8.25am is far too early to be yelling "Twat!" to a stranger.

Despite previous attempts to stop writing this blog, I have resigned myself to the fact that I simply cannot do it.

The car's been running on fumes of late, and today another challenging decision must be made- can it last one more journey? I've neglected to put the car into neutral when going downhill in the vain attempt of conserving my fuel supplies, and therefore I'm pretty damned sure it'll run out soon.
The fact of the matter is that I have a very strict schedule and only wish to purchase diesel on a weekend or as is sometimes the case, a Monday. Thursday just doesn't seem appropriate, especially as this will no doubt mean me having to re-fill every Thursday, as I rarely will put more petrol than I need to get me back and forth from work. Anyhow, as I have recently been too busy to write this blog, I feel in a tad inappropriate to inform you of this pointless information, so what have I been up to? Furthermore do you care?

The answer to the former questions is that I have been as busy as a bee. I have been working hard in my alter ego existence as a musician and I've been cooped up in the recording studio. It's going well thus far, and the Markus-enforced new and fresher approach to recording has been most effective. Of course, spending my time holed up in a studio resulted in the customary non stop eating of Pizzas, burgers, chips et al, but thankfully I got plenty of exercise going back and forth from the studio. I was, as Jack said, a food bitch.
Nice.
I even surprised myself that I didn't go into a strop when I was sent out for food, which involved a walk in the bitter cold and rain to the not-so-near-by car park to get my car, and drive around several sandwich shops looking to acquire a bacon sandwich for both Markus and Tom with no luck, asked to go to MacDonald’s, drop the food off, drive back to the car park, then walk back again.

Perhaps I wouldn't have felt such a dog’s body should i have been chief tea maker as per usual. However, I'm still under the pointless abstinence of lent- giving up caffeine? What was I thinking? But the recording has gone swimmingly well.

I also attended another work night out, and despite my reservations it was actually pretty good.

I was forced to drive into work that morning, despite my previous intentions being to catch the train so I can join the 'gang' and go straight from work. Alas, the weather put pay to that idea. A not so difficult choice; get to work dry and warm, as opposed to impending drenching that public transport would have resulted in. After getting in the car I somehow managed to find myself embroiled in a moment of road rage- something I'm ashamed to say is on the increase.

The moment I set off, I noticed a small van approaching me from the opposite direction from myself. Being the charitable sort, I decided that I should inconvenience myself and pull over on the curb in order to let him through. I of course flashed him to indicate my gesture of goodwill. The van slowly trundled towards me, until he was nearly alongside my car. It was at this point when I saw red as it became clear that he wasn't going to offer me a gesture of gratitude-the Wave of Thanks- so I parped my horn and yelled "don't mention it you twat!!!".

The van driver gave me a look that made me instantly loose all my bravery. His face had no doubt been in the way of a few punches over the years, and his ruddy complexion got, well…. ruddier. I decided at this juncture to floor it. And fearing he may cut me off, should he decided to drive down the road parallel to mine, I chose to take an unorthodox route to work.
8.25am is far too early to be yelling "Twat!" to a stranger.

Thankfully Lisa wasn’t in the car that morning otherwise the burly builder would have been the least of my worries.

Of course having the car at work, meant that I had to go home first, which in all honesty came somewhat as a relief as I didn't have to watch Dave get himself ready in his customary red-going out-shirt getting all excited, then waiting painfully for about 40 minutes whilst Sean decides to write War and Peace in a sequence of ‘urgent’ emails before leaving. Then there’s the “who’s going with who?” queries relating to who’s is driving. This usually continues to the point of nausea. It gives me a headache just thinking about it.

It also meant that I had to wear my civilian clothing rather than my trusty work shirt, trousers and tie ensemble. Fearing reprisals from my colleagues, I decided that my converse trainers would not doubt be a poor idea and was therefore forced to wear my shoes. I also felt it necessary to don my Flemmings Jeans which I was given to by the designer for our trip to SXSW in Texas last year, despite the fact that the buttons on the fly fall off every time you undo them, which as I'm sure you can imagine, is a little embarrassing when going to the toilet. But unlike all my other jeans, they weren’t ripped and the bottom and ,more importantly they were clean. Jeans and shoes...a very unhappy combination.

Of course upon meeting the fellow employees, I was greeted by 3 individual shouts of "I thought you were going home to get changed" Tres funny chaps, tres funny.

The meal was nice and paid for, along with the drinks, by our soon to be former Director. Although there was much cynicism about his motives beforehand, I can't really fault him for his generosity. I even got on quite well with him chatting readily on matters of which I have no blinking idea about- i.e. Housing. I did have the misfortune of timing my trips to the toilet as the same time as him though. He commented that we must have the same size bladders. Now there's a thought… I was in the uncomfortable position of stepping up the urinal whilst he continued to talk about pensions and mortgages whilst he washed his hands. I just wished he would have washed his hands sooner as I knew the malfunction on my jeans would cause me no end of embarrassment.
Each time he left I would open my fly only to hear the sound of the metal riveted buttons bouncing along Ask's marble floor. They are quite easily re-attached, however, the pains of having to rummage through several urinal cakes in order to find the missing button gets somewhat irksome.

Other than that it went without incident. Alan regaled his only four anecdotes again and soon the conversation turned to football. Alarmingly, whist the conversation of football continued, I noted a young lady (21ish) walk past and start to climb the stairs which we were sat under.
Aye camumba! She was wearing a skirt the size of a belt and as she slowly walked up the stairs I could just about make out what she was trying to say, although I was never a great lip reader.
Once she was out of view I pointed this alarming sight out to all who could hear my whisper. Well okay, perhaps it wasn't technically a whisper, as I'm actually incapable of whispering, which has actually landed me in hot water before- notably during my GCSE's exams when I asked for more paper and whispered in the ear of the female games teacher, who everyone hated. She said I was being too loud and threatened to send me out of the examination hall for not adhering to the whisper rulings.
Bitch.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I told everyone that she was wearing the most ridiculously short skirt. Debbie thought I was taking the piss, and did her usual laugh (she thinks I'm joking all the time and laughs hysterically often with no cause-I think....although it has just occurred that she is probably laughing AT me.) Tony, rightly pointed out that girls don't wear skirts like that if they didn't want people to look. He has a valid point I suppose.
There restaurant’s air was thick with the smell of expectation as she finally re-surfaced and walked down the stairs. Alas, some of my colleagues were a little less subtle than I. Dave notably craned his neck to ensure he got a proper look, laughing loudly like Sid James. i had to look away. I was mortified that everyone had made it so bleedin' obvious.
Once she had taken her seat, people continued to eat.
It was then relayed to us that her boyfriend was making a scene, upset that she had flaunted her nether regions to us and possibly the other diners too. Our party suddenly looked sheepish.

I also decided that seeing that I wasn't paying the banoffee pie wouldn't be a bad idea.

*

Birthdays are coming around fast, and my bro's birthday is tomorrow. No doubt the pubs across the world will doff their caps, and enjoy their own little McParty. Lisa's birthday is next Friday. I have little to no idea as what to get for her birthday, and I'm already getting stressed about it. Perhaps she may like a Fender Jazz Bass Guitar? Here's hoping!

