year."
"So, you plan to bum about for a year?"
(Grrrrr THAT'S NOT WHAT I SAID!!!)
I won't even tell you what they say when I tell them that I'd love to someday write for a career.
Anyway, I'm trying my bestest, and I'm ploughing my way through work experience applications. The stations that I applied for today are....
BBC Radio
ClassicFM
XFM
NME Radio
Capital FM
Chill
Fun Kids Radio
Heart Radio
LBC FM
...and that's just the London ones.
I also tried Jazz FM and Heat FM but unfortunately they don't take work experience folks. Smooth, non-job-giving bastards.
So, if I'm trying to get a job in radio and I'm not employable with any of these guys, then I might be slightly screwed.
Slightly? Totally.
In the pushing-Marlon-Brandon-up-a-potholed-hill-during-a-mudslide way.
Anybody have any hints or suggestions? Cos Marlon's looking hungry, and I smell of fried chicken...
Parents have that great ability to summarise what you do in negative terms. It's a skill that comes with being a teacher and trying to promote constructive criticism. Sometimes though, it's just fucking annoying.
"What's the plan, son?"
"Well, I want to work for a year, maybe try and get a part-time job and try and get some work placements or experience with a radio station before enrolling in a masters next year."
"So, you plan to bum about for a year?"
(Grrrrr THAT'S NOT WHAT I SAID!!!)
I won't even tell you what they say when I tell them that I'd love to someday write for a career.
Anyway, I'm trying my bestest, and I'm ploughing my way through work experience applications. The stations that I applied for today are....
BBC Radio
ClassicFM
XFM
NME Radio
Capital FM
Chill
Fun Kids Radio
Heart Radio
LBC FM
...and that's just the London ones.
I also tried Jazz FM and Heat FM but unfortunately they don't take work experience folks. Smooth, non-job-giving bastards.
So, if I'm trying to get a job in radio and I'm not employable with any of these guys, then I might be slightly screwed.
Slightly? Totally.
In the pushing-Marlon-Brandon-up-a-potholed-hill-during-a-mudslide way.
Anybody have any hints or suggestions? Cos Marlon's looking hungry, and I smell of fried chicken...
Monday, April 12, 2010
Toe Juice and a Fond Farewell to the Guinness Baby
I'm sitting at the table in my kitchen, watching my pasta cook and trying not to cry. Apparently, a watched pot never boils, but as the bubbles dance higher and higher to the lip of the pot, and eventually dribble down with a spitting shriek into the gas hob, I realise that proverbs are over-rated. I can't get off the chair to turn the gas down, so I watch my beloved penne go from al dente to pasta-puddle.
The reason I can't get out of the chair is because my legs have stopped working. They no longer do what ask them because I was mean to them earlier today. So now, I sit, morosely staring at my dinner spoiling. my stomach rumbling mercilessly.
I was back in Ireland last week, spending some time with the family and generally chilling out and at some point getting rejected AGAIN! Anyway, at some point in the week, we all went to the island where I half-grew-up and went swimming. In the Atlantic.
It was fucking freezing.
Because the water was essentially colder than the endothermic version of hell, we had to wear wetsuits. As I zipped mine up, I looked down and realised I looked like a lumpy pillowcase full of tits. Then when my wee bro, sis and I were swimming, I realised I was nowhere near as fit as I used to be. Seeing as the last time I did any exercise was in June 2009, I have come to terms with the fact that I'm now mostly made of molten cheese. So, in the vein of self-improvement, I went for a run this morning.
Here's the route I took...5 miles in total, including a workout at the Kilburn outdoor gym afterwards.
I. nearly. died.
View Larger Map
I returned to the house an hour later, lay on the floor, and tried desperately not to cry. The Guinness Baby is not long for this world, I tell thee.
-----
----
---
--
-
That seems quite positive right? Getting up at 5:45 to go for a run. Well it isn't, I came home from work and now find I can't use my legs. They've stopped working...
ALSO, my toes have become all blistery.
Now, if some of you might remember, I have a weird fascination with the 'Cysts and Pus' genre of youtube porn. I decided to film my own. My toes are really long (..ladies) and they're important, so when I went to pop the blisters I thought I'd add to the pantheon of Pus Porn. Yum yum.
Prob best look away if you're easily nauseated.
Now I'm lying in bed, in my jammies, trying not to sound like an old man when I move, dreading having to do my pervert shuffle tomorrow on the way to the Tube. Hopefully my legs will be gone when I wake up and I can get Spark to give me a piggy back...
My feet say goodnight!
x
The reason I can't get out of the chair is because my legs have stopped working. They no longer do what ask them because I was mean to them earlier today. So now, I sit, morosely staring at my dinner spoiling. my stomach rumbling mercilessly.
I was back in Ireland last week, spending some time with the family and generally chilling out and at some point getting rejected AGAIN! Anyway, at some point in the week, we all went to the island where I half-grew-up and went swimming. In the Atlantic.
It was fucking freezing.
Because the water was essentially colder than the endothermic version of hell, we had to wear wetsuits. As I zipped mine up, I looked down and realised I looked like a lumpy pillowcase full of tits. Then when my wee bro, sis and I were swimming, I realised I was nowhere near as fit as I used to be. Seeing as the last time I did any exercise was in June 2009, I have come to terms with the fact that I'm now mostly made of molten cheese. So, in the vein of self-improvement, I went for a run this morning.
Here's the route I took...5 miles in total, including a workout at the Kilburn outdoor gym afterwards.
I. nearly. died.
View Larger Map
I returned to the house an hour later, lay on the floor, and tried desperately not to cry. The Guinness Baby is not long for this world, I tell thee.
-----
----
---
--
-
That seems quite positive right? Getting up at 5:45 to go for a run. Well it isn't, I came home from work and now find I can't use my legs. They've stopped working...
ALSO, my toes have become all blistery.
Now, if some of you might remember, I have a weird fascination with the 'Cysts and Pus' genre of youtube porn. I decided to film my own. My toes are really long (..ladies) and they're important, so when I went to pop the blisters I thought I'd add to the pantheon of Pus Porn. Yum yum.
Prob best look away if you're easily nauseated.
Now I'm lying in bed, in my jammies, trying not to sound like an old man when I move, dreading having to do my pervert shuffle tomorrow on the way to the Tube. Hopefully my legs will be gone when I wake up and I can get Spark to give me a piggy back...
My feet say goodnight!
x
Saturday, March 6, 2010
From Anger at the Febrile State of a Saturday Evening to Nostalgia.
I'm sitting in the living room in my PJs at 01:07 with Spark listening to the radio. I had a bath about two hours ago and my hair's still fluffy. I just had a lovely cup of tea, and my stomach is warm.
All over London now, women in high heels and low cut black dresses are drinking too many vodka-based drinks and dancing to poorly produced music in wannabe nightclubs, more similar to germ-infested Thai sweatshops than bars. They drink as if they're afraid of something and then go home to vomit or fuck strangers, or claw the eyes out of other girls or pass out in doorways.
Men, or boys, in clothes-with-other-people's-names-on-them dance badly to poorly produced music and talk to each other based on arbitary and ill-defined social rules about how much they can drink or what person's name is on their boxers, the waistband of which everyone in the bar can see, or which celebrity they wouldn't have sex with or which gaudy piece-of-shit platinum and diamond-soaked timepiece they would like to buy. They drink as if they have something to prove, and then go home to vomit, to fuck strangers or to get into an argument to the point where there's almost, but not quite, a fist fight.
They are tired. They act like they've got more money than they actually do. They hate all but maybe 20 of the people in the club. They take thousands upon thousands of photos and they will wake up tomorrow and convince themselves that they had a really good night, despite the hangover, the cut lip, the STD, the Facebook photos and the broken relationships.
It's one of those evenings where I realise that the fact that I'm a boring shite is okay. I've been really down recently, and part of that probably has something to do with the fact that I, more often than not, am one of the faceless 'They' to whom I refer. We have all been conned into believing that the only way to live is to spend our money and hard earned free time gravitating towards alcohol, with an accompaniment of shite wannabe-music.
I've just realised the irony of the word 'wannabe'. It's officially a word, as it's in the Oxford English Dictionary, but it shall nonetheless always be a wannabe word in most people's estimation. 'Nonetheless' is good, as are most threesomes of any sort.
-
Spark is surprising me tonight. After having known him for almost five years, we've never sat and listened to hip-hop together. I don't mind rap, but I wouldn't be a fan of the newer stuff, and Spark's always hit me as an Acoustic man, but here we are, listening to Jay-Z while S bobs his head and I type. We are breaking ground on new territories in our friendship it seems.
Now he has put on the main song from Civilisation 4, Baba Yetu. This reminds me of that time we both lived in Virginia for a year. Mark sings along and does that thing he does where he sings a song in a different key or adds an impromptu harmony
I tell Mark that I've started writing about him when I had initially intended to have a wee rant about how culture dictates us to go and act like guffawing wankers in shitty nightclubs, "getting the cans into us" as S says. He tells me that my blog has gone downhill in terms of content if I'm using him as subject matter.
We listen to YoYo Ma playing Ecstacy of Gold from his Ennio Morricone album. It's simply beautiful and as the vibrations (from the bitchin' Bose bass amp that S bought last summer) creep across the floor and make the phlegm in my chest vibrate, the hair on my arm rises up and I've suddenly got goose-pimples. This really reminds me of the time we lived in Virginia. It was absolutely the best time of my life.
One of the guys in our apartment in the US had a huge computer screen and ran linux. He was a very good fellow, a scientist turned law-student, who was interested in Goethe, talked to a stuffed mascot of Nietzsche (whom we all called Saddam) had a copy of Milton's Paradise Lost (with the original Gustav Doré wood engravings) and played the cello. His name is John.
My happiest memory of the flat is sitting on a Saturday night, with a Dominos pizza the size of a cartwheel (a thin-crust pepperoni with green peppers) and a bottle of Coke, playing Civ 4 for hours on end and listening to Yo Yo Ma. The pizzas were always cut into a grid of squares instead of the traditional wedges, and we would eat it as if it were fine finger food at a champagne reception. It was great. People always talk about their perfect year, that was mine, a beautiful year.
I'm sitting in the kitchen now, it's 03:09, and I've been typing, listening to music and spotifying. I've collected the music we were listening to before Spark went to bed, and added a few more that'll help lull me off to (if not sleep) rest. Here it is, folks.
I just realised that I've been smiling for the past twenty minutes, even though I've been sitting on my own in the living room, typing my vague and innane thoughts and trying not to yawn. I might not go to bars or clubs for a while, they're starting to annoy me. Sitting with Spark tonight was really cool, perhaps that's something to do more.
-----
----
---
--
-
ps - we decided tonight that instead of 'poker night' or other man-things to maintain guy friendships, we're going to have a Pizza and Civ5 night when we're both lawyers.
PPS - this is the first post in almost a year, and almost 100 posts, with the tag 'PIZZA'. How the hell did that happen?
