I knew I shouldn't have been such a Myspace whore

Well I knew it wouldn't be long before I had my fingers' stung on Myspace.

Put it thins way, for some reason an American High School girl invited me as a friend, which of course I duly obliged. Unfortunately when i checked out her site 20 minutes later, her details had changed, and her profile stated that she "wanted to be raped by a black man". Oh dear.
Not particularly something I can assist with really.

It gave me the fear bigstyle. I wondered why a total stranger would invite me for no reason?

I knew I shouldn't have been such a Myspace whore.

I panicked and deleted her as a friend post haste!
Sorry.

I'm now feeling guilty, anyone who wishes to be abused sexually must have a few problems, perhaps my rejection has made her feel worse?

Just like in real life , since ’hooking up' with Lisa, on those very very rare occasions that I have been chatted up, or someone of the opposite sex has flirted with me I do act very strangely. Usually it is fear. One such time occurred in the Magnet bar, when some buxom young beauty came over sand started to talk to me asking to try on my glasses.

My response was of course to panic and tell her that I had a girlfriend who was momentarily in the toilet.

This girl just sat down anyway and tried them on. I was helpless.

Lisa returned to see me looking totally petrified with some other would-be-suitor wearing my glasses. Thankfully, Lisa accepted my explanation, however bizarre it sounded. Of course by the next morning my recollection of the events had been somewhat exaggerated (moi?). Infact as I write this I remember another occasion in Harrogate's former only quasi decent night club 'Jimmys' a rather good looking girl who was about the age of 18-19 tapped me on the shoulder and said:

"Hi, I really like your glasses"

My response, being the cool player that I am, was:

"Are you making fun of my disability?"

Her face dropped and she replied "I was just complimenting you" and walked away to talk to the group of friends she was with.
I could tell that she was talking to them about what I'd said, and she had a look of snarley annoyance across her face, I'm pretty sure I her mouth the words "twat" but I could be wrong.

Ho hum.

Of course my friends thought I was a shmuck of the highest order.

I do wish to point out that in my single days, I was marginally better, and although I might have been fearful, usually I was pretty wasted so I was of course able to use my sparkling wit and charm. Unfortunately, another incident at Jimmy's resulted in me being slapped across the face by some lady who had taken my fancy. She obviously wasn't that interested, but as Luke was getting it on with her mate I felt duty bound to have a crack. The conversation wasn't good though, and she insisted that she had a 5 year old child. I didn't believe her and thought she was fobbing me off with a ridiculous lie (I was used to this) and spent the duration of our convesation calling he a”liar” (always a successful method of charming the ladies). I'm not sure what happened then, but after about an hour I was going nowhere fast, when Luke leaned over to her and whispered in her ear. He laughed. She frowned. I got a slap in chops. I later demanded to know what he'd said but he was totally rendered (you wouldn’t be in Jimmy's if you weren't) and conveniently couldn't remember. I wish I were a glasses wearer back then.

I've had a fair few (and please excuse the derogatory term in which I am about use to describe the fairer sex) mingers express and interest in me, however, I’ve always been pretty good in turning them down without a wiff of fear. Infact I've often quite enjoyed being a bit rude and curt. It's just the pretty ones that I fear.
Thankfully these events are so few and far between I can only recollect the above incidents, and I ain't getting any prettier. Of course I have always been extremely poor at working out if a girl is interested. (once again the Sally Williams Senario..d'oh!). It's all irrelevant anyway as I'm more than happy with my current status.

Anyhow, he forthcoming weekend looks to be a busy one for sure. I've got about a thousand and one things to fit into two short days.
A late night radio session at BBC GMR Radio, the start of a new set of recordings, the construction of a million shelves, drawers etc, and of course a visit to see me mum on Sunday.
The weekend after though looks to be a hellova lot more promising, as both Lisa and I have been most kindly invited to a relaxing weekend away to Scotchland with both Stock and Jeve. Considering the Xmo holidays was about as stressful and un-relaxing as you could care to imagine, and as you may know; pacing up and down a hospital corridor crappin' it isn't exactly a time one savors, I'm already looking forward to it.

Bill Hayley we hardly knew ye...

Bill Hayley we hardly knew ye...

Despite a unusual sensation on Tuesday of professionalism, since writing the last blog I have done little more than scour and pillage the depths of www.MySpace.com and try to hide the fact that I have done sweet bugger all.
Yesterday was the worst day for this yet, I spent the remainder of the afternoon sucked in, and what’s more I didn't even try to hide the fact from my dimwitted co-workers.

Today, however, after a pleasant night and a alarmingly cheerful morning, despite the Council turning off the water, I have once again set myself the challenge of actually getting knuckled to do to some work. So far it has proven to be fairly productive too. The time has passed quickly, and I even threw in a obligatory loosening of the tie and heavy sigh whilst holding my forehead- ensuring that my colleagues knew I was indeed busting my hump. I even justified myself to eat a Time Out choccy bar for my breakfast. Brain food.

Obviously, writing for this blog does not constitute doing work I suppose, and I fully appreciate the irony that instead of working I am regaling tales of blood sweat and tears, crouched over a hot keyboard, however as I write, it's now 11.25, and it is the standard one hour wind down to my lunch break, not doubt 'Early Doors' Gerry will make a cuppa any minute now.

The Office is pretty quiet and all one can hear is the pitter patter of keyboards, the occasional rustle of paper and the odd swirling noises our printer/photocopier makes.
It is a different story from 10am this morning, as Sean was doing his usual stressedoutmyheadisgoingtoexplodeunlessifindthatfileanditsallgoingwrongandit'sunproffesionalthisplaceisafuckingjokeblahblahblah. This is quite a common occurrence and unfortunately for him he must be heading for a heart attack if he carries on like this. I could tell from his reaction to my "good morning" greeting this am that he was in one of those moods, whereupon he would stare intently at his monitor, his tie firmly loosened, cheeks a reddish hue and that look of woe he wears so well upon his face. You can usually tell on what scale of stress he is on by the time it takes him to acknowledge when someone is talking to him. In this morning's case it was nearly two minutes before he returned the customary "ooh, good morning Matt" to me. This was all over a missing file. He saw me check my drawers in case it had found its way there. He then when I was up making a cup of tea decided to treble check and proceeded to rifle through my stuff whilst his face grew ever reader and he seemed to be chuntering in a Star Wars bounty hunter-esque dialect. Granted when file is misplaced, it is usually found on my 'pile' or desk-despite me assuring folks that I have looked thoroughly (I am the world's worst looker- officially! "has anyone seen my shoes/keys/glasses/phone/self respect/car/cheese grater/bankcard" etc)

Sean, as pleasant and funny a guy as he is, is alas; one of those people who takes everything to heart. He feels the weight of the world upon his shoulders and wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about a potential acquisition problem that might occur should he not get into the office at 6.00am to rectify. No one else is like this in the Office. I have a healthy "sod it" attitude. This is partially because I don't class myself as a worker per say. I romantically see myself as a musician (or to quote Sweet Jonny when he told the census people of my job title "creative force") who spends his days in a dour and depressing office for the wages and free use of the internet. The other reason I don't take it to heart is because I’m working for the friggin' Council and there is always someone out there you can delegate it to, or blame.

When i first started to work her and we had the problems with the temps (see last Monday's Blog) It was up to me to get some poor suckers in to replaced them. After the early departure of two of the temps, I felt duty bound to apologise for this and made the following bold statement:

"If the next temp doesn't work out, I'll take full responsibility!"