I wasn't dressed for success...

I have of late become a soup coward.

As I write this, a vat of soup purchased from 'the' Asda sits in the office's refrigerator untouched and un wanted. This soup along with another Country Vegetable soup which remains at home, was bought in order to curtail my Office based eating and thus avoiding the hit and miss qualities of the local sandwich shop, whereupon again, I have acquired a Cheese and Salad Sandwich on a Brown Roll, No Mayo and No Onion with a dash of salt and pepper.

Often the case will be that the sandwich will be most satisfactory and will be enjoyed by myself whole heartedly as i stare in to the mindless vacuums of the internet or more recently typing this pointless blog whilst on my lunch break. However more often than not the case is, I'm sad to say, the sandwich can be dull, dry and a let down. If a sandwich lets you down what can one do to?

Soup cowardice stems back to my days of call centre servitude, where i was too damned lazy to make my own sandwiches, rather I would chose to bring in a tin of Heinz soup. This proved to be a most beneficial enterprise, as not only did i avoid the unpleasantness of the Abbey Nat canteen a blatant case for false advertising- no hot food with the exception of soup and baked potatoes was ever served but I also enjoyed the rewards of a healthy diet. This lasted for some two years and as a direct result I now have a physical aversion to soup from a tin, which is why I bought a carton of soup instead. Its container isn't the issue though I've learned.

*

As you will no doubt see the blog front has been relatively quiet. i apologise most humbly.
I've lost the will to write the usual self-obsessed-narcissistic-dull-anecdotal drivel for a while. Not only that, but contrary to my initial intentions of starting this, people are actually reading it. This has ruined quite a large part of my social interaction as when meeting with co-horts and acquaintances, they already know what I've been doing. Also, the main vex in my life- this dumb ass job, is keeping me relatively busy at the moment. That doesn't mean I'm happy with it by any stretch of the imagination, rather I'm too busy to moan about my station as the office dog’s body.

You will also no doubt have deduced that I didn't win the 'Birds in the City' Design contest, and it didn't really bother me, although the £££ would have been nice. It was a pleasant night out. I was reliably informed that we must be there for 7pm- but after sending them a begging email I was instructed that as long as i got there before 7.30 then I'd be okay. Lisa, bless her, had 10 minutes to get ready from her arrival from another busy and highly strenuous day at work. When we got there I regressed. I was given a red sticker indicating to anyone who cared that I was intact an artist. Great. After a few simple "what's your name" type questions of which i looked totally bemused and embarrassed, it was upstairs where Lisa pointed out where my two designs were located. Cool.
If you have never been to Microzone then you're not missing much. Choc full with a variety of miscellaneous modern antiquities (can you have a modern antiquity?) for cretins with too much cash who would be suggestible enough to buy anything. i mean, would you really pay £650 for a old reconditioned TV, stylized a kitsch Krraftwork-esque manner? I didn't think so.
But hey, the drinks were free. Also, we weren't best pleased that people were still wondering in at 8.15 and they hadn't, as i had previously been told, closed and locked the doors a 7.30 sharp. Liars.

After the wait for the awards whereupon we spoke to no one except the guy pouring the drinks, the tedious awards were given out along with the customary pointless speeches. Once this had had come to an end and the organisers had slapped their own backs enough, we decided a few ales would be the right thing to do considering…

After a relatively uneventful drink in O'Neils*, we decided to frequent the good ole Bar Ca Va. The Tequila bar.
It hadn't changed at all and it was still a hang out for students and the like. As no seats were available we stood by the bar reminiscing about the many ridiculously daft nights we'd had in there. Lisa and I both wanted to sit though and we spotted a sofa near by that looked vacant and it was proposed that we take rest on them. I happened to note that there was several coats on it though and therefore took up the high moral ground that we shouldn't sit there. Lisa disagreed, and observed that the coats' owners were on the nearby computer pub quiz machine. I suggested that if there time exceeded 15 minutes on this game then, under my rules, we could sit there.

We stood for the remainder of the night.

I decided that we should take our chances on the quiz machine and put in several good attempts to win some money. We were let down by chance and the fact some student shouted the wrong answer out when we were stuck. He immediately apologised, and surprisingly I wasn't pissed off with him. This guy was about 19 and was wearing two polo shirts- TWO. That's two collars! Anyhow, he and his oafish co-hort decided to have a bez at the game after we decided that £7 was enough to waste on it. These guys were terrible. REALLY terrible. It's multiple guess- so you've at least got a one in three chance of guessing the correct answer. In scenes of much embarrassment, they asked for help on several occasions- for the love of God they didn’t know that 'Revolver' was a Beatles album! They also were unaware that the Oscars’ ceremony is held in L.A - not New York as the oaf incorrectly guessed. "How was I supposed to know that?" he said in his wide boy cock-er-nee accent. For a very short while, I basked in the glory of superiority.

On our departure and the customary visit to the toilet, I was greeted by the kid with two polo shirts mid flow at the urinal. I was acknowledged with a "waaaahaay". Thanks. Not wishing to stand next to him whilst I did my business I chose the option and safety of the cubicle-and whilst I pissed I stared upon the wall which featured my first dose of graphitti, enthusiastically scratching the would-be band name "Vasco-De-Gama" amongst the various gentlemen’s and football allegiances already showing.

Whist I did my 'shake', the loud and cacophonic sound of very poor working pipes reverberated in the small restroom. Over this din, I hear two shirts say something to me regarding the noise and I shouted -"It's not the pipes, its my prostate playing up" Laughing to myself whilst I zipped up my fly. I walked out of the cubicle and was greeted by three equally chinless student looking at me in a confused manner, with my mate two shirts no where to be seen. Bugger. I comforted myself that they wouldn't have got the joke anyway.
I explained this to Lisa upon my return from the bog and she just rolled her eyes.

The rest of the weekend has been somewhat of a blur, and a busy one at that. Safe to say that I’ll forgo the usually ramblings as I’ve hawked on enough already, but there was some excellent news…

BACON MOMENT!
Should you have read this attempt of a blog for sometime you may recall that Lisa and I have been in dispute over the definition of the term ‘The Bacon Incident’ and I was waiting for a new bacon related episode in order to re-define the term. However in a stroke of genius Lisa reinvented the whole concept.

As it has been mighty cold in our flat, and I’d had enough, I dug out Lisa’s trusty hot water bottle and proceeded to warm the bed for Lisa with it. She was most appreciative of this gesture. The next day, when in defence of yet another careless or fool hardy action on my part, as usual I brought up the list of good things I’ve done of late. I recalled the Hot Water Bottle gesture, and Lisa said ; “it was hardly a bacon moment” and thus a new phase was coined. Kudos! It didn’t stop there, as the next day she coined the phrase “bullambling” in reference to the incessant nonsense that I was spouting. Her explanation was “…a cross between bullshit and rambling”.
I really, really liked this phrase, but was jealous that it was Lisa who came up with it.