All over London now, women in high heels and low cut black dresses are drinking too many vodka-based drinks and dancing to poorly produced music in wannabe nightclubs, more similar to germ-infested Thai sweatshops than bars. They drink as if they're afraid of something and then go home to vomit or fuck strangers, or claw the eyes out of other girls or pass out in doorways.
Men, or boys, in clothes-with-other-people's-names-on-them dance badly to poorly produced music and talk to each other based on arbitary and ill-defined social rules about how much they can drink or what person's name is on their boxers, the waistband of which everyone in the bar can see, or which celebrity they wouldn't have sex with or which gaudy piece-of-shit platinum and diamond-soaked timepiece they would like to buy. They drink as if they have something to prove, and then go home to vomit, to fuck strangers or to get into an argument to the point where there's almost, but not quite, a fist fight.
They are tired. They act like they've got more money than they actually do. They hate all but maybe 20 of the people in the club. They take thousands upon thousands of photos and they will wake up tomorrow and convince themselves that they had a really good night, despite the hangover, the cut lip, the STD, the Facebook photos and the broken relationships.
It's one of those evenings where I realise that the fact that I'm a boring shite is okay. I've been really down recently, and part of that probably has something to do with the fact that I, more often than not, am one of the faceless 'They' to whom I refer. We have all been conned into believing that the only way to live is to spend our money and hard earned free time gravitating towards alcohol, with an accompaniment of shite wannabe-music.
I've just realised the irony of the word 'wannabe'. It's officially a word, as it's in the Oxford English Dictionary, but it shall nonetheless always be a wannabe word in most people's estimation. 'Nonetheless' is good, as are most threesomes of any sort.
-
Spark is surprising me tonight. After having known him for almost five years, we've never sat and listened to hip-hop together. I don't mind rap, but I wouldn't be a fan of the newer stuff, and Spark's always hit me as an Acoustic man, but here we are, listening to Jay-Z while S bobs his head and I type. We are breaking ground on new territories in our friendship it seems.
Now he has put on the main song from Civilisation 4, Baba Yetu. This reminds me of that time we both lived in Virginia for a year. Mark sings along and does that thing he does where he sings a song in a different key or adds an impromptu harmony
I tell Mark that I've started writing about him when I had initially intended to have a wee rant about how culture dictates us to go and act like guffawing wankers in shitty nightclubs, "getting the cans into us" as S says. He tells me that my blog has gone downhill in terms of content if I'm using him as subject matter.
We listen to YoYo Ma playing Ecstacy of Gold from his Ennio Morricone album. It's simply beautiful and as the vibrations (from the bitchin' Bose bass amp that S bought last summer) creep across the floor and make the phlegm in my chest vibrate, the hair on my arm rises up and I've suddenly got goose-pimples. This really reminds me of the time we lived in Virginia. It was absolutely the best time of my life.
One of the guys in our apartment in the US had a huge computer screen and ran linux. He was a very good fellow, a scientist turned law-student, who was interested in Goethe, talked to a stuffed mascot of Nietzsche (whom we all called Saddam) had a copy of Milton's Paradise Lost (with the original Gustav Doré wood engravings) and played the cello. His name is John.
My happiest memory of the flat is sitting on a Saturday night, with a Dominos pizza the size of a cartwheel (a thin-crust pepperoni with green peppers) and a bottle of Coke, playing Civ 4 for hours on end and listening to Yo Yo Ma. The pizzas were always cut into a grid of squares instead of the traditional wedges, and we would eat it as if it were fine finger food at a champagne reception. It was great. People always talk about their perfect year, that was mine, a beautiful year.
I'm sitting in the kitchen now, it's 03:09, and I've been typing, listening to music and spotifying. I've collected the music we were listening to before Spark went to bed, and added a few more that'll help lull me off to (if not sleep) rest. Here it is, folks.
I just realised that I've been smiling for the past twenty minutes, even though I've been sitting on my own in the living room, typing my vague and innane thoughts and trying not to yawn. I might not go to bars or clubs for a while, they're starting to annoy me. Sitting with Spark tonight was really cool, perhaps that's something to do more.
-----
----
---
--
-
ps - we decided tonight that instead of 'poker night' or other man-things to maintain guy friendships, we're going to have a Pizza and Civ5 night when we're both lawyers.
PPS - this is the first post in almost a year, and almost 100 posts, with the tag 'PIZZA'. How the hell did that happen?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Payday with the Lovebugs
Pay day, the singlemost appealing couplet in the Western world.
Huzzah.
Work is interesting at the moment; I've been recommending some friends for jobs and have been sent out on errands across London. Although this DID lead to a situation yesterday where I had had a four hour round-trip to Romford in Essex and after walking three miles showed up soaked to the skin at the client's headquarters. That was......fun.
As I've been recently promoted (yahoo!) I have to work a bit more, but I've discovered that the earlier rise is actually pretty cool. The Tube is much less busy, for one. I can walk from my door to the Tube and get a seat within 5 minutes, and withing 40 I'm at my desk; all accompanied by my awesome iPod shuffle playlist, which was totally worth a beating to protect. I sat today, slightly dazed after a great sleep (with weird dreams) listening to a bizarre mixture of Patsy Cline, Rachmaninov, Kate Bush, The Rolling Stones and And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead.
I've been reading a bit more recently too. I finished 'Cat's Cradle' by Kurt Vonnegut yesterday, and found it one of the best books I've read in years. It's a terrifying, hilarious, heart-breaking, poignant and most importantly, incredibly intelligent; dealing with the Arms Race, the misapplication of science, religion, lies and writing. Vonnegut has quickly become one of my all time Bad-Ass favourites and I can't wait to read the rest of his stuff. He's my sort of writer; ballsy, interesting and with an imagination that could light a sun. Excellent stuff, and with such a cool life.
So I felt really good about pay day today. Money isn't everything, I'll be quite adamant about that, but holy fucking mackerel it's nice to be able to buy stuff.
After work today there was a pool-pah of a commute home, and I had to meet Spark, my flatmate (and a recently engaged young groom-to-be) to get a suit fitted. I think it looks okay, it's a charcoal-grey three-piece and it's really comfortable.
What do you think? Yay or Nay?
Then, afterwards, Spark (Jude, the fiancée) and I decided to eat in town, and went and had a lovely meal. It was one of those great unplanned evenings that happen now and then where we were all much too tired (and happy to have an impromptu night out) to want to go home and cook, and instead had a great cheap meal, a bottle of good wine, and some kick-ass potent coffee. It's maybe the best espresso in London that I've had yet. It's short, extremely intense, and although bitter, has a nice aftertaste. It was a great meal, and a steal at £20 a head for a two-course with wine.
Spark and Jude. Awwwww
Then walking back to Bond Street to get the Jubilee Line, it was cool to see London at night. I see it all the time, but every so often you realise just how alive and interesting the place was. I think we're going to have more of these sorts of nights (even if I'm a MASSIVE bell-end third wheel for the Lovebugs) and hang out a bit more. The two of them make a perfect couple, and I kinda like being their rough-edge inappropriate friend, and it's cool to hang out with them, even if only to dispel my never-ending cynicism at the world. They're remarkably refreshing.
So, if you're a bit jaded, make friends with an engaged couple. And go for a walk in the City at night. And maybe go out to dinner once in a while. Oh, and try the espresso!
x
Huzzah.
Work is interesting at the moment; I've been recommending some friends for jobs and have been sent out on errands across London. Although this DID lead to a situation yesterday where I had had a four hour round-trip to Romford in Essex and after walking three miles showed up soaked to the skin at the client's headquarters. That was......fun.
As I've been recently promoted (yahoo!) I have to work a bit more, but I've discovered that the earlier rise is actually pretty cool. The Tube is much less busy, for one. I can walk from my door to the Tube and get a seat within 5 minutes, and withing 40 I'm at my desk; all accompanied by my awesome iPod shuffle playlist, which was totally worth a beating to protect. I sat today, slightly dazed after a great sleep (with weird dreams) listening to a bizarre mixture of Patsy Cline, Rachmaninov, Kate Bush, The Rolling Stones and And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead.
I've been reading a bit more recently too. I finished 'Cat's Cradle' by Kurt Vonnegut yesterday, and found it one of the best books I've read in years. It's a terrifying, hilarious, heart-breaking, poignant and most importantly, incredibly intelligent; dealing with the Arms Race, the misapplication of science, religion, lies and writing. Vonnegut has quickly become one of my all time Bad-Ass favourites and I can't wait to read the rest of his stuff. He's my sort of writer; ballsy, interesting and with an imagination that could light a sun. Excellent stuff, and with such a cool life.
So I felt really good about pay day today. Money isn't everything, I'll be quite adamant about that, but holy fucking mackerel it's nice to be able to buy stuff.
After work today there was a pool-pah of a commute home, and I had to meet Spark, my flatmate (and a recently engaged young groom-to-be) to get a suit fitted. I think it looks okay, it's a charcoal-grey three-piece and it's really comfortable.
What do you think? Yay or Nay?
Then, afterwards, Spark (Jude, the fiancée) and I decided to eat in town, and went and had a lovely meal. It was one of those great unplanned evenings that happen now and then where we were all much too tired (and happy to have an impromptu night out) to want to go home and cook, and instead had a great cheap meal, a bottle of good wine, and some kick-ass potent coffee. It's maybe the best espresso in London that I've had yet. It's short, extremely intense, and although bitter, has a nice aftertaste. It was a great meal, and a steal at £20 a head for a two-course with wine.
Spark and Jude. Awwwww
Then walking back to Bond Street to get the Jubilee Line, it was cool to see London at night. I see it all the time, but every so often you realise just how alive and interesting the place was. I think we're going to have more of these sorts of nights (even if I'm a MASSIVE bell-end third wheel for the Lovebugs) and hang out a bit more. The two of them make a perfect couple, and I kinda like being their rough-edge inappropriate friend, and it's cool to hang out with them, even if only to dispel my never-ending cynicism at the world. They're remarkably refreshing.
So, if you're a bit jaded, make friends with an engaged couple. And go for a walk in the City at night. And maybe go out to dinner once in a while. Oh, and try the espresso!
x
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Oh no! (a rant of sorts)
Right, remember when I did my Alice in Wonderland tumble down the rabbit hole?
You do? Oh joy.
Well, apart from the group of beautiful women who saw me fall, a sax player (who was busking in the Station) was kind enough to stop mid-tune to laugh. He was playing one of the greatest tunes ever...
(yeah, so I might have cheapened my ire by using a video with a walrus, but the tune is still amazing, right?)
Unfortunately...
When dickheads are given 'Club Anthems for Idiots'
Literally everything about this video is wrong:
1) Good song destroyed
2) Using the same 8 notes on loop as a dance music hook and a fucking awful drum/bass rhythm
3) Smug cunt in an hotel smiling at his own ability to tie his fucking shoelaces without soiling himself.
4) Dancing sluts
5) Obligatory lesbian kissing
6) Autotune (non-ironic)
7) 'Crazy' party-scene and 'Whacky' hotel antics.
