Monday, January 18, 2010

Ever decreasing circles

I just don't know what to do with myse-he-helf.

I think, with all this very specific lack of direction in my life, I'm becoming progressively more addled and turning into a cardigan-wearing combover like Bryn offof Gavin and Stacey, complete with the misplaced sense of own funniness.

This morning, for instance, I finally struck on the method to prepare perfect porridge in the microwave. There's a mathematical and scientific foundation to the perfect porridge you know, and it is this: Five scoops of oats (level), milk to within no less than an inch from the lip of the bowl, a 'flourish' of squeezy honey (I call it a 'flourish' of honey now) and precisely 2 mins and 34 secs of microwave later, the *ping* signals the arrival of breakfast manna. Even if it resembles a bowl of dead leper soup in appearance, its thick but not too gloopy consistency is a minor triumph.

I'm genuinely disturbed that space actually exists in my life to not only find this out, but also that it represents some sort of achievement in the day. What's worse is, this morning I actually said out loud, to the pot plant on the windowsill: "Uh huh huh, I get my oats every day honey." Now that's just fucking incredibly sad whatever way you look at it.

I'm sure the plant bowed its head a little and cried.

I then repaired to my bedroom and contemplated tidying it. My room is messier now than it ever was when I was working, and ostensibly busier. I like to keep it higgledy-piggledy, mostly for the exscuse to use Gerard Manley Hopkins phrases like higgledly-piggledly, but also for the illusion it conjures that yes, I am way too important and called-upon in this world to have time for mere domestic chores. Besides, I like the way my strung-out longsocks look like a trail of dead, dehydrated ferrets making for a drink from the toilet bowl in my ensuite.

In short, I am somewhat worried at the turn my mind is taking. I recline on the memory foam pillow, that's forgotten more bad times than good, and resolve to keep my brain supple. At which point I take out all my clean underpants and christen them with first names like Aristotle and Marmaduke, and then I serve them tea and fairy cakes in little china cups.

It doesn't work. I leave them on the floor with the ferrets and tell them not to fight.

I still feel a little dead inside, incomplete and numb in the brain. I needs myself a woman, I think, that'll give me something to get my teeth into. Specifically, a tall woman. I'm 6'1" and tired of stooping for the vertically challenged, God, so send me an elegant, lithe wrap-around woman I demand, post-haste. God listens and decrees it a tall order, and reminds me that I'm possibly jetting off half way around the world if things fall right for me, so I can't be going about the place continuously trying to put my hoo-hoo-dilly in the fandangoes of lanky lovelies! (As the man upstairs would say, if the sixth commandment were slightly different.)

But I swear, as God's my witness (he's there above, where'd you'd expect him to be) if there's one more of those awkward water-cooler moments at work I won't be responsible for what I do.

I go on to facebook next. It's where I do my most of socialising now that my life is rendered meaningless through lack of socialising. Someone sends me a rude quiz where you work out a virtual fine you owe to society based on your sexual adventures, the ruder the deed, the bigger the fine. "Have you ever used toys during sex?" goes one question. Yes, I reply, one girl was so shit that I whipped out an etch-a-sketch mid-coitus and drew houses to keep myself amused, does that count? I got no reply.

Ah well. Just a few more months treading water and then I know where I'm going, as opposed to just knowing where I'm not. Onwards.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010

Q and A and Review of 2009 but then it kinda veers off

Chew on this! I kinda got going and couldn't stop...


The Start

Where were you on New Years?
If you mean the one just gone, I was in Dublin, roaring drunken abuse at parked cars in the vain hope one might be a taxi.
If you mean the previous crossover point at which 2008 became 2009, I was in Cavan pretending I wasn't mad at someone.

Did you drink?
Does the Pope shit in the woods?

Did you kiss anyone when the ball dropped?
Nope, I was hiding in the jacks avoiding all the fakery and air kissing bullshit from people who scarcely know me much less fucking like me. And I'm ignoring the comic potential of balls dropping and kissing thanks very much.
 
Did it snow at all during Janurary?
You'd be far better off learning how to spell January than asking me stupid inane questions like that you silly bollocks.

