Doing this, to be exact:
Every waking minute outside of work (and playing the Xbox), I’ve been tearing the house apart. All so that some day soon, we have one of these downstairs:
I had to put my hand into some poo to connect up a pipe the other day. I meant to take a photo of it, but Linzi wouldn’t let me hold the camera while I had shit on my hands.
Once the toilet’s done, I have to put in a new kitchen. The fun never stops. Ara sure, it’ll all be worth it once it’s done, everyone keeps saying. They never offer to help though, the bastards.
It’s because I’m not very good at it.
It’s been a while since I made an arse of myself in public. Perhaps the longer you leave it, the worse your blunder is when you inevitably do make a gobshite out of yourself.
On my way home from work, I fell asleep on the train, as happens every single day. The carriages are so damn warm, it’s almost impossible to stay awake.
Today, my friends, I dreamed. I had a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
Oh wait, that wasn’t me, that was Martin Luther King. My dream was far less inspirational, but it comes from the same place that MLK’s speech came from: that bit of skin behind the scrotum.
In the dream, I was playing five-a-side (soccer/football, argue about what it’s called amongst yourselves) with the lads. I relived an absolute peach of a volley I scored a while back, the connection with the cross sublime, that feeling that you get when you know you’ve struck it so sweetly that you don’t even need to look at the ball to know it’s in the back of the net. After I scored I did my customary let’s-just-get-on-with-it non-celebration. Then time skipped, as it does in dreams, and next thing I know I am back in goals and Kerr, who has been cleverly nicknamed The Rocket on account of his hard bastarding shots, is bearing down on goal. Only I stand between him and an equaliser. He lets fly, sends a bullet into the bottom corner, so I dive to save it –
– and snap awake when I bash into the guy sitting next to me. Yes, I dived into him. On the train. My arms were still outstretched trying to save Kerr’s shot, and I may well have let out a traditional dream shout (“Noooooo!”) as I commenced my dive. Judging by the number of people turning to look at me, I think I must have at least squawked a bit.
“Okay mate?” the guy sitting next to me asks.
“Yeah, um, sorry about that” I say sheepishly, “I was just trying to save…”
I trail off, realising what a ridiculous human being I am. I clear my throat. Should probably say something, in all fairness.
If you’re going to be thought of as weird, you may as well go the whole fucking hog.
He wouldn’t say anything to me after that, and I was too scared to go back to sleep, so I passed the rest of the journey writing a note to myself to make this story into a blog post.
By the way, I’m a bit late to the party, but I don’t think Damien will mind some more links. Do him a favour and link to this ridiculous bullshit. To add insult to injury, instead of having a bit of cop-on, the tossers went and sent him a letter asking for the post to be taken down. Now the whole world knows that not only are they devious malicious cunts, they are also stupid dinosaur cunts too. Watch out for the internet, Sky Handling Partners. They even have it on computers these days.
Had to spend this evening in Casualty. I woke last Friday with a lump on my head, right where my cheek meets my earlobe. It was fairly painful, but I thought nothing of it. By Saturday it had doubled in size. By Sunday it had doubled again, and it was agony even to the lightest touch. So, to hospital I went.
Being a reasonable chap, I knew it had to be one of three options:
(a) a pus-filled abscess
(b) cancer of the earlobe, or possibly the lymphatic system
(c) my unborn twin, whose fetus I mysteriously absorbed into myself while still in the womb, was starting to grow inside me and was about to burst out through the side of my head.
Obviously (c), despite being the coolest option, was unlikely. It had to be cancer. Cancer of the earlobe, the worst kind. You shouldn’t joke about these things. Still, what else is there to do when you’re as close to death as I was? I hope you always remember that I kept a smile on my face right to the end.
I was gutted when the doc told me it was an abscess, and not at all life-threatening. However, if I keep getting them, it may mean I’m diabetic, so that’s something, at least.
The coolest bit was when he gave me a local anaesthetic and sliced it open. You should’ve seen the amount of yellowish-black gunk that came out of it. He used fourteen cloths to clean it out. I counted. Gunky.