The original song is about the rat race in pre-Thatcherite London, written during a time where there was a huge gap developing between the lower and middle-classes. It chronicles several characters attempts to reach their desired lives, including the narrator, a busker at Baker Street Tube Station, and not be swallowed by the city. It's an indictment on the sort of selfish soulessness that led to the excesses of the 80's and the dark side of life in London. It's an excellent song from an excellent song-writer. It is not suitable for some smug plate of dead skin and his necrophilic euro-skanks!
Fuck sake, sorry Gerry Rafferty...
Rant over.
You do? Oh joy.
Well, apart from the group of beautiful women who saw me fall, a sax player (who was busking in the Station) was kind enough to stop mid-tune to laugh. He was playing one of the greatest tunes ever...
(yeah, so I might have cheapened my ire by using a video with a walrus, but the tune is still amazing, right?)
Unfortunately...
When dickheads are given 'Club Anthems for Idiots'
Literally everything about this video is wrong:
1) Good song destroyed
2) Using the same 8 notes on loop as a dance music hook and a fucking awful drum/bass rhythm
3) Smug cunt in an hotel smiling at his own ability to tie his fucking shoelaces without soiling himself.
4) Dancing sluts
5) Obligatory lesbian kissing
6) Autotune (non-ironic)
7) 'Crazy' party-scene and 'Whacky' hotel antics.
The original song is about the rat race in pre-Thatcherite London, written during a time where there was a huge gap developing between the lower and middle-classes. It chronicles several characters attempts to reach their desired lives, including the narrator, a busker at Baker Street Tube Station, and not be swallowed by the city. It's an indictment on the sort of selfish soulessness that led to the excesses of the 80's and the dark side of life in London. It's an excellent song from an excellent song-writer. It is not suitable for some smug plate of dead skin and his necrophilic euro-skanks!
Fuck sake, sorry Gerry Rafferty...
Rant over.
Monday, December 28, 2009
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...
(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...
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Black-eyed Freeze - an anecdote within an anecdote within an anecdote...
So I’m currently sitting in Birmingham International Airport (BHX for you international airport designation fetishists) doing a wee bit of typing, because people keep staring at me. There’s a chance that I may be called away for my flight soon, but unless I say otherwise, assume I wrote this post here, also this post is going to be FUCKING MASSIVE)
-funny fact-ette, I’m at a Costa coffee adding to my future massive heart-attack and people keep staring at me. The place is packed with home-goers, all sharing tables, but I’m the fat girl at the party with icing on her chin that no-one wants to dance with. Awwww.
First of all, why am I in Birmingham when, cor blimey Mary Poppins, I live in London?
Good question reader! Well, yesterday (22nd) I left my little Uberflat in the wee hours, slipping and sliding with my luggage and Lassie as I tried to walk up my little street which was glazed with ice. I somehow made it to the train station, looking like a plum that someone had jizzed on, got the train and after a half-hour journey, found myself in Luton airport.
Now, I was a bit hungover yesterday. On Monday I went to the jobcentre and then found out that my dole application had been rejected. That’s right, I’m so awesome that I can’t even sign on properly. Anyway, I was walking back from the Dole office, feeling somewhat dejected about how the week had been when I passed a joke shop with ‘Help Wanted’ written on it. I bounded in, shaking myself like a dog (it was snowing ridiculously heavily) and met the manager. I gave him my CV, heavily implied I would give him oral sex, and went on my way, somewhat bouyed by how I may have just gotten a job, and choosing to ignore that it was in no way a Law job or that no-one else seemed to be interested in having it.
(Quick question out there: Who thinks I should work in a joke shop?)
I went to the pub to say goodbye to my barfly friends (the cool pub I drink at, not the shit hole I sometimes work at...) and had a few whiskeys (Yes ‘whiskey’ not ‘whisky’, based on the Irish word Uisce Bheatha – Water of Life. Thank god/Darwin for St. Jameson) by the fire. It was lovely, a perfect warm respite from the freezing evening outside.
I had to cancel a date with ‘the girl that I’m seeing’ (which was really annoying cos she’s great) because I was going to have to leave the house at four or five to get the train because of the snow. Therefore the evening became a bit of a nothing-to-do affair so I stayed by the fire and chatted to my friends.
When I say ‘a few whiskeys’, I can’t really quantify how many. I drink doubles, because singles seem lonely, and there were definitely a few. Then people heard the ‘Boom Boom Pow’ story of my black eye and grew to love my sparkling repartee, and a few kind souls started buying me Christmas drinks. At that point I may have gone next door to the shithole and chatted for a while, because I distinctly remember drinking Guinness with a few of the grrrrrr locals and there was definitely more boozing there. I had a pizza at some point, then went back to the cool bar.
Scene deleted (I just called my friend Beatriz who works in the Cool Bar to find out what happened, and she said she’ll find out for me. I was good though, didn’t do anything bad at least)
I woke up at about 4, feeling grand. The birds were singing, the trees were saying and I definitely was not hungover. Yes, there was a distinct taste of vomit, and at least six hours were missing, but I hadn’t been raped and was in my own house, ready to get ready to try and get ready to go home...
CUT TO:
I was in Luton airport with a hangover. The worst snowstorm for the last 15 years was still raging, and quelle fucking surprise, like the sword of Damocles hanging over our holiday ambitions, the world-weary Easyjet crone-in-chief announced the flight was cancelled.
-Rather miffed, as you might imagine, I approaced the desk and asked whether there was any chance of transferring to a later flight.
No.
-I asked was the any point in trying to wait to see if the status changed (cos I imagine airport announcements to be rather like Facebook updates- “Luton Airpost is: So psyched for the snowwwwww!!! lololololo xx <3”)
No.
-I asked could I pay cash-money to buy a ticket on a later flight
Yes, sir (she didn’t say sir)
-I asked when the next available flight was.
January 2nd.
Fuck sake. I waited for about four or five hours and when it was patently clear that NOTHING was gonna happen, I went home.
(N.B. There was ‘an American’ present. ‘An American’ in travel terms for people who live outside the US, is the one American customer who makes a fuss about service. Usually middle-aged women in mountain-climbing boots and clothes woven from hemp, drinking from an unnecessarily large nalgene, her hair streaked liberally with grey. The usual response to ‘There was an American on my flight’ is to say ‘Ugh’. This is not an insult to Americans btw, it’s an inconvenient truth. My ‘American’ jumped up on the counter and sat, shouting at Easyjet Staff about her rights. I didn’t bother pointing out the finer aspects of consumer rights law to her, I couldn’t betray the sisterhood.)
I went to the Uberflat again and freaked out, there may or may not have been a few tears. My parents sprung into action. There were three options.
1) Spend Christmas and New Year with my lovely family in Kent (with whom I spent most of the Summer)
2) Take a 13 journey by train to Scotland, get the ferry to Belfast and teh Bus home. I favoured this because of the clear ‘adventure’ aspect.
3) Get the train tomorrow to Birmingham and get a flight to Derry, my home.
My mum bought the ticket, and this morning I once again got on the train. It cost £66 from London to Birmingham. That is more that the original (cancelled return flight to Belfast) cost.
Anyway, I’m in Birmingham airport:
For some reason people seem to fundamentally change their personalities when they’re about to travel, and not for the better. First of all, they overdress, to the extreme. Dowdy middle-aged women slap enough powder to represent modern art masterpieces (or fake-tan homages to spider web collections) and men, clearly dressed by their wives, adorn themselves with stone-washed denim, brown leather brogues, and whichever middle aged cry-for-help Esquire magazine has tricked them into buying.
(That’s not a swipe at Esquire, but it IS bit offputting to see men as old as my Dad trying to dress trendier than I do...not that the bar is set extremely high)
Also, because they’re about to do the unthinkable and jump on a plane, they think they’re superior to everyone. It’s the same from Forks, Washington to Ulaan Bataar (Twilight AND Mongol Rally ref. Tasty) people leave their manners with their packed liquids at the security queue.
Example!
I was in the queue for security when a little kid tripped over and started crying, his parents were about a foot or so in front and had sorta missed him for a second, as clearly happens when you’re running through an airport with the whole family. I love kids, and stooped down and scooped the wee blighter up, gave him a sorta half smile/half giggle and walked him to his Dad who had noticed. The wee fella grabbed my hand and I walked him over to his dad and did that ‘oh he had a fall’ thing and the Dad smiled his thanks. Then, the Mum, basically shoved the husband aside and wrenched the boy to her, glaring at me.
(I’m sorry, mea culpa, I clearly didn’t get the memo saying that if you help a kid who’s tripped you’ve become a foaming-at-the-mouth paedophile. I’ll just step over him next time)
The dad was mortified and I walked on.
So now I sit, with 20 minutes until my gate opens and the effects of the coffee kicking in. The place has quietened down a little and a feeling like le petit mort has settled in. For one I am glad to be going home, even if the flight is a little delayed.
See y’all on the other side folks.
xx
ps - I'm in Ireland now, after many hours of travel. The flight was diverted, then on arrival at a different airport, the buses were delayed. I'm now finally home, drinking red wine by the fire and watching Bridget Jones 2- The Edge of Reason with my wee sis and mum. They're perturbed by how much of the dialogue I know. I'm gonna sleep for a fucking week (hadn't sworn enough) and then have a fan dabby dozy Christmas. I'm gonna forget the worst week ever
1) The Boom Boom Pow
2) The No Job
3) The dole rejection
4) The missed flight
5) The mammoth journey home.
all that is going to be offset by
AN AMAZING FUCKING CHRISTMAS WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE.
-funny fact-ette, I’m at a Costa coffee adding to my future massive heart-attack and people keep staring at me. The place is packed with home-goers, all sharing tables, but I’m the fat girl at the party with icing on her chin that no-one wants to dance with. Awwww.
First of all, why am I in Birmingham when, cor blimey Mary Poppins, I live in London?
Good question reader! Well, yesterday (22nd) I left my little Uberflat in the wee hours, slipping and sliding with my luggage and Lassie as I tried to walk up my little street which was glazed with ice. I somehow made it to the train station, looking like a plum that someone had jizzed on, got the train and after a half-hour journey, found myself in Luton airport.
Now, I was a bit hungover yesterday. On Monday I went to the jobcentre and then found out that my dole application had been rejected. That’s right, I’m so awesome that I can’t even sign on properly. Anyway, I was walking back from the Dole office, feeling somewhat dejected about how the week had been when I passed a joke shop with ‘Help Wanted’ written on it. I bounded in, shaking myself like a dog (it was snowing ridiculously heavily) and met the manager. I gave him my CV, heavily implied I would give him oral sex, and went on my way, somewhat bouyed by how I may have just gotten a job, and choosing to ignore that it was in no way a Law job or that no-one else seemed to be interested in having it.
(Quick question out there: Who thinks I should work in a joke shop?)
I went to the pub to say goodbye to my barfly friends (the cool pub I drink at, not the shit hole I sometimes work at...) and had a few whiskeys (Yes ‘whiskey’ not ‘whisky’, based on the Irish word Uisce Bheatha – Water of Life. Thank god/Darwin for St. Jameson) by the fire. It was lovely, a perfect warm respite from the freezing evening outside.
