Like most right-thinking young men I hate shopping. I hate shopping, I detest crowds, and I have nothing but contempt for modern shopping centres. When I want a new pair of jeans, however, I'm left with very little other choice. I did look on ebay first, but when the appearance and fit is so important one has to resign one's self to leaving the house and having contact with other human beings.
I don't know how long this particular abomination has been in existence or how far widespread but what I saw yesterday sickened me. Trainers with little wheels in the heels, I think Sketchers. At first I thought it was cute, and if anything might get kids to take more exercise -- but then I saw what really happened. One kid was being literally towed by her Mum. She was just leaning back and having her Mum tow her along. While it may be a good workout for a parent to be dragging their child around all day, it's not good parenting.
I'd like to propose some changes to our society.
Firstly, I want to introduce wolves into our shopping centres. Yes, wolves. They will eat lazy or unruly children, and keep crowds to a minimum.
In a similar vein, I would like to reintroduce large predators to our towns and suburbs. Cougars and other similar big cats would be ideal, they would control crowds (especially if we could keep the percentage of predators in line with the people population), also reduce anti-social behaviour such as loitering and jogging. Since our schools have been turned into mini-fortresses to protect against "The Paedophile Menace", so long as they are in school our children won't be eaten by leopards.
However, kids that leave school to go the chip shop at lunch time will take their lives into their own hands. Parents who try to deliver fast food to the children through the school gates will also be open to attack by marauding lions. If they don't want healthy school dinners, they will risk being an afternoon snack themselves.
Other measures against anti-social behaviour, including the spread of the chav in our towns and cities, will be packs of ostriches. These will be replacing the current PCSOs, who only have the power to raise their voice to criminals and ask them politely to stop it. Ostriches are notoriously bad tempered and aggressive -- not unlike chavs -- and there will now be violent pecking of the Burberry-clad morons who sit on the church wall and drink cider.
I would also like to propose a motion to encourage phone sex in public. We need to move with the times, people have busy lives and don't have the time or patience for elaborate courting rituals -- like paying for her cinema ticket in the hope of a shag -- and would rather skip the mess of actually having sex with another person, in person. The unprecedented growth of MySpace has led to an exponential rise of phone sex -- after all, it's the next level of commitment after one-handed typing.
But it needn't be a taboo, so I feel we should have a national advertising campaign encouraging phone sex in public -- on the bus, commuters on the tube, in the queue for the checkout. All of these times when you might be bored and waiting, you could be talking filth down the phone to someone who probably has a face like the back end of a bus.
And in other news, I found a perfect pair of jeans and got them ridiculously cheap in the sale. The jeans look great, however I look a mess. Now taking paypal donations towards a gym membership.
Sunday 31 December 2006
Saturday 30 December 2006
Can't stand me now
It's not easy to know where this story begins. I guess really it is the story of one man, and not about me. Or about how lives intertwine.
His name was Chris -- probably still is -- and all I knew of him was he was some friend of a friend that got a job in the pub where I worked. He seemed like a nice enough guy -- and I'd vaguely known him before this, as you do in this town with almost anyone -- but even know I can identify he always had an attitude about him. He always had a chip on his shoulder. He was always hard done by, and shouldn't have to work. Or, indeed, whatever. I never knew him that well to really go into too deep an analysis.
Skip ahead; he quit the job he had because he couldn't stand to be bossed around by our mutual friend. That was his tough luck, he took the job, she'd earned her position. And he'd left almost as suddenly as he started, taking his attitude with him. And he faded back into the background of someone you know but aren't really friends with.
And as a disclaimer, it's my libellous belief he was, is, or has been screwing Deb. That's a whole other story.
Skip way on ahead to Christmas eve, a night like most others I'm walking to the pub with a few friends. As we approach the cash machine, Chris is already ahead of us. With a sneer and a snarky comment he says he doesn't need to guess where we are headed that night -- yes, I know, I don't like that my friends won't go anywhere else either. And maybe I felt defensive, as while my friends stayed quiet I told him "Yes, your mum has a special offer going tonight -- two for the price of one". He warned me not to make comments like that. Oh, so I shouldn't say things like "..." and here I omit details for the sake of anonymity. He told me he would warn me again, but there wouldn't be a third time.
I paused. I considered it. What's the worst that could happen? I weighed up the options and figured being punched in the face probably wasn't worth pushing my luck over. When he and Deb turned up at the pub about 5 minutes behind us, I did feel slightly justified in combatting his sarcatic tone of voice, but forgot about it. Jon mentioned to me that Chris was actually adopted, hasn't handled it very well and apparently -- so it would seem -- doesn't react well to comments about his mum. This was all news to me. If it hadn't been, I might not have said it.
On the other hand, I can make pretty damn insensitive comments if so inclined.
Almost a week later, I'd pretty much forgotten all about it. I was out playing pool and I saw Chris arrive with some of his friends. It hadn't really struck me as that odd that although people had seen me, nobody had acknowledged me. Even Deb arriving with Chris didn't. Even Laura -- whom I'd worked with for however many years and am still close to, didn't acknowledge me. As I say, I didn't think anything of it. Until I ran into Chris at the bar.
Maybe I was naive, or underestimated quite how much I'd annoyed him. I wasn't about to try and be the best of friends with him, but I called his name and he seemed to ignore me. At first. Then before he left the bar he came over, stood over me and told me that the next time I said anything like that again and didn't have my friends with me, he would put my nose through the back of my head. He poked my face and told me to remember that, and walked away. I called his name once, if only to ask what the fuck. But I quickly remembered my 'warnings'.
And it's funny, because part of me is still amused he reacted to such a stupid comment. Comments I make to my very closest friends all the time. Part of me wants to tell him to just get the fuck over it, nobody cares who the fuck his parents are -- or aren't. I might have been tempted to apologise for any offence caused, before he reacted the way he did. Now I'm torn. Part of me wants to be very zen about it, tells me that my holding a grudge against someone that apparently holds a completely ludicrous grudge is not only absurd, but bad karma. It tells me that hate is a disease that will kill you, and harbouring bad feelings only makes you sick. Part of me is all fucking zen master about it.
But the other part is funnier still, because he has really no idea how close sometimes I am to the very edge of sanity.
He has absolutely no idea that while I might be standing smiling and playing pool, I'm thinking about burning down his house. I'm told the difference really lies no with people who would think of it, but the people who actually would go through with it. Those who would go through with it probably aren't those who turn to writing for an emotional release.
To me, the whole thing is a symptom. A symptom of this town, this county, this whole damn life here. Why I want to move out, move away, skip the whole country and watch it carry on sinking into the sea.
But for now, what does this mean? Be careful whose mothers you suggest offer sexual favours for money (and to think if I wanted to be really insulting I could have tried to drop in some reference to the Suffolk strangler), don't be so sarcastic to people, watch your back. And if he will ever get over it, I don't know.
His name was Chris -- probably still is -- and all I knew of him was he was some friend of a friend that got a job in the pub where I worked. He seemed like a nice enough guy -- and I'd vaguely known him before this, as you do in this town with almost anyone -- but even know I can identify he always had an attitude about him. He always had a chip on his shoulder. He was always hard done by, and shouldn't have to work. Or, indeed, whatever. I never knew him that well to really go into too deep an analysis.
Skip ahead; he quit the job he had because he couldn't stand to be bossed around by our mutual friend. That was his tough luck, he took the job, she'd earned her position. And he'd left almost as suddenly as he started, taking his attitude with him. And he faded back into the background of someone you know but aren't really friends with.
And as a disclaimer, it's my libellous belief he was, is, or has been screwing Deb. That's a whole other story.
Skip way on ahead to Christmas eve, a night like most others I'm walking to the pub with a few friends. As we approach the cash machine, Chris is already ahead of us. With a sneer and a snarky comment he says he doesn't need to guess where we are headed that night -- yes, I know, I don't like that my friends won't go anywhere else either. And maybe I felt defensive, as while my friends stayed quiet I told him "Yes, your mum has a special offer going tonight -- two for the price of one". He warned me not to make comments like that. Oh, so I shouldn't say things like "..." and here I omit details for the sake of anonymity. He told me he would warn me again, but there wouldn't be a third time.
I paused. I considered it. What's the worst that could happen? I weighed up the options and figured being punched in the face probably wasn't worth pushing my luck over. When he and Deb turned up at the pub about 5 minutes behind us, I did feel slightly justified in combatting his sarcatic tone of voice, but forgot about it. Jon mentioned to me that Chris was actually adopted, hasn't handled it very well and apparently -- so it would seem -- doesn't react well to comments about his mum. This was all news to me. If it hadn't been, I might not have said it.
On the other hand, I can make pretty damn insensitive comments if so inclined.
Almost a week later, I'd pretty much forgotten all about it. I was out playing pool and I saw Chris arrive with some of his friends. It hadn't really struck me as that odd that although people had seen me, nobody had acknowledged me. Even Deb arriving with Chris didn't. Even Laura -- whom I'd worked with for however many years and am still close to, didn't acknowledge me. As I say, I didn't think anything of it. Until I ran into Chris at the bar.
Maybe I was naive, or underestimated quite how much I'd annoyed him. I wasn't about to try and be the best of friends with him, but I called his name and he seemed to ignore me. At first. Then before he left the bar he came over, stood over me and told me that the next time I said anything like that again and didn't have my friends with me, he would put my nose through the back of my head. He poked my face and told me to remember that, and walked away. I called his name once, if only to ask what the fuck. But I quickly remembered my 'warnings'.
And it's funny, because part of me is still amused he reacted to such a stupid comment. Comments I make to my very closest friends all the time. Part of me wants to tell him to just get the fuck over it, nobody cares who the fuck his parents are -- or aren't. I might have been tempted to apologise for any offence caused, before he reacted the way he did. Now I'm torn. Part of me wants to be very zen about it, tells me that my holding a grudge against someone that apparently holds a completely ludicrous grudge is not only absurd, but bad karma. It tells me that hate is a disease that will kill you, and harbouring bad feelings only makes you sick. Part of me is all fucking zen master about it.
But the other part is funnier still, because he has really no idea how close sometimes I am to the very edge of sanity.
He has absolutely no idea that while I might be standing smiling and playing pool, I'm thinking about burning down his house. I'm told the difference really lies no with people who would think of it, but the people who actually would go through with it. Those who would go through with it probably aren't those who turn to writing for an emotional release.
To me, the whole thing is a symptom. A symptom of this town, this county, this whole damn life here. Why I want to move out, move away, skip the whole country and watch it carry on sinking into the sea.
But for now, what does this mean? Be careful whose mothers you suggest offer sexual favours for money (and to think if I wanted to be really insulting I could have tried to drop in some reference to the Suffolk strangler), don't be so sarcastic to people, watch your back. And if he will ever get over it, I don't know.
Wednesday 27 December 2006
She never loved me, why should anyone
It's funny, it's the little things you aren't expecting that can really knock you off course. Things with San as far as I was concerned were fine. The San situation was over, there was no situation to speak of, I was over it and over her.
I was talking to her yesterday, after she'd been away for something like a week in Egypt with her new boyfriend, or whatever he is. I've stopped caring, and I've stopped asking. One evening towards the end of last week I got a text message from San, telling me she'd been quad biking through the desert canyons at dusk. She said it had reminded her of me and the thesis I wrote on the wilderness. At the time I think I replied with something along the lines of "it sounds cool", but what I thought was "where was this girl when I was dating you?".
So yesterday we were talking and I was doing the polite thing and asking about her holiday. I made mention to her scuba diving and quad biking and said what I had been thinking before. San then mentioned she was going skiing in the new year, again with new boyfriend person. At first I laughed it off -- the thought of her skiing, after she was always so against the idea of winter sports because it would be cold and she could hurt herself. But no, she was serious.
Strangely, I felt -- feel -- more annoyed than anything else. I asked her why she would never have gone with me, "You never invited me" she said. I never got the chance to go myself while we were still dating, but she was always against it when I mentioned it. Perhaps she thinks I should have taken her when I went snowboarding this year, when we weren't even going out.
