Paperback Wiper (the jig was up)

The new office, despite having more space and access to natural light does have its down sides. Obviously my recently acquired fear of the militant cleaners is one but I have also been embroiled in a long drawn out battle of wits with the security staff who work here and their jobs-worthy-pedantic ness. When I regaled these recent events to Lisa she was quite astute in commenting that I'm not happy unless I'm involved in a on going dispute with someone and of course she is dead right.
I'm going to resist detailing the incidents and my hollow victories for the time being, as at present there is more pressing concerns- namely the office toilets.

Having come from a small pokey office with just one toilet, we now have to share a toilet with the other departments on our floor. It's your standard shared toilet set up with the option of using either one of the five urinals or one of the five cubicles. We also have the option of using hand towels or the hand dryer, although the latter only worked on the first week and has sadly been defunct since. Like I said, this is fairly standard for an office of this size, but without wishing to be too graphic, they smell bad...real bad. Worse than they ought to- you know; service station bad.

To be totally honest it has rocked my ethos that I could "go anywhere" on which I have been more than keen to share with people when toilet etiquette is brought into conversation, which actually happens more often than you'd think. For starters I'm fully versed on the daily toilet schedules of all my close friends and actually learned at the weekend that two friends, who happen to be twin sisters, both hover when they use the toilets at work!
Anyway getting back to the matter in hand, the toilets on our floor aren't good and have been duly noted by all- so much so it was brought up during a team meeting last week. I made a wise crack about peeing in the room with padded walls (the elevators) which got belly laughs all round.

Since moving into this office six weeks ago I have been using the disabled toilet located near the elevators as my own private stall. It's very much like our old office toilets, spacious and it has the handy emergency chord. At first I was unsure as to whether I should use this toilet or not, but once I'd seen our strategic director use it I figured that if it was good enough for our scary head honcho it would be okay for me too. I do feel ever so slightly guilty about it though and certainly haven't told my colleagues, this would no doubt end up as disgustingly smelly and pube laden as the 'shared' facilities. It was my own personal place of solitude…well, the directors and mine.

As these toilets are near to the elevator and the entrance to the corridor there are often people milling about near to my sanctuary, so I have often waited around pretending to use my phone until I'm sure the coast is clear. I also listen ever so intently to ensure no one sees me leave or to make sure no one can hear the 'splash down' as using my patented courtesy flush is obviously out of the question. This has proved to be a unpleasant task at times as I clench with all my might whilst I can hear clearly fellow employees chatting at length through the thin walls, begging for them to shove off. The blessed sound of the corridor door closing followed by a couple of seconds of silence it the most blissful sound in the world followed very shortly by the most blissful feelings in the world. Thankfully because of similar experiences at some of my previous jobs, my bowels and anus are a particularly resolute team. Thus far there has been no problems.

Today, alas I feared the jig was up. At my usual 11 o’clock bowel movement I trundled down the corridor towards the toilet. Perhaps I am getting complacent; I had made the schoolboy error and left my glasses at my desk so my vision wasn't 100%. In hindsight I can see I was ill prepared for the mission. I walked out of the door and on to the landing. The coast appeared to be clear. I grabbed the handle to the toilets and was half way in when from nowhere a woman came bounding down the stairs.

I panicked and let go of the door dramatically, stepped back and looked down the stairs as if I was trying to find someone. I then proceeded to walk down them slowly looking confused and avoiding eye contact with this woman. I could vaguely see the woman stop and look at me from the corner of my eye. I was acting very suspiciously if I do say so myself. It was clear I was doing something I shouldn’t. Sadly, I didn't get to see her face as without my glasses I am blind, all I know was that her face looked kind of blurry and she was wearing red.

Thoroughly busted, I held my breath and ventured into the communal toilets.

I stepped in and almost stepped back out again. The smell of bleach and warm urine made me shudder like Homer Simpson and it stung my eyes. I chose the cubicle furthest away from the entrance because it didn’t have any ‘left overs’ floating in the water and someone had courteously left a newspaper. The Lord takes with one hand but gives with the other-or something like that. After wiping the seat with some loo roll, (because we all know cheap toilet paper kills all germs) I sat down, relaxed and picked up the paper. Suddenly I heard the main door swing open and someone rush into the stall next to mine, lock the door and pull their trousers down in a hurry and let rip.

'keeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfffttt-rrrrspallllllllllt-thhhhblurrpt- t-t-t-t-t-t- thurrrrpppppppfeeeeechet-t-t-t!!!!!!!!'

It was the worst sound I have ever heard in my goddamned life.

I shook my head in disgust, pulled up my pants and with the newspaper under my arms retreated to disabled toilet.

This time the coast was clear.

I sat down and read the newspaper (the Metro) and lamented the fact that I hadn't stuck with the courage of my convictions and just used the disabled toilet in the first place.

I also remembered my pre thought out alibi that I concocted when I first started to use it; in case of being caught just pretend that I'm getting some paper towels as there wasn't any in the communal toilets. I cursed myself for not recalling this earlier. This would have been the perfect excuse as there has been a lot of grumblings in the building about the lack of paper and hand drying options. I have my own theories on this; that somehow the security staff and the cleaners are in cahoots and no one has the balls to confront Geronimo and Co and ask for them to provide more hand towels. I think they may be selling the spare towels on the black market or something.

Anyhow, I proceeded to 'do' my business and finished off reading the paper. “All’s well that ends well” I thunked.