I had to cancel a date with ‘the girl that I’m seeing’ (which was really annoying cos she’s great) because I was going to have to leave the house at four or five to get the train because of the snow. Therefore the evening became a bit of a nothing-to-do affair so I stayed by the fire and chatted to my friends.
When I say ‘a few whiskeys’, I can’t really quantify how many. I drink doubles, because singles seem lonely, and there were definitely a few. Then people heard the ‘Boom Boom Pow’ story of my black eye and grew to love my sparkling repartee, and a few kind souls started buying me Christmas drinks. At that point I may have gone next door to the shithole and chatted for a while, because I distinctly remember drinking Guinness with a few of the grrrrrr locals and there was definitely more boozing there. I had a pizza at some point, then went back to the cool bar.
Scene deleted (I just called my friend Beatriz who works in the Cool Bar to find out what happened, and she said she’ll find out for me. I was good though, didn’t do anything bad at least)
I woke up at about 4, feeling grand. The birds were singing, the trees were saying and I definitely was not hungover. Yes, there was a distinct taste of vomit, and at least six hours were missing, but I hadn’t been raped and was in my own house, ready to get ready to try and get ready to go home...
CUT TO:
I was in Luton airport with a hangover. The worst snowstorm for the last 15 years was still raging, and quelle fucking surprise, like the sword of Damocles hanging over our holiday ambitions, the world-weary Easyjet crone-in-chief announced the flight was cancelled.
-Rather miffed, as you might imagine, I approaced the desk and asked whether there was any chance of transferring to a later flight.
No.
-I asked was the any point in trying to wait to see if the status changed (cos I imagine airport announcements to be rather like Facebook updates- “Luton Airpost is: So psyched for the snowwwwww!!! lololololo xx <3”)
No.
-I asked could I pay cash-money to buy a ticket on a later flight
Yes, sir (she didn’t say sir)
-I asked when the next available flight was.
January 2nd.
Fuck sake. I waited for about four or five hours and when it was patently clear that NOTHING was gonna happen, I went home.
(N.B. There was ‘an American’ present. ‘An American’ in travel terms for people who live outside the US, is the one American customer who makes a fuss about service. Usually middle-aged women in mountain-climbing boots and clothes woven from hemp, drinking from an unnecessarily large nalgene, her hair streaked liberally with grey. The usual response to ‘There was an American on my flight’ is to say ‘Ugh’. This is not an insult to Americans btw, it’s an inconvenient truth. My ‘American’ jumped up on the counter and sat, shouting at Easyjet Staff about her rights. I didn’t bother pointing out the finer aspects of consumer rights law to her, I couldn’t betray the sisterhood.)
I went to the Uberflat again and freaked out, there may or may not have been a few tears. My parents sprung into action. There were three options.
1) Spend Christmas and New Year with my lovely family in Kent (with whom I spent most of the Summer)
2) Take a 13 journey by train to Scotland, get the ferry to Belfast and teh Bus home. I favoured this because of the clear ‘adventure’ aspect.
3) Get the train tomorrow to Birmingham and get a flight to Derry, my home.
My mum bought the ticket, and this morning I once again got on the train. It cost £66 from London to Birmingham. That is more that the original (cancelled return flight to Belfast) cost.
Anyway, I’m in Birmingham airport:
For some reason people seem to fundamentally change their personalities when they’re about to travel, and not for the better. First of all, they overdress, to the extreme. Dowdy middle-aged women slap enough powder to represent modern art masterpieces (or fake-tan homages to spider web collections) and men, clearly dressed by their wives, adorn themselves with stone-washed denim, brown leather brogues, and whichever middle aged cry-for-help Esquire magazine has tricked them into buying.
(That’s not a swipe at Esquire, but it IS bit offputting to see men as old as my Dad trying to dress trendier than I do...not that the bar is set extremely high)
Also, because they’re about to do the unthinkable and jump on a plane, they think they’re superior to everyone. It’s the same from Forks, Washington to Ulaan Bataar (Twilight AND Mongol Rally ref. Tasty) people leave their manners with their packed liquids at the security queue.
Example!
I was in the queue for security when a little kid tripped over and started crying, his parents were about a foot or so in front and had sorta missed him for a second, as clearly happens when you’re running through an airport with the whole family. I love kids, and stooped down and scooped the wee blighter up, gave him a sorta half smile/half giggle and walked him to his Dad who had noticed. The wee fella grabbed my hand and I walked him over to his dad and did that ‘oh he had a fall’ thing and the Dad smiled his thanks. Then, the Mum, basically shoved the husband aside and wrenched the boy to her, glaring at me.
(I’m sorry, mea culpa, I clearly didn’t get the memo saying that if you help a kid who’s tripped you’ve become a foaming-at-the-mouth paedophile. I’ll just step over him next time)
The dad was mortified and I walked on.
So now I sit, with 20 minutes until my gate opens and the effects of the coffee kicking in. The place has quietened down a little and a feeling like le petit mort has settled in. For one I am glad to be going home, even if the flight is a little delayed.
See y’all on the other side folks.
xx
ps - I'm in Ireland now, after many hours of travel. The flight was diverted, then on arrival at a different airport, the buses were delayed. I'm now finally home, drinking red wine by the fire and watching Bridget Jones 2- The Edge of Reason with my wee sis and mum. They're perturbed by how much of the dialogue I know. I'm gonna sleep for a fucking week (hadn't sworn enough) and then have a fan dabby dozy Christmas. I'm gonna forget the worst week ever
1) The Boom Boom Pow
2) The No Job
3) The dole rejection
4) The missed flight
5) The mammoth journey home.
all that is going to be offset by
AN AMAZING FUCKING CHRISTMAS WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
It's very cold here
Yes, very cold.
London had snow today, and I've never been more thankful for central heating, or for thermal socks.
I was going through my video file today, and found this little video I made during my Man Adventures in France over the summer. I watched it and remembered the weather being so hot, us being so drunk, and the days being so long, that it very briefly made me forget how ball-numbingly cold it is here.
The glazed look is due to all the beer and wine that we were drinking. Excuse the beer belly.
Also, my Connect-i-cut galpal Spanky has gone on hiatus from her blog in order to finish off reading Breaking Dawn, so why not go over and catch up on her blog so that you're nice and ready by the time she's finished. Luvs it.
London had snow today, and I've never been more thankful for central heating, or for thermal socks.
I was going through my video file today, and found this little video I made during my Man Adventures in France over the summer. I watched it and remembered the weather being so hot, us being so drunk, and the days being so long, that it very briefly made me forget how ball-numbingly cold it is here.
The glazed look is due to all the beer and wine that we were drinking. Excuse the beer belly.
Also, my Connect-i-cut galpal Spanky has gone on hiatus from her blog in order to finish off reading Breaking Dawn, so why not go over and catch up on her blog so that you're nice and ready by the time she's finished. Luvs it.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
In which I inadvertantly join the sex industry, win an award and pimp a wheelchair.
Right, so this definitely not a Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive post. The last two days have been rather weird.
As you may (or more like may not, and don't care) be aware. I have been unemployed now for about a month, after the whole boss-getting-me-drunk-and-cheating-money-off-me thing, and I've been a bit...bored. Well, as a tonic to that I went to the jobcentre in Kilburn yesterday to sign on (free money = ka-ching!) and start as a 'jobseeker'. I hadn't slept in like 30 hours when this happened, so yesterday was fun.
Now first of all, the whole dole thing is depressing. Very depressing. They ask you a million questions ("Now Mr D, when was the last time you shat on a toadstool" etc etc) that make you think about how broke you are, then they patronise the fuck out of you. ("Can you read? Oh, you can? Good for you") in a manner that clearly says "Well, I have a job, I'm better than you".
So, after three hours of that, I walked home, and decided to stop in the bank to open an account. The lady who I was dealing with was a beautiful Iranian lady called Shihraz, and she had a wheelchair. I didn't even notice this, as she was busy telling me about the Super Deluxe Multi Omni Hyper Gold-plate Account. I'm not sure how, but we began chatting about how it would be great to be wealthy, and me, trying to be funny, suggested that she could pimp out her wheelchair. That did it, forgetting the account, we went into a fifteen minute conversation talking about how great she could make her wheels, with platinum plating, sub-woofer speakers, bling. The works. It was the best bank-trip ever, and she's my new bff bank buddy. She spent the whole time giggling, and is the best bank person I've ever met, so I'm opening an account there.
Also, I did a shift in the pub last night..while almost crying with tiredness....fun.
-----
Yesterday was also a great day for me (tiredness and unemployment aside) because, the ever-cool Novelista Barista has given me an award. Ironically called the Coffee Cup Award I'm very honoured for the recognition and would like to thank NB for her words, she's very kind! Also, as a complete coffee addict, it's very gratifying to know that my future massive heart attack will be caused by something that I love so much.
Now, the porn thing. As part of my attempts to find work, I applied to loads of radio stations and voiceover companies; hoping against hope that someone would pluck me out of the ether and give me a prime-time breakfast slot. Well, they didn't. The only people who got back to me were a specialist fiction company.
Here's what happened :
(ps - by looking at the screen, I'm not trying to be intense or anything, the script is on screen at the time of recording)
So yeah, I've accidentally become a sex-worker. The pay's not atrociously bad, and I can dress like an unshaven bum but...here's the question...does that technically make me a form of hooker, or is it okay for me to do that and keep my head on high?? Responses please. Also, my laughably bad attempt to sound sexy is bound to return to haunt me at some point.
We'll see...
Anyway, I hope you're all well, what've y'all been up to?
x
As you may (or more like may not, and don't care) be aware. I have been unemployed now for about a month, after the whole boss-getting-me-drunk-and-cheating-money-off-me thing, and I've been a bit...bored. Well, as a tonic to that I went to the jobcentre in Kilburn yesterday to sign on (free money = ka-ching!) and start as a 'jobseeker'. I hadn't slept in like 30 hours when this happened, so yesterday was fun.
Now first of all, the whole dole thing is depressing. Very depressing. They ask you a million questions ("Now Mr D, when was the last time you shat on a toadstool" etc etc) that make you think about how broke you are, then they patronise the fuck out of you. ("Can you read? Oh, you can? Good for you") in a manner that clearly says "Well, I have a job, I'm better than you".
So, after three hours of that, I walked home, and decided to stop in the bank to open an account. The lady who I was dealing with was a beautiful Iranian lady called Shihraz, and she had a wheelchair. I didn't even notice this, as she was busy telling me about the Super Deluxe Multi Omni Hyper Gold-plate Account. I'm not sure how, but we began chatting about how it would be great to be wealthy, and me, trying to be funny, suggested that she could pimp out her wheelchair. That did it, forgetting the account, we went into a fifteen minute conversation talking about how great she could make her wheels, with platinum plating, sub-woofer speakers, bling. The works. It was the best bank-trip ever, and she's my new bff bank buddy. She spent the whole time giggling, and is the best bank person I've ever met, so I'm opening an account there.