It's not that I'm annoyed she's doing these things with someone new and not me -- I could really care less what she does, or with whom -- but I'm annoyed that with me she wouldn't so much as sit on the grass. And yet when I ask her why she wouldn't do things like that with me she makes out like I wouldn't take her.
She's said before that I spoiled her, that I let her get away with too much or take advantage. I let her be a princess; she took the idea and ran with it.
I spent the last couple of days uploading and backdating posts from my old diary, and it gave me an interesting perspective on our relationship was. At the time I thought it was important we'd get back together every time we broke up, San thought it was more significant we kept breaking up. Now I'm not so sure who was right.
What her new relationship is like I don't know, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that while we were together we -- or at least I -- could never afford to do these things, I couldn't afford to take her out to expensive restaurants or west end shows or lend her money for foreign holidays. It would be unkind and very unfair to suggest that these things were more important to her than being with me, but sometimes it can feel like it.
This isn't a "I miss her" post, or an "I want her back" train of thought. I'm just pissed off about it, and I can't exactly explain why.
I was talking to her yesterday, after she'd been away for something like a week in Egypt with her new boyfriend, or whatever he is. I've stopped caring, and I've stopped asking. One evening towards the end of last week I got a text message from San, telling me she'd been quad biking through the desert canyons at dusk. She said it had reminded her of me and the thesis I wrote on the wilderness. At the time I think I replied with something along the lines of "it sounds cool", but what I thought was "where was this girl when I was dating you?".
So yesterday we were talking and I was doing the polite thing and asking about her holiday. I made mention to her scuba diving and quad biking and said what I had been thinking before. San then mentioned she was going skiing in the new year, again with new boyfriend person. At first I laughed it off -- the thought of her skiing, after she was always so against the idea of winter sports because it would be cold and she could hurt herself. But no, she was serious.
Strangely, I felt -- feel -- more annoyed than anything else. I asked her why she would never have gone with me, "You never invited me" she said. I never got the chance to go myself while we were still dating, but she was always against it when I mentioned it. Perhaps she thinks I should have taken her when I went snowboarding this year, when we weren't even going out.
It's not that I'm annoyed she's doing these things with someone new and not me -- I could really care less what she does, or with whom -- but I'm annoyed that with me she wouldn't so much as sit on the grass. And yet when I ask her why she wouldn't do things like that with me she makes out like I wouldn't take her.
She's said before that I spoiled her, that I let her get away with too much or take advantage. I let her be a princess; she took the idea and ran with it.
I spent the last couple of days uploading and backdating posts from my old diary, and it gave me an interesting perspective on our relationship was. At the time I thought it was important we'd get back together every time we broke up, San thought it was more significant we kept breaking up. Now I'm not so sure who was right.
What her new relationship is like I don't know, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that while we were together we -- or at least I -- could never afford to do these things, I couldn't afford to take her out to expensive restaurants or west end shows or lend her money for foreign holidays. It would be unkind and very unfair to suggest that these things were more important to her than being with me, but sometimes it can feel like it.
This isn't a "I miss her" post, or an "I want her back" train of thought. I'm just pissed off about it, and I can't exactly explain why.
Sunday 24 December 2006
The year, in 25 points or less
An idea stolen from the captivating Madame Boffin, who used this formula to mark her blogiversary about a month ago. I don't remember when my blogiversary is (I think maybe February), so I'm just doing this now since it seems as good a time as any. The year, in a random order.
1. Last Christmas day I was working in a pub. By Easter, I had quit my job and gone to work unpaid in London for a multinational PR company, in the hope of bettering myself. Whether it paid off remains to be seen.
2. In February, bored and restless, I bought a snowboard and took myself off to the French Alps. I suck at snowboarding -- only slightly less than how much I suck at surfing -- but I'd never been to Switzerland or France before. Highlights included travelling by bus from Geneva to Le Arcs, in France, while listening to Johnny Cash and getting pissed with a couple of other guys I had vaguely spoken to on some snowboard forum in a bar above the clouds and thousands of feet above sea level.
3. I saw Pearl Jam play the Astoria in London, after Jon managed to beat the odds and get two tickets. I took the day off work, stating I had "family commitments".
4. In August for the first time in years I camped at the Reading festival, and, yes drank a lot. I rocked out to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Twilight Singers and the Arctic Monkeys -- but Pearl Jam were unrivalled in their brilliance. I am still wearing my weekend wristband pass, four months later.
5. I spent the whole year free of any medication for depression. I don't see any shame in taking the medication if it's needed, but at the same time I like not having to take any. I like the lack of side effects the most.
6. I started going to the gym a lot, and started to look and feel better for it. I then stopped going altogether when I changed jobs and could no longer make it. I'm now probably more unfit than I was this time last year.
7. I went on a couple of dates with girls. I went for noodles with a cute Kiwi girl named Philippa, then I took her to the hospital. She always had excuses not to see me again and eventually stopped replying to me. I also met Jade, by all accounts an Oxford-educated lawyer doing pro-bono work for the disabled until her high-powered job started in the Autumn. We met for mohitos on Brick Lane, and funnily enough she too had excuses not to see me again.
8. Via the miracle medium of the internet I started talking to a girl who lived vaguely locally and was really eager to meet me. After only a couple of days I decided she was way too eager when she was planning picnics in the park and telling me she cared. I'm still not sure if I sabotaged a good thing, or had a lucky escape -- because needless to say we didn't meet.
9. I met Fiona for the first time in years, managed to avoid making a twat of myself and though I was left with a vague feeling of longing, think I handled it all reasonably well.
10. A statement that can not be applied to my friendship with San -- it's pretty incredible we remain friends at all, when we seemed to think that carrying on with some sort of quasi-open-relationship over the summer wasn't going to end in tears.
11. Aside from Pearl Jam and various bands at Reading festival, this year I have also seen Juliette & The Licks, Twilight Singers, Incubus, Foo Fighters, Motorhead, Terrorvision and probably some I'm forgetting.
12. I left my job in PR in London to work in a call centre in Essex. This was not necessarily through choice.
13. I have been to countless job interviews, and have been rejected for more jobs that I can count. There were at least three jobs as trainee assistant managers for three separate pub chains, about five different PR agencies, and an assortment of other jobs including junior photographer, picture desk assistant, a couple of newspaper feature writer positions and one media sales job.
I have met even more recruitment consultants, and am even still in vague contact with a couple of them. Even though I don't think any are still looking for work for me.
15. I have taken ownership of a skateboard, even though I can't skate. I haven't decided yet if I might learn, but I think it's nice to look at.
16. I have tried and failed to sell my snowboard. I successfully sold my widescreen tv and surround sound dvd player to my parents for their new flat, because I was broke. I have considered selling my body to get a job in marketing. I have wondered if working in marketing equalled selling my soul.
17. I have failed to sell my art, even to my parents. I wanted a print on canvas for their flat so I had something tangible to show for what I am doing with my life -- especially since my brother has laid the floors and plastered the walls. They decided it was too expensive.
18. I have proved myself free of any sexually transmitted infections or disease, and bought a new book with the gift voucher I was given in payment for taking part in a clinical trial on the day.
19. In a continuing exhibitionist theme, I have taken off all my clothes and posed nude for an art class, along with a group of strangers all also doing it for the first time.
20. I have discovered a new passion for live ice hockey. Having had a passing interest in the sport for years, I started going with my friends to see our local team play.
21. Posted various personals ads online, quoting various songs, attempting to be funny or just be "myself": all to varying degrees of limited success.
22. Inspired by Jason Lee as Earl Hickey, I started on a campaign of my own to be a better person. I apologised to a guy in the pub who I was a dick to at school, he said he had no memory of it and brushed it off. I also emailed a girl I went to school with, she said she forgave me years ago. In a similar vein, I was inspired by Danny Wallace to "say yes more", I can't report of anything particularly life-changing coming out of either episode. A self hypnosis CD managed to convince me for a few days I was the warm little centre that the life of this world crowded around. The effect wears off if you don't keep listening to it.
23. I rubbed shoulders with overpaid and overexposed celebrities at a PR event. I tried to think of something interesting to say to Natalie Imbruglia, I'll let you know when I have come up with something.
24. I have been drunk many times over the course of the year. But it was the work Halloween party with the vodka luge that really takes the crown for drunk and disorderly. I have only very hazy memories of buying Burger king, hiccuping on the train, losing my travelcard, and throwing up in someone's hedge. Classy.
And number 25: I started blogging here permanently, after diary-x died. I also came to think of this as my new home online and not a temporary measure. This is in no small part to some of the great friends I have made through my blog.
1. Last Christmas day I was working in a pub. By Easter, I had quit my job and gone to work unpaid in London for a multinational PR company, in the hope of bettering myself. Whether it paid off remains to be seen.
2. In February, bored and restless, I bought a snowboard and took myself off to the French Alps. I suck at snowboarding -- only slightly less than how much I suck at surfing -- but I'd never been to Switzerland or France before. Highlights included travelling by bus from Geneva to Le Arcs, in France, while listening to Johnny Cash and getting pissed with a couple of other guys I had vaguely spoken to on some snowboard forum in a bar above the clouds and thousands of feet above sea level.
3. I saw Pearl Jam play the Astoria in London, after Jon managed to beat the odds and get two tickets. I took the day off work, stating I had "family commitments".
4. In August for the first time in years I camped at the Reading festival, and, yes drank a lot. I rocked out to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Twilight Singers and the Arctic Monkeys -- but Pearl Jam were unrivalled in their brilliance. I am still wearing my weekend wristband pass, four months later.
5. I spent the whole year free of any medication for depression. I don't see any shame in taking the medication if it's needed, but at the same time I like not having to take any. I like the lack of side effects the most.
6. I started going to the gym a lot, and started to look and feel better for it. I then stopped going altogether when I changed jobs and could no longer make it. I'm now probably more unfit than I was this time last year.
7. I went on a couple of dates with girls. I went for noodles with a cute Kiwi girl named Philippa, then I took her to the hospital. She always had excuses not to see me again and eventually stopped replying to me. I also met Jade, by all accounts an Oxford-educated lawyer doing pro-bono work for the disabled until her high-powered job started in the Autumn. We met for mohitos on Brick Lane, and funnily enough she too had excuses not to see me again.
8. Via the miracle medium of the internet I started talking to a girl who lived vaguely locally and was really eager to meet me. After only a couple of days I decided she was way too eager when she was planning picnics in the park and telling me she cared. I'm still not sure if I sabotaged a good thing, or had a lucky escape -- because needless to say we didn't meet.
9. I met Fiona for the first time in years, managed to avoid making a twat of myself and though I was left with a vague feeling of longing, think I handled it all reasonably well.
10. A statement that can not be applied to my friendship with San -- it's pretty incredible we remain friends at all, when we seemed to think that carrying on with some sort of quasi-open-relationship over the summer wasn't going to end in tears.
11. Aside from Pearl Jam and various bands at Reading festival, this year I have also seen Juliette & The Licks, Twilight Singers, Incubus, Foo Fighters, Motorhead, Terrorvision and probably some I'm forgetting.
12. I left my job in PR in London to work in a call centre in Essex. This was not necessarily through choice.
13. I have been to countless job interviews, and have been rejected for more jobs that I can count. There were at least three jobs as trainee assistant managers for three separate pub chains, about five different PR agencies, and an assortment of other jobs including junior photographer, picture desk assistant, a couple of newspaper feature writer positions and one media sales job.
I have met even more recruitment consultants, and am even still in vague contact with a couple of them. Even though I don't think any are still looking for work for me.
15. I have taken ownership of a skateboard, even though I can't skate. I haven't decided yet if I might learn, but I think it's nice to look at.
16. I have tried and failed to sell my snowboard. I successfully sold my widescreen tv and surround sound dvd player to my parents for their new flat, because I was broke. I have considered selling my body to get a job in marketing. I have wondered if working in marketing equalled selling my soul.
17. I have failed to sell my art, even to my parents. I wanted a print on canvas for their flat so I had something tangible to show for what I am doing with my life -- especially since my brother has laid the floors and plastered the walls. They decided it was too expensive.