The immediate response shocked me. Every stopped what they were doing and looked at me a gog and bewildered. "Don't be soft. you're working for the Council now, no one takes responsibility" I was coolly told by Sean (oh the irony eh?)

I should have this phrase tattooed upon my body somewhere as it some how embiggens my work ethos.

Oh Gerry's offering the team tea...bang on time- see I told you!

Anyway, I'm actually becoming ever more guilty with the fact my days are so uneventful, especially when Lisa informs me of some of the horror stories from her days working as a social worker. What response can I possibly give when questioned about my day? "God damn it-so what if you've been dealing with poor abused children none stop in ever more stressful and emotionally challenging scenarios, working 9 hours straight with no lunch or time to sit down- the photocopier in MY office ran out of toner, the internet was slow and no bastard emptied the dishwasher!"

Trust me this response was not greeted well at all.

On a slightly more positive note: today's calendar message is:

"Virtue is its own revenge."
As I lost my virtue years ago I think I'm safe from my revenge, although I do feel that fate is playing a cruel trick on me sometimes.

What took Heidi Von Pankhurst's mob so long?

Work Association' (a fictional association to make the previous sentance work). I have formly established myself a set route to the office and today and yesterday I gave Lisa a lift as far as the Liver Buildings whereupon she can walk to one of the near by stations and catch her train to the Wirral.
Ho Ho!
Great!
Much to my own suprise I'm feeling somewhat professional this morning. I've knuckled down to clearling the huge pile of paper work that has been towering above me on my desk. What joys a desk tidy up can bring. Not only does it make one's time at work go faster, it also makes you look as though you are hard at work. It has brought to the surface many lost trincets of joy hidden in the dark depths of my desk's nether regions. So far I've found a Jeeves A& Wooster book that I bought from the Lark Lane Sunday market yonks ago, three empty packets of paracetamol, literally hundreds of peices of paper chock full of my silly drawings and about 12 important documents that required posting/typing/faxing as a matter of urgency back in August and September. I have naturally therefore spent the last twnty minutes shredding them before Sean returns back from his meeting.
I've also prooved myself to be of worth by repairing Fat Karen's desk, re-attaching her drawer together with the cunning use of a match. The whole Office genuinely marvelled at my desk repairership.
My plan of action today is to get busy on my desk for the duration of the morning and then attempt to go through my desk's drawers this afternoon. Of course this hard graft will be broken up intermittantly to go on the internet, have my morning constituational and make the odd cup of tea. I must also, after responding to an email in my usual witty way, try and decifer waht "lmao" means. Oh how very exciting it all is!

Perhaps my new found enthusiasm for my vocation as a dog'sbody can be credited to my wisdom soaked callender that I found recently. Today's advice is a pearl!
"Don't try to be different. Just be good. To be good is different enough"
It doesn't attribute this quote to anyone unfortunately.

It does sound a little Orwellian/Nazi-esque doesn't it? Perhaps this is Sefton Council's tool to crush the already diminished sprits of us workers. Perhaps Dave, wearing his ghastly purple shirt and lavender tie should take note.
Not that you need reminding, according to this calender; today the anniversary of women gaining the right to vote in Switzerland today- huzzzar! Yes, doesn't the time fly when you're milking goats, playing with penknives, yoadaling and enjoying your democratic right as a citzen to convey you political preferances in an election. Unbelievably, according to my calender, this decision was only made in 1971! What took Heidi Von Pankhurst's mob so long? Perhaps Orson Wells' famous Third Man Speach should have gone a made a note of this:
"In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed — they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock....oh and dicriminated subserviant women!"
So I've been thinking about Switzerland for a while.

Okay its neutral- but Hitler wasn't exactly a reasonable chap was he. Why didn't he just invade it anyway? What would teh Swiz have done excpet stroke theri beards and exclaim "you not allowed to invade us we're neutral" What was to stop the German guards from shooting Steve McQueen even if he did make it over the barbed wire in The Great Escape. Surely they wouldn't be allowed to shoot on Swiz land -but nothing would stop them from standing on good old German soil and shooting him in the back should he have made the jump? What does being neutral entail? Although who would know if they were to shoot McQueen on Swiz soil anyway? Were the Nazis and the Swiz in cahoots?
Whats so damned special about a Swiz Bank Account- is it the interest rates or do you get a Penknife when you open an account?
Why do they feel the need to speak either French or German?
What's deal with the big water jet in Geneva lake?
Why call the Geneva convention the Geneva convention- what do they know about war?

Anyhooo, think on Matt.
This desk won't clean itself.

Temp, Temptations (like a log)

Thus far this Monday sucks big time.
The weekend was good, which is probably why it feeling such a friggin’ chore to be here today.

I bowled like a God.

I argued with Phones 4U like a pensioner…

I drank like a girly priest….

I built drawers and shelves like a pro-drawerer/shevererer….

I slept like a log. …

I awaited a ‘new’ bacon incident with no luck…

I drank more like a man and less like a girl but still liek a priest…

I talked like a twat. …

I gave people ‘Frozen Hugs’…

I resented my ‘Frozen Hug’ labelling.

I slept with a priest…

..no wait- that not right!!

I hope you appreciate the quick surmised version of my weekend’s goings-on. Suffice to say that Happiness is three strikes in a row whilst enjoying beer served in pitcher by a pin monkey. (that and swimming goggles- happiness truly is swimming goggles)

Hell, on the other hand is finding out that the only guy in the office who is lower down than me on this flimsy hierarchy we have installed here, is to leave. The lucky bugger has landed himself a great job earning a hell of a load more cash than me with responsibilities and all of the other things we lowly administrators crave.

It reminds me of how I used to feel when colleagues resigned when I worked at Abbey National - somewhere between jealousy, sadness and bitterness- think of the moment in Withnail and I when Paul McCann’s character returns from speaking to his agent and informs Withnail that he has landed the lead role. Withnail’s “congratulations” (Possibly the best piece of acting in the film) is exactly how I felt when I conveyed a hollow ‘well done’
I’m not going to beat myself up about it, but as Mike was covering for Debbie whilst she is on her maternity leave, and she’s not due to return until June, it means that we’re going to have to get a temp in.

(exasperated sigh)

This means that I’m going to have to show whomever is unlucky enough to take on the role, this job. I’m once again going to have to be helpful and polite.

(exasperated sigh)

I’m going to have them coming up to me when I’m arsing about on the internet asking me questions I can’t be bothered answering.

(exasperated sigh)


All this talk of not wanting to be helpful and sighing in an exasperated manner, might seem a tad tight and is no doubt portraying myself to be a particularly unpleasant person, but I’ve had to do this on so many occasions. It’s crap.

It’s worse if the temp should quite reasonably decide that this job is lousy, and decide to leave. I’ll have to do it all again. I just don’t have the heart to do it anymore.

My first week here, I was employed to work the reception for three weeks whilst Debbie enjoyed a 3 week marriage/honeymoon in Thailand (why do people feel the need to get married abroad?). There was a young girl who was doing the job I do now. I don’t remember her name, but I did remember that on my second day she offered everyone in the office a cup of tea except me. Bitch. Anyway, on the following Monday when she hadn’t returned to work I had to call her agency, who after trying to call her themselves said that she was in fact a teacher and had returned to work now that the holidays were over! Great- so I had to sort out a replacement. As the agency felt bad about this misunderstanding, they sent someone new the very next morning.

The new temp was only aged about 16, and despite the main criteria for the job being typing and using a computer- she had absolutely no computer knowledge what so ever and could barely spell her name. I did feel terribly sorry for her, as quelle surprise,; her agency told her the job was just answering the phone.