Also, I did a shift in the pub last night..while almost crying with tiredness....fun.
-----
Yesterday was also a great day for me (tiredness and unemployment aside) because, the ever-cool Novelista Barista has given me an award. Ironically called the Coffee Cup Award I'm very honoured for the recognition and would like to thank NB for her words, she's very kind! Also, as a complete coffee addict, it's very gratifying to know that my future massive heart attack will be caused by something that I love so much.
Now, the porn thing. As part of my attempts to find work, I applied to loads of radio stations and voiceover companies; hoping against hope that someone would pluck me out of the ether and give me a prime-time breakfast slot. Well, they didn't. The only people who got back to me were a specialist fiction company.
Here's what happened :
(ps - by looking at the screen, I'm not trying to be intense or anything, the script is on screen at the time of recording)
So yeah, I've accidentally become a sex-worker. The pay's not atrociously bad, and I can dress like an unshaven bum but...here's the question...does that technically make me a form of hooker, or is it okay for me to do that and keep my head on high?? Responses please. Also, my laughably bad attempt to sound sexy is bound to return to haunt me at some point.
We'll see...
Anyway, I hope you're all well, what've y'all been up to?
x
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Smiling Again
Okay, so more bad stuff happened, but it's so funny that I've been chuckling about it for a while, and it's put things in perspective and made me happy.
So yesterday, I was in Waterloo Station, just from a meeting with the future co-lawyers. I went down the escalator and, somewhat merry and listening to King Crimson's epic In the Wake of Poseidon (another example of their genius) I was not really paying attention.
This song is obviously amazing. When I, being far too involved in the sheer awesomeness of the song, suddenly found myself tumbling down the bottom of the escalator, it was most sincerely not amazing. I've been a semi-professional walkist since about the age of 2 (is that what age kids learn to walk??) but for some reason my calf muscle in the right leg just spasmed and suddenly I was doing the tumble-dryer act in front of what seemed like half of London.
Then in my suddenly leg-pain/pride-pain scramble to get upright (which failed because of my continually cramping calf-muscle) a flock of pretty ladies walked past, and a busker stopped playing. I tried to laugh it off, but shaking harder than a paint mixer, it wasn't very convincing.
Anyway, I found my way home without either crying or laughing too loudly, and went to the burger-joint by the top of my street. Feeling that a half-pound of dead cow-flesh would cheer me up, I reached for my wallet in my inside pocket and...nope, it wasn't there.
So, apart from falling like a dick and making a tool of myself, I also lost my wallet. Nice one.
Today though, when I woke up, I was greeted with a mad feeling of hilarity. Every time I think of what happened I burst out laughing. I was chatting to my mum and we had a giggle about it.
So I'm sitting now, without a wallet, a girlfriend, a job or legs that aren't killing me, and for some reason I'm unexpectedly bouyant and happy. Life is strange no?
Maybe I hit my head haha.
:)
So yesterday, I was in Waterloo Station, just from a meeting with the future co-lawyers. I went down the escalator and, somewhat merry and listening to King Crimson's epic In the Wake of Poseidon (another example of their genius) I was not really paying attention.
This song is obviously amazing. When I, being far too involved in the sheer awesomeness of the song, suddenly found myself tumbling down the bottom of the escalator, it was most sincerely not amazing. I've been a semi-professional walkist since about the age of 2 (is that what age kids learn to walk??) but for some reason my calf muscle in the right leg just spasmed and suddenly I was doing the tumble-dryer act in front of what seemed like half of London.
Then in my suddenly leg-pain/pride-pain scramble to get upright (which failed because of my continually cramping calf-muscle) a flock of pretty ladies walked past, and a busker stopped playing. I tried to laugh it off, but shaking harder than a paint mixer, it wasn't very convincing.
Anyway, I found my way home without either crying or laughing too loudly, and went to the burger-joint by the top of my street. Feeling that a half-pound of dead cow-flesh would cheer me up, I reached for my wallet in my inside pocket and...nope, it wasn't there.
So, apart from falling like a dick and making a tool of myself, I also lost my wallet. Nice one.
Today though, when I woke up, I was greeted with a mad feeling of hilarity. Every time I think of what happened I burst out laughing. I was chatting to my mum and we had a giggle about it.
So I'm sitting now, without a wallet, a girlfriend, a job or legs that aren't killing me, and for some reason I'm unexpectedly bouyant and happy. Life is strange no?
Maybe I hit my head haha.
:)
Monday, November 2, 2009
What I did last night
Just a short note from an internet cafe about what happened last night.
-i woke up with a hangover
-stumbled around the house looking for the bathroom and had to sit in the shower cos my legs felt like they were going to shatter like sugar-glass
-went into town to meet my amazing friend TV-Girl (not her real name) and her mates
-spent 2 hours on the Underground because of line closures
-arrived at the pub (2.30pm)
-had a glass of Coke and chatted to TV-Girl and her cool friend, Indian-Guy.
-had a pint of Guinness
-had another pint of Guinness
-scene deleted
-scene deleted
-TV-G's boyfriend arrives
-we drink Guinness.
-TV-G and Boyf leave
-Indian Guy and I drink Guinness - turns out he works in special effects.
-Indian Guy and I discuss geopolitics, we decide that by the time we're 75 years old India and China will be the Kings of the World because China makes goods and India 'makes people'. Europe will guide and the East will drive. South America will be a huge force under Brazil and North America will lose its 'I'm in charge' attitude. We both like Obama.
-I decide that Cuba will become a one of the more significant countries. 'The Switzerland of the Caribbean' (me circa 8.30pm)
-CuteTherapist Lady and her 'date' sit beside us at the table
-Indian-guy and I instantly start flirting with her, we discuss a ring she's wearing, her grandmother, Judaism in the UK and Vienna 1928.
-'Date' (who looks like an Asian Severus Snape) leaves in a huff, turns out he's a film-maker, but a massive bell-end who sponges off people. We all toast his departure.
-We drink Guinness
-CTL, IG and I discuss death, mortality, Catholicism, psychoanalysis, psychotherapy, Karma, religion and literature.
-CTL, IG and I drink Guinness (we seem to have forgotten that before this we'd never met)
-Turns out both CTL and I both went to Trinity and both speak French. She displays surprise that I'm only 22 and she's a bit older. We speak French some more.
-CTL, IG and I practice psychotherapy on a drunk woman, it works.
-CTL's friend, Kennedy (actually his name) arrives, he is too cool for school. He wears blue spectacles.
-CTL, IG, Kennedy and I talk about death and music. We show each other our tattoos.
-CTL likes that I have a tattoo of a Yew tree on my arm, tells me she has planned to get a tatoo of a yew on her arm. I offer to share the design.
-The bar closes.
-CTL (who is part-Irish and interested in trad music) exchanges numbers and goes on with Kennedy. Tells me to ring her.
-IG and I find another, later bar.
-CTL and Blue Specs show up too. We laugh at this.
-We drink Guinness.
-I dance the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-Blue Specs gives me a title for my script (Masquerade) which I like.
-We go out to smoke and chat to old gangsters.
-We come in and CTL does the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-CTL and I go out for a smoke and chat about life. She is definitely not Blue Specs' girlf (thanks to my subtle question of 'Is he your boyfriend then?' and her response of 'No.' We beging to dance in the street. Then we kiss. It's very nice.
-I go back inside and find IG almost passed out, he decides it's time to go home.
-Blue Specs and CTL leave, she kisses me and tells me to call her.
-I stay and drink until the bar closes, it is 2.30 am.
-It takes me hours to get home by bus.
-I can't find any change but the bus driver lets me on anyway because he doesn't want to break a note. We talk about prog-rock.
-I take the street chariot home in style.
-I try to grant a wish for the driver (not in a sexual way, I think more in a Genie/Casting a Spell way)
-The driver laughs and stops right at the top of my street.
-I stumble home listening to King Crimson.
-I watch 'The Good The Bad and the Ugly' until I fall asleep at 5.
Today I woke up and I'm afraid. Also got a text from CTL. She's really cool, but I think the age thing worries her, so I'm not sure if she really wants to go out.
So now, with rivulets of boozy sweat lashing off my back, I can only smile at what was a freaking amazing weekend. I've drunk too much, quit my job, met a few nice girls and made some new friends. Also Halloween happened. More to come on that.
I think I'm still a little drunk. Probably should leave the bank trip til tomorrow. I'm going to walk home and go back to bed.
Lots of love.
xx
-i woke up with a hangover
-stumbled around the house looking for the bathroom and had to sit in the shower cos my legs felt like they were going to shatter like sugar-glass
-went into town to meet my amazing friend TV-Girl (not her real name) and her mates
-spent 2 hours on the Underground because of line closures
-arrived at the pub (2.30pm)
-had a glass of Coke and chatted to TV-Girl and her cool friend, Indian-Guy.
-had a pint of Guinness
-had another pint of Guinness
-scene deleted
-scene deleted
-TV-G's boyfriend arrives
-we drink Guinness.
-TV-G and Boyf leave
-Indian Guy and I drink Guinness - turns out he works in special effects.
-Indian Guy and I discuss geopolitics, we decide that by the time we're 75 years old India and China will be the Kings of the World because China makes goods and India 'makes people'. Europe will guide and the East will drive. South America will be a huge force under Brazil and North America will lose its 'I'm in charge' attitude. We both like Obama.
-I decide that Cuba will become a one of the more significant countries. 'The Switzerland of the Caribbean' (me circa 8.30pm)
-CuteTherapist Lady and her 'date' sit beside us at the table
-Indian-guy and I instantly start flirting with her, we discuss a ring she's wearing, her grandmother, Judaism in the UK and Vienna 1928.
-'Date' (who looks like an Asian Severus Snape) leaves in a huff, turns out he's a film-maker, but a massive bell-end who sponges off people. We all toast his departure.
-We drink Guinness
-CTL, IG and I discuss death, mortality, Catholicism, psychoanalysis, psychotherapy, Karma, religion and literature.
-CTL, IG and I drink Guinness (we seem to have forgotten that before this we'd never met)
-Turns out both CTL and I both went to Trinity and both speak French. She displays surprise that I'm only 22 and she's a bit older. We speak French some more.
-CTL, IG and I practice psychotherapy on a drunk woman, it works.
-CTL's friend, Kennedy (actually his name) arrives, he is too cool for school. He wears blue spectacles.
-CTL, IG, Kennedy and I talk about death and music. We show each other our tattoos.
-CTL likes that I have a tattoo of a Yew tree on my arm, tells me she has planned to get a tatoo of a yew on her arm. I offer to share the design.
-The bar closes.
-CTL (who is part-Irish and interested in trad music) exchanges numbers and goes on with Kennedy. Tells me to ring her.
-IG and I find another, later bar.
-CTL and Blue Specs show up too. We laugh at this.
-We drink Guinness.
-I dance the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-Blue Specs gives me a title for my script (Masquerade) which I like.
-We go out to smoke and chat to old gangsters.