18. I have proved myself free of any sexually transmitted infections or disease, and bought a new book with the gift voucher I was given in payment for taking part in a clinical trial on the day.
19. In a continuing exhibitionist theme, I have taken off all my clothes and posed nude for an art class, along with a group of strangers all also doing it for the first time.
20. I have discovered a new passion for live ice hockey. Having had a passing interest in the sport for years, I started going with my friends to see our local team play.
21. Posted various personals ads online, quoting various songs, attempting to be funny or just be "myself": all to varying degrees of limited success.
22. Inspired by Jason Lee as Earl Hickey, I started on a campaign of my own to be a better person. I apologised to a guy in the pub who I was a dick to at school, he said he had no memory of it and brushed it off. I also emailed a girl I went to school with, she said she forgave me years ago. In a similar vein, I was inspired by Danny Wallace to "say yes more", I can't report of anything particularly life-changing coming out of either episode. A self hypnosis CD managed to convince me for a few days I was the warm little centre that the life of this world crowded around. The effect wears off if you don't keep listening to it.
23. I rubbed shoulders with overpaid and overexposed celebrities at a PR event. I tried to think of something interesting to say to Natalie Imbruglia, I'll let you know when I have come up with something.
24. I have been drunk many times over the course of the year. But it was the work Halloween party with the vodka luge that really takes the crown for drunk and disorderly. I have only very hazy memories of buying Burger king, hiccuping on the train, losing my travelcard, and throwing up in someone's hedge. Classy.
And number 25: I started blogging here permanently, after diary-x died. I also came to think of this as my new home online and not a temporary measure. This is in no small part to some of the great friends I have made through my blog.
Tuesday 19 December 2006
Jesus Christ Pose
I should make a label for posts that are just random. Like the posts where I take a day off work to go to the clap clinic, despite being sure I was clean. Or like my last post about the disco and the boat club. Or, for example this post, detailing how I finished work early so I could post for a "life drawing" class in a group with a bunch of strangers.
People asked me last night how I happened to discover the First Time Club, and I tell them I don't really remember. I tell them I was browsing the internet for something I can't recall and stumbled onto a place called Hannah's Cafe -- a number of projects pioneered by an artist named Hannah, which include starting chats with strangers on the tube and of course the First Time Club. Nothing at all with what you might think (and certainly nothing to do with www.firstimeclub.com), but instead exactly what it says on the tin -- a group of people just doing things for the first time. I liked the idea, I wanted to get out more, do more, meet new people. So I signed up.
And what a month to start; I could have joined on the month when they performed at an open mike poetry night, or when they went to the dog tracks. But instead my first time with the club is posing nude for an art class. Whoever thought it would be so difficult?
I'd carefully planned the day; swapped shifts with a guy at work so I could finish early, surruptiously stowed my dressing gown in my car and let anyone know who needed to know I was going out with some "friends" after work. These things never do run smoothly. It was all going well when I went back to my car and swapped my messenger bag for the bag with my dressing gown and packed up a few other essential items; my journal, a book of poetry and a bottle of wine -- a christmas present from work that I was going to give away as a "secret santa" present. I caught the train without incident, although was tight for time by the time I got into the city -- and running even later by the time I got to the appropriate station and had no idea what way to go. I was running very late by the time I got the bar, but nobody seemed to mind or be waiting for me. We stood around and made some polite conversation for a little while, before Hannah decided it was time for us all to get naked. I disappeared off -- with a number of others -- to the toilets to "change" into my dressing gown. Dropped my bag onto the floor -- and paused. I hoped when I opened the bag that maybe my dressing gown had cushioned the bottle, but instead as I reached into my bag I put my hand into a pile of broken glass. How I escaped lacerating myself I don't know, especially as I unloaded the broken bits of bottle into the bin in the toilets. It was bad enough that I had broken the secret santa present I'd brought. It wasn't ideal that my bag was now full of white wine and broken glass. It was at best inconvenient that my tatty dressing gown was now not only tatty but also half-soaked in wine. But remember the book of poetry and my journal that I had also put in my bag? Guess which had been liberally doused with wine. Luckily for me, neither seems to be damaged -- at least not too much -- but they do now smell of grapes.
The class itself was...interesting. Obviously I have never taken all my clothes off and posed naked in front of an artist before, and I certainly have never posed naked with a group of complete strangers in front of a whole class of people. First we posed for a series of one-minute poses as a whole group, before moving on to a series of longer group poses in smaller numbers. The first thing I have to admit is I had no idea how hard it would be -- what seemed like a perfectly reasonable pose to take, after more than a minute you realise sitting on your foot wasn't such a great idea. Your knee keeps slipping a little on the rug, your ankle is screaming, you're starting to wobble and can feel beads of perspiration running down your arms. And all the time I'm thinking "that artist hates me, I keep wobbling" or "I bet I look fat in this picture". It isn't until you're standing naked in front of people that you suddenly remember all the things you overlook everyday -- I was wondering if any drawings would choose to depict the large scars on my stomach and across my side. Trying to stand up straight and keep my shoulders back and stomach in and not look at anyone else.
The evening climaxed as it were with a 15-minute pose for the whole group.
The artists had started to ask for more variety, more challenging poses -- more interaction between the models, and considering all of us were men (apart from Hannah, of course) many of us were reluctant to interact or intertwine with each other while nude. It sort of ended up looking a bit like a bizarre school picture -- with a line of people along the back, and people kneeling or sitting or intertwining in the front. Along the back we put our arms around each other's shoulders, and as I stood with my arms around the shoulders of the men either side of me. Because the fellows flanking me were both slightly taller, my arms were raised in a kind of V around their shoulders. As we stood there in silence, solemnly being sketched for all the world to see, I spoke up with: "I feel like I'm being crucified"
"At least you get to be Jesus" someone said
"Shut up and pose" Hannah told us.
So we did. At the end of 15 minutes with muscles screaming and limbs stretched it was over. I wasted no time putting my clothes back on to catch my train home again. The only issue now would be how I could get into the house and get my dressing gown that was now soaked with wine and smelling of cigarette smoke into the wash without anyone asking why... I might post later a photo I took on my phone of the final sketch. It's safe for work.
People asked me last night how I happened to discover the First Time Club, and I tell them I don't really remember. I tell them I was browsing the internet for something I can't recall and stumbled onto a place called Hannah's Cafe -- a number of projects pioneered by an artist named Hannah, which include starting chats with strangers on the tube and of course the First Time Club. Nothing at all with what you might think (and certainly nothing to do with www.firstimeclub.com), but instead exactly what it says on the tin -- a group of people just doing things for the first time. I liked the idea, I wanted to get out more, do more, meet new people. So I signed up.
And what a month to start; I could have joined on the month when they performed at an open mike poetry night, or when they went to the dog tracks. But instead my first time with the club is posing nude for an art class. Whoever thought it would be so difficult?
I'd carefully planned the day; swapped shifts with a guy at work so I could finish early, surruptiously stowed my dressing gown in my car and let anyone know who needed to know I was going out with some "friends" after work. These things never do run smoothly. It was all going well when I went back to my car and swapped my messenger bag for the bag with my dressing gown and packed up a few other essential items; my journal, a book of poetry and a bottle of wine -- a christmas present from work that I was going to give away as a "secret santa" present. I caught the train without incident, although was tight for time by the time I got into the city -- and running even later by the time I got to the appropriate station and had no idea what way to go. I was running very late by the time I got the bar, but nobody seemed to mind or be waiting for me. We stood around and made some polite conversation for a little while, before Hannah decided it was time for us all to get naked. I disappeared off -- with a number of others -- to the toilets to "change" into my dressing gown. Dropped my bag onto the floor -- and paused. I hoped when I opened the bag that maybe my dressing gown had cushioned the bottle, but instead as I reached into my bag I put my hand into a pile of broken glass. How I escaped lacerating myself I don't know, especially as I unloaded the broken bits of bottle into the bin in the toilets. It was bad enough that I had broken the secret santa present I'd brought. It wasn't ideal that my bag was now full of white wine and broken glass. It was at best inconvenient that my tatty dressing gown was now not only tatty but also half-soaked in wine. But remember the book of poetry and my journal that I had also put in my bag? Guess which had been liberally doused with wine. Luckily for me, neither seems to be damaged -- at least not too much -- but they do now smell of grapes.
The class itself was...interesting. Obviously I have never taken all my clothes off and posed naked in front of an artist before, and I certainly have never posed naked with a group of complete strangers in front of a whole class of people. First we posed for a series of one-minute poses as a whole group, before moving on to a series of longer group poses in smaller numbers. The first thing I have to admit is I had no idea how hard it would be -- what seemed like a perfectly reasonable pose to take, after more than a minute you realise sitting on your foot wasn't such a great idea. Your knee keeps slipping a little on the rug, your ankle is screaming, you're starting to wobble and can feel beads of perspiration running down your arms. And all the time I'm thinking "that artist hates me, I keep wobbling" or "I bet I look fat in this picture". It isn't until you're standing naked in front of people that you suddenly remember all the things you overlook everyday -- I was wondering if any drawings would choose to depict the large scars on my stomach and across my side. Trying to stand up straight and keep my shoulders back and stomach in and not look at anyone else.
The evening climaxed as it were with a 15-minute pose for the whole group.
The artists had started to ask for more variety, more challenging poses -- more interaction between the models, and considering all of us were men (apart from Hannah, of course) many of us were reluctant to interact or intertwine with each other while nude. It sort of ended up looking a bit like a bizarre school picture -- with a line of people along the back, and people kneeling or sitting or intertwining in the front. Along the back we put our arms around each other's shoulders, and as I stood with my arms around the shoulders of the men either side of me. Because the fellows flanking me were both slightly taller, my arms were raised in a kind of V around their shoulders. As we stood there in silence, solemnly being sketched for all the world to see, I spoke up with: "I feel like I'm being crucified"
"At least you get to be Jesus" someone said
"Shut up and pose" Hannah told us.
So we did. At the end of 15 minutes with muscles screaming and limbs stretched it was over. I wasted no time putting my clothes back on to catch my train home again. The only issue now would be how I could get into the house and get my dressing gown that was now soaked with wine and smelling of cigarette smoke into the wash without anyone asking why... I might post later a photo I took on my phone of the final sketch. It's safe for work.
Sunday 17 December 2006
Eddie Don't Like Furniture
I did consider today a Serial Killer Sunday post about the killer the papers are calling "The Suffolk Strangler", it's not very often you will get the opportunity to write about a serial killer while they are still active. But this feels different: I can't explain it, it just feels sad, instead of fascinating.
Last night was another one of those sorts of nights. The kind of Saturday night where you find yourself at a boat club at the end of a very long and very dark country road, in a very small town. At a Christmas disco, DJ'd by the half-deaf, semi-retarded older brother of a boy you once went to school with but with whom you were never friends.
His whole family are moving -- although the boy I once went to school with now lives in a trailer somewhere in the Midwest USA -- and it was to be the last ever disco this guy would ever do. Jon has to work with him, and despite saying we were going because there was no excuse not to go, I think we all went because we knew how much it would mean.
The boat club was like one of those extended family gatherings, but instead of your family the room is filled with badly-ageing strangers.
We stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, since all the chairs and tables had long ago been taken. Aware of people looking at us and wondering who we were. The bar was cheap, but deservedly so -- the pints of lager tasted strange. The first pint of Stella tasted decidedly like pineapple. My friends switched to large measures of house vodka, I drank bottles of Spanish lager.
At one point, a lady I'd never met came over to me and asked if I would like to sign this card she had. A card for the guy who was the DJ: it was his birthday as well that night. I might have bought him a card had I known, but more likely I would have thought about it and forgotten anyway. But sure, I said, I'd sign it -- and followed her over to a table to lean on and sign it.
We got talking; "How do you know John?" she asked "Are you a friend of his? I don't know who is and who isn't, here"
"I went to school with his brother", I told her
"How old is Paul now?" she wanted to know, and I told her he was 25/26
She started asking me questions about school, about who my tutors had been and mentioned who her daughter was.