Then as if it was some poor low rate teen American gross out comedy, I reached over to my right and noticed there were no effing toilet roll!!!! Eeeek!!! I immediately looked for the hand towels- which whilst not being a perfect replacement are the next best thing….AGGGGG!!!! Nothing!!

My first impression was that the blurry woman in red had deliberately removed these items so that I couldn't use the facilities in an act of pettiness so deplorable it was on a par with some of my recent escapades. Then it occurred to me that perhaps, someone had noticed that there was no paper towels or loo roll in the gent's toilet and taken...sorry stolen them from MY toilet! Whatever the reasons, I was without the appropriate paraphernalia needed.
I had taken my eye off the ball for a second and I was, pardon the pun: in the shit.
For a moment I contemplated pulling the emergency cord.

Because of the sloppiness of my excrement, pulling up my trousers and walking down the stairs to the gents to wipe was out of the equation, so I did the only thing I felt appropriate in the situation and used the newspaper. I felt guilty wiping my backside on the picture of the malnutritioned African on the cover, so turned to the back pages....Jose Mourinio....Perfect!!!!

This may surprise you but this certainly isn’t the first time I’ve substituted toilet paper with newspaper but it had been a while so I had forgotten about newspaper’s flushing capabilities and it did require several time consuming re-flushes. Of late, I have become especially wary of the length of time it take a toilet cistern to refill- this was discovered whilst in the midst of my courtesy flush insistence- so I was very careful as not to flush prematurely. Whilst I waited for the cistern to refill it occurred to me that had it not been for the mysterious woman in red, I would have been without even a newspaper and would have been up shit creek without a paper (groan). I felt somewhat relieved and chuckled to myself quietly.

Once I’d finished the cycle of flushes, I hid the what was left of the newspaper, washed my hands drying them on my trousers and opened the door at least a stone lighter than I was before I’d started this mission.

As I stepped out of the toilet, the unmistakable blurred silhouette of our strategic director came storming in my direction.
I froze with fear.

My first thought was that he must have been waiting for me and would be furious at being kept waiting! I felt my bowel and anus tighten again.
Mercifully he walked right passed me, smiled and went into the toilet locking the door behind him.

“I hope you find the newspaper” I chuckled under my breath.

As I walked back to my desk, I thought about the tale of the mouse and the lion and how the little old mouse helped the ferocious lion by removing the thorn from his paw. It certainly improved the mouse’s life to have such a gracious and powerful friend.

"I could be the mouse" I thought.

Should really go back and put some sheets of paper under the door, or offer some assistance to the guy?

Nah! Being a twat is its own reward!


MP3:

Richard
James- My Arse Is On Fire

The
Beatles-Paperback Wiper

Three Muffins- A tale of Remorse

Returning to the familiar guise of being a twat, I've been reveling in my own unpleasantness the past few days. I'M BACK BABY- I'M BACK!

This was mostly inspired by an office cake incident this week to bring out the inner twat..

On Tuesday I inadvertently ate someone's cream cake which happened to belong to the current bain in my life. It was an honest mistake- but the nicest cake I've ever eaten.

Traditionally, the colleague who was celebrating their birthday has always bought the team cream cakes, and on Tuesday birthday felicitations went out to our boss. We were informed that we each had a designated cake waiting for us in the fridge and to ask his PA as to which cake is theirs. This sounded tremendous, though the allotting of specific cakes confused me somewhat.

Moments later, I overheard a conversation between said PA and a friendly manager.

"Am I okay to help myself to a cake Sue?"
"Of course- just wait a second...” She checked a piece of paper.
"Take anyone you want- except the chocolate muffin- that’s mine" she said politely but firmly.
"Great- thanks!" He replied, and trundled off towards the kitchen rubbing his stomach in anticipation.

Five minutes later another member of staff.
"Am I okay to help myself to a cake Sue?"
"Of course- just wait a second...” She checked a piece of paper again.
"Take anyone you want- except the chocolate muffin- that’s mine" she said in the same tone as before.

I waited ten minutes and ask the same question.
"Oh, I'm sorry Matt, but I've designated a cake to everyone who asked for one yesterday"
“But you said Neil and Lee could have anyone”
“Yes but he said they didn’t mind what cake he had when the team was asked yesterday”
"Oh. But I was on leave yesterday"
She gave me a guilty look and a shrug of shoulders
"Well, we wanted to make sure that we didn't buy too many. Just wait a second and I'll see if we've got any spares"

She walked in to the Director's office with her precious piece of paper leaving me feeling like a mook. I could feel that I was rolling my eyes and grimacing.

She came back in still looking guilty.
"We bought a few spare ones so you could have one" she said reluctantly.
"Great!" I said trying not to sound too needy.
"What's probably best is that you wait until later this afternoon and see what's left once everyone's had one."
"Wha....oh??? Okay" I smiled harshly and stomped over to my desk.
"Who the fook does she think she is, and cream bun nazi!" I thought.
Not being the petty man I am often mistaken for, I decided not to let it get to me and tried not to think about it, however after my brief spell as being a pious son of a bitch, I wanted as much cake as I could eat. I had a thirst for cream.

Time ticked on.

Upon my return from lunch, I saw a note on my desk from said PA which read:

"had to leave early today…"

I dealt with this note as I always deal with pointless tit bits of information she gives me and binned it wondering why she bothered to tell me- like I give damn.

