Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Small Moments at Work #2

There is a plumbing problem of some sort in the building that I work in.

Or perhaps a ventilation problem.

It’s a fairly large building with about a thousand staff. It could be anything really. But the odour in some of the corridors is not exactly that of wild roses at times.

Grant From Work: …so I was talking to a guy from maintenance about it and he was all like ‘well, it’s an old building you know’…..

This is sort-of true. It was built in the nineteen-sixties.

Grant From Work:
…. And I’m thinking "Eh? Castles are ‘old’. They don’t ‘smell of shit’".

Small Moments at Work #1

Thug Colleague: Either somewheyns mekkin the bread tae big, or somewheyns mekkin the toosters tae smaall. And ah divn’t care whey it is, ah just reckon they shud git thar heeds t’githir and sort it oot.

Thug has a capacity for massively angry over-reaction to the smallest things - a quality I am beginning to quite admire. He is actually smashing things around his desk. It is five minutes past nine in the morning.

He fixes his glare on me.

TC: What dae yea reckon?

Me: Do you buy that ‘Toastie’ bread?

TG: FUCKIN’ AYE! Theym cunts fit intae NAE TOOSTER ON EARTH! Why fuckin’ call it that?

He throws a biro at his monitor in frustration.

I have no answer for him.

But am convinced he has also imagined the same ‘Annual Toaster Manufacturer and Baker Conspiracy Meeting’ that I have, in which leaders of their respective industries get together in Geneva each year to figure out new ways of pissing us off.

I just haven’t the heart to get that cross about it anymore.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Insomnia. Fucking again.

Seriously. What the cock is up with this shit?

I'm boring myself now. It's not the first time I've written about this I'm sure.

The last time monkeymother came up with the initially helpful suggestion of listening to Radio 4. Which I did this evening at nine and fell fast asleep.

And here I am. With, after some weeks of unsuccessful Radio 4 fandom, a worrying fascination with the Shipping Forecast.

Have you heard it? It must be CODE for something surely. Who can sleep after listening to that?

Anyway. Instead of staring at the inside of my eyelids and listening to my heart pounding I get up and do this and think aloud and delete it all in the morning.

Why can't you sleep you twat?

I miss my children something dreadful.

Given. But you couldn't sleep when they lived in the same house as you. Prick. Next?

If I'm honest I miss their mother as well.

See above. And you had your chance.

I hate the night. I used to love it so this is a new torture. I love the day, and work. At work I'm surrounded by men with gambling addictions and women with shining eyes and sharp tongues. And they can do anything. And so can I.

Gay. So what?

This isn't like me. Not now. I've worked hard to not be like this and it frightens me.

Really REALLY gay. Have you been drinking?

Now you mention it.....

Oh you WEAPON. Mister fucking 'sleep disorder expert'. You know that's the worst thing you could do. Go and do some ironing, read a book or something. Cock. And stop having imaginary conversations with yourself on the internet. It makes you look nuts.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

“If you were a cheese, what sort would you be?”

It must be a slow day if Professional Wendy has come up with one of these again.

I call him this because if he were to excel in any profession, it would be ‘being a complete Wendy’. He’s just had TWO MONTHS off work with ‘the depressions’ for fuck’s sake. Here’s an idea son – stop spending every evening sitting about in your pants smoking weed all night, put in a full months work for once and earn your way in the world instead of relying on hand-outs from your mates and you might find you fucking cheer up a bit. Anyway.

Blonde Colleague: Just cheddar I suppose.

PW: Why?

BC: I’m straightforward and you know what you’re getting. You?

PW: Mozzarella.

BC: Why?

PW: Because I’m a bit boring but I’m really nice.

He’s got a point and I suddenly realize why he annoys me so much. He is genuinely quite a ‘nice’ bloke. And I dislike ‘nice’ people – they bore me and I find myself tormenting them just to pass the time. It also occurs to me that this may be a personal character flaw of some sort. Oh well.

PW: Tired?

Me: What?

PW: What about you?