Were you single on Valentines Day?
Yes, it turns out I was, but I wouldn't find out until a month later.

Were you in school?
No I was not, unless etiquette classes and TEFL courses count?

Any new addition into your family?
It's not invonceiveable that one of the McDangers spawned alright, I usually don't find out until they grow up a little and ask me for money

Did you wear green on St. Patrick's Day?
I don't recollect but if you put a gun to my head - which would frankly be a very worrying degree of keenness to know the answer to something so banal - then I'd say no, it was most unlikely I'd wear something green on Paddy's Day.

Did you graduate in May?
I did surely. In 1997. Except it was November. But oh well, nearly right I suppose.

How long did it take for it to get warm in spring?
I distinctly remember looking up at the clock in work on April 4th at precisely 2.13pm and remarking how the chill had finally left the air, at which point we all took off our clothes and had a big sexy frolic in the altogether.

Summer 2009
Who did you hang out with the most?
People from work mostly, aid workers, the people from meals on wheels and surprisingly, Michael Jackson and Elvis (every other weekend)

Where did you go?
We seldom got any further than the pub.

Where didn't you go that you wish you had?
That's very confusingly phrased, in fairness

Did you meet someone new that you still talk to today?
Yes, I have a winning, exuberant personality that draws many, many equally wonderful people to my side

Did you still work?
Ah God yeah. The odd bits fall off and I have trouble getting going on cold mornings but I manage to clunk along well enough. Like Tin Man in Wizard of Oz. Oh wait...

Did you end any relationships?
I refused a few, does that count?

Did you go swimming or tan more?
That's a fucking ridiculous question, but if I must: I can't swim and I tend to burn mostly.

Where did you spend the most time?
At the gym. I'm not going to lie to you: It's the best cover in the world for staring at hawt girls who are sweaty and bent over

Did you take lots of pictures?
I did until she got the barring order through.

Fall Time/Winter Time
Did the leaves look pretty?
They did, yes. Some days I just stared at them and cried, others I tried to revive them with Atrixo handcream.

What did you do for Halloween?
Nothing remotely Hallow'een-esque, apart from  boiling a few trick or treaters in acid and pouring them down the drains.

Did you remember September 11?
Who doesn't?

Did you dress up for Halloween?
It was actually the only day of the year I didn't go out stark raving naked with my balls painted bright blue, would you credit that.

What did you do on Christmas?
Duh. Ate. Drank. Slept. Farted. Usually in the same hour.

Did it snow?
Yes, it got here eventually and it ain't fucking off anytime soon by the looks of it.

Was it cold?
Is snow ever hot? Jesus Christ...

Did you get good presents?
No, I got no presents, having declared a present freeze due to straitened circumstances caused by blowing my redundancy cheque on whores, jaffa cakes and diamond encrusted tea-towels.

Other Questions
Did you have a good birthday this year?
I didn't have a bad one at all but I hijacked my sister's a few days later anyway and it was the fucking bomb altogether.

Did you break up with anyone?
I copped off with someone actually, so put that in your pipe and smoke it, huh!

Drink alcohol?
No, it was a fancy dress party and I went as the US state of Utah. What the fuck do you think?

Went to a crazy party?
Yes, my sister's, see above, good times and many laughs for life and a hangover that lasted almost as long

Spend too much time online?
My blogging was patchy but I was otherwise a fairly frequent flyer

Make any new friends?
Yes of course, the people at my Caroline Morahan addiction group are a massive support to me, always

Did you watch lots of football?
Does the bear shit on a Pope?

Did you learn anything new?
How to be an English Teacher, although this is as yet an untested claim

The New Year
What do you wish to accomplish this year?
I'll tell you when I accomplish it, deal?

Do you want to fall in love this year?

Not particularly, no, but when that pink fluffy bunny master of lorve comes and looks at me with those Bambi eyes (what on earth has Bambi been doing with the rabbits!!) only a heart of stone could look away.

Are you moving away or moving out?
I fervently hope so with all of my heart

Are you going to school next semester?
It's possible I could be teaching in one if I get my ducks in a row. 'Row' meaning straight line, I don't promote duck fighting in general, it's immoral.