I decided to stretch my legs and went over to the kitchen where two colleagues were making a cup of tea and talking about cakes.

"A'wight Matt" said Sean
"Ho Ho you better be making me a brew...make sure you stir it slowly to the left" I exclaimed.
"OI! you Cheeky little bleeder!" Bob retorted.
(This was usual office banter. I say something sarcastic or cheeky, and Bob shakes his fist at me and refers to me as a cheeky Yorkshire swine etc.)
"Have you had a cake yet?"

I signed and told them I was on the waiting list for one and explained.

"It's a cake not a bleedin' kidney" Bob declared.
"Just take one, who does she think she is?" Sean quipped.
"She's a cake Nazi" I remarked.

I decided to wait in a moment of honest to God compassion and consideration for my colleagues. For all I knew Karen or Tony could have been waiting all day for their cake, and for me to stroll in and wolf it down as funny as it would be, wouldn't be right. "What would Saint Matt the Pious do?" I thought.

Upon returning to my desk I was in conflict but soon figured ole St Matt the Pious would probably take one and scoff it greedily with his steaming hot cup of tea (stirred as requested ; slowly and to the left).

I re-entered the kitchen as there was four cakes left. 1. Vanilla Slice, 2. Choc Eclairs and 1 Chocolate Muffin. I was a no brainer, but I was conflicted. Perhaps this is Sue's muffin? But reasoned that she would have eaten it during the morning, brought it home or even hidden or labelled it. In any event surely she’d have bought more than one of this variety when she was sent on her little mission to buy them.

With a shrug of my shoulders I grabbed the chocolate muffin and brought it to my desk.
It was fantastic. A thick chocolate muffin with its top removed and a think layer of real cream piled on, with the muffin's lid resting eloquently on top of this calorie laden snack. I gave me a semi.

The next day at work I had forgotten about the muffin, but as Sue approached me with an unhappy expression on her face I recalled my actions.

"Matt?"
"Yep!"
"I don't want to seem churlish, but which cake did you eat yesterday?"
She looked embarrassed to have to ask me.

Now I could have explained my dilemma, and apologised, but as I'm especially poor at either of these and doing so I could envisage myself offering to go and buy her another one, so I lied.

"Oh- I didn't have one"
"Oh."
"Why? Is everything okay?"
"Well, I'd made sure that I bought a Chocolate cream muffin for me as they are my absolute favourite, but someone's taken it"
She said ‘favourite’ like she was a child. This irked me.

"Ohhh." I tried to look empathetic
"Have you asked the rest of the team?"
"Oh it doesn't matter.... it was probably someone from another department. I knew I should have written my name on it-…bother! I was really looking forward to it." she skulked off mumbling about getting one on her dinner break.

My guilt was overridden by a fantastic feeling of victory. I sat back in my chair and put my hands behind my head with a broad smile on my face.

That dinner break I went for a walk. I was some how drawn to the cake shop like a moth to the flame. I was being sucked in like the Millennium Falcon into the Death Star. All the while Sue’s voice was ringing around my head “I’ll get one on my dinner break…I’ll get one on my dinner break…”

I walked passed Sayers.
They had one solitary chocolate muffin in the window looking at me.
It was last bun in the shop.
“Don’t do it” my conscious cried, but it was too late.
I went in, paid for it and scoffed it on the way back to the office, looking around to ensure I hadn't been spotted.

In truth it didn't taste as good as the 'stolen' bun. In fact I felt a little sick. Remorse and chocolate are a lethal combination,

An hour or so later, after my obligatory 20 minute daily toilet break, I returned to my desk. Sitting next to my phone was a chocolate muffin from Sayers.

"What the...?!!!"

I looked around and everyone was quietly getting on with their work except Sue who was grinning at me like a loon.

She walked over.

"Is this from you?" I asked
"Yes- well it's a long story, but I felt sorry that I'd accused you of taking my muffin earlier on today."
"Oh....you didn't have to. Thank you very much."
I felt sick as a pike.
"Well I felt terrible. It was that I was so down in the dumps this morning because of yesterday."
I look perplexed.
"...my mother? Sorry, I thought I’d written a note to say my mother had been rushed into hospital- that's why I had to leave early."
"Oh sorry- of course. How is she?" I bluffed.
"…well not too good if truth be told. She had a heart attack and at her age (90) it’s not a good sign”
I looked sympathetic, but really I was racked with guilt.
“...anyway, I went out on my lunch to buy a muffin, but they'd sold out! I was about to cry, but decided to get a taxi into town to get one."

"Really, ran out?..."
Christ I felt like a shit.

"yeah -well, I decided that it wasn't fair that you didn't get a cake yesterday” She smiled an angelic smile at me.
“The taxi cost me £5 though, they’re the most expensive cakes I’ve ever bought! So I hope you enjoy it."

I didn't.

Pious Matt is dead

Pious Matt is dead. Long live Matt the slovenly bafoon.Since my last bloggage, the blessed feast of Easter came and went. I attended mass and got into an argument with a member of staff at Subway beforehand. One's soul can't be cleaned on an empty stomach.

To celebrate the end of Lent I went on a bit of a bender down the ole Lark Lane. It was like getting the nod from Jesus himself to go out and get rendered, and like the pious God fearing fellow I am, I duly obliged.

My first pint (Pictured above) was, alas, a massive anti climax. I'm not ashamed to admit for a moment I thought my taste for alcohol had deserted me. Thankfully, by drink number 3 it was back baby, it was back!