Anyhow, she went out for her lunch break and never returned again!

The next temp was the worst. A fat twenty something with a scouse fake tan, straightened ginger hair, wore her denim jacket indoors and revoltingly long fingernails. On her first morning when I showed her where all the data she required was on the computer, she said :
”what’s with the beard?”

I mean, this was her first day, and it was the first conversation she had with anyone in our office! Later I heard her remark to Sean (to whom she was directly working for) ”You look like Lilly Savage”

Granted, he does, but decorum states that you at least wait a few weeks or days before you start insulting your colleagues/superiors. No surprising that Fat Karen befriended her straight away. She was the annoying type who used phrases like “you’se are off ‘yer heads” Thankfully she left after a week. I was so glad that she left before I killed her..

The next two temps were okayish. One was from Belfast and had a seriously bad dose of acne. So severe that one shouldn’t mention it (like Orca fat) anyhow, she only lasted a few days before quitting, but then she was a bit of a weirdo. The next girl stayed the longest and was proper quiet– nearly two weeks. Whn she left and Debboe returned they asked me to do the role. Of course like the sucker I am, I said yes and the rest, as they say is history.

rinse and repeat

This morning was a bugger to get out of bed. Lisa’s not at work today so for the sake of compassion I repeatedly punched the ‘snooze’ button on the alarm clock, and thus it took me an eon to rise.

I also had to wash my hair this morning as the damp smell of the rehearsal room was clinging to me somewhat, much to Lisa’s displeasure. Now that my hair seems to be growing at an alarming rate, washing my hair is becoming a depressing necessity that I hate. Not to say that I never used to wash my hair on a regular basis, but when it was short I could get away with washing it every other day, now however, it goes far too fluffy and ‘big’ and looks extremely ridiculous and curly, Not that I’m new to this phenomenon of course. Throughout my life I have always had a mop of uncontrollable and unruly hair, and I have always resented its unmanageability, but it’s sadly just the cards God has dealt to me. I’m just grateful I was blessed with the talent of making exceptional tea, as throughout my adult life this has made my vast array of jobs run much smoother, Granted it made the persuit of ladies a tad harder, but it is about one of my few redeeming features that keeps Lisa by my side.

The office is a horrible place to be on a Friday. No one can be arsed and everyone’s is in a vomit enduce-ingly good mood- which as you might have gathered makes me that little bit more miserable. Thankfully though I received a spot of good news. Yes, the original line-up of the greatest band in the world, Dinosaur Jr are to record new material. Oh yes, oh yes and indeed ; oh yes!

After the re-release of their first three albums, it had reacquainted me with my love of all things J. Mascis. I was st the front at their Leeds Festival performance and even stooped so low as to record footage of them with my phone (something I loathe other people doing) Ahhh, I once again feel the need to blow the dust off my Tokai Super Edition Black Strat’ (the Matt-a-caster) copy that I purchased of Luke for £90, hook it up to my feedback damaged Marshall Master Lead Combo via the thrift store distortion pedal I love so, and re-learn Mascis penned songs that I learned to play guitar to all those years ago. During my Art Foundation course at H.C.A.T, I would rush home early to play along to the live version of ‘Thumb’ which is featured on the B-Side collection ‘What ever’s cool with me’ (hence the Blog title) incessantly. I knew every sound, bend and distorted howl of that song- as did my family and neigbours.

My first ever Dinosaur Jr gig I went to, I still regard as one of the finest and pivotal moments of my young manhood. This was during the ‘Outta’ Hand’ Tour of 1997- which although wasn’t their best regarded work, was still a fine album nonetheless. The band featured Mike Johnson on Bass and George Berz on drums and of course J. Mascis of guitar/vocals. (I had actually received a promo copy of this album during my short lived Student Magazine writing days, and I wrote a thousand word review which the dumb editor cut down to 250 words- “how dare they tamper with my work!!!”)

It was the first gig whereupon I knew ever song that was played. It was the first gig that I had ever attended sober. It was also the first gig I’d been to in Manchester. ( a school boy dream was fulfilled when we performed at that venue when we supported the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs “oh my God I Dinosaur Jr have played on this stage”)

Ahhhh I still remember the twenty-minute guitar solo of ‘Seems Like the Thing To Do’ note for note. The other main recollection from this show was getting lost in Manchester for the first time, and getting pulled over by two lady police officers on the Harrogate Road in Leeds. That, I can tell you, was not a good experience.

Because the gig was SO loud, my hearing was totally shot, so when the first lady copper approached my car’s window I couldn’t actually hear what she was saying, which thinking about it now would probably be why they must have thought I was either drunk, stoned or retarded. (insert own joke here!). I remember them accusing me-quite wrongly of cutting several cars up and not stopping at one of the many round-a-bouts the fair city of Leeds has and driving in a “wreckless manner.”

“Do you know why we’ve stopped you?”
“Pardon?”
“DO YOU KNOW WHY WE’VE STOPPED YOU SIR?”
“Sorry?”
“Can you please step out of the car”
“what?”

I was then escorted to the back seat of their massive Volvo estate police car, where I was grilled like a ‘terror’ suspect for ten minutes. I tried my best to explain my temporary loss of hearing, and I really struggled to comprehend what they were accusing me of. I remember the sight of the back of Luke’s and his ‘special’ friend at the time; Lucy’s heads in my stationary car ahead of us at the roadside.

I think I had short hair at the time, so at the very least if I was to be arrested my mugshot wouldn’t be too bad.

I did protest my innocence, until realising this was doing no good, I decided to take it on the chin. I was eventually set free from their clutches after looking sufficiently apologetic and worried (this talent should be up there with my tea making abilities –and I owe a large portion of my love life and career to this gift) I also threw in the classic phrase “my dad’s a policeman,,,” into the conversation in the vain hope of a reprise from them.

Upon my return to my Citroen, and grumbling about Police harassment, I was duly informed by my two travelling companions that I had been driving a tad erratically, especially when I had let go of the steering wheel to play air guitar to ‘Start Choppin’
Anyhow the police followed me for the majority of the remaining journey back to Harrogate, and when they did eventually leave me alone, and when I knew they out of sight I gave them the V Sign and re-cranked up the Dinosaur Jr. on my feeble car stereo, but safely ensured that I curtailed my air soloing until I got home.

I only hope that the album won’t disappoint me like so many other long awaited albums that have plagued my life. With this in mind I have decided to list in a Blog stylee, the top ten most disappointing albums in my collection. Please feel free to pour scorn on my snobbery:








The Beach Boys- Party

I read in one of my many Beach Boys related books that this was regarded as a I forgotten classic, and was infact the album they release before ‘Pet Sounds’. When I finally got it I felt sick that I’d blown my record buying buget on this dross.


Faith No More – King For A Day, Fool for a Lifetime.

After ‘Angel Dust’ I couldn’t wait for its follow up. Alas, the departure of Big Jim Martin meant this album was bobbins.


Faith No More- The Album of the Year

Perhaps my beloved ‘Angel Dust’ was a fluke? This album was marginally better than ‘King for a Day…” but that wasn’t saying much


Sugar- F.U.E.L

Fact: Bob Mould IS a friggin’ songwriting genius and I loved ‘Beaster’ and ‘Copper Blue’ to an unhealthy leve. This album, and the subsequent live performance that promoted its release was utter dross. The track ‘Explode and Make Up’ was the album’s only redeeming feature and a bloody beautiful song. NME actually had it spot on for when they stated that Bob mould could have written the album in his sleep.