General feelings about things
Do you snore?
Yes, tremulously when drunk, or so I'm told.

Lover or a fighter?
The former I shouldn't think, but I'd be torn as to how to answer if I liked rough sex

What's your worst fear?
Never amounting to anything, and being accused of using italics too often in my blogs, I worry equally about both these grim possibilities. 

As a kid, were you a lego builder?
Oh ho ho yes, I'd built three housing estates in Cavan town and scarpered with the money by the time I was 12. Better a lego builder than a cowboy builder is what I always say. Or something.

What do you think of "reality tv"?
I think it's symptomatic of a society so vacuous, moribund, spoon-fed with nonsense and spellbound by bullshit that we will soon eat ourselves alive and laugh at each other while we do it.

Do you chew on your straws?
I prefer food to be honest.

Were you a cute baby?
I prefer to think I was more sexy, I certainly dressed a bit sluttily when I was a toddler, possibly attention seeking.

How is the single life for you?
I love the single life whenever I meet a new girl

What color is your keyboard?
Black

Do you sing in the shower?
I tend to mumble and chime along a bit like the kid in the choir who doesn't know the words

Have you ever bungee jumped?
Some bar stools give me vertigo for fucks sake, there's not a chance of me bungee jumping, ever.

Any secret talents?
I have many talents I keep secret from others, yes. For instance, I'm very like Jason Bourne.

What's your ideal vacation spot?
Somewhere culturally interesting with good food, weather, cheap beer and hawt women.

Have you eaten sushi?
I tried it once just to say I'd done it. Next up: heroin. "I tried it once, been trying it once ever since" etc. etc.

Are blondes dumb?
People are dumb, end of.

How do you like your eggs?
Preferably, laid, although I will get in there and forage if required.

Do you cry at weddings?
Only with laughter

Is tupac still alive?
I really hope not, I think they buried him a few years ago like...

When was the last time you said, "i love you"
Probably last week, on the phone to one of the lads in the office. It's what we do.

What are you allergic to?
Pollen, dust, people with BO

Do you like your handwriting?
It's pretty damn good, yeah, I'd love to make a font of it and use it on my blog to give it that real personal touch but while this is possible, only people who also bought my font and installed it would be able to read it and get the full effect so bang goes that idea.

Is marriage in your future?
If it is, it is, if it's not, it's not. It's not worth getting one's knickers in a knot over really.

What's your stand on hunting?
It's what other people do and I leave them to it

Are speedos hot?
There's nothing remotely hot about having your Biggy and Smalls tautened and squished in the manner of helpless roadkill trapped in a twisted hammock. And that's my last word on the matter.

Have you ever been on an airplane?

Do you mean travelled, or used the jacks? Both if so.

Can you sing the alphabet backwards?
I wasn't aware of it being some rite of passage, so no, I've never been encouraged to try.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop?
Some people really just are not comfortable talking about oral sex.

Do you give a darn about the ozone?
It tends not to keep me awake at night, I have to be honest and up front here

Have you seen the movie "Donnie Darko"?
Bits of it, never all of it at once

Have you ever hitch hiked?
Yes. Back in the day when these things were acceptable and safe. I had a car of my own and all like, I just liked the company and it got me out of the house.

Are you wearing socks?
I am. They are, however, on my hands as I'm into sock puppetry and dammit I just can't seem to stop...

Is drug free the way to be?
Personally speaking, yes, I'm stupid enough while only under the influence of myself and anything artificial would surely push me beyond the beyond. 

How many times have you brushed your teeth today?
Once. But the night is young! I could go crazy and do it twice more. Woooo!

Have you ever ridden in an ambulance?
Life has not seen fit to bestow this undoubted pleasure upon me, no.

Crunchy or creamy peanut butter?
Both. Or neither. Here, I don't actually give a fuck really.

What are you addicted to?
The internet. Caroline Morahan. Jaffa Cakes. Cashew nuts. Exercise. Smithwicks.

Are you afraid of the dark?
Occasionally, if I've seen a really scary movie it takes me back to when I was a kid, shitting planks going to bed after watching Salem's Lot. I never knew Starsky and Hutch could be so dark.