Geronimo.

Geronimo.

The cleaners in our new office scare me

When I arrive in the building, usually just after 9 o'clock, they've almost finished their rounds and are stood around together with their tattoos and navy blue tabards, arms folded and looking surly near the entrance to the forth floor corridor.

There is this one particular cleaner, in her early forties who looks like she's the leader of the gang. She's tall and looks as strong as an ox. She has dark sun tanned skin, but unlike the majority of the women in this neck of the woods, it appears to be natural. With her shoulder length jet black hair she could easily pass for a Native American if you saw her from a distance.

I referred to her as Geronimo the other day on conversation, which got belly laughs from my co-workers.
The rest of the cleaners seem pretty standard really. Round friendly faces in jogging bottoms and cheap market style trainers. As I climb the stairs in the morning I try to say 'good morning' to the friendly looking ones, but avoid eye contact with the others.

It is when they are all together they look pretty damned fearsome. Several of these ladies have large visible tattoos on their upper arms and have their gold necklaces hanging over their institutional-styled tabards. They look like ex-cons. No doubt they see us office workers as "them" in a "us and them" divide. I've never been one of "them". I've always been one of "us". I now feel I belong to neither. Of course I was a cleaner for a while too, a long time ago. I cleaned a school every evening, my old school in fact. The cleaners there were a lot different. For a start there was only one woman who worked there and she was 17 and a stunner. We all fancied her. This lad called Will claimed to have been intimate with her, but I sincerely doubted it There was my friend Gibbo and some other guys of our age, an ex-squaddie in his mid to late fifties with a hunch back, blotted tattoos of naked women on his forearms and about a dozen ex-wives. He was the laziest man I've ever worked with. He taught me a lot.

Geronimo is the only one of our cleaners I have ever heard speak. Her voice is gravelly and quite deep. As time goes on, I can foresee her confronting staff on the mess they've left by their desk. If that's the case I'm a marked man. Yesterday morning Sean dropped my hole puncher, scattering the little white round circles of paper everywhere. As the day progressed, these were trod on and dispersed across the office. It looked a real mess. I half expected a severed head of a family member to be waiting for me on my desk when I arrived this morning.

There is this other cleaner though who I've seen speaking too. She looks by far the youngest- in her mid twenties perhaps. She has long ginger hair and is quite small, chubby and wears designer glasses. Infuriating I'm sure I know her from somewhere. I think she worked with me when I was an insurance advisor. The Insurance company ran two separate training groups for new starters. I was in the dull group with older recruits and it was boring. Several of these fellow trainees had barely used a computer before and were all in their late fifties and consisted of ex policemen, a vicar's wife and a housewife who hadn't worked since 1985. Progress in this group was slow. The group was so dull that when our wacky trainer Dave, gave us the opportunity to listen to the radio whilst we plodded through the simple computer test- I was the only one who wanted it on. The other training group on the other hand consisted of 7 young, brassy girls and two frightened geeky looking guys. They were always laughing loudly and we'd always hear them in our training room which was laughably referred to by the company as a studio.

Once we'd all completed our four weeks training we are assigned teams and started a 3 month probationary period. In the first week the brassy girls took turns ringing my phone and laughing every time I answered it and hung up. I wasn't amused. It was embarrassing. As our phones were monitored, my team leader or manger must have heard this and mentioned it to their particular manger. Their irksome phone calls stopped. Later that week I was accused in front of thirty new colleagues as being a 'grass'. I protested my innocence but to little avail. It took me years to repair the damage they caused.

None of these girls made it through the probationary period and were all let go at some point for being unsuitable or something- perhaps they felt it was because of these prank phone calls, and therefore my fault? I'm really sure she is one of them. She's evolved into the second in command of a militant group of office cleaners. That's more on a progression that I've made!

I hope that if it is her, she doesn't remember me.

Things could get awkward I suppose.

Silent scourn refusal - The greatest human being ever

On my morning route to the train station over the past few days, I've noticed the increasing number of fellow commuters who feel the need to run to part of the way to the station.

Yesterday morning the familiar sound of quickened footsteps could be heard over the music from my headphones. The rapid beat of firm shoe heels on the asphalt accompanied by the sound of a tuppaware lunch box rattling within a bag and the jangling of keys and coins in a trouser pocket. I turned around to see from where this cacophony of sound effects was comining from. Very slowly a scrawny kid who couldn't have been no more that 23 years old, feebly ran right passed me. He had longish- almost gingerish hair, and his right foot pointed in a different direction than his left one. As he passed me I noticed that the back of his trousers had started to fray ever so slightly because they were just that little bit too long for him and were getting worn down on the pavement. He had a dark brown corduroy jacket and a over sized leather satchel. I had never seen him at the station before. He looked as if he was the sort of person who was picked on at school. Interestingly the corduroy jacket made no significant noise that I could detect.

He stopped running about twenty five metres ahead of me, clearly out of breath and broke into a walk. I continued to walk at the same steady pace, and within a minute or two I had over taken him. I felt no remorse and inwardly I punched the air victoriously.

We all have our talents and one of mine is being able to walk faster than most.

As I continued to walk towards the station under the huge beech trees' shade in the middle of the road, I looked back and he was almost out of sight.

As I grew closer to the station, another road adjoined to the one which I was speedily galloping down. More commuters joined the race. It is usually at this point I decide to pick up the pace. I didn't this time as I could see there was no queue to worry about.