* In O’Neil’s whilst waiting for the barmaid’s attention I happened to over hear a chap of about 30+ nervously talking to a girl. My guess was that it was obviously a firs date and he had no other conversation except talking about O’Neill’s, about how good/rough/great/terrible it was, contradicting himself several times, yes folks he was bullambling. When I turned around and saw to whom he was talking to it made sense. She was hideous…Homer style shudder…

not really an incident but it did make me laugh inside hence my first footnote!
Woot!

I wasn't dressed for success...

Dishonesty rained true!

"You should always have a lie up your sleeve" I told Lisa on route to work this morning referring to her impending lateness for work. "Blame the snow."

I have, to varying degrees had several lies nicely tucked away under my sleeves for a variety of wrongdoings, or potential wrong doings which in the past, has certainly saved my sorry skin. They haven't always worked, likewhen I was caught by two Mersey rail Guards during the height of my train hopping career and trying, unsuccessfully to lie my way out of it. One such example, of this pre determined telling of porky pies was when I accidentally knocked a wing mirror off a Vauxhall Astra on lark Lane with my hip on a late summer's night back in 2000.
For the record, please let it be known this was a genuine accident on my part. I was stood outside a kebab shop whilst a friend of ours, Laura was saying her fair thee wells to us all. I was tired, swimming in Guinness and unsteady on my feet. Whilst Laura went around the small group of us saying her goodbyes I wobbled and gently clipped the wing mirror with the left hand side of my hip. It fell and crashed to the kerb and rolled into the gutter.
Ooops!
I looked around and thought what would the honest things to do be? Should I try and locate this vehicle's owner in one of the many salubrious drinking establishments near by and explain my actions, or should I scarper?

Being a coward the latter of course seemed more appealing.

I walked up to the rest of my co-horts, "Quick, walk! NOW!"
Of course the response to this was "What? Why?"
I had no time to explain, and could just point to the ex-wing mirror enthusiastically!
The penny dropped and we started to walk away quickly.

"Hey you!!" A foreign sounding accent called after us. I looked back to see the proprietor of the fast food establishment beckoning towards us. It would be fair to say that he did not look best pleased. Not wishing to make a run for it, I decided to confront him.
Perhaps I should have ran, but as I was accompanied by several females I didn't want them to be involved in any kind of fracas that may follow, plus I had a few pre-prepared lies that would get me out of it.

I went into the shop apologising for my clumsy and fool hardy actions. I offered to recompense him should he find the right replacement.
Obviously thinking it was his lucky day, the Kebab Man agreed but wanted to take some details from me-name and phone number.
....muhahhahahahahahahahahaha!
For some reason, call it foresight if you will, I had programmed my phone number on my mobile incorrectly, for I had amended the last two digits purposefully should an occasion such as this arise. I showed him my phone so he could copy down my number for future contact. He took he phone and wishing to ensure that I wasn't giving him a erroneous one, asked me to tell him my number whilst he verified it. I of course did this remembering the changed latter digits. He seemed satisfied, although I still can't believe he did try calling it whilst I was there, sucker.
I had also given him a false name- Ian Bailes; named after a former school friend who was safely living in Cambridge. Everything was in order, although there was a moment of alarm when Laura came into the shop shocked that I was 'fessing up and preparing to pay for the damages.
"Matt what are you doing?"
"Shhhhhh-My name is IAN!" I whispered.

We left the shop after several more insincere apologies, and all duly ran home sharpish before the dimwitted kebab man noticed he had been had.

Cool as a cucumber eh? Not quite, for the next two years I would insure that I never entered his establishment and always crossed over the road when walking by. Lisa to this day still finds it a hilarious notion that I believed he may have remembered me. But I like to think that I leave a last impression.

I have long since abandoned such lie preparations as I live a modest but honest life, but that doesn't mean I should walk around un-guarded. For example, when stopped by the incessant tin rattlers that plague our cities and towns, my pre-prepared lie is:

"I've just donated some money to your friend/colleague earlier" or "I just bought a Big Issue yesterday"

My last 'white lie' to a stranger was whilst we were visiting a small town on the Scottish borders a few weeks back where we stopped to acquire some quality Scottish meats and treats. Knowing full well that most Liverpudlian shops etc would be extremely unwilling to take any Scottish money we had to get rid, but unfortunately I'd somehow managed to tear a Scottish £10 in half whilst paying for a round of drinks the day before. The likely hood of anywhere in these here parts accepting a torn and sellotaped notes was even more remote, I needed to ditch it somewhere before entering good ole England.

I decided that whilst the others drool over the hand made chocolates I would ditch this note in the local Spa shop. I entered and proceed to remove £10 in order to pay for a bottle of water and then pretended that it had just ripped. The woman behind the counter was less than impressed but the pantomime worked, Dishonesty rained true!
There is a moral there somewhere.

Tonight is the T Shirt design award thingy. I'm not attending it as I believe that I have a snowball's chance in hell of winning, I just want a few free drinks. In order to prepare for a thoroughly deserved hangover I have booked Friday off work.
Should I win the £5K top prize, this will be my last blog entry as I'll be far too important to write (plus I will be fighting off the legions of people whom I owe money to)

I had too much to dream last night (Paul Newan I owe you one)

Despite the snow that greeted Lisa and I this morning, I can feel that Spring is in the air. The mornings are significantly lighter and the flowers are starting to bloom, it won't be long before the birds and bee's try to have sex again.
One poinant sign of spring's impending arrival is the effect it has every year on my sleep patterns and dreams. I had too much to dream last night.

Not being a 'dreamer' as such, I rarely wake from my slumber wide eyed and bushy tailed wishing to explain to every man and his dog of my mind's nocturnal activities. On the rare occasion I remember dreaming I usually keep it to myself, possibly because of its explicit content. There has been the odd occasion when I've had a dream worthy of mentioning to Lisa, however as dreams by their very nature are confusing and difficult to describe, I spare the details and try to surmise it in a few simple sentences. Describing dreams it could be said are one of the few things I keep short and to the point. The other being my descriptions of my day at work.

"how was work?"

"okay"

or the more common response:

"crap"

Unfortunately, when my response is the latter, I'm usually required to follow this up with some example of my displeasure. I often struggle, and more often than not when I inform Lisa of my grumblings, it actually makes me sound a churlish and petty man, which as you will no doubt know, is not the case.

You may remember my disgust with my colleagues' lack of consideration in unloading the dishwasher in a previous entry (kkk). Do you know how sad it sounds when you're asked by your nearest and dearest as to why I feel it appropriate to describe my day as "crap" and your response is "I had to do the dishwasher again". It's not right.

Thankfully Lisa now takes it as read that my day is going to be lousy as she knows just how much i dislike my vocation as a Dog’s body and on the occasions that she will ask, I've learned to answer "okay" to avoid any follow ups, which as I've just explained prevents me from looking more pathetic and lets be honest, I need all the points I can get.
Plus the is the regular "why don't you get another job?" conversation. I hate this response as she's right. The fact of the matter is I'll hate most jobs no doubt. I have yet to complete my application form for the Advisor role in the One Stop Shop as it is exactly the same cruddy wages I'm on now, only I'm going to be speaking to idiots all day.