Is santa clause real?
No comment.

Do you prefer baths or showers?
Showers are for washing in, baths are for wallowing in. Each has its merits depending on the occasion.

When was the last time you were in a car?
There last Tuesday.

Is McDonald's disgusting?
It is in me hole, Mickey D's is savage every once in a while.

Do you have a nickname?
If I have I don't know what it is,which is a sure sign I wouldn't like whatever it is if I do have one. 

What time is it?
Buy a watch, fucko. 

Where does the other sock end up?
On my hand, the sock puppetry guidelines are quite strict in this regard.

Do you like your life?
Sometimes.

When's the last time you cried?
When me and my last proper girlfriend broke up. Ten years is worth a few tears doncha think?

What color are your eyes?
They're brown, and lovely, according to the  40-something from Cork who wanted me to make babies with her friend a few weeks back. (Declined).

Have you read "Catcher in the Rye"?
Yes. With all the advance billing, I came to it expecting something akin to "To Kill a Mockingbird" and came away somewhat unfulfilled.

Are you psychic?
I knew you were going to ask that.

Whose life is better?
I'm not happy with everything in my life but I still wouldn't trade it for anyone else's

Do you play any instruments?
The triangle, the kazoo, my own armpit.

Do you like camping?
I haven't been for ages but when you were 14 it was a great way of getting pissed with your mates under the pretext of "bonding" and "learning about nature" and sure there was even an element of truth in both of those if any of the girls came along.

Can you skateboard?
Like Basil Fawlty having electric shock therapy, yes.

Do you snort when you laugh?
Ah God no, that's uncouth. I laugh when I fart though, I suspect both phenomena are cousins or some such.

Do you believe in magic?
Nope.

Is a dog a man's best friend?
Is man a dog's best friend, hmmm?

Do you believe in divorce?
Well it's hardly up there with the Easter Bunny in the incredulity stakes, is it?

Can you do the moonwalk?
I know how it's done but I just can't actually do it.

What was the last thing you ate?
Jaffa Cakes. Om nom nom nom...

Do you wear nailpolish?
Not since The Something and Something Elses broke up, no.

Favorite band at the moment?
The National, still.

What's the most annoying tv commercial?
GO COMPARE! GO COMPARE! GO COMPARE! LISTEN TO THIS FUCKING AD IT DRIVES YOU SPARE! GO COMPARE!

Go and fuck off more like.

Honourable mention to: "We buy any car....dot com...we buy any car...dot com...we buy any car...dot com..."

Do you like someone right now?
Oh yes, if it happens I'll let you know.
Thursday, December 17, 2009

Top 10 Movies with Cows in the Title. Mostly.

Today, remaining fully committed to the blog, I've been wracking my brains for something to write.

I started off a post called "Stupid tee-shirts sicken my hole", which was about men who wear teeshirts with stuff like "Well, it ain't gonna suck itself" and "Tell your tits to stop staring at me" written across the chest. Apparently they think it's funny. I do not. But the post just got really, really ranty and bitter and scarily angry so I parked it in the drafts and will return to it some time when I haven't been drinking petrol and taking ecstacy.

Seeing as I am unemployed now and getting very anxious about it too, I thought that maybe a quick whistle-stop tour of all the jobs I've ever had, well, it might be interesting. I hold my hands up here though, I was wrong. It was singularly disinteresting.

Therefore, apropos of absolutely nothing at all, I've come over all Channel 4 and have been wondering to the point of distraction how to compile a list of the best ever films with cows in the title. But, dash it all to buggery, I can only get as far as nine before being forced to give up in a stage of high agitation. The magical tenth eludes me.

Yes. It is rather cheesy I know, but it's been too long since I did a cow-related post. And sure I just wanted to write something. So here we go, Top 10 Movies with Cows in the Title, please make suggestions for the tenth. I can't stand having a top ten with only nine in it.

1. Apocolypse Cow
Renegade army cows. Cows flying helicopters. One cow chasing another around the jungle. Martin Sheen and Robert Duval, dressed as cows. Marilyn Brando, the fat cow. You get the picture. 