Vicky. Pretty, but quiet is how I remember her. We sat next to each other in our French class, and I don't think we had a single conversation, ever. I once asked her out on a date, and she said no. That might have made conversation uncomfortable, if we'd ever spoken to each other. Vicky is now apparently living in LA and has just passed her law exams. And here I am on a Saturday night, at a Christmas disco in a boat club in the middle of nowhere, making conversation with her Mum.
Later her Mum came over to me again and asked me my name, she said she was texting her daughter and wanted to tell her she'd met me. I told her my name, and shouted after her: "She won't remember me"
I mentally prepared myself after that for what I thought the inevitable question would be; "So what are you doing now?". I considered my options: I work in insurance, which is true. I work in marketing, which is no longer true but I would rather it, and consider this just a temporary set-back. Or just be more economical and say "I'm an artist".
I do consider myself an artist. I'm a writer and a photographer. Although I do neither professionally, and neither is likely to ever be profession, that doesn't make them less true. Last night, however, I was going to say I was a sculptor. I don't know why this idea is lodged in my subconscious, I've had dreams before where I've been at parties or whatever and told people I'm a sculptor. I guess I just really want to be an artist. Some people tell me to "just do it then". But you can't just decide to be a sculptor -- especially if you already know you suck. I would paint watercolours, but I can't draw worth shit -- and sculpting things, actually making them? Let's just say there are children who would laugh at my efforts.
I'm still going to tell people I'm an artist, though.
Last night was another one of those sorts of nights. The kind of Saturday night where you find yourself at a boat club at the end of a very long and very dark country road, in a very small town. At a Christmas disco, DJ'd by the half-deaf, semi-retarded older brother of a boy you once went to school with but with whom you were never friends.
His whole family are moving -- although the boy I once went to school with now lives in a trailer somewhere in the Midwest USA -- and it was to be the last ever disco this guy would ever do. Jon has to work with him, and despite saying we were going because there was no excuse not to go, I think we all went because we knew how much it would mean.
The boat club was like one of those extended family gatherings, but instead of your family the room is filled with badly-ageing strangers.
We stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, since all the chairs and tables had long ago been taken. Aware of people looking at us and wondering who we were. The bar was cheap, but deservedly so -- the pints of lager tasted strange. The first pint of Stella tasted decidedly like pineapple. My friends switched to large measures of house vodka, I drank bottles of Spanish lager.
At one point, a lady I'd never met came over to me and asked if I would like to sign this card she had. A card for the guy who was the DJ: it was his birthday as well that night. I might have bought him a card had I known, but more likely I would have thought about it and forgotten anyway. But sure, I said, I'd sign it -- and followed her over to a table to lean on and sign it.
We got talking; "How do you know John?" she asked "Are you a friend of his? I don't know who is and who isn't, here"
"I went to school with his brother", I told her
"How old is Paul now?" she wanted to know, and I told her he was 25/26
She started asking me questions about school, about who my tutors had been and mentioned who her daughter was.
Vicky. Pretty, but quiet is how I remember her. We sat next to each other in our French class, and I don't think we had a single conversation, ever. I once asked her out on a date, and she said no. That might have made conversation uncomfortable, if we'd ever spoken to each other. Vicky is now apparently living in LA and has just passed her law exams. And here I am on a Saturday night, at a Christmas disco in a boat club in the middle of nowhere, making conversation with her Mum.
Later her Mum came over to me again and asked me my name, she said she was texting her daughter and wanted to tell her she'd met me. I told her my name, and shouted after her: "She won't remember me"
I mentally prepared myself after that for what I thought the inevitable question would be; "So what are you doing now?". I considered my options: I work in insurance, which is true. I work in marketing, which is no longer true but I would rather it, and consider this just a temporary set-back. Or just be more economical and say "I'm an artist".
I do consider myself an artist. I'm a writer and a photographer. Although I do neither professionally, and neither is likely to ever be profession, that doesn't make them less true. Last night, however, I was going to say I was a sculptor. I don't know why this idea is lodged in my subconscious, I've had dreams before where I've been at parties or whatever and told people I'm a sculptor. I guess I just really want to be an artist. Some people tell me to "just do it then". But you can't just decide to be a sculptor -- especially if you already know you suck. I would paint watercolours, but I can't draw worth shit -- and sculpting things, actually making them? Let's just say there are children who would laugh at my efforts.
I'm still going to tell people I'm an artist, though.
Saturday 16 December 2006
They said there'd be snow this Christmas, they said there'd be peace on earth
#"They said there'd be snow at Christmas, they said there'd be peace on earth
But instead it just kept on raining, a veil of tears for the Virgin Birth"#
Greg Lake, "I Believe in Father Christmas"
Some Christmas songs annoy me. I have nothing against Christmas, and I don't hate all Christmas songs -- not working in retail helps with that -- but some songs I do dislike. My major problem -- one of the major problems, for there are several -- one of my many major problems about "Feed The World" is the line "there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas". Call me a pedant, but I like to bring up that there will be snow in Africa this Christmas, Mount Kilimanjaro is snow-capped for a start. And why should "they" care if it's Christmas if they don't follow Christianity? We may as well ask "Do they know it's Divali at all?" (even though it's not) for all the relevance it has. That said "Feed the world" is a nice message, so I appreciate the gesture.
The "commercialism" of Christmas doesn't really bother me -- commercialisation in general does bother me (ironic coming from the guy who worked in marketing and would do again), but after a while I get "outrage fatigue", being annoyed all the time. The commercialisation of "the holiday" doesn't bother me any more than the Christian hijacking of pagan festivals -- like I say, you just end up being outraged all the time.
But I heard "I Believe In Father Christmas" on the radio and it made me sad. Not annoyed or irritated or outraged. Just sad.
"They said there'd be snow this Christmas...instead it just kept on raining"
That sounds a lot like Christmas here, it doesn't snow -- it's not even particularly cold. Sometimes it snows at New Year, but generally it doesn't snow before February. And with climate change, it might just keep raining.
"They said there'd be peace on earth"
I'm not going to talk about Iraq. Or Afghanistan. Or any of the number of countries where people are declaring "to man the weapon, to heaven the victory". There is no peace on earth, instead this Christmas there is a serial killer on the streets of Suffolk, murdering prostitutes.
There's no grand point to this, no large gesture, no lasting comment on this holiday season. I enjoy giving gifts and sending cards to people I care about, I enjoy the spirit of the holiday. But it makes me sad to think about snow at Christmas and peace on earth.
Wednesday 13 December 2006
Solitude lengthens and flames
My last post was an example in itself of what I meant in the first paragraph, how the last post can seem ominous or to grow in weight and/or significance the longer it is left as my last post.
Since then I have considered posts about ice hockey -- I really, really need to start posting about the Chieftain games, but other than the score and the emotion they would be fairly short on details -- considered and rejected numerous subjects for Musical Monday, felt bored enough by work to not want to relive it in blog form later, and everything in between.
Instead I won't update about any of it. I've been having fun creating labels for my blog, then assigning them to posts -- it's not unlike with my gmail. Having to decide how many times one person has to occur before they get promoted to having their own label -- then there's competition between labels, feeling some people should have more posts than others, not wanting work to have as many, wondering if "depression" should have its own label. And if it does, which posts get labelled as such and which just get labelled "blue". Maybe there should be labels like "self-indulgent whining" and "How long has it been since she dumped you? Get over it!".
There are so many more labels needed. But I also want to upload (repost) all of my old diary-x entries. I don't believe there will ever be a viable replacement for d-x any more, I don't believe my old entries will ever see the light of day again if I don't repost them. But then maybe it's depressing to see how far I don't move on?
I have application forms for working abroad in Australia and Canada, but I hesitate. Despite hesitating because at this point I don't have the initial funds they require to start the process, I also hesitate because I'm bothered by the words "what then?" -- say I do go abroad, what do I do then? Obviously, being abroad couldn't be much worse than being here -- but what happens when I come back? It seems in England the closer you get to 30 without solid career experience, in something, the less employable you are. That's what the work experience/internship was meant to be about.
Am I scared of failing, and so instead do nothing? I want to leave, I want to get away -- but I don't want to come back a year older, with my tail between my legs with nothing solid to get my "career" on track. I don't really want to have to come back at all, but that's not really the point -- and probably not even an option. I just don't know where this leaves me. My current job is only a limited 3-month contract -- that's both a blessing and a curse, in some ways.
It strikes me sometimes as absurd that I should want to know what I'm going to do with my life -- if I look at my parents' lives, I don't think their 'careers' were what they would have said "Yes, that's what I shall do with my life", but that doesn't change a thing for me now. I always say it's Step One: Get a job. Step Two: Move out. And from there, it doesn't matter.
But maybe it should instead be "Move out" first, and then "Get a job"? Live dangerously, throw myself into the hands of the fates and see what happens.
But "what happens" so far has tended to be ending up back here, in this black hole of a town.
I'm desperately now trying to think of something to lighten the mood -- I hate it when this blog just seems to be saying "Wah! Life sucks", because it really isn't so bad. I want to capture the feeling of getting out of work and driving home -- even though it's just one day and it's a 6am start again the next morning, the feeling of driving home with my music playing and a smile on my face. Or the feeling of just playing a song I love. I need more moments like that.
Since then I have considered posts about ice hockey -- I really, really need to start posting about the Chieftain games, but other than the score and the emotion they would be fairly short on details -- considered and rejected numerous subjects for Musical Monday, felt bored enough by work to not want to relive it in blog form later, and everything in between.
Instead I won't update about any of it. I've been having fun creating labels for my blog, then assigning them to posts -- it's not unlike with my gmail. Having to decide how many times one person has to occur before they get promoted to having their own label -- then there's competition between labels, feeling some people should have more posts than others, not wanting work to have as many, wondering if "depression" should have its own label. And if it does, which posts get labelled as such and which just get labelled "blue". Maybe there should be labels like "self-indulgent whining" and "How long has it been since she dumped you? Get over it!".
There are so many more labels needed. But I also want to upload (repost) all of my old diary-x entries. I don't believe there will ever be a viable replacement for d-x any more, I don't believe my old entries will ever see the light of day again if I don't repost them. But then maybe it's depressing to see how far I don't move on?
I have application forms for working abroad in Australia and Canada, but I hesitate. Despite hesitating because at this point I don't have the initial funds they require to start the process, I also hesitate because I'm bothered by the words "what then?" -- say I do go abroad, what do I do then? Obviously, being abroad couldn't be much worse than being here -- but what happens when I come back? It seems in England the closer you get to 30 without solid career experience, in something, the less employable you are. That's what the work experience/internship was meant to be about.
Am I scared of failing, and so instead do nothing? I want to leave, I want to get away -- but I don't want to come back a year older, with my tail between my legs with nothing solid to get my "career" on track. I don't really want to have to come back at all, but that's not really the point -- and probably not even an option. I just don't know where this leaves me. My current job is only a limited 3-month contract -- that's both a blessing and a curse, in some ways.
It strikes me sometimes as absurd that I should want to know what I'm going to do with my life -- if I look at my parents' lives, I don't think their 'careers' were what they would have said "Yes, that's what I shall do with my life", but that doesn't change a thing for me now. I always say it's Step One: Get a job. Step Two: Move out. And from there, it doesn't matter.
But maybe it should instead be "Move out" first, and then "Get a job"? Live dangerously, throw myself into the hands of the fates and see what happens.
But "what happens" so far has tended to be ending up back here, in this black hole of a town.
I'm desperately now trying to think of something to lighten the mood -- I hate it when this blog just seems to be saying "Wah! Life sucks", because it really isn't so bad. I want to capture the feeling of getting out of work and driving home -- even though it's just one day and it's a 6am start again the next morning, the feeling of driving home with my music playing and a smile on my face. Or the feeling of just playing a song I love. I need more moments like that.