Suddenly, and surprisingly the runner slowly ran passed me with his tired thin arms flailing about, his head back with his mouth open. He looked as if he was on the final stretch of a marathon. I couldn't help but admire his never say die attitude and his lack of inhibitions. Cruel thoughts entered my head and I could feel myself increasing my walking speed. Soon I had caught him up and we were side by side for nearly twenty seconds; me walking and him running. I felt I had toyed with him enough as we entered the Station's grounds and I slowed down, giving the runner some dignity. He lolloped ahead breathing heavily. I though to myself that I am perhaps the greatest human being of all time. Dignified, strong and yet merciful. I just hoped to God that he wasn't going to pay by credit card or cheque.

As i walked into the station, the runner was being served by the ticket seller, and had difficulty explaining where he wanted to travel to due to his breathlessness.

'A single to Brunswick'

This is the very next station on the route and I couldn't help wonder why after all his efforts he didn't just walk there himself as I and most people would have surely done. No doubt he had his motives.
When the ticket seller printed off his ticket, the runner quibbled with the 95p asking price- repeating it with a hint of disgust in his voice.

I noticed he had a southern accent. Possibly Kent.

Once he'd gone the ticket seller shook his head in contempt and I felt protective for the little bugger and refused to join in with the silent scorn.

Ha! Just because I’m sort-of-pious doesn’t mean I still can’t be a twat.

By my calculations I have uttered the sacred words of "I've got to get a better job than this" at least 11 times throughout the day thus far. This is not by any means a personal record, but higher than the average day.
With my head still clouded and dilapidated with this cursed man flu, my patience is wafer thin at present.

Firstly I had to endure a certain colleagues fussing over printer difficulties and the incessant mispronunciation of the word 'gobble-de-gook' preferring to refer to it as 'gobble-de-guck'. This, I was surprised to discover, is actually more irritating than hearing her mispronounce the word data - infuriatingly calling it daar-taar, which I think must be a way of trying to sound posher perhaps than she is? Perhaps it's naivety on her part? Either way, it cuts right through me.
I'm not especially fond of folk giving me a running commentary of what they are doing- especially when I have neither care nor interest in a banal subject such as printer gobble-de-gook.

To further rile me was an e-mail I received from our Director stating that during a three-month period last year I exceeded my job's capabilities. Huzzzar I thunked; I'm getting moved up a pay scale.

Alas sweet justice waa not to be mine; as instead of being moved up I am to get a 50% of the difference between the two pay scales for the months he judged that exceed my job description.
In lay terms I’m getting £200 after tax for all the work I did. Now you may think that perhaps I have gone soft and since I have been employed by local Government I have become a money grabbing greed head. Perhaps you are right, but my point is that I have been exceeding my job description now for over two years quite significantly and whilst being grateful that at least some of this effort has been recognised, I feel a tad insulted with the offer. I think I would have preferred if he hadn't said anything that way I could at least concentrate on being bitter rather than bitter, insulted and greedy.

I think my boss was expecting some form of display of gratitude from me, but he's going to have to wait a long time for it. Ha! Just because I’m sort-of-pious doesn’t mean I still can’t be a twat.

Also, despite my best efforts to conceal some rare talents I possess, I have sadly discovered that my powers to heal electronic hardware have become more evident to my fellow team members.

Having been off on annual leave last Friday, both the office's printers were out of action and judging from the number of e-mails I received on the matter upon my return to work today, no one was prepared to have a poke at trying to fathom the problem.

Indeed; the machines lay dormany. A state of panic could be felt across the office.

I crouched down close to the larger of the two printers- the Toshiba 3411 and carefully, I turned the power off for several seconds.

I talked to said printers in my calmest voice.

I reiterated to them inhush tones that there was beauty in the world.

I reminded 'her' of better times, of times when the toner was full and plentyfull - days before the great Tip-Ex spillage of Feb 2005.

I soothed the beast and hugged it warmly.

I walked slowly backwards to my desk and attempted to print off an e-mail. I don't recall the e-mail's content.
I didn't have to wait long before the sound of fully rejuvinated machinary could be heard by the department's expectant ears and a sea of hot white paper was spewn forth from the beast's belly.

Once more I was a hero.
...I am a printer/copier whisperer.

Would this constitute a pay rise?

Driven to cheese

I’ve been far too focused on other silly little time consuming waste of timers to update this blog- which is a shame when I consider some of the little events that have amused, annoyed and befuddled me in the past week. Notably, watching paint dry (literally) at a friends house warming, Lisa’s birthday and the small matter that I was driven to cheese last week.

Two days into our new office and being sat within earshot of a certain colleague had me storming over to the local sandwich shop and slapping a £2 coin of the counter and demanding the a cheese sandwich post haste!

It did little to ease my woes and the remorse and guilt felt afterwards was a thoroughly unpleasant cocktail of misery and despair. I also made a fundamental error in admitting my lapse to Lisa, who of course the berated me to start drinking again- or more importantly to her, to drink on her birthday which was last Saturday. I didn’t relent. My resolve remained. The cheese was a stress induced blip.

Aside from that the and suffering at the hands of man flu, this morning’s unpleasantness puts it all into perspective.