I've had the odd eventful day though in other jobs. The most eventful day was on Mourn day Thursday (day before Good Friday -you heretics) in 1999 when I worked in Hutton’s Off Licence in Allerton, Liverpool. Despite it being fairly menial, I enjoyed this job. I liked speaking to people and when I used to a be cheerful chappie, I would often provide the punters with gems from my patented sense of humour. Eg:

Woman customer who looked like an anorexic Seal (the musician not the animal!) rushed into the busy shop mid Lottery rush shouting:
"Do you have extra large condoms?"

"No, but we sell bin liners and I could give you a elastic band?"

The shop gwafores and i bask in the glory whilst she storms out. Sadly, I never get those kind of opportunities stuck behind this desk.

Anyhoo- that Easter night I was working with Kev. (by the way I'm sure I've told this one before on this site- if so please ingnore the following crap)

He was several years younger than me and a archetypical slacker. He like his alt rock, and would attend the Krazy House three times a week. He lived with Ste who also worked at the offie, and they both work part time- as it meant they were still eligible for Housing Benefit. He was also little bit fey. Slightly effeminate, but according to him -100% straight, not as my less than enlightened colleagues would say "on the other bus". He was a nice bloke.

The shift went without too much incident, so much so that I don't actually recall any other details except I wanted to get home for as near to 11.00 as I could as the film The Sting was due to be shown, and never having seen it before I was looking foreword to in immensely. Once again, my sad life was being run by the TV schedule.

The shop was due to be shut at 10.30, but on nights like these it was very rare to see any customers after 10ish so Kev and i prepared to clean the shop, cash up etc in order for a quick departure. Kev, of course was due for another lonely night a the Krazy house, and I remember cringing at him whilst he painted his thumbnails black in preparation.

By 10.20 the shop was spotless, and one of the two tills had been cashed up successfully. The other till has as good as cashed up, and I had devised a full proof method in which we could officially cash up the till, however still serve any customers should there be any. We proceeded to put this method into action and I locked the door prematurely, of course should a customer arrive, we would naturally let them in, as shoudl we close early Mary- theboss, would no doubt find out the next morning.

As I locked the door at 10.25 I turned around and walked back toward the two tills in order to face up (a term referring to tyding them up in case to the non Shoppe experienced don't know) the crisps. I made the few short steps to the counter when I heard I loud bang against the glass shop window. Assuming it was the little buggers who plagues from time to time with their high jinks and endless purchasing of Space Raiders whilst their little co-horts steel the Yorkies and other more expensive confectionaries, I though no more of it. I looked at Kev though and he had literally turned as white a sheet. He was pointing to the window in a manner that reminded me of Shaggy from Scooby Do when the monster was stood behind them as he couldn't say anything through intense fear.

"what's up?" I asked whilst holding several bags of ready salted Hula Hoops.

"Two men in balaclavas and shot guns just ran at the door, hit the glass and then ran off..."

Bugger.

We both dived to the bullet proof office and called the police immediately.
Kev was really shaken up and struggled to light his Marlborough red ciggie. He looked really gay smoking it I remeber, the black nail varnish and choker he had around his neck didn't help. The police arrived in less than two minutes. Three Volvo Estate cars screeched up and armed policed jumped out. I ran to the front of the shop and opened the door and explained the situation. I was starting to shake a bit too, but The Sting started in fifteen minutes. The police then dispersed around the surrounding street and I could hear the police helicopter flying above. One of the officers came to our office and watched the black and white CCTV footage of me locking the door turning my back and then these two burly looking types with shotguns barging into the door then fleeing. I noticed on the CCTV footage that the back of my hair needed cutting.

There wasn't much to do really. the police took the video and told us how lucky we were, as this sort of robbery had been happening to all the off licences in the area. If we hadn't had locked the door early who knows what could have happened. Paul Newman I owe you one.

Once the shop was locked up we both ran to the rival Off Licence, Bargain Booze as it was cheaper and stayed open later. We immediately let the staff know of our lucky escape and told them to keep their wits about them. Kev sacked off the idea of going to the Krazy House, but I was determined to get home in time for The Sting.
I made it home having just missed the intro, but I couldn't concentrate and decided to phone a variety of concerned friends and family and regale me story of heroism. By midnight I was very anxious, and when Gareth and Ziad arrived at back after a few ales at the Dovedale, I once more re-told my story.

Thus far this is the only work story I have where I felt it necessary to tell other people and do you know what the most common reaction was?

"I can't believe you haven't seen The Sting"

captain of my industry

Today i am the captain of my industry. I am a umpa lumpa with a beard. My hump is (at present) being busted. I am of worth to the Council at long last...my stock is on the rise once again. Huzzzar!

For the first time in an age, I'm actually busy, or busy with worth while work at least, my brain is whirring and I can feel the long since missed chest pains of stress and hard work (oh how I've missed them). It feels tres good and couldn't come up at a better time for me, with a job application form winging its way out to me.-the one stop shop here I come! I want to be able to say in my interview that I enjoy hard graft and I can meet a challenge (just as long as the challenge isn't photocopying endless reams of paper or endlessly answering the phone).
Spring is in the air and optimism is embracing me in a close and tight clinch.

I always mention this on a Monday- but I like Mondays. Sunny Mondays are better.

Maybe this is partially due to the sad death of Murray the Brain Tumor?
Maybe it’s my old shirt that I’m wearing- a throw back to the tough days at the Abbey National?
I don't quite know.

Anyhow, keeping it short- a sort of subdued 50th Blog entry celebration- plus I'm busy!!!.

Life is good!

Still no joy with getting my pictures back up though.

my folk's chew rules

What a fabulous waste of a day.

Murray and I have been getting along ok. I don't bother him and he tries not to bother me too much. My colleagues have been most forthcoming with their tea making duties which I am very much appreciative of. Bob especially has made at least 4 or 5 rounds of drinks today.

What joy life can be when one is drinking vast amounts of tea, having extremely long pisses, a Tamarillo's sandwich and making peace with my tumor. Huzzar.

To be honest not a great deal has happened since I wrote yesterday- which is just the way i like it. My only gripe would be the difficulties I have recently experienced eating. Of course I don't mean the quality of food or the manner in which I hold my knife and fork, rather I appear to have done some serious damage to the roof of my mouth. I have thought at great length as to what may have caused this irritation and I have arrived at the conclusion that the culprit was yesterday morning's porridge. I'm sure I have a blister of some sort.

My injuries were so severe that last night for my tea I could only manage a bowl of Super Noodles, which I left until they were nearly cold and a slice of bread. Surely this dietary disaster highlights the amount I have suffered. Lisa of course was as sympathetic as ever. Her retort when I explained my ailments was "It serves you right".

Let it please be known that Lisa did in fact make me the noodles so she wasn't being heartless, it's just that she has often lambasted me for the speed in which I eat. I have always been a fast eater though, and I blame my current physical condition to my lack of chewing foot properly. A quick masticator I think she called me...

I can clearly remember my folks try to get me to eat slower as I would often wolf my food and alarming speeds. This at first was out of survival as soon as I had finished I could make a start on eating Lucy's food before Adam had finished his meal. To prevent this eating sprint they took the time and patience to ensure that I put my knife and fork down between each mouthful, counting the amount of chews they deem appropriate and instructing me when to swallow. Sometimes I follow these rules when I realise that I am eating like a pig, although if I'm being honest, I don't adhere to them very often. Usually when I think a heart attack is around the corner.