R.E.M- Monster

A total snooze fest and one of the most boring gigs ever. Put it this way, I was shocked that one of the support act, The Beautiful South, pissed on their performance from a great height.


Swell – Too Many Days Without Thinking

I only acquired this album recently after years of searching. With the exception of ‘I know the trip that you are’ whioch I had as a single anyway, it doesn’t hold a flame ‘41’ which is a classic.


Pavement- Terror Twilight

The Pavement album I never listen to. Not a bad album per say, however as all their other albums were genius , this just sounded jaded. I was appalled when I first heard ‘Carrot Rope’ as I thought it sounded like The Barenaked Ladies.

Grandaddy – Sumday

It pains me to admit that this album didn’t live up to any of my expectations that the two albums they released before built up. It is okay I suppose, but as ‘Software Slump’ and ‘Under the Western Freeway’ are classics, this is just a tad bland.


The Smashing Pumpkins – Mellon Collie and the Infinite sadness

A double album of Baldy Billy and Co. was too much for anyone to take, despite it having two or three great songs.


Smog- Dongs Of Sevotion
I love Smog completely, however this album just grates on me and is no- where near as good as any of his other albums. It has ‘Dress Sexy At my Funeral’ which seems to be his biggest hit – and that annoys me too.

The Psycho Party's only sucker.

Tai Pan restaurant was the setting for an unique lunch break here in our office. For tomorrow is our much loved and esteemed colleague; Bob's 60th birthday and we decided to surprise him with a discount Chinese meal.

I for one, am not a great appreciator of Chinese Cuisine but I wasn't going to turn down an opportunity to take leave of my desk for a couple of hours and part take in these festivities. I was however, careless enough not have brought any money with me to the restaurant as I forgot to go via a cash machine on route to work this morning, so I was forced to go on bended knee and ask for some money of off Boney Squirrel- who was kind enough to do so.

Once again I was put in the awkward situation of stumping up £12 although my total came to £6. I didn't eat much of my Cantonese Chicken as some prick said we'd all have Egg Fried Rice without asking us all. As I suffer from 'egg fear' it really spoilt my enjoyment of the food, not that it was particularly nice anyway. Anyway, as I was borrowing money I decided not to complain that I was paying for Joe's spare ribs, two beers, and spring rolls even though he earns near eight times the amount per year than I do. This is the second time this has happened. Either I'll stop going out on these functions altogether or next time I'll order a huge selection of expensive dishes whilst the rest of the team order from the cheap set menus.

Unfortunately I've been roped into going to his retirement meal, which will of course means that he won't have to pay despite the four figured sum pay off we all know he's going to get. I really had no intentions of attending this 'farewell you tosser' type send off, and like the majority of my fellow workers I'd politely declined to answer his email begging us all to go out with him. But he cornered me at the restaurant and like the spineless dog I am, I lied and said "I'd love to come. Did you not get my email?"
What makes matter like this worse is that in this office I am second to bottom in the hierarchy. I work in the Admin Dept. I fax letters, answer the phone and photocopy. WHY would a highly paid director wish to have my company? I can tell you its not for my sparkling wit- I rarely talk to him on these occasions. No It's because a) he's very unpopular and he knows that by asking me to one of these functions it would be too much of a fo-par for me to refuse and b) he knows that I will only spend £5 yet chip in £12. I am a sucker. Perhaps I should plot my revenge for this night? I doubt it as I'm going to do my very best to worm my way out of attending.

I must be a sucker. I do tend to feel sorry for unpopular people and waste my precious time attending toe curlingly boring and cringe worthy parties just out of politeness. It really is pretty pathetic.
This started to happen when I was at Primary School. I remember getting an invite to the most unpopular kid's birthday party and being the only one there. It was awful. He then assumed that as I wasn't the only one at school who wasn't nasty to him (well -to his face) and that I was the only one who came to his party I was his bestest friend. He followed me around like a bad smell for weeks until he got the hint that I didn't like him.

A very similar situation occurred whilst I worked at Abbey Nat Insurance, whereupon the most unpopular and disliked person there, invited the whole department to his 30th birthday at his house. Now, before you start to feel sorry for this guy, he was unpopular for a very good reason, he was a twat. For the sake of compassion I won't disclose his name as the guy was a total psycho who kept a 'list' of people whom he wished to extract bloody revenge on; someone whom I still expect to read about bringing a gun in to his workplace, butchering his colleagues in a hail of bullets whilst whistling the theme from the A-Team. Anyway, Carl had spent the previous year talking about his plans for his birthday. He repeatedly showed my the list of attendees and how much he'd spent on nibbles and drinks. The invitation list included work co-ordinators who hated his guts, fellow team members who ridiculed him, the office babes who he letched after and who he totally freaked out alongside other such people who he wrongly assumed would jump at the chance to come.

We all knew that no one was going to attend. Perhaps he did too, this would explain why so many people were sent invitations. Maybe he hoped that if he invited everyone then at least a few would be able to make it. I decided as I was in his team and I suppose I was as close to him as anyone (I lent him a Mogwai CD once) that I would round up a few colleagues to go. It took a lot of effort on my part to do this and the usual response when I asked was: "piss off". Eventually three of us decided ithat although it wasn't the best way to spend our Saturday nights- it was the decent thing to do.

The three of us, Beachie, Kristal and I were to meet in Central station and I made Kristal delete both mine and Beechie's phone numbers to ensure that she wouldn't phone up and cancel (we knew her well enough for this to be a possibility). I arrived at Central Station with the plan to go to the party for 2-3 hours then home in time for 'Match of The Day'.

It was just as I arrived at central Station I received a text message from Beechie apologising, but stating that he won't be joining us.

Bugger.

What a shithouse.

So it was just Kristal and I who boarded the train to Netherton. Neither of us wanted to be there, but as I was responsible for us going, Kristal was pissed off with me. I was getting annoyed with her and I was pissed off with Beechie. Further more Lisa was pissed off with me too, believing me to be a sucker for going to a party of someone whom I disliked and moaned about quite a lot..oh how right she was.

When we eventually arrived at the party nearly two hours late, we were the first non-family members to arrive. Great. Carl, much to my embarrassment, introduced me to everyone as 'a wannabe rock star'. I shook hands with his younger brother and his brother's 'older' (by some twenty years) girlfriend, his mum and dad, his cousins and his 'Mad' uncle who was a bass player in a K.C & The Sunshine Tribute Band (a lengthy and extremely boring conversation ensued about his musical adventures).

His house was pretty nice I guess, but he had far too many computer games and DVDs/CDs I thought for a thirty year old- which in hindsight is pretty funny considering the stockpile of CDs and DVD I hoard in our flat. His kitchen was full of party food- the usual; Chinese chicken drumsticks, crisps etc- way too much. Carl took us on the grand tour and then the poor delusional fool went on about who else from work was going to be attending- of course as expected- none of them bothered.

After about an hour, I was on my own. Kristal simply had had enough. She was pretty drunk already and decided to make her excuses and leave and asked if I wanted to come along. I really should have left but being the "sucker" I am I reluctantly declined. To make matters worse she decided to make up a hideous web of lies to get out of it, saying her flat mate was in a terrible state and in floods of tears in town as he had been dumped by her boyfriend of 5 years and she wanted to look after her. Carl's Dad heroically drove her into town. Why hadn't I thought of that?

I not only had lost my taxi buddy but I was now faced with the prospect of a 'sing-a-long' as Carl's uncle had brought an acoustic guitar. Sigh. I thought that perhaps if i ate enough Chinese chicken I may suffer a heart attack and therefore not have to subject myself to this tedium anymore. Thanks a lot Beechie!!!