-We come in and CTL does the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-CTL and I go out for a smoke and chat about life. She is definitely not Blue Specs' girlf (thanks to my subtle question of 'Is he your boyfriend then?' and her response of 'No.' We beging to dance in the street. Then we kiss. It's very nice.
-I go back inside and find IG almost passed out, he decides it's time to go home.
-Blue Specs and CTL leave, she kisses me and tells me to call her.
-I stay and drink until the bar closes, it is 2.30 am.
-It takes me hours to get home by bus.
-I can't find any change but the bus driver lets me on anyway because he doesn't want to break a note. We talk about prog-rock.
-I take the street chariot home in style.
-I try to grant a wish for the driver (not in a sexual way, I think more in a Genie/Casting a Spell way)
-The driver laughs and stops right at the top of my street.
-I stumble home listening to King Crimson.
-I watch 'The Good The Bad and the Ugly' until I fall asleep at 5.
Today I woke up and I'm afraid. Also got a text from CTL. She's really cool, but I think the age thing worries her, so I'm not sure if she really wants to go out.
So now, with rivulets of boozy sweat lashing off my back, I can only smile at what was a freaking amazing weekend. I've drunk too much, quit my job, met a few nice girls and made some new friends. Also Halloween happened. More to come on that.
I think I'm still a little drunk. Probably should leave the bank trip til tomorrow. I'm going to walk home and go back to bed.
Lots of love.
xx
Friday, October 30, 2009
Announcing my Triumphant return to the Internet!! (sort of)
Greetings, strangers. Time for a big long blog-post. Following my bloma (blog coma - thanks SpankyLuvsIt!!) I have a lot of news...
Well, it was a bit hit-or-miss there as to whether or not I’d ever be allowed to return to the joys of the blogosphere, but yes, after much wrangling, internet caféing and free wifi-ing, the cool cats from TalkTalk Internet have come into the Über Flat, drilled a shitload of little holes, had some fibre-optic fun and viola, the miracle of (second) life continues.
Well, sorta. I’m still obliged to steal wifi from my neighbour, because, well, the hyper-efficient technicians won’t be ready til THE 12TH OF NOVEMBER to finish the job (!!!!!!) which is a rather poor show. Apparently it's thanks to the postal strike which is currently ravaging Britain. I don't really understand how slow letter delivery stops mewatching porn studying online.
So how the bally heck have I been? Well, thanks for asking Mum, but basically since I’ve moved to facking Landin my life has taken a turn for the hectic. I made the move, bad back and all, got settled, and lay on my bed, relishing the fact that I had an apartment. Being the crazy son-of-a-gun that I am, my flat-mate Sparky and I decided to have a ‘crazy housewarming party' a video from which I will put up soon :)
Then, London life began. To begin with, let me just inform you that my post-grad course takes up an oppressive six hours...every other Saturday. That’s right, I’m so hardcore my course can’t even be on a weekly basis. Using the power of mathematics that this means I (theoretically) have, on average, 165 hours free every week.
Things I’ve learned #1: Con + 165 hours of free time = Con the Weird Sociopathic Caveman.
For a week I lived a weird sorta-unemployed/sorta-kept man existence, tottering about, unshaven and feral, trying to capture urban foxes and rogue pigeons in my nocturnal haze. Too much time in a city where I really have very few friends meant that I was alone, with my thoughts, all the time. Not good.
I did actually go on a date (as mentioned below) with a lovely young lady who I drunkenly met on the bus (see story above) but after a rather eventful evening, she turned the gender table round and played the ‘That Bastard who never called me” card that I have previously played in my life, allowing Karma to amble up to me, laugh coldly, then kick me square in the bollocks.
Ugh, women are pigs.
Anyway, yeah, so I had tonnes of free time (I had so much free time, I weighed how much free time I had: 178.64 metric tonnes of time, to be precise) and had turned into nocturnal savage (or rather reverted to my truer, nocturnal savagey self) big deal. Sparky, with infinite patience took me to Ikea, and tried firmly to nail the final hetero man-love nail into our tiny gay coffin and I became a housewife. Now my house is filled with flat-pack furniture that all has a name. My desk is called Kistrud, the soft furnishings in the living room all have names like Scandanavian popstars and there was once a famous tennis star called Bjorn Borg.
So yeah, following the advice of the man-wife, the mother, several ex-girlfriends (who still ‘look out for me’) and my thrash NY gal-pal, the Novelista Barista, I decided to get a job.
Job #1: BARWORK
Okay, so I tended bar all through college. It’s a perfectly good job, and I'd never for one second look down my nose at anyone who decided to do it for a living. It’s pretty tough, and despite all the hype, it’s not glamourous in the slightest. On the plus side; there’s always work for a trained bartender, and the induction to a new job doesn’t tend to take longer than inspecting the beer cellar to see which pump system works with the kegs, and becoming acclimatised with the Cash Register. However, picking WHERE to work is often the most important thing. I’m Irish, and I live beside an area called Kilburn. 20 years ago that would have been the start of a joke, but now thankfully the area’s a little more diverse. The remaining Irish community are typically a little older, the majority in their 40’s-50’s, and I went to work in their pub.
Yep, not some trendy gastro-pub, or an understated favela, I choose one of the only proper Irish pubs in Kilburn; a dark, sordid grief hole that caters to the local expat community. Three things about the expat community in Kilburn:
1) They’re tough, very tough. Most of them came over as construction workers in the 60’s and 70’s and spent the years since working 15 hours days, drinking themselves blind and spending the rest of the time getting arrested by the charming not-at-all-anti-Irish constables of the Metropolitan Police during an era when the Irish in Britain were viewed the same way that ANYONE Arabic/Middle Eastern is viewed by the gun-toting chaps in US airport security – with deep suspicion. These expats are of a slightly more sturdy breed.
2) They drink. A lot. Most are what we would now call ‘functioning alcoholics’. I did a few of the not-at-all-depressing morning shifts, and for a while I was convinced that some of the customers were suffering from severe Parkinson’s disease, they shook so much. These same people would drink a few pints and after a while be as eloquent and witty as an Oscar Wilde/Charles Bukowski smoothie. Most of the punters would come in straight after work and sit, drinking with an assembly-belt efficiency before tottering home hours later.
3) They don’t like change. I was the youngest of the barstaff, a little sprat of a thing, and I was also a very obvious interloper. Being professionally not-very-tough and also coming as a graduate with a weird hybrid accent meant that I was very obviously not ‘one of the lads’. When people asked what I did, and I said either ‘Trainee Lawyer’ or ‘Writer’ I’d either be called a bastard or a queer, before getting a cuff on the shoulder and having something growled at me to the effect that I ‘was alright for a Northerner’.
Anyway, I liked working there, but the hours weren’t enough to financially sustain me and I kinda spent two weeks in the habit of drinking every day after work, which is something I’d rather avoid if I don’t want the old ‘drunken Irish’ stereotype thrown in with the rest. Also, in a bizarre twist, a man calling me a 'cunt' came in one day waving a saw around because I had apparently refused to serve him...live is made up of the little spontaneous moments though eh? The boss also was a bit unpredictable, a 51 year old hormone-grenade preoccupied with The Change. She’d either be incredibly sweet or yell at me for nothing at all (eg – shouting at me for the amount of overspill caused by too much pressure from the gas system. Seeing as I’m not really qualified to tamper with an elaborate underground gas system, I was at a bit of a loss to respond.). When I told her I was quitting, she sulked with me for 6 hours, then gave me a hug and told me I was welcome to drink there any time. Crazy Menopause.
Job #2 TELESALES.
Do you have a soul? Feel like it’s a little too much of a burden? Fancy having little pieces chipped away on a daily basis? Then you should try telesales. Ugh. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I enjoy spending 8 hours a day in an overheated underground office calling strangers, so to get paid for it is a treat.
---
--
-
Ps – unsurprisingly, I quit this job too. That’s right, yesterday I left the place, and I don’t ever think I’m likely to cold-call an unsuspecting member of the public to persuade them to do ____________.
So here I am, right back where started, a bum. I still have my soul though, and there’s a really cool girl I met recently at a party. We’ve texted a bit, and I’m gonna be loosey goosey and keep it cool.
So, how are y’all?
Ps – I know this is a helluva long post, but I’ve been away for too long . I’ve missed you so much, faceless void of hyperspace...let’s never spend so much time apart again, okay?
Well, it was a bit hit-or-miss there as to whether or not I’d ever be allowed to return to the joys of the blogosphere, but yes, after much wrangling, internet caféing and free wifi-ing, the cool cats from TalkTalk Internet have come into the Über Flat, drilled a shitload of little holes, had some fibre-optic fun and viola, the miracle of (second) life continues.
Well, sorta. I’m still obliged to steal wifi from my neighbour, because, well, the hyper-efficient technicians won’t be ready til THE 12TH OF NOVEMBER to finish the job (!!!!!!) which is a rather poor show. Apparently it's thanks to the postal strike which is currently ravaging Britain. I don't really understand how slow letter delivery stops me
So how the bally heck have I been? Well, thanks for asking Mum, but basically since I’ve moved to facking Landin my life has taken a turn for the hectic. I made the move, bad back and all, got settled, and lay on my bed, relishing the fact that I had an apartment. Being the crazy son-of-a-gun that I am, my flat-mate Sparky and I decided to have a ‘crazy housewarming party' a video from which I will put up soon :)
Then, London life began. To begin with, let me just inform you that my post-grad course takes up an oppressive six hours...every other Saturday. That’s right, I’m so hardcore my course can’t even be on a weekly basis. Using the power of mathematics that this means I (theoretically) have, on average, 165 hours free every week.
Things I’ve learned #1: Con + 165 hours of free time = Con the Weird Sociopathic Caveman.
For a week I lived a weird sorta-unemployed/sorta-kept man existence, tottering about, unshaven and feral, trying to capture urban foxes and rogue pigeons in my nocturnal haze. Too much time in a city where I really have very few friends meant that I was alone, with my thoughts, all the time. Not good.
I did actually go on a date (as mentioned below) with a lovely young lady who I drunkenly met on the bus (see story above) but after a rather eventful evening, she turned the gender table round and played the ‘That Bastard who never called me” card that I have previously played in my life, allowing Karma to amble up to me, laugh coldly, then kick me square in the bollocks.
Ugh, women are pigs.
Anyway, yeah, so I had tonnes of free time (I had so much free time, I weighed how much free time I had: 178.64 metric tonnes of time, to be precise) and had turned into nocturnal savage (or rather reverted to my truer, nocturnal savagey self) big deal. Sparky, with infinite patience took me to Ikea, and tried firmly to nail the final hetero man-love nail into our tiny gay coffin and I became a housewife. Now my house is filled with flat-pack furniture that all has a name. My desk is called Kistrud, the soft furnishings in the living room all have names like Scandanavian popstars and there was once a famous tennis star called Bjorn Borg.
So yeah, following the advice of the man-wife, the mother, several ex-girlfriends (who still ‘look out for me’) and my thrash NY gal-pal, the Novelista Barista, I decided to get a job.