I have to go around for the next few days with a plaster the size of an envelope on my face. I spent the rest of this evening practicing my “Phantom of the Opera” move. Look at me, look at me, look, look, yes, I’m normal, yes, don’t be afraid my pet…
Then HYEEA! I turn and brandish my hideous deformed right cheek and you cower and shriek like the child you wish you still were.
I hope you are doing well. I miss you all, my little bloglings.
The more astute among you will have noticed my old Blogger profile says I joined Blogspot in May 2005. Doubtless you’ll have spent entire weekends pondering why I didn’t post a word until June 2006.
What, you never noticed this? Christ, you really aren’t obsessed enough with me at all, are you?
Today is my first birthday, a full year of typing cack on this blog. 256 posts. 4169 comments. All those words, and yet sometimes I think that the silent gap between my registration date and my first post says more about me than all the other crap put together. Then I remember that’s not true, because silence says fuck all, and only smelly hippies and the elderly think otherwise.
Where was I? Oh yeah. Writing this post. Hmmm…well.
This blog has helped me remember how to write. I used to write a fair bit, miserable know-it-all teenage shite, and then BAJAW, nothing for almost seven years. Seven years is a long time. You have to learn how to go without stabilisers all over again.
Thank you to everyone who’s ever commented here. Comments are a great thing. The interactivity of this jazz is what makes it so addictive. Sometimes when I haven’t been arsed, it’s thinking of the funny shit people will say if I post such-and-such a story that makes me get on with it.
So cheers, everyone. If I was closer I’d let you have the honour of buying me a celebratory pint, but since you can’t do that, why don’t you just leave a comment? Ladies are also welcome to email me pictures of your breasts or arse, whichever you consider the better feature.
You get training for everything these days. Just a week in the job, and I’d already been trained in Fraud Awareness, Complaints Handling, Data Protection, and Enormous Lad Management. Not everyone gets ELM, but they said it was obligatory for me, because of the incredible size, weight and glistening shininess of my mickey.
Shut it, the rash is clearing up. Those antibiotics are doing the trick nicely.
You get certificates for them all. Certificates are important. Certificates imply that you really are making progress, you’re moving up in the world. You can display them at your desk, just like everyone else. I don’t.
Certificates convey responsibility. Authorised tea-maker. “Successfully passed…” on a certificate translates to “A wide experience of…” on your CV. CV means spicy resumé.
And there you are. You’re an individual. You’re WINNER! Just like everyone else.
You know what you don’t need training or a certificate for? Being a parent. Parents should be certified. CAPABLE. Nothing fascist, now. Everyone’s entitled to breed, yeah. Not everyone remembers that breeding produces kids though. The certificate would state that you are fully aware that you are responsible for your child’s welfare, and you’ll get your fucking bollocks, or perhaps ovaries, sliced out if you try to pass the buck.
See, if I’d had some parent training, I’d’ve been more prepared the other day when Jack shoved his hand into a warm, freshly-brewed poo. His own, I might add.
Parent training would teach you how to react in those situations. If I’d had my training, I bet I’d have reacted with something besides shrieks of horror as I watched him flailing his arms about, poo slathering his hair and the changing mat and the floor and a book that ended up so covered in faeces that I had no choice but to give it to charity.
Have you ever been painting, and a bit somehow gets on the sole of your shoe, and before you know it, you’ve accidentally planted paintprints halfway around the house? That’s what this was like. Except with poo.
There it was, the pooey arm, slippery and wriggling in my hands, like a puppy being held underwater, as I manhandled Jack into the bath and hosed him down. He wasn’t happy. I was fucking traumatised, trying to make myself have one of those out of body experiences that hippies and Tom Cruise are always yammering on about. Now I understand what my dad must’ve been going through that time when I was a baby and my mother came home to find him holding me upside-down at the sink, hosing down my hole with the powerful jet of the cold-water tap.
Dad, I forgive you.
Please note: If you haven’t got the new Queens of the Stone Age album, stand over in the corner and be ashamed. Go on now, git, pardner, or I’ll set The Swearing Lady on you.
No, not that corner. The one with the poo in it. I can’t bring myself to clean it up.
By the way, thanks for giving this place a pulse when all I wanted to do was rip its heart out. Sincerely. Although I haven’t been able to be on as much as I’d like, I have been reading every one of your comments, and I really appreciate that you take the time to leave them. So there.