Things however, improved as two 'friends' of Carl's arrived. I can't for the life of me remember their names, but they were thoroughly decent chaps who also didn't know anyone there. I ended up talking to them for the rest of the night, surprised that some other suckers had been roped into coming to his horrible shindig. It turns out they used to go to school with Carl some 13 years ago and had only bumped into him earlier that day and turned up on a whim. To be fair they were led to believe that Carl mustn't have been the same insecure freak that he was at school, as he informed them that over a hundred people would be in attendance.

As the night went on, Carl looked so disappointed that no one else had bothered to show up. This made me feel guilty, as the only reason I had attended was that I felt sorry for him, which in turn made me pity him more.

I did, however, come to realise whilst in his 'gym' (a converted bedroom with a punch bag suspended from the ceiling) that I required glasses, after chatting with Carl's 'friends' one of them insisted I try on his glasses, which,- much to my sunrise- made everything so much clearer- I could read the small print of Carl's 'Blade' posters which decorated the room.

Eventually at 12 I decided I had to go home. I was depressed and my two new friends had long since gone and once again i was stuck in the Hell, forced to listen to his 'mad' uncle's musical anecdotes whilst Carl's Dad drunkenly played the 'The House of the Rising Sun' for the millionth time.
To finish off a thoroughly terrible night, Carl's brother insisted on organising a taxi for me with the firm where he worked. The taxi driver arrived and Carl's brother said he'd only charge me half price. Cool.
The whole family waved me off like I was a beloved family member and i was free. woot.
Unfortunately, the taxi driver stiffed me and said he knew nothing about the 'half price discount' Carl's brother had assured me and I was forced to fork out £18.

Lesson learned. I came to stop pitying Carl as the months went on as spending more time with him made me hate him more. I last saw him in the crowd at the last Festival where I wondered if I was still one his infamous ‘list’. I would have to assume that I still have revenge coming my way, despite my best efforts to make him feel good.
Like I said, I AM a sucker.

Basting my time

I hauled my carcass out of bed at a more productive time and thus missed the worst of the traffic congestion this a.m. Yesterday’s stress of Queens Drive was but a distant memory as I hurtled along the dock road like a hairy Mr. Toad.
toot! toot!

Last night was Sweet Jonny's 28th birthday and after a relatively short rehearsal it was round to his abode for a drink and engaging one's self in hi-brow conversation (provided of course by myself). Alas the night was marred somewhat by his neighbour's insistence on knocking on the door to ask them to turn the music down. This is my first experience of this kind of behaviour. Firstly it wasn't even 10.30. Secondly the music wasn't loud at all and thirdly it was his friggin' birthday!

There are certain neigbourly rules that must be adhered to and his neighbours were in direct violation of these aforementioned code of conduct and from what Sweet Jonny and Eve-e-o have told me previously it wasn't the first time and incident like this had happened.

Surely 10.30pm is the acceptable cut off for moderately volumed music? As we all know and agree, 9pm is the cut off for loud music and the playing of musical instruments, whilst 10.00am is the acceptable time of the morning to crank up the volume/play musical instruments. This is, of course only applies to Mon-Thurs.

Fri-Sat it's fair game to do what ever. Sunday- the window of opportunity to make noise is a tad smaller- namely 11am to 9.30pm. However, should your neigbour work night shifts, and providing this was mentioned in goodwill in advance then the rules would have to be amended accordingly. Other exceptions to these rules are birthdays, Christmas, bank holidays and major sporting events (cup finals, England games, world cup etc). Granted, perhaps their neighbour's kids might have taken umbrage with my less than subtle voice talking about the freakish penis and penile practice that I encountered the previous night on Channel 4's 'The Perfect penis' or my slightly garish conversation topics about masturbation, rape, turkey basters and masturbation. Ho hum.

It did though, make me appreciate the seclusion of our flat, as despite being able to hear just about every noise the neighbours below (front room and bedroom) make, it makes it fair game to be noisy ourselves without fear of reprisal. Co-existence and harmony ensues. Oddly enough, this discussion of our neighbour's volume was mentioned at an earlier point in the evening, long before the buzz kill neigbours pissed on our bonfire, as Lisa mentioned to the 'gang' that we met the new girl who's moved into the ground floor flat. It was during this conversation that I made reference to the fact I could hear 'squeaky' Kate’s (below front room) text message alert as clear as a bell, which alarmingly meant that no doubt she could have heard me masturbating at full volume. This of course was a joke (honest) as I am such a card. So perhaps my booming voice discussing neigbourly volume and obnoxious wanking, was ironically the most intrusive of the sound pollution to these less than understanding folks. We made sure we re-iterated the fact it was Jon's birthday when we left hoping this might guilt the neighbours sufficiently enough to think again before making any similar complaints in the future.

J & E said that they have complained in the past. Apparently they shouted over their wall for them to turn down their TV last summer, yet amusingly J&E hear them having loud sex all the time. Which is worse? I would sooner be forced to listen to the dulcet tones of Alan Titchmarch and his 'Ground Force' programme (or whatever the kids watch these days) encroaching into my living space rather than two over weight adults in their forties rocking the Kasbah whilst their kids play out in the street.

Anyhow, speaking of Turkey Basters (before I digressed), I knew that the Bootle Strand wouldn't let me down! Godbless T.J Hughes.

They even had the two different makes of baster to chose from. One at £1.00 the other priced at £1.50. Being the flashy sort, I of course purchased the more expensive one, and Jon being the kitchen connoisseur spotted its pedigree immediately. I also lowered the tone and make a barrage of crap innuendos regarding squirting hot juice over his bird etc. Not that I wanted to but as it was the first time I’d spend in the company of my friends in a ‘hella’ long time, I was to eager to please and provide juvenility, nevertheless, my long and ardous search was over. Woot! Better still, not that this fabulous gift needed any endorsement, but Jocasta exclaimed the greatness of the utensil as she was fortunate enough to receive not one, but two of them for Xmo. huzzzzar! My only regret was not purchasing one for myself, especially as it was agreed that I’d cook a chicken for dinner tonight – a treat for Lisa as she’s really been under the kosh at work of late (yes nothing says ‘I love you’ more than an Asda chicken). At £1.50 though, well I didn’t want to break the bank did I?

When Lisa and I arrived back at the flat we had our dinner (11pm) as Lisa decided to go to bed early as she wanted to watch a programme about John Wayne Bobbit- the chap who’s wife decided to lop off his ‘piece’ and throw it out of a car window. After watching ‘The Perfect Penis’ the night before, I’d decided that I’d seen enough penile surgery to last me a life time. Before she departed to bed though we had a lengthy discussion on what merited ‘the bacon incident’ being labelled as such.

Last Friday Lisa went out on a work night out for some reason or another (retirement, engagement, death, birthday- I’m not sure) and when she arrived home with her chips and garlic mushrooms (a regrettable choice considering the options she had), she was oddly overcome with delight when she discovered that I had removed her bacon from the freezer and placed it in the fridge in order for it to be defrosted in time for her ritualistic Saturday morning bacon buttie. Seriously, she was almost moved to tears by this simple act of kindness on my part. I don’t know what this says about me, but maybe perhaps she’d been starved of consideration or attention on my part, but either way I still basked in the glory. This is what I labelled ‘the bacon incident.’

Lisa, however, disputed this story’s merit, and suggested that our only ‘bacon incident’ was the weekend before when I was on my death bed and Lisa entered the bedroom about to feast upon a greasy bacon sarnie. The smell from this sandwich made me fell incredibly unwell and nauseous and I was forced to make a dash to the toilet. Lisa of course found this hilarious.