Job #1: BARWORK
Okay, so I tended bar all through college. It’s a perfectly good job, and I'd never for one second look down my nose at anyone who decided to do it for a living. It’s pretty tough, and despite all the hype, it’s not glamourous in the slightest. On the plus side; there’s always work for a trained bartender, and the induction to a new job doesn’t tend to take longer than inspecting the beer cellar to see which pump system works with the kegs, and becoming acclimatised with the Cash Register. However, picking WHERE to work is often the most important thing. I’m Irish, and I live beside an area called Kilburn. 20 years ago that would have been the start of a joke, but now thankfully the area’s a little more diverse. The remaining Irish community are typically a little older, the majority in their 40’s-50’s, and I went to work in their pub.
Yep, not some trendy gastro-pub, or an understated favela, I choose one of the only proper Irish pubs in Kilburn; a dark, sordid grief hole that caters to the local expat community. Three things about the expat community in Kilburn:
1) They’re tough, very tough. Most of them came over as construction workers in the 60’s and 70’s and spent the years since working 15 hours days, drinking themselves blind and spending the rest of the time getting arrested by the charming not-at-all-anti-Irish constables of the Metropolitan Police during an era when the Irish in Britain were viewed the same way that ANYONE Arabic/Middle Eastern is viewed by the gun-toting chaps in US airport security – with deep suspicion. These expats are of a slightly more sturdy breed.
2) They drink. A lot. Most are what we would now call ‘functioning alcoholics’. I did a few of the not-at-all-depressing morning shifts, and for a while I was convinced that some of the customers were suffering from severe Parkinson’s disease, they shook so much. These same people would drink a few pints and after a while be as eloquent and witty as an Oscar Wilde/Charles Bukowski smoothie. Most of the punters would come in straight after work and sit, drinking with an assembly-belt efficiency before tottering home hours later.
3) They don’t like change. I was the youngest of the barstaff, a little sprat of a thing, and I was also a very obvious interloper. Being professionally not-very-tough and also coming as a graduate with a weird hybrid accent meant that I was very obviously not ‘one of the lads’. When people asked what I did, and I said either ‘Trainee Lawyer’ or ‘Writer’ I’d either be called a bastard or a queer, before getting a cuff on the shoulder and having something growled at me to the effect that I ‘was alright for a Northerner’.
Anyway, I liked working there, but the hours weren’t enough to financially sustain me and I kinda spent two weeks in the habit of drinking every day after work, which is something I’d rather avoid if I don’t want the old ‘drunken Irish’ stereotype thrown in with the rest. Also, in a bizarre twist, a man calling me a 'cunt' came in one day waving a saw around because I had apparently refused to serve him...live is made up of the little spontaneous moments though eh? The boss also was a bit unpredictable, a 51 year old hormone-grenade preoccupied with The Change. She’d either be incredibly sweet or yell at me for nothing at all (eg – shouting at me for the amount of overspill caused by too much pressure from the gas system. Seeing as I’m not really qualified to tamper with an elaborate underground gas system, I was at a bit of a loss to respond.). When I told her I was quitting, she sulked with me for 6 hours, then gave me a hug and told me I was welcome to drink there any time. Crazy Menopause.
Job #2 TELESALES.
Do you have a soul? Feel like it’s a little too much of a burden? Fancy having little pieces chipped away on a daily basis? Then you should try telesales. Ugh. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I enjoy spending 8 hours a day in an overheated underground office calling strangers, so to get paid for it is a treat.
---
--
-
Ps – unsurprisingly, I quit this job too. That’s right, yesterday I left the place, and I don’t ever think I’m likely to cold-call an unsuspecting member of the public to persuade them to do ____________.
So here I am, right back where started, a bum. I still have my soul though, and there’s a really cool girl I met recently at a party. We’ve texted a bit, and I’m gonna be loosey goosey and keep it cool.
So, how are y’all?
Ps – I know this is a helluva long post, but I’ve been away for too long . I’ve missed you so much, faceless void of hyperspace...let’s never spend so much time apart again, okay?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Quost about London so far.
Yes, quost! My internet is so precarious that I barely have time to write full words, so they run into each other. This is a quick post.
So, the last time I blogged, I was a pathetic cripple. Now my back is all fine, and I have a lovely apartment. The only problem is that my internet is not yet set up and I have to rely on the unintentional altruism of 'homa', the only wifi that my computer can freely pick up on. Homa is only available from about 6pm - 9pm, so I wait, all day, eagerly trying not to refresh the useless Firefox startpage, counting down the seconds til I can productively procrastinate. Homa also does not allow me to upload photos or videos...so any 80's doing-up-the-house montages will have to wait til we're set with our own hub.
I've been job-hunting. Like flat-hunting, but with less self-esteem. So far, the only luck with the search has been for some really random ones. An example of the type of mental jobs that I only seem to be fit for:
-Lollipop man,
-Shop Assistant at a military surplus store.
-Doorman at an experimental theatre.
-Male escort (disn't really look into that one, just saw lots of ads...)
I was told that I couldn't be hired at one place (despite the ad saying 'Help Wanted') because I wasn't "a hot girl innit?" which was rather a blow to the old self-image.
Damn body fascists.
Anyway, tomorrow is another day, and I can go print off a million CV's and be a bloody job-hunt fairy.
As soon as I get the internet for true, I'll definitely put up some videos (or vlog posts, as the kids call them) for all to enjoy.
ps - I had a date last night. It went well. Possibly more to come.
So, the last time I blogged, I was a pathetic cripple. Now my back is all fine, and I have a lovely apartment. The only problem is that my internet is not yet set up and I have to rely on the unintentional altruism of 'homa', the only wifi that my computer can freely pick up on. Homa is only available from about 6pm - 9pm, so I wait, all day, eagerly trying not to refresh the useless Firefox startpage, counting down the seconds til I can productively procrastinate. Homa also does not allow me to upload photos or videos...so any 80's doing-up-the-house montages will have to wait til we're set with our own hub.
I've been job-hunting. Like flat-hunting, but with less self-esteem. So far, the only luck with the search has been for some really random ones. An example of the type of mental jobs that I only seem to be fit for:
-Lollipop man,
-Shop Assistant at a military surplus store.
-Doorman at an experimental theatre.
-Male escort (disn't really look into that one, just saw lots of ads...)
I was told that I couldn't be hired at one place (despite the ad saying 'Help Wanted') because I wasn't "a hot girl innit?" which was rather a blow to the old self-image.
Damn body fascists.
Anyway, tomorrow is another day, and I can go print off a million CV's and be a bloody job-hunt fairy.
As soon as I get the internet for true, I'll definitely put up some videos (or vlog posts, as the kids call them) for all to enjoy.
ps - I had a date last night. It went well. Possibly more to come.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Arthur's Day
It's been quite a while since my last post. I'm currently back with the aunt/unc combo of S&D in their lovely country house. Life has been pretty hectic this last while, so I'll just fill you in with what's been going on.
So I spent about 9 days lodging with Em and her landlady n' daughter, and had a really nice time. They all made me feel really really welcome, and it was a lot of fun to hang out with them in the house, watching tv or a movie and swapping gossip and scandal. As the only guy in the house, I even managed to earn some Guy Points by fixing some fuses and the oven. Huzzah!
As I said in my last post, the flat-hunting wasn't going very well. It's an horrendously boring, expensive and soul-destroying task, and requires a horrible mixture of intruding on people's lives (if they haven't moved out yet) and dealing with (sometimes less-than-ethical) estate agents. One of these guys, we'll call him 'Gordon', was so sleazy and cocky (and looked about 12) that all of the shitty grief-holes he showed us were unappealing. Another guy, whilst very nice, took us to places that my hetero life-partner (Mark, but we'll call him Sparky) had already been shown around before I came over.
Then...we found it. The Über-Flat.
Nestled half-way between the paradise of West Hampstead and the bustle of Kilburn, in a small quiet street called Netherwood, the flat is great. A split-level two bedroom, it's got a large living room, a nice kitchen and dining room, and loads of storage. Upstairs, two big bedrooms and a bathroom. It's in a really safe area and has a big heavy gate for security. I love it. It's even the upper flat in the building, so it covers the 'Zombie Invasion' criteria. The best aspect is a small balcony with a corner table for eating breakfast, and a load of space for planting a few plants/herbs/vegetables.
The only problem is the move-in day. The flat came onto the market because of a family crisis for the current tenant (which is sad) which means he has to go home to Portugal. We were supposed to be moving in on the 28th of September, but it looks like we'll be waiting another week.
I'm not really complaining though. Hell, at least I've found somewhere, and have a nice place to stay in the meantime. I feel a bit bad about the guy who we're moving in after, but there's nothing that can be done, and it's good to know that the new landlord let him quit his lease without taking his deposit or trying to squeeze money out of him. It seems like an omen that he'll be a nice guy.
For the rest of my time in London, I went to a few museums, and tried to soak up a bit of what London's about. The Imperial War Museum in Lambeth had fascinated me since I was brought there at the age of 9, and it's still magnificent. I also had the below-mentioned meeting with the Firm, for which I had to shave off the fuzz, and saw the people with whom I'll be doing my training contract and working for a few years. They all seem lovely.
We went out for drinks a few times, and they all seem like a good laugh.
All in all, I'm very happy with how the flathunt went, and when I move in, I'll post some photos.
--------------------------
I'm currently in Kent, and every day I'm taking the kids on the two mile walk to school, across fields and through woods, it's very beautiful. Again, more photos to follow.
Finally, today (Thursday 24th September 2009) is a very special day, as it marks the 250th anniversary of one of Ireland's most famous exports (after Riverdance, music and Colin Farrell's libido), the black velvet; Guinness Stout.
So, to honour this beautiful day, I'm walking up to the local pub The Bull, and ordering a pint of the black stuff to be drunk at the exact time 17:59.
Happy Arthur's Day y'all, and sláinte!
xx
ps - I've completed another of my 101 things to do. Number 38 - Find a flat in London.
Completed - 2/101
So I spent about 9 days lodging with Em and her landlady n' daughter, and had a really nice time. They all made me feel really really welcome, and it was a lot of fun to hang out with them in the house, watching tv or a movie and swapping gossip and scandal. As the only guy in the house, I even managed to earn some Guy Points by fixing some fuses and the oven. Huzzah!
As I said in my last post, the flat-hunting wasn't going very well. It's an horrendously boring, expensive and soul-destroying task, and requires a horrible mixture of intruding on people's lives (if they haven't moved out yet) and dealing with (sometimes less-than-ethical) estate agents. One of these guys, we'll call him 'Gordon', was so sleazy and cocky (and looked about 12) that all of the shitty grief-holes he showed us were unappealing. Another guy, whilst very nice, took us to places that my hetero life-partner (Mark, but we'll call him Sparky) had already been shown around before I came over.
Then...we found it. The Über-Flat.