Me: Mmm? Dunno. Parmesan I suppose.

BC: You and your fucking parmesan. ‘Freshly grated’ I suppose you twat.

Me: I say that so as to differentiate it from that horrible stuff in the white tubs-

BC: NO-ONE CARES you cock. And who says ‘differentiate’ anyway? ‘I’m Tired Dad, would you like to listen to my stupid words and taste my fresh basil?’ We all know you eat Findus Crispy Pancakes every night anyway. Knob jockey.

PW: Why?

Me: Why what?

PW: Why parmesan?

Me: Oh. Emm. Because I’m quite hard work but there are times when nothing else will do.

BC: WAAAAH-HAHAHA! Where’d you get the last bit? Fucking

Me: That’s my line.

BC: Fuck off is it. You probably stole it from someone anyway – you’re always stealing mine.

Me: No I’m not.

BC: What about ‘I suggest you build a bridge….and GET OVER IT’?

Me: That is quite good. But I gave you ‘shitweazel’.

BC: It’s hardly a ‘line’ is it?

PW: [quietly] It was like this just before my parents divorced.

BC: Anyway. I thought you were going to say you’d be parmesan because you FUCKING SMELL OF VOMIT.

Me: It’s only the stuff in the little white tubs that smell-

Without warning BC throws a tightly-screwed Post-it at me with such ferocity it makes an entirely unexpected ‘clacking’ noise as it ricochets off my forehead. She storms out of the office.

PW: Christ. That wasn’t very nice.

I check my emails.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

It's Saturday Night.

And I'm cleaning the cooker.

Bring it on.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

"Some Bloke's Just Shown Me His Cock!"

I put my drink down at gaze at Newly-Gay Friend for a moment or two whilst I process this information.

As my pretend name for him suggests, he has recently been a man of some surprises.

He announced his new lifestyle decisions to me some months ago whilst we were enjoying Uncannily Similar’s stag weekend. After an evening that involved – in no particular order – lap-dancers, cocaine, prostitutes and foolishly heavy drinking – it was an additional new experience that pretty much ended my patience with the whole night. After a man-hug that went on longer than strictly necessary I put him to bed and then had to deal with the police who raided the apartment the eight of us had rented for the weekend. (One of us tried to break in. Someone reported it.)

But that’s another story. And is not as interesting as it sounds.

I look around me. We and three other friends are in a cosy public house in the Lake District - the former stamping ground of the Romantic poets which is now mainly occupied by middle-aged people clad in Berghaus and sporting unkempt beards.

It does not strike me as a hot-bed of cock-waving.

Me: You fucking what?

To be honest, after nearly four years of knowing this man the whole ‘gay’ thing is a bit of a thinker after zero indication whatsoever. Presumably his wife of sixteen years and ten-your-old son are also scratching their heads.

NGF: Seriously. Some bloke just got his cock out right in front of me!

I don’t really understand ‘how you roll’ when you become ‘gay’. Maybe this alleged incident happens to you all the time once you go down that road. But I think it unlikely.

I glance around me. Absolutely no-one has their cock out, but there is a stunning view over Lake Bowness.

Me: Where exactly did this happen?

NGF: In the Gents.

Me: Oh for fu-

Glancing over the lake I notice a boat named The Silly Sausage glide by. True.

Me: Right. You’ve been in public lavatories before you were all gay and that? You must be familiar with the phenomenon of men taking ‘themselves’ out of their trousers before now? You can’t have just noticed?

NGF friend starts singing very loudly. Once again I take him to our accommodation and put him to bed. Since his recent decisions he has become a full-blown alcoholic, but for a drinker he is shit at it.

Me: [we are sharing a twin room] I’m not going to have a problem with you tonight am I?

NGF: [amid much drunken burbling] Fuck off. I’d never fancy you.

I get back in my taxi and rejoin the rest of my friends. But find myself irrationally irritated.

“He could fucking do worse” I think to myself.

I Have Two Followers.

I have no idea what this means and it sounds faintly sinister. But 'hello' whoever you are.
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