Saturday 9 December 2006
Regrets; I've had a few -- but then again too few to mention
Sometimes if I don't update for a few days it can start to feel like my last post is just left hanging. Like an awkward pause in conversation, and the last thing you said is left hanging in the air. A passing thought -- that any other time might not even have been noted -- seems like a final statement, a declaration to be repeated day after day. Except it's not. Whoever I was thinking of at the time of my last post (and if anyone is wondering: if you read it, it's not you), it doesn't really matter.
The trouble is, sometimes things don't seem to much move forward. You get up, you go to work, you count down to your break, to your lunch, to time to leave. The the next day, do it all again. Lather, rinse, repeat. The days are punctuated by the changing menu in the canteen.
Financially, I still feel like I'm struggling although my friends think my concerns are unfounded -- Jon laughed at me when I said how much (or how little, to his mind) I had on my credit cards. I like to point out when they start to say I'm lucky that I only have so comparably little on them because of the fucking chavs who broke my jaw and the subsequent compensation pay out. I sometimes wonder if I could go back and relive that night, if I would do it differently. Would I cross the road and avoid them, and so miss out on being beaten to within an inch of my life and the resulting agoraphobia in the days that followed. But keep the debts. Or would I do it the same again, knowing that I'd survive what happened and would be able to pay off credit cards and an overdraft.
I guess the key -- as with anything in my life -- is acceptance. I can't change it. I can't change my past, or any of the number of things I regret. Sometimes before I go to sleep I quietly wish for some kind of miracle, that I'd wake up the morning I was going to Utah -- or the morning before I went to university in Derby. That I would be able to relive those last five, or seven, years. Perhaps powerless to change any international events, but able to recognise the situations when I should have done something differently.
If we could change our decisions, if we could cheat like I always did in the choose-your-own-adventure books -- by keeping my finger in the page with the decision, and returning to it to make a different choice when things went wrong -- would we be the same? Would I still be the person I am today without the experiences that happened to me?
And if I wasn't, would that necessarily be such a bad thing?
One could argue that we -- I -- have a central core, a soul, something that defines my personality. I've often rejected the idea of a soul, and I think with different experiences and circumstances my personality could mould or change and be completely different. I don't know if that's the same for everyone, and I don't know if it's a character defect -- and is even that subject to change?
The trouble is, sometimes things don't seem to much move forward. You get up, you go to work, you count down to your break, to your lunch, to time to leave. The the next day, do it all again. Lather, rinse, repeat. The days are punctuated by the changing menu in the canteen.
Financially, I still feel like I'm struggling although my friends think my concerns are unfounded -- Jon laughed at me when I said how much (or how little, to his mind) I had on my credit cards. I like to point out when they start to say I'm lucky that I only have so comparably little on them because of the fucking chavs who broke my jaw and the subsequent compensation pay out. I sometimes wonder if I could go back and relive that night, if I would do it differently. Would I cross the road and avoid them, and so miss out on being beaten to within an inch of my life and the resulting agoraphobia in the days that followed. But keep the debts. Or would I do it the same again, knowing that I'd survive what happened and would be able to pay off credit cards and an overdraft.
I guess the key -- as with anything in my life -- is acceptance. I can't change it. I can't change my past, or any of the number of things I regret. Sometimes before I go to sleep I quietly wish for some kind of miracle, that I'd wake up the morning I was going to Utah -- or the morning before I went to university in Derby. That I would be able to relive those last five, or seven, years. Perhaps powerless to change any international events, but able to recognise the situations when I should have done something differently.
If we could change our decisions, if we could cheat like I always did in the choose-your-own-adventure books -- by keeping my finger in the page with the decision, and returning to it to make a different choice when things went wrong -- would we be the same? Would I still be the person I am today without the experiences that happened to me?
And if I wasn't, would that necessarily be such a bad thing?
One could argue that we -- I -- have a central core, a soul, something that defines my personality. I've often rejected the idea of a soul, and I think with different experiences and circumstances my personality could mould or change and be completely different. I don't know if that's the same for everyone, and I don't know if it's a character defect -- and is even that subject to change?
Tuesday 5 December 2006
Thought
Do you ever have friends -- real life friends -- that you don't see very often and instead you only get to chat to them online or exchange text messages and sometimes... maybe it's you or maybe it's the air pressure or maybe it's nothing. But sometimes you just feel like you can't even remember why you are friends because they only annoy you.
And it's weird because you can go through whole stretches of just feeling irritated by them or feeling nothing about them.
And you know that when you'll see them next, and you do know it's a when-not-if, you know when you see them that it will be good. You will remember all the good things about each other and why you are friends and feel you should do it more often.
But you don't.
And before you know it, you're just back to thinking "What is it I like about them, again?"
Maybe that's only me being a curmudgeon.
And it's weird because you can go through whole stretches of just feeling irritated by them or feeling nothing about them.
And you know that when you'll see them next, and you do know it's a when-not-if, you know when you see them that it will be good. You will remember all the good things about each other and why you are friends and feel you should do it more often.
But you don't.
And before you know it, you're just back to thinking "What is it I like about them, again?"
Maybe that's only me being a curmudgeon.
Monday 4 December 2006
Musical Monday (#12)
There was a time, I think it was towards the end of the 1990's, that it felt like if you set up some speakers in your garden one summer and had a couple of bands play, then Feeder would probably turn up. The Brit rock band that were two-thirds Welsh and one-third Japanese, just three friends who had formed a band. It must have been exhausting for them, pretty much any festival going and they would be there playing. I smile now to think how they would usually be one of the first bands on the bill. I remember how I first saw them with my friends in around '97 or '98, supporting Terrorvision. We saw them play in small pubs in Essex -- pubs that, granted, had once hosted bands like Pearl Jam. You could be standing at arm's reach from the band, as they played their new single. I'm all nostalgic as I remember the band when Tangerine was a new single.
As happens with these bands, somewhere along the line they were catapulted to international stardom. I remember slight feelings of betrayal when they rereleased their first full length album after it was popular -- it felt like the fans who bought it originally weren't good enough, it was rereleased with different artwork and lyrics in the liner notes and some changes to the track listing. It was rereleased with the addition of their hit single High, which we'd all bought on single specifically because it wasn't on the album.
This isn't a rant about how the band turned their back on their first fans, because I don't really think they did. It's more likely the band themselves had no control over these things -- I remember from my discussions with Terrorvision being surprised how little control bands can sometimes have. You can ask old members of Terrorvision now if there's any plans to release their videos on DVD, and they'll tell you EMI own the rights to the videos, you'll have to ask them instead.
Feeder had a winning formula -- they came along at a good time for British music, riding a wave of indie rock with bands like Stereophonics, mixing catchy hooks with intelligent lyrics, and driving guitars with a live intensity that was hard to rival. And while the industry might have cooled to rock and the "Cool Britannia" wave broke and rolled back, Feeder still managed to stay ahead of the game. They might have opted to go a little more commercial -- songs like Buck Rogers were like a completely different band from their origins with Stereo World -- but sometimes you need to decide for yourself how much commercial success you want.
Things seemed to change after the suicide of drummer Jon Lee, in 2002. Although sometimes live there would be a second guitarist, Jon was one of the original three that made Feeder -- and I think the band came close to breaking up. But after a while they came back with a new album, Comfort in Sound. It was like a rebirth. It was grown up, sad, introspective -- the loss of Grant Nicholas' friend was obvious in his song writing, but with songs like Come Back Around and Just The Way I'm Feeling, it was some of the best songs the band had ever written. There were no three-minute catchy pop songs to bounce along to here, but as I say it is probably the best album they have ever made.
Ironically, perhaps, a b-side to "Just A Day" -- one of the band's big, singalong hits -- was a cover of "I Can't Stand Losing You". But interestingly the band chose not to sing the last line "I guess you'd call it suicide, but I'm too full to swallow my pride" -- I'm fairly sure this was made before Jon's death.
It's hard not to know who Feeder are any more, they have gone from playing first on the bill at festivals and pubs around the country, to headlining at Cardiff's Millennium Stadium.
I include today their third single and still my favourite song, Cement. This song didn't make it onto their "singles" compilation.
Feeder- Cement.mp3
Friday 1 December 2006
It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you
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This is something that should ideally be saved for Musical Monday, but I love the song too much to wait. 9 Crimes, by Damien Rice, is perhaps the most ridiculously-heartbreaking song I have heard in a long time -- beating even Mr Rice's own Cheers Darling.
Leonard Cohen should cover the song, just for added sadness.
It seems quite fitting that I'm also currently reading Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down. Luckily for me I'm reasonably emotionally robust at the moment. And there's no sharp objects near me at work.
Work? What's to say? Yelled at by some arsehole today whose claim wasn't even going to be validated, just because he wanted a new phone and we didn't get the claim form he faxed us. I was close to losing my temper with him, which is unusual. I'm a pretty even-tempered kind of person, but I have a darkness that scares even myself so I try not to let myself go.
I managed to find my wallet this morning, in the stupid bloody car. If it hadn't been light last night I might have been able to find it then, but moving the seats in the dark hadn't helped. This morning, I moved the passenger seat forwards and there was my wallet. Good that it's not lost, bad that I didn't find it before I cancelled all my cards.
I was discussing films over lunch today. The pretty girl sat next to me and I were expressing our love for Natural Born Killers and True Romance, and most of the rest of Tarantino's work (directed or not, as the case is with those two). The conversation moved onto the film The Basketball Diaries. This one guy hailed it as DiCaprio's best role, but although I haven't seen ...Diaries I said I felt The Departed was probably his best. I then brought up The Motorcycle Diaries -- because it had a similar title -- and asked my coworker, who was still banging on about DiCaprio, if he'd seen it.
He laughed, like I had told a joke, and in your fucking annoying boy-way said why would he want to see that? "It's about two blokes and a motorbike, innit?" I told him, actually it's an autobiographical account of the revolutionary Che Guevara's travels around South America. Not the same thing. He still didn't see the appeal. I mentioned it was in Spanish, and that was even funnier to him, it seemed.
What really topped it off for him and this other guy was when I mentioned I liked watching Spanish films -- my favourite being el Mariarchi. It was apparently uproariously funny that I don't speak Spanish. I pointed out the films are subtitled, and if I could give an award for the most stupid comment ever made, this guy would be high in the running.
"What's the point of that?" He said "You might as well just read a book."
I pause here to let that statement sink in.
Is anyone really so dense that they can't tell the difference between a subtitled film, and reading a book? As someone who had clearly never watched a film in a language other than English, I attempted to explain to him that -- believe it or not -- films made in other countries can have very different styles to American or English films. Spanish films are stylistically different to French films, Japanese films are different to Chinese films. I'm hardly a connoisseur of world cinema, and I can't say I have ever really ventured much of the beaten path of the mainstream, but it's clear enough to me. And besides any of that, I said, I love how Spanish sounds...
This weekend I have the house to myself again -- just me and the cat. Giving me time to fire off some job applications for work in journalism, and some speculative letters to work in PR. It's funny to me how I'm trying to play both sides -- my respective letters to each saying that I have experience of both sides of the coin, and now know where my heart belongs. And just to make things confusing, I'm thinking of looking work in a zoo. And looking to move to Canada.
Wednesday 29 November 2006
Wednesday already
What day is this? Wednesday. Gah. I don't know what's wrong with me this week (but you bet it's hard to pronounce, huh?). I'm glad to say this week I am feeling far less violently angry towards my fellow trainees, and haven't repeated any comments about the best way to a man's heart being with a sharp knife to the sternum.
However, this week does officially suck. Work, of course, sucks donkey dick as ever. Yesterday I had some furious Scotsman shouting and swearing at me because we didn't get his fax or whatever. Today someone else was refusing to get off the phone until he could talk to a manager, despite having been told already by someone else earlier in the day a manager would, at best, only call him back. And not even that, in the end, they said it wasn't a management issue that this loser just didn't like the replacement handsets. Further ranting about work and colleagues should probably be confined to my Monday Monkey blog that I started to rant about working in PR.