As I put it to her, this didn’t justify being referred to as an ‘incident’, rather it was just an amusing episode of my temporary illness, however as her over zealous delight and gratitude over the thawed bacon was so bizarre, it totally justified it’s categorisation as an incident.
Anyhow unless something occurs involving bacon soon then I feel this dispute will continue for some time, much to our discontent.

hindsight is a twat

Despite avoiding public transport to get to work of late, I am discovering the wrath one can get immersed in when one decides to drive to work via Queens Drive, as this morning's journey demonstrated.
Personally, I have always preferred the Dock Road route to work and thus far I've had no real complaints regarding the traffic or the time it takes for me to arrive, however, two of my more learned colleagues have seriously lambasted me for my route decision. I have argued my case, but as they are locals, and Bob (one of the two said colleagues) has been traveling from South Liverpool to work for Sefton Council for some forty years, I felt obliged out of respect to his long service and vast experience.
What a load of crappola.

In 'Highway 61' , Dylan states that: 'the Highway is for gamblers', in response I agree but I would also add that 'Queens Drive is for suckers'. Better use your sense.
It just goes to show that just because someone has a superior knowledge, and experience it doesn't make them any more wise than the next man. In fact a newer, fresher approach can often be the better.
So I decided this morning, more as a whim, to travel down one of the worst road in this fair city and it took me approximately 20 minutes longer than usual. Granted, I appreciated that I could have taken a route which would involve going via Church Road and Mill Street to arrive in The Old Swan which would have saved me a significant amount of time, however, as we all know; hindsight is a twat.
For the most part of my tedious journey I was stuck in a traffic jam from hell. Forced to stare at a Renault Megane's rear end for nearly 27 minutes. Remember of course, the vehicle I am currently using has no radio and I have nothing to occupy my mind whilst I wait, expect to curse my colleagues and curse myself for not sticking to the courage of my convictions.
It seems totally crazy that people have to fight like that every morning, to get in the right lane, or prevent someone from getting in your lane ahead of you, guarding your position in the queue like a lioness guarding her cubs why do they do it?. There are so many cars too, it really makes you wonder if people were more prone to car sharing then it would rid us of half of the cars on the road.
I'm not knocking driving as a mode of transport. I actually love motorway driving and feel that's my territory.

I actually started to appreciate the small victories one gets whilst travelling via a train; getting the last seat, catching the train with seconds to spare, getting away without paying etc. Whilst driving, all the small victories are just too damned small and insignificant to be worth while tof their persuit. Take yesterday for example; I found a way of avoiding the round-a-bout on Princess Avenue/Croxteth Road/Belvedere Road. I tried this route and I could see that after executing this manouvre, I was several cars ahead of the van that was previously in front of me. A moment of great exultation soon vanished when the van pulled level with me at the Parliament Street Traffic lights minutes later. It seems so incredibly futile. At least whilst you are travelling via public transport it's you versus the system. Sometimes you beat it, other times it will beat you and you feel more secure somehow, you know what the odds are. Plus you occupy nothing but your own space rather than the protective shell the automobile provides. Human contact is unavoidable. Just knowing that in every single car that is trying to beat you to work, there is a human behind the wheel going through the same emotions as yourself, only they feel the satisfaction that they are protected from making real contact with the other commuters and therefore they can say what they want about them with no fear of reprisal. The poor bastards know no better. At least on the train you become extremely familiar with the other drones. You'll spot them elsewhere in the city outside of the setting of travelling to work and you can marvel at their civilian clothing or what their partner looks like. Sometimes, there will even be a smile or nod of acknowledgment from them. You also know that should anything awful happen like a fire, crash or bomb, then you'll be going down with them- which is oddly comforting.


If I wasn't so damned lazy, unfit and sweaty, I would love to be able to cycle/walk to work and avoid this misery. That's the loner's purest form of transport. It's just you vs the cars.

Last night 'the' Asda proved once again that domestic bliss comes at a cost. £128 to be precise.
It was a strange phenomenon, but I quite enjoyed it. I think this was partially down to the fact that I had picked up Lisa after she had got off the train (she was there with my old commuter pack...sob) so she was wanting to get back to the flat soon after another trying day at work. For some reason I really shine when people around me are miserable.
It was also a blessed relief not to be doing on a weekend as per usual.

It pretty much went without a hitch until we once again went on a quest for a baster. Can you believe that neither 'the' Asda nor Ikea sell this important item? I'm now going to have to walk to the Strand (shudder) to find one in time for Sweet Jonny's birthday tonight (don't worry-we've got him proper stuff too)I did purchase a casserole dish and managed to break some pottery whilst attempting to pick it up from the shelve, much to Lisa's embarrassment. As someone who thrives on other people's discomfort I then did a jokey-kick-under the shelves of the busted crockery, mostly for the further embarrassment of Lisa and for the general entertainment of the other shoppers who seemed to find my tomfoolery funny (ahhh I've still got it), this encouraged me to act in a hyper active and silly manner for the remainder of our time there, thus reassuring me that I can still be one of the most annoying people on the planet when I try.

It was this reassurance that helped me get the first decent nights sleep for a heck of a long time which helped me prepare for my visit to the Council's occupational health department as a result of my lengthy absense from work.

When You've Got No Use for Time.

Another weekend flies past all too quickly once again and like the majority of the population I too must wrestle with another Monday morning and engage in the trivialities of weekend conversation; football results, weather, Ikea, DIY and Saturday night Out anecdotes et al.

Like most weekends of late, my time was split between the visiting of my mother and trudging around a plethora of inane household shops with Lisa. My mum and my Grandparents were on good form on Saturday, and food was forced upon me as only my grandmother can do.

I woke early on Saturday as hungry as a mule and decided that whilst carrying out a list of errands that needed to be sorted before my departure to York, I would visit a fast food establishment with the intention of consuming something fattening. So I tip toed out of the flat and after my main objective of giving Jon & Eve their Manchester Vs Cancer concert tickets I drove on to my local outlet of McDonalds with naughty grin splashed across my soon to be fatter face.

When I drove to the window, I was greeted by a very familiar face, that of a young girl whom I walk past every day on the way to the train station. This flustered me somewhat as if someone could now verify my guilt's existence. I ashamedly asked for a cheeseburger, fries and a cup of tea. She looked quite bemused and flustered herself, so I came to her rescue as I realised it was only 10.15 am and quite clearly too early for the 'meals'.
"Is it too early?" I asked.
"Erm...yeah."
"It doesn't matter" and I drove away. I wasn't going to compromise my desire for comfort food by having to chose something from the 'breakfast menu'. No, a traditional sandwich shop was the sensible alternative.
I visited the shop opposite the McDonald below where I used to live with Steve, and asked for a sausage and cheese sandwich, which whilst asking for it infront of the Daily Star/News Of The World crew, l felt like a deviant.
I was happy enough with the sandwich, but whilst I drove in silence towards Yorkshire, I realised that the mounds of grated cheeses, coupled with the economy sausages was too rich of a combination for natural consumption, hence why so few establishments advertise it as an option.

As mentioned previously, my mum and grandparents were on top form. Perhaps it was the extra stodge in my system but I felt extremely drowsy for most of the afternoon, and soon I found myself fighting to keep my eyes open. As my g'parents eat about 4 hours earlier that I do, we went for a bite at the 3 Cups pub in Stamford Bridge ( tea at 5pm!!!). I of course was still full, but managed to negotiate my way through a steak and ale pie and I also managed to insert a wooden spoon in a bottle of vinegar in error (don't ask).