Lisa on the other hand is an incredibly slow eater, and of course this only highlights my food consumption speed. I often look up whilst shoveling down my food to inspect her plate. Most times I'm almost done and she has hardly made a start! It's at these points I try to refer to my folk's chew rules.

When in the company of others, or for the most parts, when I'm eating out, I seem to slip into a more adequate and less nauseating eating tempo. This is partly due to the impeccable table manners installed in me and partly due to the conversation and drinking. Most times when we eat at home it is usually in front of the television and I think this hinders any chance of eating slower. It's possibly why my parents also insisted that we ate at the table with the TV off, with the following exceptions:

Grand Prix,
Spurs/England Games,
The Simpsons
And for a short period in the late eighties- when Neighbours was on.

My enthusiastic approach to eating was actually complemented whilst dining in Marantos recently by the hairy Italian waiter. After we had devoured the food and wine in just over an hour he came over and asked if I ate out a lot.
As this was an odd thing to say, I thought that I had misheard him and asked him politely if he could repeat his question.
He asked the same question again.

I was confused and Lisa, embarrassed by my confusion and awkwardness translated for me: DO - YOU- E-A-T OUT O-F-T-E-N?

"Erm, a bit i suppose, not that much. Why?" I replied.

"Its the way you eat your spaghetti and pour your wine, you obviously know what you're doing. It's -a- good to see."
He went on to state that lots of people pretend they know what they're doing and clearly don't. Slightly embarrassed and a tad miffed, I just mumbled "erm, I was just hungry" -which I was.

Lisa thought it to be a compliment, however i took it as a rough translation for:

"Mama Mia, you eat like a big fat Italian, you greedy bastardo."
The fact is I've always been an excellent spaghetti eater, having been taught my folks at an early age. Granted, I'm not the spaghetti eater that I was, due to my vegetarian exile and the breaking of my front tooth. I've also always managed to put quite a lot of it away too- "hallow legs" my grandparents would say. Also Marantos isn't exactly the Savoy is it. It is nice but heavily laden with scallies. I suppose it means that I'm marginally better than they are and I should perhaps have taken it as a compliment, but decided not to, and the big mealy mouthed fat waiter lost his tip. Now who's laughing eh?

I felt like Gollum but looked like Compo

Coming back into work after being on a vacation is always messy.
Firstly, there is the unnecessary and thoroughly over friendly remarks from my colleagues who all suddenly express a n interest in my goings on. "where did you go?"
"what did you do?"
"how was the weather?"

Then there is the work you need to catch up on thankfully this only took a 10 minutes.

In regards to the former, I did my best to evade the majority of the pointless questioning before I managed to divert the conversation back to the usual topic of the previous night's football, which considering the foxures was easy peasy japan-easy

The weekend retreat was of course thoroughly pleasant and most enjoyable. It highlighted some alarming changes in my life style that perhaps I wasn't ready to accept.

For I am now a city dweller.

This perhaps ought not to be so surprising, after all I have resided in the fair city of Liverpool for nearly 10 years but I don’t like it. Granted, I’m not exactly born and raised in the wilderness, but I hail from a small town and spent the remainder of my youth (when not watching TV) being the outdoor type. I did as a youngster, never want to move to the bright lights of the city as the mere idea of would have been thoroughly repugnant, however once I had tried and failed with most of the women in my home town of Harrogate, the odds of success on this 'front' looked a lot greater once I decided to move to a larger community.

I lost my trusty penknife years ago.

My Hiking boots were binned after they started to rot.

I no longer own a fleece.


I am now a city dweller, and I don't like it.

A partially blame Murray (my Tumor) and a practically blame my piggish insistence on wearing these god damned contact lenses.

To reinforce my love for all things outdoor, we took part in a great passion of mine that I had long since forgotten; making and playing with fires.
The childish delight in my eyes was there for all to see.

I was a bit rusty but I'd lit a thousand fires before. This was day 2 (proper) and we had driven out to the Campbell Family Loch. Its location was top secret and Lisa and I were forced by Messers Stock and Jeeve to wear blindfolds.

When we arrived and the cholorphorm had worn off we found ourselves amongst the trees and sheep. The weather was cool but not cold, but I chose to remain under the comfort of my lucky Spurs Bobble Hat (sans bobble). After negotiating a stile and a waterlogged field, we were waterside. The loch's tranquility and stillness was a refreshing sight to behold.

It wasn't long before Steve started to collect twigs and branches in order to make a start on a fire and piled them up in the designated spot. I found a lighter and the bracken and newspaper used as kinderling was soon slowly smoldering away. The wood was mostly damp so it took a while for it to get going. Lisa, Stock and Jeeve spread out foraging for firewood whilst i designated myself the role of chief watcher of fire, ensuring that it is kepy going. This wasn't laziness, despite it no doubt appearing this way, I was transfixed by flames as they licked into the oxygen soaked air. I felt like Gollum but looked like Compo.

It brought to mind a plethora of fire related anecdotes, that despite not wanting to witter on in my usual way for sake of annoying the hell out of my companions I was unable to stop myself.

We sipped ice-cold cans of Miller ingeniously left in a carrier bag under the water by Lisa.


A short while later once enough wood had been fetched, our hosts appeared on the Loch in a small row boat. Huzzzzar!

I was convinced that I should vacate my fire watching post to participate in a bit of rowing with Steve. It was very romantic.
As we slowly glided across the still water all that you could hear was the oars splashing into the cold lake and the distant murmur of the lady companions, oh and my Captain's dismay of a faulty rollicks. After successfully changing sides on the boat it was my turn to row.

Once back at the fireside and my beer, it was all hands on deck to get more wood. Well when I say all hands on deck, it was just Steve who bravely ventured into the foreboding woods nearby. Lisa was incredibly useful at poking and containing the fire with her stick. Her enthusiasm brought out a new side in her I'd never seen or perhaps I was just giddy from the smoke, either way she impressed us all.

There is few better experiences a man can savor and enjoy that making fire and then pissing into a sheep's footprint left in the mud. It must have been cold as the steam from my piss rose almost as high as the smoke from our ever impressive fire. After my second can, I had filled up three hoof prints with my urine.

So how does the sophisticated city dweller that I have become convert himself back to the bumpkin he once was? And how much of a bumkin would i wish to be?

I would like to think that I would draw the line at bestiality- but if you haven't a got a Starbucks or Subway nearby, how else do you while away the hours?

The sky had already started to get darker by the time we trudged back to the car, and we all stank of smoke. We were once again blindfolded and sedated, and woke up as the car pulled into the driveway. A change of clothes and footware and we were in the local hotel for a few ales. Kronenberg was the beer of choice.
I discovered in the hours that followed that I have absolutely no talent at darts, despite convincing myself that perhaps I did.

Perhaps my lack of darts playing ability stems from my newly found city dweller status? After all both Steve and Lisa excelled at it?

Of course there was more noteable moments whilst away, and this will of course feature in due course, but I wanted to convey I wish to return to my more rustic roots and shun my metropolis.