2. Seven Brides for Seven Udders
Seven cow brothers with beards and check shirts, looking like lumberjacks, who each find wives all at once, which is unbelieveably jammy. The last-born cow may have gifts of healing the sick.

3. Raging Bull
Simple one here. A heavyweight boxer cow fights his way to the very top, battling personal demons along the way, chief of which was being forced to eat steak before big bouts. Some of the mince scenes were incredibly realistic.

4. Oh Brother, Where art Cow?
Very odd film all things told. I know the cows have a recording hit after they escape prison, cannot find proper hairdressing cream (Dapper Dan, you couldn't be doing with that Pomade shite) and strangest of all, one gets turned into a frog, and then at the very end, the nice folks at the ESB open the fucking dam and flood the place, the fuckers.

5. Bovine secrets of the Moo-Moo sisterhood
From the people who brought you The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. I genuinely have no clue what it's about but I'll hazard a guess it's about a suburban sewing circle for cows who meet up for tea and gossip every week. And one of them produces contaminated milk and hasn't told her friends because of the shame that would spread through this idyllic American neighbourhood with manicured lawns, picket fences and girl scouts selling cookies.

6. Moo Velvet
I think this is a David Lynch one, with Dennis Hopper playing a cow with BSE to massive critical acclaim.

7. The Naked Gun Two and a Calf
Leslie Nielsen in another madcap outing as bumbling detective Frank Drebin. I'm keeping this one factual because I can't say anything stupider than it actually is.There may have been a bit where one cow compliments another on her beaver though.

8. Sergeant Heifer's Lonely Hearts Club Band
Beatles vehicle which of course makes us all think of the Volkswagen, but that was the one where Herbi(vore) the cow goes to Monty Carlow. Different movie altogether.  

 9. The Silage of the Lambs
Ok, ok, I'm really digging now and going slightly outside the established species parameters, but who can resist Sir Anthony Hopkins defining performance in this, his tour de force? "I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti," he reveals, with the cannibalism being less startling than the fact that cows have a taste for a nice red, apparently.

