Holy crap. I have been asked to fly down to Birmingham on the 16th of April to meet two of the Directors. Supposedly, it’s between me and one other person for the job. I choose to believe that the other person does not exist and it’s all about me. Who? ME, that’s who.
I have to leave Glasgow at 8.40am, interview at 11am, and will arrive back in Glasgow at 4.30pm. I feel all important and shit. Remember when Tommy said when I am king you will be first against the wall? I’d buy you a pint instead.
In other, more important news, go and say hello to Niolk, who is back and very funny, though not necessarily in that order.
Have a delightful weekend with loads and loads of sex*, if for no other reason than to piss this dry ould sow off. And while we’re on the subject, Durex are looking for people to test their products. For free! Go and sign up – it’s open to UK and Irish people over 17. Their condoms are no use to me, what with my lad being so incredibly massive in terms of both girth and length, but I’d like to have a gawk at the other stuff.
Another thing: if you do visit here and never comment, why not lose your virginity today and say something? Seeing as we’re talking about sex and that.
*even the five-knuckle shuffle will do.
I bet you noticed that my top 5 scary moments went 5, 4, 3 and then stopped, and you’ve been eagerly waiting for more. No? Oh well, screw you, ya bastid. Anyway, I scratched down the last two on the train recently, so I’ll fire them up over the next while, whether you give a shite or not, heh.
Two years ago last month, I had to fly home because we thought my father was going to die. After he went deaf, doctors suspected a brain tumour; when they press on blood vessels as they grow, tumours can cut off the blood supply to the ear, leading to deafness.
He was 46. Far too young to be sick, never mind die.
I was sick too. No appetite, living trance-like. All the things unsaid between us gnawing at me, jackals at a carcass, sneering and hungry for guilt.
They couldn’t figure it out. MRI’s, CAT-scans, blood tests, X-rays – all came back negative. He had all the symptoms of a brain tumour, aside from the tumour itself. Diagnostically, he was in perfect health. Well, if you ignored the deafness and the high cholesterol levels.
They kept him in hospital for two weeks. He must have really pissed the other patients off, because he spoke like Dom Joly in Trigger Happy TV (HELLO?), roaring at everyone because he couldn’t hear properly. Two weeks in limbo. Halfway through the second week, I had to go back to Scotland wondering if that was the last time I’d see him.
Towards the end of the second week, his hearing began to return. A week after that, it was perfect again. After all their needles and imaging, their needling and images, they were stumped. They never did learn what was wrong with him. He left the hospital in perfect health, quite a feat in itself these days.
Two years on, and I still haven’t said the things I wanted to say since the oh-god-is-it-too-late panic kicked in. Short sentences with love in the middle. Pride is not a sin when it’s for someone else. Fucking up is okay. No need to temper achievements with guilt.
I’ll say it all some day.
I spent the forty-minute train journey home this evening putting together a list of things to do before I’m thirty. Here it is:
1. Grow a beard.
That’s as far as I got. Christ almighty, a beard is the sum of my ambition.
This morning I posted a bit of a rant in journalist Haydn Shaughnessy’s blog. He was commenting about GlaxoSmithKline’s apparently lax controls over the quality of their work after a recent discovery (by schoolgirls!) that showed GSK’s claims about Ribena’s Vitamin C content were, at best, dubious. Having worked in the industry for a few years, I have experience of some of the things he was referring to, and so I chipped in rather a rant of a comment. I went back to his blog a while ago and was chuffed to find that Haydn had quoted some of my comment in a new post. Wahey, I’m famous. Cheers Haydn.
*the brainiest kind of science.
I wasn’t going to post today, but Sweary’s rant about recruitment consultants mirrored my own rage so beautifully, I felt inspired.
Recruitment consultants, by and large, are horrendous cunts. I say by and large because a close friend of Linzi’s is one, and she is sound, and very good at her job. She’s also the first to admit what a bunch of vicious cutthroat pedants they can be.
I’ve gone on a bit recently about this job I went for. I left out all the shite behind how I eventually got the interview.
I’ve been doing the same job for nearly two years, and a couple of months back, I started getting seriously itchy feet. I bought some of that athlete’s foot powder, which cured my feet, and I also stuck my CV up online, to see what other jobs were out there. I was surprised by how much I am now qualified for. I used to struggle to find things; this time, I was able to pick and choose. It’s a gratifying position to be in.
I had a long chat with one girl, who was based in Edinburgh and specialised in recruiting in my field. I don’t know how she works her computer, because my field has no electricity or phone lines. She must have a wireless-enabled laptop, and a warm jacket.