I’ve been here, in the background, late at night, just before bed. I’ve read your comments, and chuckled in a handsome baritone at your wit. Three days in, you see, and it’s cold turkey all the way. I have work to do, and it’s not a pleasant feeling.
You know what’s a worse feeling than that? Starting a new job on a Monday morning and being told your position is at risk when you get taken over next month. Next month! It’s your first day, so you are entitled to nothing. NOTHING. A week’s notice, a week’s pay, shove that up your hole and feed and keep your family and piss the fuck off you horrendous cunts.
Nothing’s definite, of course. We’ll have to wait and see. Those of you I’ve mailed will have seen this already, but that’s how sapped I am, copying and pasting. Forgive me my indiscretion, for pulling out this bit: Getting this job, great though the salary and benefits are, has made me realise how fucking soul-sucking corporate life is, how much I detest everything about it. I wish to fuck I was able to do something creative instead of something that strangles any sort of creative impulses before they have a chance to go anywhere.
So it is. Foolish self-satisfaction versus doing what’s important. You can’t have both.
Linzi and I finally got a night out together. We went for a delicious dinner in Glasgow last night, and on for a few beverages afterwards. We got the train home, a bit tipsy but not too locked. The late evening trains are a curse for dodgy crowds of youths and not-so-youths hopped up on Bucky and hormones, and we weren’t surprised when Linzi received several crude comments over the course of our journey.
When we got off at our stop, we were a bit perturbed to find that the same gang of lads that had been making the comments had also got off. Shite. We walked quickly, trying to put a bit of distance between us and them.
Linzi squeezed my hand. Fuck. I turned around.
“Mister. Got a fag?”
“Nah lads, don’t smoke,” I replied. I stood in front of Linzi, wary, as they walked towards me. There were four of them. Skinny little bastards, but still dangerous. Consequences are irrelevant to this type – they have nothing to lose anyway. I took a step backwards, almost trampling Linzi, having spotted the blade one of them was carrying. The lad in front, holding a green bottle of Buckfast in the traditional brown paper bag, started saying something else to me, but I ignored him. Grabbing Linzi’s hand I dragged her and together we sprinted up the hill out of the station, and down the road towards home.
The streetlights ended at the bottom of the road leading into our estate. We were well ahead of the scumbags, running just as fast as we could, holding onto one another’s hands. Linzi was still trying to get away into the night, when I put my arms around her and we tumbled to the ground, and then I said “I think we’re alone now.”
She looked back. “Agreed,” she said “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around. In fact, if you listen carefully, the beating of our hearts is the only sound.”
So we went home.
Well, the speech thing was okay, went for the sincere-but-with-one-joke-thrown-in approach. My going away present is hilarious – an LCD photo frame with a memory card full of all the folks from my department in a variety of poses. You can set the photoframe onto a slideshow and just watch everyone go by. Very thoughtful. Now, to get shitfaced.
Lads, I feel a bit sick.
The other day, I read an announcement online that my new company is restructuring to the tune of 500 redundancies over the next three years, and they are going to be outsourcing their entire IT and back office support to a third party. Hang on a sec, I thought: I work in IT.
That evening, I received a phone call from my future boss saying “Just to let you know, you won’t be working for Company X” (the company who I went for interview with).
Pause for effect. A nugget of poo escapes and rolls down my leg.
“As of August, you’ll be working with Company Y, who are taking on all the IT-related support for Company X. Terms and conditions will be the same.”
And so forth. A biteen nerve-racking, but I have seen it happen before. There’s a risk, but I’m in kind of a niche area, so hopefully I’ll be safe. Think positive.
Then, this morning, the department director comes up to me and gives me the oul pitch to try to make me stay here. Asks me why I’m leaving, asks me to stay, and so forth. Then he goes on to say that in his experience (which is extensive), these things always fuck over a lot of people, and it’s usually last in, first out. That’s gonna be you Kav! he informed me gleefully.
Okay, it’s a transparent effort at making me reconsider my options, but still. I feel sick.
There’s always tonight though. Many beverages will be consumed. And I brought in cakes for everyone, which I’m doing my best to consume single-handed. Have a good weekend, nephews.