10. ?
Monday, December 14, 2009

Status update

  • Still single. By choice. Girls are proving useful and thoughtful allies in this regard, giving me a very wide berth and stridently refusing to have anything sexual to do with me during this period of self-denial. I attempt to fall off the wagon very frequently but those girls, samartians that they are, just scoop me up, pop me back on it and hit the horse a fearsome wallop on the arse to keep me on the path of righteousness. Then they run off in the opposite direction. Very decent of them.
  • I am now a fully qualified and certified and official English Language Teacher. Yup. I passed the course. Never mind that everyone passes the course, I remain immensely proud of my achievements. "Terence McDanger, ELT. I sound like a toasted sandwich but I'm pleased to meet you anyway."
  • Moved back to Cavan and back to Dublin again, now living in a house share arrangement with the soundest couple in the world, ever. She cooks me dinners. She had me at: "Hungry?". I love them. They love me. And we shall continue our blissful lives in this, our house of love and harmony, until they catch me stealing their DNA as I attempt to clone them and keep them with me, always. Or when I reveal my bagpipe fetish. Yeah. It'll be the bagpipes where we come a cropper I shouldn't think.
  • Sold my lovely car and bought an old shitheap to keep me mobile in a cheaper, if markedly slower fashion. Kindly neighbours, no doubt seeking the approval of me, the new guy on Wysteria Lane, find and leave the fally-offy bits of it on the doorstep for me, in the manner of cats with dead sparrows. But it just took me to Waterford for a weekend's boozing and it made it there and back in one piece, and it's only marginally more surprising that I did likewise. The bonus is, I think it runs on the alcohol fumes from your boozy breath so it even saves on fuel.
  • I am still striving manfully to get the hell out of this country. I remain trenchantly indifferent to current affairs but even I know things are a bit shit so I've applied for a teaching position in Japan but won't know about it for ages. In the meantime, I've thrown my hat in the ring for a job as Bela Doyle's stunt arse on Fair City. They used to use his screen daughter's face but viewers started to notice, hence the, giggle, opening for a stunt arse.
  • I haven't changed a whit since I last blogged. I'm still a nefarious little bollix with designs on world domination, and also I still laugh at the stupidest things. For instance, I saw a roadsign for a town called Bunclody over the weekend and it suddenly struck me how sexy-sounding a place it is, because it sounds rather like unclothe me. Oooooh, take me to bed and Bunclod-me now, big boy. Bunclody me real good. And then take me down to Nobber in County Meath.
  • Listen, reader, I feel like we've had a really bad row and there's been this massive gaping fissure in our relationship and for the last few weeks I've been hanging around too proud and afraid to apologise and put this thing back on track. I genuinely feel bad about not blogging. Like, literally, because this place is like an emetic for me, it keeps me clean inside. When I don't write here some poor bastard has to listen to me issuing forth with my nonsense in pubs instead, and mine is not the sort of shite to be listening to when you're out for a few. "Here, what do you think of bluebottles, they're hoors aren't they?" says I. "Fuck off now Terence," says he, unsheathing a Samurai sword. "Just fuck off. And shut up about wasps and all."
  • I'm singing a lot lately. To the amusement of myself, the annoyance of others, in front of the mirror et cetera. Radge is my biggest fan and he loves it when I sing Tooraloora to him and tickle him behind the ears, making soothing whale-mating sounds. Try as I might though, I can't achieve my dream and sing Old Man River like Paul Robeson did. I just can't, you know, get under those low notes. The best I can manage is an unpleasant likeness to the bastard lovechild of Animal off the Muppets and Bryan Adams.  All things told, I'm really shite at being Paul Robeson. Pleasantly, I do a good impression of Chewbacca from Star Wars however.
  • There isn't really a whole lot else to say. It's not much after two months' sterility I know, but at least it's better than me turning out one of my epic War and Peace efforts that take up three pages. Anyway, for those of you still checking this page, I hope you're all doing well. For those of you not still checking this page, it's largely irrelevant what I wish for you as you won't see it, but I still hope you're doing well anyway. Pip pip now.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009

I hate Bluebottles

The bluebottles. Sure they have me only demented entirely.

The fat, zing-pinging crazy bluearse little bastards. The daft, dirty, harebrained, erratic infuriating fuckers.

In unemployment, I spend so much time at home now, most of it with my head spinning like a madcap meerkat as I stand there all squinty and seething and bitter with a rolled up Buy and Sell, swatting and windmilling at them like Basil Fawlty rave dancing after six ecstasy tablets.

There's no fewer than four of the fuckers careering around the place as I type. Crashing into the mirror, ting-tinging their curranty bodies off the lightbulbs, banging off each other in such a fucking bastard hurry to get to where they don't even know where they're going because as soon as they get there, they're up and off again for the sheer fuckery of it all, the horrible fuckwits. The stupid, pointless noisy shower of farts with wings that they are.

The buzzing and the droning. The buzzing and the droning. It's like listening to a mini version of the Battle of Britain.

And when you manage to get one of the little fuckers to sit still for a minute (how their mothers cut their hair I'll never know) and squish him satisfyingly with much aplomb and no little pent up aggression, they go splat all over the wall and then you have to wipe up the goo. They don't go quietly, and they don't go quietly either if you get me.What a risible, detestable waste-of-time of a species.

So today, I was hoovering, and in a fit of volcanic pique I started chasing one of the irritant little shites round the living room brandishing the vacuum cleaner for all the world like William Wallace with a broadsword. I was sweating like a racehorse after ten minutes' comical lunging and stabbing at the air and tippy-toe Elmer Fudd sneaking, but oh! I tell you, the immense feeling of satisfaction and achievement as I snared me one of the varmints and he struggled to escape the pull of the roaring Miele 1500 and was sucked in with just a gentle thwack of his rigid blue body on the tube. And then his screaming, protesting whine trailing off like a baddy getting chucked over a cliff in a Bond movie, as he travelled on down to meet his maker in the guts of the machine. Oh joy.