I have managed to find the library copy of 100 Years Of Solitude, which is helpful since even the fines to date must be less than the cost of a new book. But today I think my wallet is lost. I didn't have it when I went to work this morning, and I still can't find it now. I've cancelled my cards -- and apparently they haven't been used -- but dammit, I hate losing stuff. Probably because I lose stuff a lot. I should probably revert to having a wallet on a chain, not to try and be punk but to stop me losing the bloody thing. It reminds me of when I lost my wallet on New Year's Eve, two years ago. Perhaps the worst possible day to lose your wallet on, before you go out.
There's not much in it these days -- a couple of cards, a blood donor card that I keep only to identify my blood type should I be in an accident, my driving licence. No pictures of loved ones any more, not even pictures of Avril Lavigne.
Other than that, I've had a headache all day and no money to buy painkillers with, and the back windscreen wiper on my car has decided that it doesn't want to do no stinkin' wiping of windows no more, so it has become purely decorative. Let's just hope it doesn't rain when I have to drive anywhere -- like to work, or home... I managed to get lost driving home last night, all because I've started giving a colleague a lift which involves driving out to the arse-end of nowhere. He got out the car last night and asked me if I remembered where I was going, I assured him I did and perhaps less than 30 minutes later I was thinking "This doesn't look very familiar" and it got increasingly less familiar.
Until I was driving down narrow, winding roads in complete darkness in the vague hope that if I kept going in a straight line I'd come to some kind of civilisation soon, and could see lights of some kind of life in the distance. As it turned out, my drive in a straight line idea wasn't all bad and eventually I made it back to where I had started without incident. That might explain why I was so tired last night.
What it doesn't explain is why the hell I am having such weird dreams lately. The details are mostly lost to me now, but it's enough that I spend half the day feeling slightly uneasy.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and carry on looking for my bastard wallet.
However, this week does officially suck. Work, of course, sucks donkey dick as ever. Yesterday I had some furious Scotsman shouting and swearing at me because we didn't get his fax or whatever. Today someone else was refusing to get off the phone until he could talk to a manager, despite having been told already by someone else earlier in the day a manager would, at best, only call him back. And not even that, in the end, they said it wasn't a management issue that this loser just didn't like the replacement handsets. Further ranting about work and colleagues should probably be confined to my Monday Monkey blog that I started to rant about working in PR.
I have managed to find the library copy of 100 Years Of Solitude, which is helpful since even the fines to date must be less than the cost of a new book. But today I think my wallet is lost. I didn't have it when I went to work this morning, and I still can't find it now. I've cancelled my cards -- and apparently they haven't been used -- but dammit, I hate losing stuff. Probably because I lose stuff a lot. I should probably revert to having a wallet on a chain, not to try and be punk but to stop me losing the bloody thing. It reminds me of when I lost my wallet on New Year's Eve, two years ago. Perhaps the worst possible day to lose your wallet on, before you go out.
There's not much in it these days -- a couple of cards, a blood donor card that I keep only to identify my blood type should I be in an accident, my driving licence. No pictures of loved ones any more, not even pictures of Avril Lavigne.
Other than that, I've had a headache all day and no money to buy painkillers with, and the back windscreen wiper on my car has decided that it doesn't want to do no stinkin' wiping of windows no more, so it has become purely decorative. Let's just hope it doesn't rain when I have to drive anywhere -- like to work, or home... I managed to get lost driving home last night, all because I've started giving a colleague a lift which involves driving out to the arse-end of nowhere. He got out the car last night and asked me if I remembered where I was going, I assured him I did and perhaps less than 30 minutes later I was thinking "This doesn't look very familiar" and it got increasingly less familiar.
Until I was driving down narrow, winding roads in complete darkness in the vague hope that if I kept going in a straight line I'd come to some kind of civilisation soon, and could see lights of some kind of life in the distance. As it turned out, my drive in a straight line idea wasn't all bad and eventually I made it back to where I had started without incident. That might explain why I was so tired last night.
What it doesn't explain is why the hell I am having such weird dreams lately. The details are mostly lost to me now, but it's enough that I spend half the day feeling slightly uneasy.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and carry on looking for my bastard wallet.
Sunday 26 November 2006
Come with us now on a journey through time and space
The Mighty Boosh: A surreal sitcom about the mismatched friendship of two zoo keepers, Howard Moon and Vince Noir. Sort of, anyway. In honour of this, I present my Mighty Boosh top 5 (yes, it was going to be a top 10 but I couldn't think of enough things).
Top what? Just random top things I love about the show. With links to clips on YouTube where I can -- otherwise you will have to rent/download. As ever, the context would help enormously with these things -- but I can't guarantee it would ever make any more sense
1)Mod Wolves -- Vince is king of the mods, this comes in useful when confronted by mod wolves in the jungle room.
2)The completely random musical improvisations, including Calm a llama down, trapped in cabinets and Bob Fossil's I don't like cricket
3)"The Spirit of Jazz" who is scarily reminiscent of Papa Lazarou from League of Gentlemen. What's not to love about a guy who gets trapped in a hoover and says things like "I'll crawl inside you like a warm kitten"
4)Sort of related #2 -- the songs. I don't think the Mod Wolves dance really counts as a song, but my favourites are from Electro, Nanageddon and Old Gregg.
5)The supporting characters, from Bob Fossil, Zoo Manager, who doesn't know what any of the animals are, to Naboo the shaman who runs the kiosk at the zoo in series one.
It's more interesting than blogging about my work, at any rate.
Top what? Just random top things I love about the show. With links to clips on YouTube where I can -- otherwise you will have to rent/download. As ever, the context would help enormously with these things -- but I can't guarantee it would ever make any more sense
1)Mod Wolves -- Vince is king of the mods, this comes in useful when confronted by mod wolves in the jungle room.
2)The completely random musical improvisations, including Calm a llama down, trapped in cabinets and Bob Fossil's I don't like cricket
3)"The Spirit of Jazz" who is scarily reminiscent of Papa Lazarou from League of Gentlemen. What's not to love about a guy who gets trapped in a hoover and says things like "I'll crawl inside you like a warm kitten"
4)Sort of related #2 -- the songs. I don't think the Mod Wolves dance really counts as a song, but my favourites are from Electro, Nanageddon and Old Gregg.
5)The supporting characters, from Bob Fossil, Zoo Manager, who doesn't know what any of the animals are, to Naboo the shaman who runs the kiosk at the zoo in series one.
It's more interesting than blogging about my work, at any rate.
Friday 24 November 2006
In the pines, where the sun don't ever shine
Trying desperately to keep my chin up, following on from my last post. Work is becoming more familiar and more routine for me -- they set me loose live on the customers today, on my own. For a couple of days I have taken calls from some customers while a more experienced advisor listened in and gave me prompts. But today they felt I was ready to fly solo. Who knows if on Monday I will come in to a pile of notes about what I have done wrong.
Contrary to the opinion of some of my colleagues, I'm not heartless and evil -- and I would actually prefer to be able to tell people I am happy to authorise their claim and send them a new mobile phone, than to refuse them. That said, some people have claims that seem so ridiculous you can't help but laugh at them, knowing they will be rejected. What's that you say? You were in the garden and your neighbour's dog ran off with your phone, but it's okay because you've been using your Sim in a different handset... So let me get this straight, you dropped your phone down the drain as you got out of the car -- yet you were able to hold onto the Sim card and the battery? On the other hand, they might be genuine claims and I don't enjoy having to refuse anyone.
I got an email today about the last PR job I had an interview for. It was a job advertised on Gumtree of all places, and I went into it without really caring one way or the other. But the company impressed me, they had some good accounts and afterwards I felt like I could be happy working there. So, of course, today I get this email:
No. You know what? You really want to know what is fucking frustrating? It's training as a journalist, working for a newspaper without pay, working without pay in public relations for a further six months, and then having to work in an insurance call centre for minimum wage because apparently you're too experienced for a job you want. Now that you bring up the subject of frustration, that is frustrating.
I have actually replied to the email with a much more polite version of the above. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, should I pretend to be less qualified, experienced, competent? I get the opposite impression from recruitment consultants who hum and haw about if there is a cat in hell's chance of them being able to find me anything. I might try sitting on the underground with a hand-written sign saying "Will give sexual favours for a job in PR". Except for the fact that I believe you should be careful what you wish for, in case you get it, and I don't think any particular job is crucial to my happiness. Except maybe working with sea turtles in Mexico.
In other news, Luisa -- the mullet-haired Italian hottie from my now ex-place of work -- has returned to London after her seemingly-endless holiday in Italy. And it has officially ended between us before it begins, as she sent out an email to everyone she knows, announcing she is taking a job in Italy. I have no idea what was between us, if anything was ever between us, or what she felt for me. I'm not even really sure what I felt for her -- was it her I liked, or was it the fact that she was from Italy that appealed? I could never work out if I fancied her or not. And if she really did have a mullet. None of that matters now. Still, if nothing else she is responsible for introducing me to The Mighty Boosh. One of the most bizarre, surreal, and frequently silly sitcoms I've ever seen. I need to devote a whole post to things like trapped in cabinets, the Nanageddon, French dukes and the king of the mods. Among many many other things too numerous to mention, outside of a top ten list.
It's 12.30am and I need to sleep. I'm still tired from last night's excursion to see The Twilight Singers play in Camden. Their name to me brings up images of a black male voice choir, but instead they are the band (or maybe project) of Mr Greg Dulli. With the incredible and intense Mark Lanegan they were one of the highlights of Reading festival this year, and last night they were no less amazing. I was slightly disappointed they didn't drop some Afghan Whigs on us, but again their cover of Leadbelly's Where Did You Sleep Last Night was fantastic. So yeah, tired. And have just noticed I took the sheets off my bed to wash them so will need to find more before the afore-mentioned sleep can be obtained.
Contrary to the opinion of some of my colleagues, I'm not heartless and evil -- and I would actually prefer to be able to tell people I am happy to authorise their claim and send them a new mobile phone, than to refuse them. That said, some people have claims that seem so ridiculous you can't help but laugh at them, knowing they will be rejected. What's that you say? You were in the garden and your neighbour's dog ran off with your phone, but it's okay because you've been using your Sim in a different handset... So let me get this straight, you dropped your phone down the drain as you got out of the car -- yet you were able to hold onto the Sim card and the battery? On the other hand, they might be genuine claims and I don't enjoy having to refuse anyone.
I got an email today about the last PR job I had an interview for. It was a job advertised on Gumtree of all places, and I went into it without really caring one way or the other. But the company impressed me, they had some good accounts and afterwards I felt like I could be happy working there. So, of course, today I get this email:
"Thank you so much for coming in to meet us last week. It was a pleasure to meet you. Unfortunately we are unable to offer you the position at this time.
I felt after meeting you that the role was a little too junior for your experience, and it might have been frustrating for you.
I wish you all the very best in your job hunting.
With kind regards..."
No. You know what? You really want to know what is fucking frustrating? It's training as a journalist, working for a newspaper without pay, working without pay in public relations for a further six months, and then having to work in an insurance call centre for minimum wage because apparently you're too experienced for a job you want. Now that you bring up the subject of frustration, that is frustrating.
I have actually replied to the email with a much more polite version of the above. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, should I pretend to be less qualified, experienced, competent? I get the opposite impression from recruitment consultants who hum and haw about if there is a cat in hell's chance of them being able to find me anything. I might try sitting on the underground with a hand-written sign saying "Will give sexual favours for a job in PR". Except for the fact that I believe you should be careful what you wish for, in case you get it, and I don't think any particular job is crucial to my happiness. Except maybe working with sea turtles in Mexico.
In other news, Luisa -- the mullet-haired Italian hottie from my now ex-place of work -- has returned to London after her seemingly-endless holiday in Italy. And it has officially ended between us before it begins, as she sent out an email to everyone she knows, announcing she is taking a job in Italy. I have no idea what was between us, if anything was ever between us, or what she felt for me. I'm not even really sure what I felt for her -- was it her I liked, or was it the fact that she was from Italy that appealed? I could never work out if I fancied her or not. And if she really did have a mullet. None of that matters now. Still, if nothing else she is responsible for introducing me to The Mighty Boosh. One of the most bizarre, surreal, and frequently silly sitcoms I've ever seen. I need to devote a whole post to things like trapped in cabinets, the Nanageddon, French dukes and the king of the mods. Among many many other things too numerous to mention, outside of a top ten list.
