First personal email account. Nothing. Hmm.
Second personal email account that I had created specifically for recieving junk whenever I need to supply an address to a site that requires one in return of information I need. Hmmm. Several women who are apparently very eager to perform fellatio upon me. Astounding. Otherwise nothing.
Third personal email account that I often forget exists. Nothing.
Email account connected to Shite Blog I sometimes write. Nothing.
Email account of university I sometimes attend. Nothing. I’ve forgotten my password.
This is desperate. As a last resort I check my Actual Work Email Account.
There is a message!
Sadly from a Public Relations Buffoon that I am required to deal with in the short term. It contains phrases such as ‘event critical’ and ‘time sensitive’ and mentions some concern regarding ‘corporate sponsors’.
I read it twice. And then come to the conclusion that if this message were at all important the writer would have employed plain English. I resolve to ignore it until something along the lines of ‘I need such and such and can you do this specific thing. Fucking now’ arrives. Which I shall probably also ignore.
Frankly, I would have preferred nothing.
Spent, I cast about me. At this rate I may have to do some Actual Work.
I begin ‘generating’ some ‘revenue reports’. This is a real thing, and can be very easily mistaken for Actual Work, and is genuinely quite complicated and time consuming.
Whilst I am engrossed in this, Thug Colleague wanders by.
(Do not mistake me. He is perfectly pleasant. He has the vocabulary of Favourite Son [two years old], the appearance of any character you choose from Viz and is self-appointed Class Clown. Now. Every class needs one. But no-one particularly wants to be fucking friends with the Class Clown.)
Thug Colleague: By I’m busy like Tired.
Me: Mmm. As am I, you loud-mouthed imbecile.
TG: Aye. Good one like. How. Have ah eva telt ye aboot my mate Monkeyface?
This is a tough one. Had Thug ever mentioned his acquaintance Monkeyface, I would surely have remembered. It is one of those names. So, if I lie and tell him I am fully appraised of the activities of Monkeyface, I shall be left alone. But will unfortunately have to then Do Some Work.
If I tell the truth, I will be excused from Actual Work, but will have to suffer the presence of a man who assumes that being referred to as a ‘loud-mouthed-imbecile’ is actually O.K.
Me: Do you know what? I’ve been tortured by this. I honestly don’t believe I have.
TC: Aye. Reet. Do you knaw why we call him Monkeyface?
Me: Does he have a face like a monkey?
Me: Of course not. That would be too easy. Do tell.
TC: Reet. Well. We were at university together reet?
Me: You went to university?
TC: Aye. Why?
Me: No reason. Amazing.
TC: Aye Reet. So he’s in his room in halls reet, and there’s this lass geing him a noshy. Ya knaw? A noshy?
Me: I think I get the picture. As memory serves.
TC: Aye. Piping him off an’ that.
Me: I am now definitely on the same page as you.
TC: Reet. Thing was, he’d trimmed his pyubs beforehand like.
Me: The age of chivalry is not dead it seems. I’m sure no self-respecting young lady enjoys the sensation of going down on what is essentially a camel-hair sweater with a bit of gristle in the middle. What a gent.
TC: Eh? Anyways. He gets there and then pulls it oot and whacks-off all ower her face.
I am unsure as to how to respond. In mitigation, I am sure that such things have happened to the best of us. Although thinking back, I do not recall ever having specifically taken aim.
Me: O.K. then. As I say, I really am quite busy.
TC: Aye. Reet. And then, reet, he grabs this pile of pyubs that are still on his bedside table and he hoys then straight into her face. And all the hair sticks cos of all the spunk like and he gans ‘Monkeyfaaace’, ‘Monkeyfaaaaace’.
Silence. For some time.
Me: O.K. then.
I look at my computing machine. It appears my revenue report is complete.