I hate bluebottles. Even when I don't have a window open, the loathesome, madcap, worse-than-any-little-bastard-off-Supernanny lunatic motherfuckers still manage to get in. They get into the window seal from outside and sit there until I do open the window, and fly right in to commence their nonsensical, deranged skittering and flittering about the place. I've never known anything alive expend so much energy doing absolutely zero. Much ado about nothing. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.

And how in the name of all that's logical can they manage to find a crack the width of a hair through which to get in, and then when you open the window wide in the hope they'll fly out of their own accord, they'll happily spend hours hurling themselves endlessly against the closed pane beside it? 

Idiotic, pinball, berserk, careering Bluebottle bastards. I'll commit a murder before this day is done.

Hrrrrmph.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Nat King Karma


Are you available for and actively seeking employment Terence?

Okay, so she made me promise not to tell anyone and I did solemnly swear and all that but I want to put this out there to recognise a kindess, or for Karmic reasons, or whatever.

And because I fancied her a wee bit too.

Right. This week I went into the Social Welfare office, got signed up and signed on, and they have me approved and ready for the first payment already. Yep. That quick. I'm an official, depressing statistic inside the blink of an eye and what's more, I'm very pleased with it all. Surely this is some sort of record? Is there not supposed to be an eight-week wait? And all sorts of lamentable checks and forms and stuff? Blood tests? Stool samples? Sealed transcripts of how much you got on your confirmation day?

Sure, they were even nice to me so they were.

It was so neatly handled and painless it was like going to the dentist to have all your wisdom teeth out, trembling in trepidation, and finding to your surprise that he'd craftily removed them with the hearty slap on the back he gave you in greeting when you walked in the door.

Is that all like? Do you not want me to cry or beg or something?

Now although I had every last bit of required documentation gathered, present and correct, and then some, I can tell this is not typical. That's because after signing off on my signing on inside a dizzying 15 minutes, she leaned conspiratorially into the plexi-glass and with a wide-eyed whisper, beseeched me not to go out on the streets with a loudhailer proclaiming their awe-inspiring efficiency to all and sundry. For fear, you see, that it would be the clarion call for a deluge of hopeful unemployeds, all travelling long distances to inundate her as they seek the quicksharp succour of the mythical WonderWelfareWoman. And sadly, these sorts of quick turnarounds (crap Wonder Woman pun intended) are just not always possible she says. I think I'm just very lucky or something.

So I'll not mention any names or locations to protect the identity of the superhero involved, because she presumably has a family who know nothing about her amazing powers. Although surely it's only a matter of time before the neighbours see her star-spangled knickers on the line and her cover's blown.

She was a bit of a fox as well actually. Verrrrrrrrrry cute. Nice Rs too. Actually, can foxes be cute? Hmm. Maybe she was more of a rabbit so. Either one or the other I guess, although not at the same time obviously because that might confuse her as she'd be trying to chase herself around the office all day, wanting to eat herself and then having to deal with possible feelings of self-loathing and stuff. 

Yes, on reflection, the rabbitty fox/foxy rabbit thing is an annoying circuitous analogy and should never be used again but I like the image of her careering through furniture trying to bite a lump out her own bum, so I'm leaving it in.

So there you have it. I was expecting to be interrogated and indecently probed by some leather-clad Nazi superbitch in wrought-iron underpants, who'd spend three hours shining a light in my eyes and slapping me around the room with her stiletto. But instead I got a nice smiley girleen in a woolly jumper and boots who couldn't do enough to help me. So, you know, that's all good and fair play to the lady involved because the staff there get a bad press sometimes.

My apologies if anyone reading this hasn't had things run so smoothly for them, but you know, it was all so slick and polished for me, I nearly forgot the fact that I no longer have a job or a regular income.

Well nearly. But although I had to leave my pride at the door going in, I was sure to pick it up on the way back out.
Friday, September 25, 2009

Favourite things. More of.

I'm keeping the good side out today. If I was a fried egg, I'd be sunny side up.

So...here are a few more of my favourite things, because, well, because we all bitch and whine too much. Therefore, without further ado, je te presente the next in my long-running series of heavily hyphenated, feel-good, group hug perk-me-up and ruffle-me-hair like a Jack-the-Lad (drumroll)...anti-rants.