Anyway, we discussed my requirements, and she took my CV and submitted to several companies on my behalf.
None of them bit. At the end of January, my phone bill came in. There was an item for £11 for a single call on it. My call to this recruitment girl. Eleven fucking pounds! I was livid, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.
February came and went, and still this girl hadn’t come up with the goods. I had been relatively apathetic about things up to that point; I like where I work, and I’m not desperate to move. However, internal news sent ripples of panic thoughout the company, so in early March I started searching with renewed vigour.
I applied for two or three jobs via your usual job websites, and sat back and waited to see what would happen. One of the jobs – the one I most wanted – was being handled by Linzi’s friend’s agency. The girl (not Linzi’s friend, before you go shouting about nepotism) called me and we hit it off and she got me an interview straight away, which impressed me.
That very evening, I got a call from this other girl who had done nothing for me for the past couple of months. Being a
genuine, trusting gentleman gullible bastard, I revealed all when she asked if I had any other interviews lined up. I told her I had got one with these guys, and she said “Oh! I submitted your CV to them in January and nothing came of it!” My response was “So? Tough fucking shit. Someone did their job better than you and got me an interview. It’s got fuck all to do with me.”
I didn’t imagine the shitstorm this would cause. This cunt called up the company the next day and claimed that she was responsible for getting me the interview, and so the interview would be going through her from then on, effectively stealing the commission from the girl who got me the interview. She phoned me the next morning to let me know, her voice proud as if she were bestowing me with some sort of honour.
The ignorant fucking cunt. It may sound like an absurd loyalty to you, but I was having none of this. The way I saw it, she tried and failed to get me an interview. Too fucking bad that she didn’t try harder. The girl who did get me the interview was entitled to her commission. I told this bitch to retract my application through her, that I would be going through the other agency, and I did not appreciate the sneaky cuntish tactics she had used to manipulate the situation.
I think it’s safe to say that I won’t be using her again, the ruthless bitch. If I’ve learned anything from this, it’s do not tell these cunts ANYTHING outside of the specifics for the job they’re dealing with. They will fuck you over faster than you can say “able to work independently or as part of a team”.
They’re usually quite sexy though.
Thank you all for your good wishes and pisstakes.
It went really well. Really really well. He told me that based on my interview he could see no weaknesses, to which I replied well then bow before me, cretin! and made him do a little non-sexual dance for me. You should’ve seen it, you would’ve giggled like a gaggle of galloping giraffes gone gay.
Yeah. A few times, he said things like “Excellent answer” and “You’re so attractive”, and at the end, speaking in that fake, guarded way that people do when they’re pretending they have lots of options but really don’t have any, he said if I am considered for the role, I will have to meet all four directors I’d be working for. THAT’S FOUR SEPARATE INTERVIEWS! Sweet suffering silhouette of Christ on a dusty carpet, talk about thorough. Seems that the position of Panda-Cuddler is one taken very seriously by the Ministry of Defence.
What I could be doing soon.
So now, I wait.
Of course, it would be arrogant and presumptuous of me to think that they haven’t got other people; I’m sure they do. However, the girl in recruitment said I’m the only local applicant (local meaning the only person in Scotland they’ve found); everyone else at interview stage is London-based. She thinks that doing a good interview and being in the right location puts me ahead of the pack. I’m trying not to disagree. That bastion of cynicism, my mind, is trying to tell me otherwise, but for now, I’m like the knobbly end of a Duracell: positive.
I’m telling you, there’s not enough hours in the day. Having been off “sick” last Friday and yesterday, I’ve got a shitload of work to catch up on. This wasn’t helped by my getting caught up in Sweary’s post today when I vowed all I’d do was skim some blogs.
Must work, must I? Yes I must. Do you remember yer man Mustapha Ali in the comics? They’d probably be burning effigies if he was still around. Bock should resurrect that character and use it for evil; it’d put a boom into his effigy business.
I have been shite about getting around to your blogs recently. Bad me. I’m a bad motherfucker, and not in the good way. Life, you see. It gets in the way of writing about it. I’ll do my best to rectify this soon.
There’s so much real stuff happening at the moment that I’m scarcely getting a chance to document it. Some of you have a great knack for balancing both eggs on your knees, and for that I salute you:
I have a second interview tomorrow morning (the first was promising), and I really want this job. Not just because I’ve got to get away from where I am before the gooey sniper rifle dream becomes dirty reality, but because I think it would be good; more money, experience, responsibility, prospects. Especially money.