It's 12.30am and I need to sleep. I'm still tired from last night's excursion to see The Twilight Singers play in Camden. Their name to me brings up images of a black male voice choir, but instead they are the band (or maybe project) of Mr Greg Dulli. With the incredible and intense Mark Lanegan they were one of the highlights of Reading festival this year, and last night they were no less amazing. I was slightly disappointed they didn't drop some Afghan Whigs on us, but again their cover of Leadbelly's Where Did You Sleep Last Night was fantastic. So yeah, tired. And have just noticed I took the sheets off my bed to wash them so will need to find more before the afore-mentioned sleep can be obtained.
Tuesday 21 November 2006
Objets trouvés
I've misplaced my copy of "100 Years of Solitude", which is annoying -- not least because it's technically the library's copy and not mine. I can't understand how I could lose it, it's not like it's a small book that could slip between the cushions on the sofa. So maybe I left it on a train.
And speaking of losing things on trains, everyone should go check out Found. Something about it -- about the 'found' items and the possible worlds and stories behind them really fires my imagination. I think sometimes we can get so caught up in our own lives, our own messes, our own dramas, that we forget to look around. It sounds trite and cliché, but I know sometimes I can spend so long with my head down and feeling like I'm drowning in one thing or another that I don't notice everyone else. I think these found items change that -- they make you stop, and think, and take notice and look around you and speculate. What is the story behind this note, what was behind this picture? There's whole lives and whole stories going on around us that we know nothing about. And I personally want in, so I'll be making some posters/flyers for Found to solicit submissions from people in London.
I remember in my French lessons at school, learning that the French phrase for lost property office was something like "bureau des objets trouvés" -- it seemed much more optimistic, "found" items, rather than lost.
Following on from last week's "Things I learned" I have decided to insert the "no index, no follow" code into my template here. Although it's all very interesting to see how people arrive at my blog from keywords like "semen" and Nicole Appleton's hair, it's not really what I'm all about. I'm not trying to increase my site traffic, so I'd rather if someone new comes here it's because they've seen my name in a comment or been looking for a blog. Besides, nobody has really got on board with the competition. Maybe you were all waiting to hear what the prize was first? Interestingly, I had a visitor here who had been googling for a Pablo Neruda sonnet. I went to the post the search had led to, and it was a funny feeling reading about how I had sent this sonnet to Lyndsay, back in February. I ended the post, slightly concerned I might make things weird between us. I need not have worried. Lyndsay doesn't blog any more -- not since diary-x died -- but I see her around occasionally on MySpace. Just recently she left me a message saying she owed me love of every kind, or words to that effect. It made me smile, but I knew she didn't mean it literally -- but I'll take all the love she's giving. Regular readers: there's no need to worry, I'm not about to start mooning after her again. Not today anyway.
This week I started a new job. It's just a temp job, on a three-month contract, working in a call centre for some multinational insurance company -- handling the incoming calls relating to a mobile phone company's customer's insurance questions and claims. It doesn't seem so bad, although I'm still training all this week. The job looks straight forward enough to do once you are familiar with doing it, if a little monotonous perhaps. The company rewards employees with perks like free lunches and incentives for performance or whatever, but I think these rewards might be to encourage people to stay in an otherwise dull job. On the plus side, it's closer than London, with shorter hours. The journey time in the car to work now is about the same as the journey time from my town into London -- but of course, I'm not bound by what time the trains are. I just get in my car, turn on the radio, and I'm home in time to feed the cat. On the other hand, although the perks are nice, the hours more sociable, the pressure much less -- and of course, I'm being paid which makes a change -- it's not really what I want to do with my life. I got to shadow some agents today on their calls, and chat to them when they weren't on the phone. I'd ask them if they liked their job, and nobody was enthusiastic. They liked it well enough, or liked things about it more than the work itself. But I'm still going to be looking for creative/media positions.
As a final note, to try and pull this all together, Lyndsay used to say something to me that I try to remember. Something so simple, and yet it seems to fit: she used to tell me "Chin up, Jay". Sometimes when I'm feeling sad, I'll say it to myself and making a conscious effort to lift my head a bit. It makes me smile to think of it, to want to remind her of it, and it does help you notice things around you.
Your homework assignment this week; find something.
Wednesday 15 November 2006
Things I have learned today
It's quite a strange string of events that have lead me to today's lessons, but I hope you'll bear with me. I was visiting earlier the myspace page of the delectable China Blue, among others, as one does at 11am when you are still in your PJs but have already written resignation letters for two jobs. As I was saying, I was visiting China Blue when I noticed in her "about me" space was a link to her blog here.
This made me pause. Someone visiting CB could visit her blog, and from her blog find their way here. I can't tell you how many millions of people there are on MySpace, and in the world generally, and 99.9% of them would be free to visit my blog. But it also struck me that it would be possible -- if unlikely -- that one of my friends could see her among my top friends and pay her a visit. And from that visit, decide to visit her blog -- and why not, because it is amazing.
And maybe on reading a particularly great entry they might notice the comments link. And maybe they would read the comments, and see one of mine. Or maybe they would be looking at her various links, and follow one to my blog. It's implausible, but possible. Friends could then be in a position to read disturbing revelations about ill-advised one night stands with Filipino models, ex-girlfriends could read about secret yearnings for them and jealousy over their new birds. The possibilities are quite worrying.
I figured it might be a good idea to put some kind of stat counter on my blog, so I can at least know or have a good idea who is visiting. I had a vague memory of there already being one on here, so I visited sitemeter. But I couldn't remember my username or password, and had to return here to look through my template code for anything that might help. And help it did, it turns out my account is with statcounter -- and very much active, busy logging away to itself all kinds of details about my visitors.
And this brings me to today's lessons:
-- I seem to have an extraordinary number of lurkers.
-- Spiders (apparently) hate the smell of conkers
-- Disturbing search phrases like "her first time she fucked a dog" and "she knew she wanted to fuck the dog" will apparently both lead you to my blog, using MSN. This is only because of the phrase "feverdog" (and frequent use of the word "fuck"). Do you suppose the searcher from Toronto found what they were looking for?
-- Despite regular mentions of hot foreign girls, and probably lots of mentions of Norwegians, I apparently don't have any visitors from Norway. I do, however, have a visitor from what appears to be a communal blog, in French, and a Spanish girl in London. Even with freetranslation.com I have no real clue what their blogs say.
-- Roughly 35% of all my visitors are from the USA, with 23% coming from the UK and 15% from Australia. Other countries with 5% or less of the visitors include Sweden, Taiwan, Canada and Singapore. I mention these last ones especially, because they're among the lurkers.
It's funny, looking at search terms that have brought people to my blog. A lot of results come from key words, pulled from my entry about England. It's not just people looking for websites about girls and dogs, I was amused that someone in Germany found my blog after searching for the words "dim" and "Rachel Hunter". Sadly the word was out of context and might mean something else in German.
Someone in Lafayette, Louisianna came here after searching "can exes be friends after a break up". I wonder what they thought about this after they read my post about meeting Fiona.
The phrase "snowboarding sonnet" -- searched by someone in Mt. Laurel, New Jersey, is very interesting. It takes the searcher to this post, naturally about Lyndsay. And snowboarding. Who searches for sonnets about snowboarding anyway, and after they read my post did they want to read Love in the Time of Cholera?
The trouble with google and blogger is that every post showing on one page is one result -- so someone in Vancouver, British Colombia, looking for Mark Lanegan's song "little bit of rain" gets a months' worth of posts because one entry mentions Mark Lanegan, another one rain, and other ones frequently using the words "rain" and "bit".
Someone in Santa Monica, California, came here after searching "goodbye quote pablo neruda". Someone in Shady Cove, Oregon found this entry when they searched for "hotbody".
And so, I'd like to make a weekly competition -- for those who monitor their visitor stats -- the most unlikely or unsuitable search term that has been used to find your blog. This week, can anyone beat "she knew she wanted to fuck the dog"? No cheating.
This made me pause. Someone visiting CB could visit her blog, and from her blog find their way here. I can't tell you how many millions of people there are on MySpace, and in the world generally, and 99.9% of them would be free to visit my blog. But it also struck me that it would be possible -- if unlikely -- that one of my friends could see her among my top friends and pay her a visit. And from that visit, decide to visit her blog -- and why not, because it is amazing.
And maybe on reading a particularly great entry they might notice the comments link. And maybe they would read the comments, and see one of mine. Or maybe they would be looking at her various links, and follow one to my blog. It's implausible, but possible. Friends could then be in a position to read disturbing revelations about ill-advised one night stands with Filipino models, ex-girlfriends could read about secret yearnings for them and jealousy over their new birds. The possibilities are quite worrying.
I figured it might be a good idea to put some kind of stat counter on my blog, so I can at least know or have a good idea who is visiting. I had a vague memory of there already being one on here, so I visited sitemeter. But I couldn't remember my username or password, and had to return here to look through my template code for anything that might help. And help it did, it turns out my account is with statcounter -- and very much active, busy logging away to itself all kinds of details about my visitors.
And this brings me to today's lessons:
-- I seem to have an extraordinary number of lurkers.
-- Spiders (apparently) hate the smell of conkers
-- Disturbing search phrases like "her first time she fucked a dog" and "she knew she wanted to fuck the dog" will apparently both lead you to my blog, using MSN. This is only because of the phrase "feverdog" (and frequent use of the word "fuck"). Do you suppose the searcher from Toronto found what they were looking for?
-- Despite regular mentions of hot foreign girls, and probably lots of mentions of Norwegians, I apparently don't have any visitors from Norway. I do, however, have a visitor from what appears to be a communal blog, in French, and a Spanish girl in London. Even with freetranslation.com I have no real clue what their blogs say.
-- Roughly 35% of all my visitors are from the USA, with 23% coming from the UK and 15% from Australia. Other countries with 5% or less of the visitors include Sweden, Taiwan, Canada and Singapore. I mention these last ones especially, because they're among the lurkers.
It's funny, looking at search terms that have brought people to my blog. A lot of results come from key words, pulled from my entry about England. It's not just people looking for websites about girls and dogs, I was amused that someone in Germany found my blog after searching for the words "dim" and "Rachel Hunter". Sadly the word was out of context and might mean something else in German.
Someone in Lafayette, Louisianna came here after searching "can exes be friends after a break up". I wonder what they thought about this after they read my post about meeting Fiona.
The phrase "snowboarding sonnet" -- searched by someone in Mt. Laurel, New Jersey, is very interesting. It takes the searcher to this post, naturally about Lyndsay. And snowboarding. Who searches for sonnets about snowboarding anyway, and after they read my post did they want to read Love in the Time of Cholera?
The trouble with google and blogger is that every post showing on one page is one result -- so someone in Vancouver, British Colombia, looking for Mark Lanegan's song "little bit of rain" gets a months' worth of posts because one entry mentions Mark Lanegan, another one rain, and other ones frequently using the words "rain" and "bit".
Someone in Santa Monica, California, came here after searching "goodbye quote pablo neruda". Someone in Shady Cove, Oregon found this entry when they searched for "hotbody".
And so, I'd like to make a weekly competition -- for those who monitor their visitor stats -- the most unlikely or unsuitable search term that has been used to find your blog. This week, can anyone beat "she knew she wanted to fuck the dog"? No cheating.
Monday 13 November 2006
Musical Monday (#11)
Silverchair. Silverchair remind me of being around 16 and listening to Nirvana. And perhaps a little confused about what I felt about Daniel Johns. I loved the raw grunge sound of the first album. There were parts of it that didn't quite sit easy with me -- or rather one thing, the lyrics. I didn't mind the content, or the subject matter, it was just the rhyming schemes were fucking terrible. It seemed like they would write a good song, and then as an afterthought write lyrics like the cat in the hat. I was almost surprised "Green Eggs and Ham" wasn't featured in any songs.Later on, I learned to dislike other things about Silverchair. The main one being their apparent copying of the sound/style of other bands -- I read at the time of 'Frogstomp' that the band sounded like "a raw Pearl Jam" but I wasn't listening to Pearl Jam at the time, and so the comparison totally escaped me. When I listened to Pearl Jam albums that weren't 'Vitalogy', it began to make sense, and disliked the faux- Eddie Vedder vocals, and 'Frogstomp' was forever ruined for me. Sometimes I wish I had kept my copy, it's sometimes nice to listen to something you never play. After the album Freak Show -- a lot more commercial, and less Pearl Jam but apparently a lot like other bands -- I stopped listening to them altogether.