Nestled half-way between the paradise of West Hampstead and the bustle of Kilburn, in a small quiet street called Netherwood, the flat is great. A split-level two bedroom, it's got a large living room, a nice kitchen and dining room, and loads of storage. Upstairs, two big bedrooms and a bathroom. It's in a really safe area and has a big heavy gate for security. I love it. It's even the upper flat in the building, so it covers the 'Zombie Invasion' criteria. The best aspect is a small balcony with a corner table for eating breakfast, and a load of space for planting a few plants/herbs/vegetables.
The only problem is the move-in day. The flat came onto the market because of a family crisis for the current tenant (which is sad) which means he has to go home to Portugal. We were supposed to be moving in on the 28th of September, but it looks like we'll be waiting another week.
I'm not really complaining though. Hell, at least I've found somewhere, and have a nice place to stay in the meantime. I feel a bit bad about the guy who we're moving in after, but there's nothing that can be done, and it's good to know that the new landlord let him quit his lease without taking his deposit or trying to squeeze money out of him. It seems like an omen that he'll be a nice guy.
For the rest of my time in London, I went to a few museums, and tried to soak up a bit of what London's about. The Imperial War Museum in Lambeth had fascinated me since I was brought there at the age of 9, and it's still magnificent. I also had the below-mentioned meeting with the Firm, for which I had to shave off the fuzz, and saw the people with whom I'll be doing my training contract and working for a few years. They all seem lovely.
We went out for drinks a few times, and they all seem like a good laugh.
All in all, I'm very happy with how the flathunt went, and when I move in, I'll post some photos.
--------------------------
I'm currently in Kent, and every day I'm taking the kids on the two mile walk to school, across fields and through woods, it's very beautiful. Again, more photos to follow.
Finally, today (Thursday 24th September 2009) is a very special day, as it marks the 250th anniversary of one of Ireland's most famous exports (after Riverdance, music and Colin Farrell's libido), the black velvet; Guinness Stout.
So, to honour this beautiful day, I'm walking up to the local pub The Bull, and ordering a pint of the black stuff to be drunk at the exact time 17:59.
Happy Arthur's Day y'all, and sláinte!
xx
ps - I've completed another of my 101 things to do. Number 38 - Find a flat in London.
Completed - 2/101
Monday, September 14, 2009
In London
So, I'm in London now. It's really exciting, but rather tiring.
I came over on Saturday (12th) doing the whole 'Thoroughly Modern Millie' dancing-down-the-street thing (except without the racist newspapers) and really loving the crazy buzzing vibe of London. I'm staying with my friend Em as a lodger, up in the Zone 4 Essex wilderness of Woodford. Her landlady is a lovely woman, and the house is really nice and comfortable, so it's a great base from which to launch my flat-finding expedition. Woodford is in the extreme North East of the town, and the area where we're looking for an apartment is on the Jubilee Line, to the North West of town...so there's lots of commuting going on.
Flat hunting isn't a lot of fun. We saw six properties today and only one stood out, but what a flat it was. It's a multi-level two bedroom apartment wedged between W. Hampstead and Kilburn, about 6 minutes walk from the W. Hampstead tube station, and it's perfect. So if you're reading this, then think happy thoughts that tomorrow the lovely guy from the estate agency will tell us that we've got it.
Apart from that, it's going well here. I have a meeting tomorrow with the Firm at lunchtime, so I've been forced to complete one of my 101 Things to Do without much conscience thought. As I can't really walk into the uber-slick corporate law environment looking like a member of ZZ-Top, I've had to shave the beard.
So to conclude:
- Please think happy thoughts for the hella cool apartment later in the week.
- I've completed 1/101 tasks. Huzzah!!!
x
I came over on Saturday (12th) doing the whole 'Thoroughly Modern Millie' dancing-down-the-street thing (except without the racist newspapers) and really loving the crazy buzzing vibe of London. I'm staying with my friend Em as a lodger, up in the Zone 4 Essex wilderness of Woodford. Her landlady is a lovely woman, and the house is really nice and comfortable, so it's a great base from which to launch my flat-finding expedition. Woodford is in the extreme North East of the town, and the area where we're looking for an apartment is on the Jubilee Line, to the North West of town...so there's lots of commuting going on.
Flat hunting isn't a lot of fun. We saw six properties today and only one stood out, but what a flat it was. It's a multi-level two bedroom apartment wedged between W. Hampstead and Kilburn, about 6 minutes walk from the W. Hampstead tube station, and it's perfect. So if you're reading this, then think happy thoughts that tomorrow the lovely guy from the estate agency will tell us that we've got it.
Apart from that, it's going well here. I have a meeting tomorrow with the Firm at lunchtime, so I've been forced to complete one of my 101 Things to Do without much conscience thought. As I can't really walk into the uber-slick corporate law environment looking like a member of ZZ-Top, I've had to shave the beard.
So to conclude:
- Please think happy thoughts for the hella cool apartment later in the week.
- I've completed 1/101 tasks. Huzzah!!!
x
Friday, September 11, 2009
Off to the London!!
So World War Three. Whilst I love my family dearly, the arguments have been getting more frequent, the silences a bit frosty and a slight misunderstanding (caused last night where i got my brother drunk and then, this morning had a blazing row with my dad) today. Luckily, the little apocalyptic argument that occurred vented the 'stration and now all's kosher again.
However, now on to the big news. I'm leaving. It's not you it's me. I'm getting up at 6, getting a coach to Belfast City George Best Airport, getting an aeroplane to Heathrow and officially going 'over the water'...again. Moving away has me excited.
So, although this is a small post, and quite non-descript, it's actually a massive turning point for me.
I'll be offline for a few days while I settle on a flat, but I'll try to take lots of photos, and may be needing some commenting advice on flats.
Wish me luck!
Con
x
However, now on to the big news. I'm leaving. It's not you it's me. I'm getting up at 6, getting a coach to Belfast City George Best Airport, getting an aeroplane to Heathrow and officially going 'over the water'...again. Moving away has me excited.
So, although this is a small post, and quite non-descript, it's actually a massive turning point for me.
I'll be offline for a few days while I settle on a flat, but I'll try to take lots of photos, and may be needing some commenting advice on flats.
Wish me luck!
Con
x
Monday, July 6, 2009
A Change of Scenery
Flights are booked, suit is being picked up from the dry cleaner in a few hours, going to get a 'smart work haircut', about to start packing and have polished the shoes.
Yes, something is afoot.
The Firm for whom I'll be working are having me over to London for a chit-chat on Friday and as I've been home for three weeks, and have reacted to the boredom of the holidays with ridiculous amounts of alcohol and by becoming a bit of a bon viveur, it is maybe time to take an adventure.
My Dad's family all live in Kent in the south of England, a beautiful area of the world known as 'the garden of England'. As you may be aware, the temperature at the moment there as approximately three degrees cooler than the surface of the sun, and shows no sign of changing. Lovely. I'm the sort of tough safari-man who gets a sunburn by standing too close to the toaster in the morning. I'm gonna be roasted.
This move is an attempt to fulfil several things at once:
1) I'm bored. I always look forward to the holidays, but always get ridiculously bored of them after about a fortnight. I sat a few days ago and stared at a beautifully arranged (but slightly suspicious-smelling) bunch of flowers for the Mother's 50th, for about two hours.
2) Although great fun, I'd like some adventures that don't have the words 'alcohol', 'concussion' or 'Bangkok lady-boys' inherent in their telling, and would like to pursue some wholesome tomfoolery of the sort seen in Midsomer Murders/Kingdom.
3) I'M TOTALLY FUCKING BROKE!! My aunt needs some work done to a nightclub she owns, and also has kids (my little cousins) whom I can look after and babysit. So some form of productive expenditure of time, a chance to flex the handy-man muscle and a chance to catch up with my cousins (one of whom, who has the same birthday as me, but is only 7, I've never met)
4) I have a very limited amount of the world's greatest resource, parental good will, left at my disposal. With a 'job' job lined up, the degree, and my recent attempts to not be a grumpy shite, I have some left. With no summer job, the fact I'm a nite owl and tramp about the house at all hours, and the fact that I'm somewhat gangly and take up a lot of room in our wee house, I don't have forever before the bank runs dry.
So, tomorrow morning I fly from City of Derry Airport to Luton, then spend the day in transit (which I love) ambling down over the iron road to Lahndan, then on to Chatham. It'll hopefully be lovely and sunny, and I'll have a million years worth of groovy tunes and, yes, my TERRIBLE SECRET to listen to. I'll stay with the Aunt, then go up to London on Friday. When I come back, I came dawdle or hurry at returning home, but hell, I have a free month, so why not see what happens?
I'll have my camera and laptop with me, so we can all share in the joy as I blindly stumble through the summer.
Wish me luck!
Yes, something is afoot.
The Firm for whom I'll be working are having me over to London for a chit-chat on Friday and as I've been home for three weeks, and have reacted to the boredom of the holidays with ridiculous amounts of alcohol and by becoming a bit of a bon viveur, it is maybe time to take an adventure.
My Dad's family all live in Kent in the south of England, a beautiful area of the world known as 'the garden of England'. As you may be aware, the temperature at the moment there as approximately three degrees cooler than the surface of the sun, and shows no sign of changing. Lovely. I'm the sort of tough safari-man who gets a sunburn by standing too close to the toaster in the morning. I'm gonna be roasted.
This move is an attempt to fulfil several things at once:
1) I'm bored. I always look forward to the holidays, but always get ridiculously bored of them after about a fortnight. I sat a few days ago and stared at a beautifully arranged (but slightly suspicious-smelling) bunch of flowers for the Mother's 50th, for about two hours.
2) Although great fun, I'd like some adventures that don't have the words 'alcohol', 'concussion' or 'Bangkok lady-boys' inherent in their telling, and would like to pursue some wholesome tomfoolery of the sort seen in Midsomer Murders/Kingdom.
3) I'M TOTALLY FUCKING BROKE!! My aunt needs some work done to a nightclub she owns, and also has kids (my little cousins) whom I can look after and babysit. So some form of productive expenditure of time, a chance to flex the handy-man muscle and a chance to catch up with my cousins (one of whom, who has the same birthday as me, but is only 7, I've never met)
4) I have a very limited amount of the world's greatest resource, parental good will, left at my disposal. With a 'job' job lined up, the degree, and my recent attempts to not be a grumpy shite, I have some left. With no summer job, the fact I'm a nite owl and tramp about the house at all hours, and the fact that I'm somewhat gangly and take up a lot of room in our wee house, I don't have forever before the bank runs dry.
So, tomorrow morning I fly from City of Derry Airport to Luton, then spend the day in transit (which I love) ambling down over the iron road to Lahndan, then on to Chatham. It'll hopefully be lovely and sunny, and I'll have a million years worth of groovy tunes and, yes, my TERRIBLE SECRET to listen to. I'll stay with the Aunt, then go up to London on Friday. When I come back, I came dawdle or hurry at returning home, but hell, I have a free month, so why not see what happens?
I'll have my camera and laptop with me, so we can all share in the joy as I blindly stumble through the summer.
Wish me luck!
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