Firstly, I can kind of accept that despite all the berating by my nearest and dearest to ensure my Glastonbury registration’s photographs were adequate (I had to retake the required passport photos due to my unfeasibly large noggin not fitting within the picture’s frame) , and that I had sent the completed registration forms within the allotted time. I also had to endure an unpleasant 30mins looking for my registration form which I had simply and innocently misplaced, whilst an irate girlfriend lambasted me for my general slackness. However, despite getting up at 8.30 am (which is unbelievable for us on a Sunday) stricken with the aforementioned man flu we proceeded to attempt to acquire some Glasto tickets.

Off course despite using two phone’s and about a millions attempts to access their website we were unjustly unsuccessful AGAIN.

To compound matters my least favourite cheeky television/radio ‘star’ Vernon Cunting Kay was on our radio with a whole host of chav knob heads ringing up to boast about their ticket joy. Some even bragging that they managed to get their greedy little mitts on 12 tickets! Of course these fuckers when being asked what bands they’d like to see respond with fuckwit answers like “oh I don’t know, I love razorlight…”

AGGGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!

On one hand if the Festival is going to be full of shit for brains like these then I suppose it’s not such a bad thing, but as I’ve never been yet, I’m starting to get slightly fucked off. I’ve been lucky enough to attend Leeds/Reading 7 or 8 times, V Fest, Euro Sonic, Benacassim and SXSW yet this fest eludes me. Leeds and Benacassism are ‘off’ for us this year as my sister and my father are both to be married on these weekends.

We (the band) were asked to play Glastonbury one year but our very much ex –manager, in his wisdom turned it down as he thought we should have been on a bigger stage. We only learned this several months afterwards and we were strangely never asked again.

Oh well.

Anyway, I’ve got to get back to consoling my distressed girlfriend.

Vernon Kay I hope you’re happy you cunt.

Bastard ball of Blue Tack

Ahhh, after days of packing boxes we've finally moved out of the ole office today, and only one thing is in the forefront of my thoughts is....why cant some invent a Sellotape or parcel tape that tastes nice?

Aside from the taste cutting generic sticking tape with your teeth is one of the few primitive urges used today (expect the obvious ones; to kill, to shag, to kill and shag…oh and eat). Granted I know people whom open chocolate wrappers using their teeth, but I find this method rather crass. I think it all stems from when ancient man would sit around the fire and try to put up their caveman cave painting posters to liven up their cave type abodes, and having not invented the scissors there only means of cutting the tapes was to use their teeth. Of course this was years before the invention of Blue tack.

By the way, the office walls, now bare and empty, are littered with small Blue Tack marks, scraps and stains. If I had the time I would collect the scraps and make a moderately sized ball of scrap blue tack, firmly bonding and mixing the different brands, types, colours etc. Alas, I don't have the time or the inclination to do so.

As a child I was the purveyor of many a bastard ball of blue tack. In our household Bluetack was a priceless commodity, and used as a currency between us children, akin to Tobacco in Prison or Cheese in Student Accommodation. Over the years -notably the great 'tack' drought of 89', I used staples, homemade glue (flour and water) and even rolled up Sellotape to keep my beloved posters in their rightful place. Of course all these methods were strictly prohibited in our household, but the knowledge I gained from using said contraband materials proved invaluable. E.g when I ran out of drawing pins I stapled all my notices to my notice board in the office. Sadly, I have spent the past 40 or so minutes removing this staples.

Not one notice/picture/scrap of paper ever fell from that board- not one! This feat was often marveled upon by my colleagues, who in fits of jealously would often take to sabotaging my famed noticed board- though they rarely succeeded. Anyhow- a new office awaits, tomorrow I am “working from home” i.e. watching Seinfeld for hours on end. Bliss.

Holy water indeed.

Giving up booze for lent (along with the lesser abstinences of chocolate, crisps and cheese) has given me the glorious opportunity of using the word pious as often as possible. I’ve even perhaps over used it in recent days, but there isn’t many other opportunities one has to use it in a succinct sentence on a day to day basis.

The ‘d’ word has been used a couple of times though much to my disliking. Firstly it was Tony at work who asked how my diet was doing. I over reacted – rectifying him that I was on a noble and spiritual quest- and that men don’t diet- it’s a “health kick”.
Lisa also has used the word- as I chose to bring some grapes to snack on when we went to the cinema last week. She said enough was enough and I was going to waste away- “you never said you were on a diet” she asked me.
Once again I was quick to correct her. Despite it being a firm non-diet, I’ve managed to shed nearly ¾ of a stone in just over 3 weeks.

Eating grapes at the cinema was a smart move though. The grapes were juicy so I didn’t need a drink, quiet so I didn’t disturb the other patrons and tasty so I didn’t feel the need for popcorn or other generic confectionary. As I told a colleague the other day “this pious shit’s great”.
It would be fair to say that the grapes were probably the most interesting thing about our cinematic outing, as the film; ‘23’ was pretty poor, and I had the weirdest feeling that I’d seen it before.

Despite the pious existence, even going to see the excellent LCD Sound System on Saturday was not in any way hampered by my sobriety. Instead of the customary mass of sweaty and impatient bodies trying to get served at one of their two bars (which I hope to fucking God they rectify in their forthcoming refurbishment), I simply strolled over to the vending machine by the toilets to acquire my tasty Still Harrogate water. Holy water indeed. I think I even managed a crafty chuckle and uttered “suckers” under my breath at the hoards of thirsty punters trying so desperately to be served. St Matthew the Pious 1- Unhappy beer swilling masses 0.