1. Jaffa cakes


The undisputed king of biscuits/cakes/whatever that court case decided there a while ago. I'm literally never without a stash of these in the house - milk comes and goes, but never the Jaffassssss - and I do a little jig in the supermarket aisle when they've got the 24 for the price of 12 offer on. Get in.

It's a shame they got rid of the Munchkins though.

You know, when I die and am called to my eternal reward, people will sit glum, silent and bereft at my wake, as the clock doles time on the mantle and someone rakes the ashes of the fire and says:

"He was a lovely man. Loved washing ducks of an evening. Always had a packet of Jaffa cakes on him too.

"And a cow in the wardrobe, oddly."

2. Shaving


Well not shaving per se, but rather that unique feeling of being shaven-ness that one can only acquire through, uh, shaving.

Now, as the medical terminology would have it, I'm a fierce hairy bastard altogether, so I generally have a five o'clock shadow by 2pm. This would seemingly demand that I shave more often than twice a week, but such is my love of being close shaven that I, paradoxically, apportion and ration my shaves down to twice every seven days. This, you see, ensures there is sufficient growth for an easy, comfortable shave - so I get to be all swish and swashbuckle flourish with the razor, like the chaps in the ads on the telly, with the hapless hair getting bulldozed off my jaw like stubbly rubble. Shaving a short beard y'see, is just a recipe for nicks and cuts and burns, can't be doing with it at all.

Just last week, now, I went retro and started using a shaving brush for the first time. Now I foam that bristly baby up and slap and slather my face until it's like a fresh pavlova, and off I go. I feel like John Wayne in a Western every time and I'm just waiting for a renewed attack of piles so I can do the walk and everything. Coo!

3. Jessica Fletcher


There's just something dependable about ole' Jessica. I saw her mentioned on Red Lemonade the other day and just got to thinking about the staple she has been in my life for so long now.

Despite the fact that countless incompetent Chiefs of Police across the USA see fit to disparage and dismiss her as some sort of interfering old biddy who read too much Miss Marple, Jessica just brushes it all off and keeps on bagging them criminals so she does.
Anyway, never mind that she can't think of any fucking plots for her novels on her own, and so hangs about crime scenes so she can rip them off and profit on the back of others' misfortune, I still think she rocks. And the icing on the cake is that each episode usually has a big feel-good communal laugh ending, just like in that other seminal crime series, Scooby Doo.

I do often wonder, however, given the fact that she was involved in anything up to 270 murder investigations, some sleuth or other didn't sit down and twig that the one common denominator in them all was actually Jessica herself. Hmmm. I reckon the crafty bitch was bumping them off herself, and using a cunning mix of crime-scene experience and enchanting prose, she pinned the blame on someone else. What a truly magnificent old hag.

And, while I'm warmed up, I still can't figure out how she got so many invites to all these big parties and functions and fundraisers and hanging out with Sultans on yachts and shit. It's a simple equation. Jessica Fletcher + social event  = guaranteed corpse within 15 minutes. Now I'm no socialite, God knows, but one thing I do know about the boogie-woogie is that if anything takes the gloss off a party, it's a dead body floating in the punch bowl.
Pah! Never mind, I think she's a wee pet. If she thinks she's coming near my house though, she can fuck off.

4. Listening to the rain


Oh listen to the rhythm of the falling rain, telling me some dickhead's getting soaked...

Yeah that's what it's all about isn't it? You're wrapped up cosy and tight in bed, burrowing down with an ear cocked to the musical hiss of rain hitting the tarmac outside, and then you hear the unmistakable hurried clip-clops of someone rushing to get under cover. There comes a gust of wind and there's a brief rattle on the windows like pebbles clattering down a tin roof.

You burrow down further and draw your knees up to your chest, snug, and smug, as a bug in a rug. Ahhhhhhh.

5. Womens' bras


No seriously, they're great. But only a very particular type, mind you. Specifically, the ones with the plain black curved cups; so when they poke up from under a plunging neckline, it makes me think that Mickey Mouse is living down there and he doesn't realise his ears are sticking out. Fun times!