I’m not really a career person. Circumstances force it on me. It doesn’t fit me well, but while I have to wear this coat (the next forty years stretch out like an evening prison corridor), I’m going to make sure it keeps my family warm.
Wish me luck, if you believe in it. I don’t, but I’ll gratefully take whatever’s being sent my way.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Oh yeah…it would be remiss of me not to mention Twenty’s news – mofo has only gone and gotten hisself a two-book deal. You can congratulate him here. It’s well-deserved – over two and a half years of blogging hilarious sheeit almost every day.
Now that we’ve got a shmall bit of money, we’ve been considering booking a holiday. I’m a bit reluctant to book anything, because of our track record with holidays. Linzi and I are harbingers of doom, you see. Whenever we go on holiday, people die. Coincidence, or cosmic collusion? You decide:
19 April 1993: A school tour to the Ailwee Cave coincides with the conclusion of the Waco siege, when David Koresh and 78 other religious numpties burn to death.
August 1997: Linzi goes to Disneyland. Princess Diana dies in a car crash.
September 2001: We go to Tunisia. The Twin Towers are destroyed by terrorists, killing nearly 3,000 people. Incidentally, I was reading Thomas Harris’ novel Black Sunday when the Twin Towers were destroyed. Its subject matter is…the biggest ever terrorist plot to be carried out on US soil. Spooky.
July 2005: A week in Ireland – Erin’s first trip to the oul homeland – and terrorists bomb the tube in London.
We’ve decided it’s for your own good if we don’t take a holiday this year. It’s a good thing I’m a bleeding-heart altruist, and I’m willing to put your safety ahead of my own leisure time. You bastards.
…and I don’t have time to write proper posts, so here’s some crap that I noticed while browsing around recently:
One man’s fight against the spammers. Impressed with the effort this lad has gone to to take the piss out of these cunts.
Pointless, but I still spent ten minutes reading random crap from around the world: Twitter + Google Maps = Twittervision
Pictures of the year – some amazing ones.
Was that Channel 4 documentary on global warming a sham?
If you’re concerned about the location of your lover, this new technology uses GPS to find their location using their mobile phone. Perfect for the psychopathic jealous type.
Windows Vista’s getting more bad press – less secure than XP?
Probably old, but some of them made me laugh – 40 things that only happen in the movies.
Thus ends Kav’s inaugural Word Wide Web. Word.
My favourite Spanish fascist, the inimitable Manual Estimate, has tagged me to reveal five little-known things about myself. Now, Manuel obviously hasn’t been paying attention, because I ranted a while back that I already have 101 little-known things written about myself, and therefore I favour pissing on people who only bother writing five things. But since it’s you, Manuel, I can’t resist. However, just to make things interesting, one of the things below is a lie. Have a guess at which one.
- I am slightly obsessive-compulsive about certain things. For example, I can’t stand to have unopened mail in my inbox at work. Even if it’s junk, I’m loathe to delete it without opening it first. Something about seeing the bold font highlighting an unopened email just grates on me. I also check all the doors on the house are locked at least twice before I go up to bed.
- Like The Swearing Lady, I would love to publish a novel some day. Unlike Sweary, I lack the drive, ambition, shkillz and shtyle to follow through. Plus there’s that pesky issue of actually writing it…
I console myself with the thought that some of the best novelists were over 40 before they got anywhere. Plenty of time yet.
- Myself and Linzi’s biggest argument occurred after she caught me dosing myself with illicit chemicals on a really shit night out in old Galway town. She wasted some of Supermac’s finest curry chips that night by throwing them at me. I opened my mouth to try to catch them as they flew through the air, but their high velocity and low trajectory meant they splattered my crotch instead.
- I gave up scratching myself in the presence of people and animals for Lent.
- Rationally, I respond well to criticism, and understand it and benefit from it. Emotionally, I can’t help but take it personally, which really fucks me off, because I know it’s not personal. I’d never show you that I took it personally though, because that’s weak, like a malnourished kitten.
Can you imagine it? No blogs or emails for a whole week. You should try it. It builds character.
Things that have happened to impede bloggability:
- My garage got delivered and built in one day. I’ll post a pic later. I bet you can’t wait.
- A windy weekend tore a load of shingles off the new garage.
- Forgot to submit an entry to that thing for Comic Relief. Oops. I console myself by knowing I would have been rejected for not being British enough to have made the list.
- I had a job interview for a company in Glasgow. I’m pretty excited about it, much more so than I was with those other cunts.