I was also able to enjoy the gig as opposed to having to miss key moments whilst I fought my way through the crowds to relieve myself, only to struggle back, eventually find my friends then realise I need a drink or another piss (alas the latter is becoming a more frequent occurrence).

It was also a pleasing experience to wake up the following morning and actually be able to recall the events of the previous night. By the way the gig was fantastic- and I felt the sweet taste of justification in my choosing this show as opposed to the Fall’s annual shindig which fell on the same night over in Liverpool. Oddly enough the ole LCD Soundsystem kind of reminded me of the Fall in a peculiar way. Perhaps it was the repetitive rhythms and bass lines, or perhaps the way in which the front man James Murphy carried him self on stage, often fiddling with band member’s amplifiers and equipment.

T’was one of the best shows I’d been to in an age, and worth not being able to hear for 48 hours afterwards. A personal highlight was ‘Daft Punk..’ which was played about 15 BPM faster than on the record, and rocked like a mo fo- and rather pleasingly it was played second on the set.

Don't talk just kiss

Not knowing the correct terminology can cause embarrassment, none more so as when one is growing up. When I was 11 on a school trip to Devon, I was excitedly told by a friend that two class mates had 'frenchied' for1 minute.

I didn't know what the fook he was talking about and asked innocently as to what this meant.
I was laughed at nervously and mocked by my friends for my naivety, suggesting that until five minutes ago they where unaware too.

"French Kissing!" I was told.
"Oh!" I said.

I thought for a moment trying to rack my brain as to what this could mean. I must have looked confused and was badgered by said friends to provide an explanation as to what it meant. I thought on my feet, which was lucky as I was standing up:

"It's how French people greet each other" I suggested.

This was greeted by looks of confusion, no doubt assuming that our Gallic neighbours stuck their tongues down each others throats upon meeting one another.

"You know, kissing on each cheek" I explained. A look of relief and modicum of disappointment washed over their faces.

"ahhhhhh- you don't know what french Kissing is" Was the taunt hurled into my innocent ears.

I came clean about my innocence.
One of my friends tried to demonstrate to me-not on me of course. After five minutes of confusion of my friend sticking his tongue out and waggling about it was fully explained to me....

"1 Minute!!!??" I said when I realised!
I had opened Pandora's Box.

Later in life, approximately 4 years, I still hadn't had a girl stick her tongue down my throat and I was literally bursting with hormones. If we'd had a dog in the house at least I could have practised on it, but thankfully for all, we only had cockatiels. Trying to kiss a small tropical bird wouldn't have been a pleasant experience for either me nor the bird. Alas, it appeared that all and sundry were snogging. I was informed of a party where an acquaintance walked in the door and had snogged two girls within 10 minutes, he said it was easy. This sounded too good to be true, akin to the last days of Rome and not knowing any girls willing to play spin the bottle with, it sounded like the only course of action to take. Thankfully Fortuna smiled on me in the form of a school trip to Ypres so I didn't have to befriend these harlets togain access to their inner sanctum. A day and a half travelling to Belgium, 3 hours of looking around some old trenches, followed by another day and a half of travel.

"It was a sure thing", I thought.

Sadly my lack of knowledge of kissing terminology cost me dearly. At the time, I had was pretty much head over heels in love with a girl from my class. Before we set off, I ensured that this was known by at least acouple of her friends- setting the wheels in motion and she'd find out. If she liked me in that way then all she had to do was ask me out, if she didn't then I would throw myself from the Famous White Cliffs of Dover on route to the continent.

The signs were good, I was sat next to her for most of the journey. Alas, once in Ypres I was asked in front of a large group of my mates by her closest friend "would you get off with her on this trip?".

I say "Alas" as I was unaware what 'Getting Off with' meant. I though it meant full on sex, which freaked me out. My reply was "really???"

"Yes-you could do it on the coach on the way home"

I freaked and could feel the pressure "well, that depends on how much you pay me".

Her friend tried to pick me up from my seat and drag me over to where she was sitting. I fought her not to move from where I was sat as I had the biggest erection ever! She left to inform this girl of my response. My friends thought I was insane. It would be safe to say that when I found out what 'getting off with' meant in the following few minutes I tried to jump of the white cliffs of Dover on route back to Blighty.

Anyway, I promised myself that if I was ever asked by a girl to do something that I wasn't sure about, I'd say yes- it had cost me too much heart ache. Anyway, the other night I was asked by Lisa if I wanted tobe fisted.....

LCD Soundsystem tonight...sans booze should be interesting.

Tattie Water

I arrived at work this morning shocked to learn that some sadisticschool has sent a poor defenceless 15 year old girl to this office for her work experience. Worse for her is that she's going to be guided and mentored by Tony. Already he has ensured that she will be attending someof the most boring meetings one could imagine as well as our 6 monthly team 'away day.'

I felt like slipping her a note, informing her to run for her life- but I suppose two weeks here will be enough to put her on the straight andnarrow, after all working shoulder to shoulder with moaning gits likemyself would be enough to inspire any young scholar to knuckle down andwork hard. Interestingly and suprisngly she seems quite keen to learn. I hope to God for the sake of the future generations to come, she doesn't enjoyworking here.