A goat and a monkey indeed.

Murray and Mr. West

As reported yesterday, last night I went to Manchester to see Mr. Kanye West.

I left work earlier than usual. The brain tumor/hemorrhage I have convinced myself I have, was really starting to smart. I made a slight improvement back in the flat and eventually managed to convince myself that I wasn’t going to die, and that going to the gig would be a good idea. Of course Lisa’s enthusiasm for the gig helped spur me on, but I felt tired and unwell.

Having been a passenger on many of journeys to Manchester I felt happy to oblige and offer my services and give Sweet Jon-ay and Eve-e-o a lift in my* fine automobile. Lisa had taken the precaution of getting enough AA batteries from the various remote controls we have littered about our flat, so we could, in the absence of a car stereo, listen to her personal CD player through her portable speakers. It did the trick.

The journey itself went without a hitch which made a nice change Of course negotiating the multi-story carpark was a tad problematic, due to my inept driving skills and the fact that the Audi has the handling abilities of a Sherpa Tank. It wasn’t long before my head started to hurt again.

Once the car was eventually parked up after several comedy driving moments courtesy of myself, we headed towards the Arena passing several clutters of make-up caked teenagers looking excited and shifty- cigarettes and cider most probably.

Due to the headache, I started to feel a little flat it was agreed that beverages should be acquired. Of course, since I was driving a beer was out of the question. This made the 15 minutes queue feel worse. Whilst queuing I had time to observe the variety of people in attendance. It did seem that there was an awful lot of 14-17 year old girls. Hiding their acne with several inches of make-up, wondering through the crowd in procession, arms linked together and enough metal in their teeth to repair the Titanic. Alongside these mini skirted Lolita’s was a truck load of Chav lads. Top Man and Burton’s clothing was in abundance. (shudder) Alongside these fashionably unaware, were the middle class whit hip hops fans, complete with clichéd sideways baseball caps and Elizabeth Duke jewellery. There was also a small contingency of young fans there with a parent or older sibling, savoring the atmosphere sporting their newly purchased Kanye Merchandise that will now doubt take the remainder of the year to pay off. There was spores of the tradional looking Hip Hop fans, young black men donned in Wu Wear and other such expensive sports attire. The odd Emo kid was spotted and I even saw the odd student wearing their obligatory scarf- despite the uncomfortably warm temperature.

There was also a lot of ladies wearing mini skirts.

Whislt waiting and categorizing the other punters, my right eye started to hurt. I subtly try to rub it without disturbing my contact lense. I failed, and I could feel it sticking out of the right hand corner of my eye. Lisa spotted it immediately and I removed it. Alas, as I have only just managed to put them in with the aid of a mirror when they come fresh from their packaging, I knew attemopting to re-insert it was a fool hardy gesture. I tried. I failed. Jon, Eve, Lisa and I watched it fall from my awkward finger onto the grubby M.E.N floor. Bugger. I was now blind in one eye.

Eve bravely suggests retrieving it, and putting it in my mouth in order to recite my sudden inconvenience but IK decide against it.

My head hurts more now than ever. Of course Lisa’s attentions turn to her and my friend’s impending safety as passengers in my car. I think my erratic car park maneuvers had flustered them. Having a driver suffering from a brain tumor who could only see out of one eye did not install a metric ton of trust. I irritably assured her I was fine and continued rubbing my eye.

Finally we get to the front of the queue and because I was feeling lousy I was seduced buy the idea that a hotdog would be a good idea, washed down with a litre of Fanta. The Fanta, I hoped would give me a much needed kick start as, in my youth its consumption would always send me a little hypo active.

When we eventually found the section where we were to be seated. It was high up. Very HIGH up. We were “up in the Gods” as it were. We were forced to make the entire row stand up in order for us to reach our designated seats. I apologized most profusely with a mouth full of hotdog, mustard and ketchup decorating my beard. When we finally made it, we dusted the snow off our seats and parked our arses until our nosebleeds finally stopped.

It wasn’t long before the Kanye West show started. Oddly, he chose to open the set by playing one of his videos before making his entrance, whilst his 14peic all female orchestra took up their positions and look nervous. Of course, being blinded in my right eye made it very difficult for me to actually see if they were nervous or not, but that was my impression.

Ahhh. The show was good. Only blighted by the girls in front of J,E & L who decided to dance badly throughout. Also a few technical difficulties Kanye experience, blaming the VT guy, Monitor guy, Sound guys, DJ etc. But it was good. I chose not to stand though until almost the very end. I wasn’t in the mood to sway. After all, my standard gig position is to fold my arms, pint in hand and not my head subtly. It was quite amusing to see young white scally lads stood up, donning their hoods and baseball caps, throwing some rather lame Vanilla Ice style moves.

During one instrumental interlude, I decide to name my tumor Murray.

Jon commented whilst Kanye decided to milk the crowd and dance, that he passed a remarkably resemblance to Carlton banks from The Fresh price of Bel Air (Alfonzo Ribera). He was spot on, he really did! Oh Alfonzo where are you now?

Anyway, it was good, and even the 40 minute wait to leave the carpark wasn’t too bad I suppose, although I had more tricky car park maneuvers to make yet again.
I’m off to the land of Scotland tonight for a Withnil & I type break (we’ve come on holiday by mistake). Thankfully I’m the only one of us ho knows the dialogue to the film on an unhealthy level, therefore it’ll stop me from regaling the same lines over and over and over again as I do on every trip to the countryside. Therefore won’t be in work until Wed, therefore I’ve been ensuring that all my work is sorted before I leave…the hand towels have been loaded up in the toilet and the dishwasher has been emptied…another job satisfactorily done..

brain tumor

I've been blighted with a headache since Sunday.
It hurts and I'm now contemplating how my life will change if, as I suspect, I have an inopperable brain tumor.
This needs further thought, but it makes my head turn more.
When you're feeling low, and your headhurts and you find yourself grumpier than ususal, there is nothing better than a trip to the Manchester Evening news Arena.
Kanye West I have high hopes for you sir.
On a more cheerful note, today is the anniversay of Fidel Castro becoming the Premier of Cuba...woot!
Anyway, despite my usual willingness to waffle on at alarminly exssesive lengths, I'm keeping it short today. I've got work to do today.Fat Karen is on training, although she did her ususal "I'm off to Sayers" at 8.45 am to get a slice of toast for her and Tom (kiss arse) and doesn't come back to the office until well after 9.10am stinking of smoke.
Happily though she isn't makling the toast here although we have a toaster and fridge etc. You wouldn't beleive the mess she used to make every moring when she used to cook it here, and who'd end up cleaning up after her-yes muggins here.
Sean's in fine fettle though- he must have finally worked out how to access the porn channels last night.
Anyway, hopefully I'll live through the night to bring you up to speed on tonight's events tomorrow.
Untill then, take care of yourself and each other....


Also I'm working on getting my pictures back up- I don't know why and where they went but I AM AWARE OF THIS- SO STOP SENDING ME EMAILS ABOUT IT!!!!

You can't curry love

t'was the day after the night before.