For Sat night festivities, Lisa and I watched the 80's classic: Weird Science.
It had been a while since I saw it last and I remember two of the following from my youth. Firstly, I believed that even if you weren't the most popular guy at school you could still have the potential to pull the school hottie, although one did require assistance from a computer made goddess in the form of Kelly Le Brock. As I grew up glued to my Commodore Amiga, I realised this wasn't the case, and infact most of the school hotties would be knocked up by the age of 22 and didn't care, as I was led to believe, for the sensitive types, unless of course they had a Porsche. (except for the Sally Williams Incident, whereupon I wrongly assumed that as she was a hottie she would have no interest in the likes of me, and when being told she fancied me I took it as a cruel joke- no doubt the sad details will appear on this blog at somepoint in the future)

The second misapprehension, was that all house parties would be like the one they have. I remember my first house party being the now legendary Sarah Head party in her parent’s terraced house in Bilton, but disappointingly it was just a mess of under age drinkers, cigarette induced sickness, sloppy kissing and ‘Blood, Sugar, Sex Magic’ being played repeatedly throughout. I mentioned this at the party scene and Lisa thought the same. It is still a fine film nonetheless, and the extensive work of John Hughes should be more revered that it is. I mean, the guy wrote and directed so many consistently good films, and 'Planes, Train & Automobiles', 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off' and 'Breakfast Club' should have his name mentioned along with the likes of Woody Allen, Hal Hartley and Wes Anderson.

Sunday brought on another dreaded trip to Ikea. Sadly this time weren't all wide eyed and in awe of the beech veneered furniture, this time it felt like a pain in the ass. I found myself judging the couples who also walked around looking to see if a set of shelves would look right in their living room. I would judge whether he was too good for her, or she was too good for him, this amused me until me head began to hurt and I started to roll my eyes with impatience. Thankfully we weren't there too long, but the whole trip was marred by an incident involving a Turkey baster.

We had spent the best part of 10 minutes looking for one, but despite coming across every variety of kitchen utensils from Pizza cutters to grapefruit slicers I couldn't find any, so decided to ask one of the apron clad assistants for some help. The chap whom I asked was putting glasses onto a display tower and wore a look of sickening despondency. I politely asked him whereupon one might locate the basters. His reply:
"I don't think we sell them"
I took immediate umbrage with this statement and repeated:
"You don't think you sell them?"
To which he grunted something.

I walked on and let my fury be known to Lisa, who of course took a diplomatic approach and told me to stop bleedin' moaning. But the fact still remains he didn't think they had any.
Later upon our journey back to Liverpool, I continued this thought. Lisa suggested that perhaps he was new or had been working for twelve hours straight or something and was waiting for we annoying customers to go. I mean, I have worked in several Supermarkets where indeed you are dying for the customers to bugger off, however basic customer service skills always prevented me from being unhelpful.
He didn't think they had any. This statement was not a conclusive answer to my simple question. Surely he could have asked one of his co-workers or even just lied and told me that they definitely didn't have any. I would have appreciated this more than his apathy.

The flat now has a linen chest, two beech veneer chest of drawers and yet another bookshelf all still in their packaging and require assembly. No doubt my ISS Pro Evolution 5 training will suffer.
‘The’ Asda tonight.
Great. Thankfully I have my job to keep me sane.

I am a cheese sadist

Grated cheese has got the greatest texture of all sandwich fillings but it sadly falls short mark when it comes to categorising a fillings sustainability i.e. staying in the sandwich. I have been giving the concept of cheese glue a serious consideration in my mind for a while now. Surely this must be a possibility, but how would they do it and not ruin the taste of the cheese? Answer: make the glue out of cheese!

The pedants out there will just counter argue that one should not grate the cheese, rather one should slice the cheese to avoid the cheese crumbs that litter the floor around my chair here at work. My retort to these folks would be quite reasonably point out that grated cheese is my preference and that they should keep their opinions to themselves. Maybe perhaps the spill factor is what keeps my lifelong affection of the post grated cheese? Perhaps I am a cheese sadist?

Is grated cheese more economical than the regular 'whole' cheese? Is this why sandwich outlets across the land choose to grate their cheese or does it make crap cheese taste better? There is a lot I don't know about cheese, but I do know what I like. My time working in the cheese factory taught me nothing except for the skill of cutting holes in the centre of a 'cheese wheel' and the coating of said cheese wheel in wax.

By 1o'clock in this bum hole of an office, you will always see the lost flakes of cheese scattered around my keyboard and feet. Life could be much better. I stood as a young man in the prime of my life surrounded by the holes from these cheese wheels and these were the size of pint glasses. These cut offs were then brought to the staff canteen whereupon we cheese factory workers dressed in white overalls, white hats and white steel toe capped wellies could help ourselves to this rejected cheddar. Some time in July 97 I ate the thickest slice of cheese in my life and knowing that I had succumbed to gluttony and that very soon i was going to either be sick or have a heart attack was very satisfying. So nearly ten years later it is particularly sad to look upon the pathetic little pieces of cheese that got away from my sandwich and remember a better time for cheese. It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all I suppose.

With this cheese fear question swimming around in my head, I REALLY wanted a cheese sandwich and went to the shop as per usual, only they had no brown roll and could only offer me a meagre "white bap". I politely declined and thought that a trip to Greg's was in order. It will require the visiting of the Bootle Strand, a repulsive shopping centre catering for yesterday's people with the shops of tomorrow.
I mistakenly thought it would be good to feel the fresh air on my face and let the oxygen enter my system. I had also planned to acquire series 3 of 'Curb your Enthusiasm' so I was going that way anyway.

I bumped in to Kev whilst on route to Music Zone and we had a good chat about the TV we'd been watching. Funnily enough it was Kev who first brought my attentions to 'Curb...' a couple of years ago on route back from a gig in Nottingham. I also know for a fact Kev loves cheese.

After I purchased the DVD I went to Greg’s for my usual Steak Bake (my usual fortnightly cheese sandwich alternative), however I watch enchanted by their new creation the Cheese and Pepperoni pastie. Moreover, I was suitably impressed by the service they gave. I know this isn't going to sound like much, but when the young lady who was poised to serve me was asked by myself what this new concoction was she said "do you like cheese?" (spooky!). anyhow, she offered for me to try a piece; which I subsequently did and enjoyed. I simply couldn’t imagine this happening in Sayers.

On route back to the I decided that this pastie simply wouldn't keep me going until I got home and decided to get me a pack of crisps. Unfortunately I let myself down again.
I had decided previously never to purchase anymore crisps fro the local off licence, as every time i had got one there, it was out of date. In fact, my last visit -some 5 months ago- I pointed it out to the (fit) girl who worked there that they were several months out of date and she apologised accordingly- but like the soft schmuck that I am, I told her it didn't matter and took it anyway! So when I bought this packed I immediately checked out the sell by date which was friggin' Dec 05! Did I take it back?- no of course I bloody didn't, I just thanked her and went on my way.
I now feel disappointed with myself and nauscious, either because of the pasty or the mouldy crisps all because of my white bap snobbery.

I was a 'shit' martyr

Faecal Matters

As I may have often prattled on about in other equally unsanitary blog enteries, the toilet in this office is a constant source of contention with me. Not being particularly prudish or squirmish about using it, I happily will park my breakfast at work without any real concern. Of course-without covering old ground- I always employ the courtesy flush as the Office is extremely small and I consider myself extremely considerate to the needs of my male colleagues in this department. After all due to the size of the office we all know who's in. Moreover, the toilet has no windows and is about the size of a confessional box, only supplied with a 3 month supply of paper towels and toilet paper and a toilet of course. The need for discression is paramount.