My previous work experience experiences have been nothingmore than a manager's son/daughter coming into work, looking bored as hell and playing patience on the computer trying not to get under anyone's feet. I saw her write something earlier today, and she wrote with the paper a full 90 degrees anti clockwise from how any normal person would write. It reminded me of the girls from school...Anyway,I'm going to be nice to her as she'll probably be my boss in about ten years.

Of course being a veteran of some 27 jobs, I can recall my own work experience in Currys when I was 14 and the positive impact it had on my life, after all I wouldn't have got where I was today if I hadn't worked there. I remember enjoying the experience, especially as most of the staff there hated the job, but at the same time appreciated that it was easy. Perhaps my career path could be attributed to this ethos? Most of all I recall going to the local greasy spoon, Gloria's for a portion ofchips every single day. I can also recall a really awkward conversation I had regarding this cafe. When asked what I thought of it I said something to the effect of "it full of smoke and single mums". This was greeted with "what's wrong with single mums?" and the admission from mycolleagues that they were brought up by a single parent. Of course Idon't think there is anything wrong with single mum's, and looking back at it now I can see they were just fucking with me, but I felt terrible for years about that. Oddly enough, whilst working as a labourer some 9years later I was left in Gloria's for three days to gut the place out.Ironically the purveyor's of the unhealthiest food in my local town was to be converted to a fruit a veg shop.The Cafe was is a very poor state, t'was REALLY disgusting.

On the first day our boss arrived with brand spanking new gloves for us all. This was surprising to us all as despite the fact the gaffer was a top bloke, he was as tight as a camel's arse in a sandstorm. When I saw the extent of the dirt and grime in the cafe I was extremely grateful. Alas, within ten minutes, I attempted to remove a extraction fan duct. Big Al' and I moved this heavy cylinder together slowly and took it outside to the skip. As we lobbed it in bothh is and my gloves were stuck fast on the 1 inch think grease that coated the metal and we both almost ended up in the skip too. We had to sacrifice the new gloves as they proved impossible to be peeled off fromthe ex-duct. Our boss wasn't too enamoured when he asked for the gloves back at the end of the day.

Whilst doing this job, I encountered a dog'sbody roofer in his late forties who look as if he'd smoked forty a day for the last 30 years.For some reason the topic of masturbation came up- I can only assume it was myself who started it. Anyway, this guy said that he could easily wank about 6 times a day and his p.b was 17!!!! He then uttered these haunting words that have stayed with me since:

"When I was your age (22) it was like a flow of hundreds of whitehorses galloping into the sea, and now it's like tattie (potato) water"

Anyway, I passed this useful and insightful information to our work experience girl today though I'm not so sure she understood what I meant. Providing a sample for her probably wasn't the best idea I've ever had.

Rot.

I think I’d make an excellent boss of somebody. I’d be harsh but fair.

I think I’d ware my heart on my sleeve, perhaps, some unbelievers would say too emotional- too fiery. But it wouldn’t bother me, after all the only thing that would interest me would be getting results. I’d be a cross between Spender and Brian Clough…only with more sarcasm.

Alas, I do not enjoy being given any responsibilities. I’m too much of a good moaner to be wasted on management. I’m also very poor at attending meetings- as today proved. I sat looking like a bored school kid in detention, doodling and drawing away. I’m pretty sure this was noted by my bosses, but I was too bored to care.

If it wasn’t for me reciting a few films in my head, recalling the few German and Czech phrases I knew and working on ideas for my previously aborted sitcom I think I would have rotted away.

some dog shit receptacle

As I left the flat this morning our neighbour ' lesbian' Kate (as opposed to our other named Kate aka 'squeaky' Kate) was in our front garden with her two whippets. I say garden: soil, patchy grass and litter would be the best fitting description of the sorry excuse of greenery that besmooches our otherwise pretty abode . Once again she was letting the ole dogs piss and shit in the garden. I tried to look to see if she had a carrier bag or some dog shit receptacle but couldn't see anything that would indicated that she would. I've never confronted her on this, as surely she would leave the dogshit in our garden? I don't know her well enough to be so bold- Lisa knows her better as recently she discovered that she too is a social worker, which naturally changed her perception. Previously our land lords had told us that she was signing on. Lisa would often mention that she should get a job when she played her loud house music at 11am waking Lisa from her long slumbers at the weekends. I tried once more to make small talk and failed. After the ususal "morning" and "hiyas" I felt the urge to converse:

"it's a bit weird without the trees isn't it"

(oh yeah I should note that the much beloved that induce such tranquility in me during the usual summer time blues. I returned form work early in the week to see the two large Beech trees stripped of their leaves and branches. T'was as if the poor buggers had been raped and executed- left with the indignity to show their nakedness to the neighbourhood. The next day I returned from work and all that remained of these once glorious and noble tree was two stumps. What would Ashley the Tree Surgeon say?)

"yeah" She replied politely.

yeah, the leaves acted as a....urm.....urm....errrr....aa....." the word I was looking for escaped me
"...blinds of sorts, so we never needed to shut our curtains (this is not true) "

"oh"

"yeah- anyway gotta catch that train...."

Once I'd walked around the corner I grimaced and sucked the air throughmy teeth and laughed at my own inadequacy at being able to talk to her. No doubt she now thinks I would covort around the bedroom, window open in the nude- although nothing could be further from the truth, I won't take my shirt off if there's a little gap between the curtains. Lisa always retorts: "Yeah Matt, there's some guy out there with a telescope watching you". This is one of the few times I can be in complete agreement with Lisa, when she states that sarcasm doesn't help.