The office appears to be quite buoyant today, as no doubt the majority of my esteemed colleagues indulged in the obligatory Valentine's Day carnal activities the night before with their respective wives/partners, as they all seem to been tres cheerful, of course, with the exception of Sean. He is as stressed and cranky as ever. Thus far he has failed to laugh at anyone's jokes and flat refused to be made a coffee this morning. As I look across my desk at him now, he's looking very worryingly at his computer monitor and whilst holding his chin is shaking his head with a look of disbelief. Of course Sean is the only singleton in the office, and Valentine’s day does little more than to emphasise loneliness to the single dwellers amongst us. In fact it's only really enjoyed by couples celebrating their first valentines day together.

It's a woman's thing.

It's American.

It's gotten out of hand.

Fat Karen, as far as we know, is also single. She left her husband last year of some 25 years as she was having an affair with someone she'd met in an internet chat room. Of course, this was a very difficult personal time for her and her family, and although I'm not exactly her greatest fan I felt genuine sympathy for her. Naturally I was the only one to do so.
When she left the office once to answer her mobile phone after it had happened and returned looking very upset, she decided to have a smoke in the rear car park to calm herself down. Lee's comment upon seeing her in this state was "sort your head out". He didn't say it to her face as no one is brave enough to do such a thing here, it’s all done behind the victim's back, or in my case written down on the internet.

I recall that I stuck up for her and explained her predicament, he then informed me of the FULL story, and without wanting to judge her, my sympathy did wane somewhat. I also encountered the phrase "you don't bring your personal problems to work" for the first time.
I wonder what they would have said behind my back when i took seven weeks off work to be near my mum when she was at death's door?

Funnily, I was having a chat with her (Fat Karen that is not my Mum) the other day, and she explained that her teenage daughter turned up at her flat in Southport saying she'd had enough of living with her dad and wanted to live with her. She was so pissed off with this, and told her 15 year old that she couldn't live with her. I had to look impassive as she told me this for fear of reprisal. Again, I don't know the full story there but it's not exactly going to win her Mum of The Year.

I do actually still feel sorry for her sometimes, but not often, it’s usually repulsion. The sight of her hideously long and over manicured fingernails on her exceptionally fat fingers, covered in the orange fragments of Wotsits whilst she talks with her mouth open on her mobile, coughing and spluttering away is enough to make me want to take the 2litre bottle of Pepsi she always has on her desk, and club her to death with it.

Either way, Fat Karen isn't in today.
She's off sick.
On the office’s whiteboard someone has rather sardonically written:

"Karen- Off Sick- Abscessed tooth"

Everyone's been grumbling about this (except myself and Early Doors Gerry), and they've got a fair point. Bob heroically pointed out that he's had an abscessed tooth for ages and has visited the dentists on several occasions during his lunch break during the last few weeks and he doesn't indulge himself in such luxuries as 'sick days'. To which I replied that at his age it doesn't matter, as I doubted he has no feeling left on the left hand side of his face anyway. Oh how we all laughed...except Sean who was still looking bemused with his usual rye smile and a shake of the head as he plows through further emails.

I believe that my colleagues are all thinking the same: She was either up all night emailing some sad twat in Surrey or Warwickshire, or she was out on the lash, either way she's not going to be missed as she is rarely in the office anyway, the only noticeable difference is there isn't the smell of Ciggies/perfume/cat piss/toast.

Last night, I made the whole Valentines Day effort. I got a card and present for Lisa. What could say 'I Love You' better than the gift of a Tropical Fish Shaped Shower Radio, several games of shit head whilst drinking Cava and over indulging on a fabulous Take Away Curry? Who said romance was dead?

Alas, Lisa didn't get home from work until nearly 7.20pm, and I made the school boy error of putting the dead lock on the flat door....again...ooops. This is without question, one of Lisa's pet hates "You know how much you get pissed off when you see people reading Harry Potter on the train- locking me out of the flat is the same deal for me" Fair enough. To make matters worse when she came in, the rose petals weren't exactly lining the stairs, rather i was sat on my arse enjoying a can of beer whilst playing ISS 5 Pro Evo listening to Slint. Thankfully my charm, once again, rescued the situation.

Anyway, I’ve now had this headache for three days. A brain tumour does not sound unlikey.

My stock is falling.

I must admit, I'm actually quite proud of myself today. Not only have I knuckled down to some hard graft, but I've also resisted the my usual derogatory remarks and sarcastic comments to my fellow shlums and have even abstained from going on the internet (fist cup of tea at 9am excluded of course). Not something to wrote home about, granted, but worthy of noting here.

The office is in a very tranquil state. Sean, possibly due to his extended weekend is in a most pleasant mood. This doesn't mean he's skipping around the office with a smile on his face, rather his face hasn't get gone crimson the vain on his head isn't throbbing and he hasn't slammed his pen on his desk muttering "this place is a f***ing joke". This is a good sign.
Tom has been away from the office for the majority of the morning today too and therefore i haven't been asked to stable frickin' pieces of paper, or photocopy two pieces of paper or something equally pedantic for him. I feel I should point out, in his defence, since my return to work after my lengthy absense, Tom has conveniently for me, now directed all of his petty little tasks to Mike instead. I feel no remorse about this, especially as Mike is to be jumping ship soon.

Lee is in a bit of a fluster though. Usually I can get on with him the easiest of all the office staff as he's the only one anywhere near my age group, and in a previous life, was a musician back in Bury (he knew Elbow apparently-though when I met them non of them knew him)- a bass player no less. He's got what I would refer to as a text book music taste, he like the classics; Marvin Gaye, Led Zeppelin, Stone Roses, etc. Nothing too risky. He's also bought into the Artic Monkeys phenomenon hook, line and sinker. When I said it's good- he immediately responded with "it's better than good! It's genius". A little over zealously to say the least. We also had a debate on the merits of Channel 4's the IT Crowd as he thinks it's a big pile of “student silly pap” and that My Name Is Earl is "genius".

For the records please let it be known I like My name is Earl. Infact, I told everyman and his dog to watch it because of Jason Lee, who as you may already be aware, appeared in a handful of Kevin Smith films and was the best thing in each one. My only reservation is that it's not very funny. The IT Crowd on the other hand; I just find a 'silly' and a refreshing change from all the 'clever comedies' The Office etc al that I watch, as no matter how good they are they rarely make you laugh out loud, which is sometimes what I want. Belly laughs galore! I'm a laughter junkie.

So he's good chap to have around the office. Unfortunately he's a bit of a stress head. I have no doubts, he would have been the type of kid who would have panicked and started his homework the day it was given to him, rather than the night before as I chose to do. Clearly this work ethos has been beneficial to him as he's a home owner, new car owner and is content with his social status and cat, however, this dedication can make him appear a tad rude from time to time.

I suppose the last thing you want when you've got a tight deadline to meet is a hairy sod like me waffling on about my dislike for mayonnaise or as an example of yesterday's discussion, why people who buy mixed frozen vegetables are chumps. –(I am a scintillating conversationalist am I not?) His response is not to acknowledge me and just continue to stare at the computer.