- They seem keen – asked me back for a second interview before the first one was even over. It’s on next Monday.
- You know how Linzi blocked up the toilet? It took a full week to fix. I almost choked half a dozen times on faeces fumes. I finally sorted it on Saturday. She owes me bigtime.
- My dad announced he’s coming over on Thursday. Yay.
- I successfully remortgaged, which is a major relief. Can finally get rid of that deathtrap car.
- My mother sent me a chocolate rabbit thing for Easter. It was delicious. Fuck, my mouth is watering just thinking about it. I wish I hadn’t eaten it all. Still, the kids will never eat all of theirs.
So, how have you been?
Later that same evening…behold:
I wish I had had my camera with me on Saturday – our gang was a sight to behold. I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day by going to the Scottish National Woodworking Show with Linzi’s dad, Jack (who’s disabled and needs a scooter to get around), his half-nephew Gordon and Gordon’s son (who’s disabled in some unspecified way – I’m not really sure, but he had a stick with him), and their friend Archie (‘im wot I compared diseases with last week, also disabled and needs a scooter). I only had two pints all day, so didn’t live up to my party’s expectation that I’d strip down to my tattered string vest and y-fronts and start fights with inanimate objects over unmade insults. Foreigners have such an odd take on us sometimes.
What I did do was spend much of the day looking at saws and awls and the like. I’m good at working with wood. Arf.
Those electric scooter things are fucking menaces. Worse than prams. Worse than fatties. Jack was grand as long as I could keep him going straight, but every so often, something would catch his eye, and he’d have to reverse the scooter to go back and see it. They make that beep-beep-beep noise that trucks make to warn you when they’re reversing, and with good reason – they weigh a fucking ton.
People didn’t even get the chance to leap out of the way. Jack saw something, whapped the scooter into reverse, and with a grinding trundle and the crisp snap of bone, left carnage that a tank driver in Tiananmen Square would be proud of. I was exhausted from apologising by the end of the day, especially because Jack could just chuckle benevolently and claim ignorance, leaving me to mend the shattered lives left in his wake.
The clincher came when he got stuck in a narrow aisle and had to do a twenty-seven-point turn – it ended up like that scene in Austin Powers when he’s trying to turn the steam-roller around, except instead of solid walls, he was bashing up against display cabinets filled with tools and assorted goods for sale. He drove off snickering while I, red-faced and apologetic, had to clean up what looked like Beirut after a particularly busy night.
Lunchtime came, and the day reached its climax. We got a table in an open-decked café place, directly beneath a sign that proclaimed “ONLY FOOD AND DRINK PURCHASED ON THE PREMISES CAN BE CONSUMED IN THIS AREA”. Being rebellious, non-conforming types,
we defiantly tucked into our lunch-boxes of sandwiches and crisps and fizzy drinks, while the café staff circled meekly, trying to shame us into moving on, but afraid to confront the cripples and their wards for fear of being seen as discriminatory.
It was like The Beverly Hillbillies meets the Special Olympics, what with the packed lunches and the gymnastics on the scooters. Thankfully they are a sound bunch, always first to laugh at themselves, and don’t mind me having a laugh with them about the situations they get themselves into; there was no need for any PC pussyfooting bullshit, which is one of the reasons it was a good day.
When I got home that night I got fucking hammered.
I went to secondary school with a lad called Joe Stanley, also known as Joe Skis, on account of the size of his feet. Poor oul Joe used to get slagged mercilessly for being a big tall enormous giant lanky fucker. Many a caricature of him in his size 14 Doc Martens was drawn.
I was over putting new doors on Linzi’s parents’ kitchen cabinets yesterday, when a friend of her dad phoned. I was nearest, so I answered, and it was Archie, an old chap who I’ve met once or twice.
During the course of our banal conversation, Archie mentioned (in that confidential way that older people do when they’re talking about bowel movements, as if they’re bestowing you with incredibly useful and highly confidential information) that he has been ill recently, diarrhea and such. I said I was glad to hear he was on the mend, and I had had it myself over Christmas, and it nearly killed me. This was of course a bit of hyperbole, but the old fucker took it as a challenge over who was sicker. He went on to list how many times he had been close to death on the past twelve months alone, while I stood there wishing I had stuffed one of Joe Skis’ enormous Doc Martens into my mouth before I even started this conversation.
Never try to compare medical histories with old people. They’ll always win.
Can’t reply or respond or even read blogs this week. Garage getting delivered tomorrow. Woot. Also, may have an interview for a good company.