Today, however I was met with a most unpleasant problem... I should warn you at this juncture- those with a weak disposition should not read on.

10am ish my regular morning constitutional was required. I was even more bored with the day so decided to bring my phone to play some poker as this, I felt, would be a useful way to spend some time. As per most mornings here, the fellow worker before me had left the place thick with their own warm, rich, aroma. I did my usual wiping of the seat (which was tres warm may I add) and took up my throne and proceeded to play on my phone for about 10 minutes before I was about to 'drop'. As I was poised to incorporate the courtesy flush (flushing whilst you go to eradicate and smells/sounds) I noticed a blob of faeces on the floor. It was the diameter of a 50 pence piece and was located directly in front of toilet, inches from where my feet where.

Shit.


I was presented with a very awkward situation.

Do I ignore it?
Do I storm out of the toilet demanding to know who it was?
Or did I clean it up?

Of course hating confrontations and paranoid that someone would believe in error, that it belonged to me, especially as at this time in the morning their is a usually someone waiting to use the facilities when you vacate it; I proceeded to scrape it off the floor with a piece of cheap office tissue paper.

I have tried to deduce whom this crass hole was, but in all honesty I probably don't really want to know that answer, as forever more I should only be able to image them stood over the toilet, suit jacket hoisted above their mid drift, wiping their arse after a particularly bad dose of the squits - being in so much is pain and relief that they don't notice a little has gone astray.
Shit Shrapnel.

It brought to mind, remarkably, a long forgotten memory whilst at Primary school. We were kept from going to our lunch as some dirty twat had laid a large poo on the toilet seat and it had totally traumatised several girls in the class. The teacher in her infinite wisdom took us all to the toilet to inspect it and proclaimed that we weren't going to go on lunch until it had been cleaned.
After about a minute of tears and 9 year old hysteria, I thought "what the hell" and after wrapping a large amount of paper towels (the evil tracing paper bog roll would not have been adequate for this job) around my hand, I broke forth from the ranks and picked the brown log up and dropped it in the toilet. A job well done. Alas, this act of extreme bravery was considered an admission of guilt, and I was duly castigated by my fellow classmates and the bitch we had teaching us. Ah, I still remember trying to dry my hands and protest my innocence, as I was frog marched to the Headmaster's office via the school hall.I was a 'shit' martyr then, imprisoned wrongly for trying to help the masses during the tyrannical dictatorship of Miss Bradley the "hippie teacher". Now after nearly 20 years I have become a shit saint, working for the greater good for one an all. Amen…”..I smell a TV series”

I am a dead whale too.

Okay so I’m still smarting that I only received 102 emails. I know I shouldn’t be as there’s more pressing issues that require my concern, but it just re-enforces my lowly status which, although I don’t wish to run the corporate treadmill, still makes me despondent and depressed. I did, however find something lurking in the bowels of my drawers (office furniture not my pants) which can give me a temporary reprise of the blues. Yes, today I shouted Huzzzar without irony for the first time in my life upon my discovery that I had a new 2006 calendar to use. Not just any calendar, but an insightful daily calendar which not only provides the reader with historical information but also makes one reflect inwards with its distinctive thought/advice for the day. Example- today in 1554- The city of Sao Paulo was formed, and the thought: “A grandmother is a babysitter who watches the kids instead of the television”.

Great. So everyday I can have a small memento of fascination to accompany my decent to the abyss.

I do remember ordering it in May, and it promptly arrived in June and with its vast quantity of pearls of wisdom lay dormant in amongst my spare envelopes and uncompleted job application forms. Granted I may have a job with absolutely no power or interest but at least I got them to spend £4.00 on it he he.

Since my return to the working environment, I have already slipped back into old ways. Firstly, I’m back on the tea in a bad way. I know this may not seem like a terrible thing, but when you’re drinking 11 cups of tea just whilst you’re at work, then you need to rely on your friends and colleagues to form an intervention (step away from the kettle Matt) . As I’m the only member of the team who is office bound permanently, I’m always happy to accept a brew if offered, unfortunately this entails being offered more that one an hour and for the most part I duly oblige and accept happily. Whilst away from work, I was starting to develop a taste for Green Tea as a healthier substitute and would only have two, maybe three in the whole day and I certainly felt more like a human being.
I’ve also started to consume sandwiches from the near by outlet after promising myself a healthier diet which I had strictly adhered to until yesterday. I’ve also driven to work for the last two days, and it’s incredibly lonely. It is so hard to mentally undress other commuters whilst you’re driving, where as the train (which as I am fully aware is far from the perfect mode of transport) I was adept at the subtle, seedy glace and using my mental photoshop to cut and paste members of the fairer sex’s clothing on and off accordingly. Also it’s very hard to listen in on other peoples’ conversations whilst they are in a different car, and making up what I think they’re talking about just isn’t that much fun.

So I'm getting fatter, lazier, and giving up the will to live. I'm more precious than that bleedin' whale though, c'mon someone haul me back to freedom on a barge.
Have Primary School children draw me pictures and write me poems.
Have krusty old celebs speak out on my behalf.
Feed me raw fish and applaud my stupidity.
Give those bosos at ITV new the opportunity to further speculate what might happen with there flash animation.

Carwash HUNT

Nearly seven full weeks without so much of a sniff at the internet, I have returned, alas, to work today only to find it dull and the same. Was it always like this? Why have I of late, dedicated far too much of my time to the trawling through its depths hoping to find a cure for paperclips or an antidote to snooker repellent or a decent MP3 recording of "Ooops I did it again" by Richard Thompson. During my blog hiatus, in which time I had paced the corridors of the intensive care unit, Freeman Hospital, Newcastle, and tried keep my mum's spirits' up, it appears; that not a lot has happened.

Only 102 unread messages on my work's email were awaiting me this morning. Most of my colleagues get more than that in a week.

Of the 102 unread emails, none (as i had imagined) were Xmo or New Year's best wishes from friends who hail from further a field and who would have been unaware on my recent woes. Neither was there any messages from disgruntled associates and confidants wishing to show their contempt towards me as they did not receive their annual Mestiv Fexmo message from yours truly, a veritable Yule Tide Treat for one and all.

On a plus note however, I must give a great big fat greasy thanks to the kind folks at 100 T Shits, especially Miss Bob Blackwell, as despite working fairly hard-ish to design some T Shirts for their aforementioned T Shirt contest, I was unable to send off my final designs. However, despite them not getting any replies from their numerous emails they submitted my designs anyway, and converted the designs into the correct format for me from the erroneous ones I had previous emailed over. Thanks to their fortitude and helpfulness two of my designs were selected...woot! Alas, this didn't come without its cost. For some reason they thought the 'fing design' looked better the wrong way around! Sigh.

(http://www.p-ornithology.com/) -

Okay, because of the family emergency and all that, there was little to be cheerful about, however, the following is a brief list of things that have been good, when everything else has been crapolla:

Arrested Development (season 1 Box Set)
Curb Your Enthusiasm (season 2)
My new webdomain (www.robotbytheriver.co.uk) -cheers bro.
Seeing a yellow car and having carte blanche to hit whomever you are sitting near.
'Spiderland'- by Slint
oh and friends/family/loveones etc.
Lucozade
'crazzzzeeeee' That Niles Barclay song (man I love that)
Money Pit (Tom Hanks we hardly knew ye)
Women -By Charles Buchowski