When I first started here, the division between the 'workers' and 'the slackers' was clear for all to see. I was recruited to the 'workers' side and enjoyed late afternoons slagging off Fat Karen’s skiving, and Gerry 'early doors' lack of effort and commitment. However, since November/October time, no one has confided in me about the unfairness of the work loads, or why Dave is always conveniently out on a site visit when his lunch break comes-(this was a really contentious issue at the time). The balance has shifted. I am now one of the slackers and a rarely make the tea. My stock is falling.

It's going to take more than wearing an ironed shirt and abstaining from the sarcasm to get back in the good books of my fellow colleagues. Perhaps they've stumbled across this blog? Perhaps they’ve hacked into my computer when I wasn't here and read what I’ve written about them? Perhaps they've heard me masturbating in the toilet? Either way, I plan to show them I can be a model employee. I'm just going to check My Space first though...

Most jobs I've had (27 and counting) I have tried my best to impress the boss or supervisor, it’s in my nature to, at first aim to please. The only exception to this was when I first started my three year hell at the Abbey National Insurance Customer Service Department. As I had only planned to work there for a couple of months I felt the sucking up to one's superiors was unnecessary. Carmel was the room’s co-ordinator and everyone slightly feared her and kissed her arse. Her birthdays the team leaders who several hours earlier would have been bitching about her, would gather round her desk and each give her a individual present. It was vomit inducing.

In my books she was okay I guess, a fat lady though, but not fat in the same way as Fat Karen. Karen eats none stop and drinks 2 litres of coke a day, whilst Carmel, in public at least, always appeared to be on a diet, not that it ever showed. Her main job was to sit in the room (which they laughably referred to as studio 4) and make sure that the teams were working hard. It was almost Dickensian really.

If, for example your phone was in the 'not ready' status and there were calls waiting, she would politely and with a smile on her chubby face ask "is everything okay?" to which the culprit would either apologise, stating they didn't realise, or say they were doing follow up work. Either way, in response she would ask them sternly but nicely, to answer a call. Often people referred to her as The Smiling Assassin, and there were rumours that she was sacked in her last job for bullying. I didn't believe this nor did I give a crap.
She would often ask me "is everything okay" my usual response was "yes thanks, how are you" and then look away and casually answer a call several moments later. The thing was though, every time I responded in this way she would laugh- loudly. This was my response every time for the first few months.

She would also ask how I was, and my usual response was "crap. I hate this job", again her response was to laugh loudly…too loudly for my liking. I'm assuming that she thought I was a card or a joker, but as you’ll probably know yourself, I am neither. I was genuinely unhappy that after 4 years of working towards an art degree I was working in an insurance call centre speaking to idiots all day, hiding in the toilets to avoid work, and getting the piss taken out of me on ‘Dress Down Friday’ as I didn’t wear a tracksuit. “You’re clothes are jarg!” or “My top is worth more than your house” etc etc.

If anything, my honest response to her questions, and always using foul language somehow, I think, did me a favour. Within a month I was embarrassingly made the "Brand Hero" -the Abbey Nat's employee of the week. I don't know how I managed it. I think it had something to do with my telephone voice. Coming from Harrogate had fro the first time been beneficial rather than a cause of discontent.

As the years went by, I slowly conformed and became part of the establishment, although never fully. My scruffyness and sarcasm always kept me out of that crowd.

Several months before I left I was covering for Elaine, my team leader, and noticed that some of the advisors were in the 'not ready status' and as instructed, I was forced to go up to them and ask them to take some calls. Her response was "who the fook do you think you are? You’re not a team leader". Fair point I thought. Of course this didn't endear them to me and that I was starting to alienate myself further. I realised that I had joined the darkside and was being slowing carved into a bigger cog on the Abbey National General Insurance Wheel. I left shortly afterwards with no job to go to. I had escaped with most of my sanity left.

So perhaps I shouldn’t try too hard to get back into my team's goodbooks as it will no doubt make me unhappier.

Perhaps a few more hours on My Spage wouldn't hurt.

lived a man who sailed to sea

Another weekend, and unfortunately yet another cause for sadness for me and my kin as my Uncle Terry (Grandma's brother) passed away on Saturday at his York home. The cause of death has been determined as an Heart Attack, furthering the inevitability that I too shall leave my mortal coil at some point in the future (hopefully another 50 years or so) due to the hereditary heart problems both sides of my family suffer from. Either that or the hereditary cancer which also blights our family.

Without wishing to sound too morbid, or make light of yet another onion in the ointment, but I feel the sword of Damocles dangling above my head. I really ought to cut down on the cholesterol riddled cheese I consume on a daily basis and perhaps take the clothes off our exercise bike and put it to good use. This could be a fitting epitaph for me "we told him that the cheddar would kill him, but would he give it up?"

As planned I paid a visit to my mother yesterday at my Grandparent's abode and as you would imagine it was a sombre yet philosophical mood which greeted me when I arrived around 12ish. My poor grandparents have really had a rough few months of late-as we all have and this was certainly the last thing they, or any of us needed.

I can only ever recollect seeing my Uncle Terry at Weddings/Family functions, which when I was young was a very frequent occurrence, and he was always very funny and the life and soul. He also enjoyed a drink, and I remember chatting to him at my nana’s wake, re-introducing myself -not having seen him for about ten years. He was alarmed and surprised to see a 22 year old man before him with stubble and a paunch, and when I told him that the big lump stood next to me was Adam, he had a great comic facial reaction -the equivalent of a "F*** me!!!!". He insisted on buying us both a drink, and looked at me with incredible disappointment when I requested a pint of larger rather than a traditional pint of bitter. He told us he couldn't stand the stuff after a particular Christmas Eve when he consumed in excess of 12 pints of the fizzy beer, and the following Christmas day he was so rough he spent most of it in bed nursing a hangover from hell. His wife, Auntie Pam remembered this with a smile on her face. I remember this especially, as I thought of the trouble one would get into with one's wife/partner/Family should this occur. My mum always regaled stories of how Uncle Terry could down a pint in less than two seconds, I guess this act of heroics inspired Adam's record breaking Steinlar guzzling at the Harrogate Arms years later. He also had a tattoo on his forearm of a swallow which had long since started to fade and be concealed by the fair hair which grewupon his arm. Unlike today, tattoos were not a common sight so they always interested me; Uncle Brian's and Uncle Gary's especially. Notably, he and Auntie Pam were the first to send a card to my mum when she was admitted to Hospital recently.

The journeys back and forth to my Grandparents were particularly dull. The lack of radio in my automobile is starting to have its effects on me and my mental state. The only noise to accompany me on the journey is the whistling of the air vents/heater and the extremely noisy rear windscreen wiper. After about an hour of driving the car's noises start to resemble songs and conversation. After another half hour I start to argue with it. By the time I arrive at my Grandparent’s idyllic village, the car and I are no longer on speaking terms. On route home, we had made up and I shly sang at my car's request. I don't know the words to many songs, so it was a poor performance but the car acknowledged my valiant efforts and duly reward me by powering me home at great speeds. The car especially loved my rendition 'The Yellow Submarine' which was sang with gusto and featured sound effects and an sloppy impression of Sir Ringo Starr. This tired me out and when I arrived home I was spent and my throat hurt.
The M62 late at night can do strange things to a man.