Freak is -- I think -- the first song on their second album, at least it is the first single from the album. I remember the cd coming with picture postcards of the band that I stuck up in my locker, oblivious to what people thought. The other boys were putting up pictures of playboy models, I was sticking up pictures of boys -- because I liked their music. Alongside pictures of Sarah Michelle Gellar, or Melissa George, or whoever. I wanted so much to have my eyebrow pierced like Daniel Johns, I longed for it and how it would look. In the end I settled for having the cartilage in my ear pierced instead, and didn't get my eyebrow pierced until I was 21. I wish now I had given everyone the finger and pierced my eyebrow, got in trouble at school and with my parents but it would have blown over. I guess we all look back and wish we had behaved a little less well when we were younger. Anyway, back on track I love the sound of this song. The intro is fantastically catchy, the simple guitar riff gets stuck in your head, then the drums kick in for a couple of bars and with almost no warning the song proper starts with the words "No more maybes -- baby's got rabies"; I did say the lyrics were shit. But parts of the song do stand out: "If only I could be as cool as yo/ Body and soul, I'm a freak", that could just have summarised my entire teenage angst. I felt like a freak -- the music I liked, the way I acted, I was an outcast. I remember writing something, somewhere with the words "they drive me out with burning torches, because they know I'm not like them". I felt like a monster from an old black and white movie, living alone on a dark hillside. And maybe it's this kind of feeling that they're alluding to in the song -- but it's also possible the lyrics mean nothing at all.
Just the same, it's a fantastic song -- rocking, and catchy and maybe not as grunge as the first album, but it was no longer in style by then. I never bought the second album -- and never even listened to an album past that. But I can play this song now and remember being 16 and 17, playing pool instead of going to class and feeling like I was a freak. Sometimes that feeling lingers, but I think of 16 year old boys out there now probably feeling the same thing.
Saturday 11 November 2006
Calm a llama down
You may remember last entry, you left your humble narrator wanting to make a concerted effort to say yes to life, and advertising on the internet for a "hot, foreign girl" to be my girlfriend in exchange for English lessons. The final ad actually ran with:
After less than a couple of days waiting, I thought it was working when I got a reply:
Something about the reply didn't sit easy with me, I can't tell you what, but I didn't feel it was genuine. I replied, but guardedly. And so far I haven't had anything else from this "Sangri".
Shortly after this, I received another reply:
Before I had quite worked out what to say in reply to this one, I got another email with exactly the same text but a different address. I then found I could read the email as a reply to just about any ad, anywhere, ever. And have written all three off as spam, which leaves us with a score of: Jay - 0, Spammers - 3
I can't say I understand it, I thought girls from far and wide would be flocking to me following an ad like that. Maybe it was wrong to say I wasn't offering sex? That's probably what it was.
So far, the "yes" decisions I have been making haven't meant a whole lot of change in my. Monday night, Jon asked me if I was going to the pub. I had to get up at 5am the next day, but I said "yes". I wouldn't have missed much either way. Tuesday I worked at a PR event, and so when a colleague offered me a glass of champagne I said "yes". And when a waiter came over and asked me if I wanted another glass of champagne I said "yes", and when a waiter offered to refill my glass...you get the idea. Luckily for me, it stopped at three -- but considering the state some of my colleagues were in by the end of the night, I needn't have worried.
The final yes decision was on Thursday night -- following another invitation to the pub from Jon, and another yes from me -- we saw a girl I used to work with, when I was still bar tender extraordinaire. She's now in some management position in this other pub, and after some polite conversation and I mentioned how I'm looking for work again, she asked me if I would work there. So I said yes, and now I am. I've made clear it's only temporary until either some office work comes along, or a permanent job in PR -- it's not so bad. It beats going back to my old place of work and asking for a job again, and I need the money.
Tuesday was a strange day for me all round. At the media day I got to meet the girl who has effectively taken my place at my old place of work, and again I got the feeling of having been dumped when it seemed everyone was so in love with their new account assistant. I didn't really talk to her or work with her, but I'm sure she's pleasant enough and will do a fine job. And admittedly she is probably better suited to consumer fashion PR than I was -- I am beginning to wonder now if I'm not perhaps a little too cynical for PR, but that's thoughts for another day.
The format for Tuesday was effectively two events in one day -- an afternoon event, with editors and fashion editors from high end publications, a presentation and a q&a session with the big designer. Then it was everyone out, and transform it for the evening -- designed to have more of a party atmosphere, with no presentation or q&a session and with a DJ and celebrity guests.
The thing with celebrities, I find, is when you see them in real life you're not sure if it's really them. Liam Gallagher was the first person to catch my eye, and all I could think of was "Look at him! It's like he's king of the mods!" then quickly the hair, the glasses, the sullen expression all added up. But was it really him? It could have been some loser wannabe -- but then I figured that Nicole Appleton would probably have noticed if it wasn't, since she was with him. Over the course of the evening I saw (saw, rather than met -- I didn't speak to any of them) such dazzling darlings as Natalie Imbruglia, Camilla al-Fayed and Rachel Hunter. I didn't even recognise Rachel Hunter, until someone pointed her out as the incredibly tall blonde. I'd been wondering who she was.
Outside of the glittering world of media events, things are fairly quiet. San and I are on good speaking terms again, she recognises she was being a bitch and is sorry. I try to make a dig about it when I can -- "I've got a job interview today, please don't be mad, it involves going to Camden but I promise I'm not trying to make you jealous", that sort of thing. She deserves it. I talked to her about her relationship with Tim (Tim Nice but Dim), and am feeling a little better about it -- in a moving on sort of way. I talked to her about their proposed holiday together, and still disapprove of how she's funding it, but we remained civil.
Strangely, though, Fiona has seemed quiet lately. It's hard to tell with her, especially since years have passed before with us having next to no contact and still we manage to pick things up again. But just the same, I'm not too sure what's going on.
"Wanted: one flirty, foreign female who wants to learn English in exchange for being my hot, foreign girlfriend. And possibly teaching me another language, too.
French, Spanish, Italian; these are all good, but don't be limited. Norwegian would be good, too. And why stop there?
I'm not offering sex in exchange for language tuition; that would just be wrong."
After less than a couple of days waiting, I thought it was working when I got a reply:
"hi there
my name is sangri,and i am from spain and i like your ad very much
im looking for a nice boy, to show me round this big city, as i do get lost.....
can u help me????
i am studying english, but would like some personal attension, please right back"
Something about the reply didn't sit easy with me, I can't tell you what, but I didn't feel it was genuine. I replied, but guardedly. And so far I haven't had anything else from this "Sangri".
Shortly after this, I received another reply:
"hello,,
i read your profile it was so good to me.i feel you are the only one missing in
my entered life so i desided to stop on it and let you know that i am
interested to be a friend first.i also believe that coming to you will be a
probabilty of meeting that very thing thing that has been lacking in my entered
life. please contact me at (s_sarababy@---- ) i am a girl with respect
and responsible,i respect people also and believe if you contact me,i will
giove you a full introduction of my self okay. i hope to hear from you soon.
cares for my future love Sara,,
in addition contect me with the Emil that in side the massega thanks."
Before I had quite worked out what to say in reply to this one, I got another email with exactly the same text but a different address. I then found I could read the email as a reply to just about any ad, anywhere, ever. And have written all three off as spam, which leaves us with a score of: Jay - 0, Spammers - 3
I can't say I understand it, I thought girls from far and wide would be flocking to me following an ad like that. Maybe it was wrong to say I wasn't offering sex? That's probably what it was.
So far, the "yes" decisions I have been making haven't meant a whole lot of change in my. Monday night, Jon asked me if I was going to the pub. I had to get up at 5am the next day, but I said "yes". I wouldn't have missed much either way. Tuesday I worked at a PR event, and so when a colleague offered me a glass of champagne I said "yes". And when a waiter came over and asked me if I wanted another glass of champagne I said "yes", and when a waiter offered to refill my glass...you get the idea. Luckily for me, it stopped at three -- but considering the state some of my colleagues were in by the end of the night, I needn't have worried.
The final yes decision was on Thursday night -- following another invitation to the pub from Jon, and another yes from me -- we saw a girl I used to work with, when I was still bar tender extraordinaire. She's now in some management position in this other pub, and after some polite conversation and I mentioned how I'm looking for work again, she asked me if I would work there. So I said yes, and now I am. I've made clear it's only temporary until either some office work comes along, or a permanent job in PR -- it's not so bad. It beats going back to my old place of work and asking for a job again, and I need the money.
Tuesday was a strange day for me all round. At the media day I got to meet the girl who has effectively taken my place at my old place of work, and again I got the feeling of having been dumped when it seemed everyone was so in love with their new account assistant. I didn't really talk to her or work with her, but I'm sure she's pleasant enough and will do a fine job. And admittedly she is probably better suited to consumer fashion PR than I was -- I am beginning to wonder now if I'm not perhaps a little too cynical for PR, but that's thoughts for another day.
The format for Tuesday was effectively two events in one day -- an afternoon event, with editors and fashion editors from high end publications, a presentation and a q&a session with the big designer. Then it was everyone out, and transform it for the evening -- designed to have more of a party atmosphere, with no presentation or q&a session and with a DJ and celebrity guests.
The thing with celebrities, I find, is when you see them in real life you're not sure if it's really them. Liam Gallagher was the first person to catch my eye, and all I could think of was "Look at him! It's like he's king of the mods!" then quickly the hair, the glasses, the sullen expression all added up. But was it really him? It could have been some loser wannabe -- but then I figured that Nicole Appleton would probably have noticed if it wasn't, since she was with him. Over the course of the evening I saw (saw, rather than met -- I didn't speak to any of them) such dazzling darlings as Natalie Imbruglia, Camilla al-Fayed and Rachel Hunter. I didn't even recognise Rachel Hunter, until someone pointed her out as the incredibly tall blonde. I'd been wondering who she was.
Outside of the glittering world of media events, things are fairly quiet. San and I are on good speaking terms again, she recognises she was being a bitch and is sorry. I try to make a dig about it when I can -- "I've got a job interview today, please don't be mad, it involves going to Camden but I promise I'm not trying to make you jealous", that sort of thing. She deserves it. I talked to her about her relationship with Tim (Tim Nice but Dim), and am feeling a little better about it -- in a moving on sort of way. I talked to her about their proposed holiday together, and still disapprove of how she's funding it, but we remained civil.
Strangely, though, Fiona has seemed quiet lately. It's hard to tell with her, especially since years have passed before with us having next to no contact and still we manage to pick things up again. But just the same, I'm not too sure what's going on.
Sunday 5 November 2006
Say yes more
I keep thinking I need to update more, but then I think I need more things to update about and I hate writing my disjointed "here's everything that's going on" posts.
I've been reading "Yes Man" by Danny Wallace, the book that people are always saying changed their life. In a way, not unlike The Dice Man, but without the rape and the murder and stuff -- it's a lot funnier, a lot more positive, and actually true. He just follows the advice of a wise stranger on a bus who tells him to "say yes more".
Parts of it strike me as slightly dumb -- when he's saying yes to everything it seems like it could get really out of hand. Sometimes you can't walk down the high street without being stopped by several different charity muggers, and who has the money to say yes to them all? Every day? And every time they ring you up and ask for a one-off donation or to increase your payments, you say yes? And that's nothing compared to when he gets emails from Sultans needing his bank details... But there is something positive coming out of it, and taking his lead I am trying to say yes more. I won't say yes indiscriminately, and won't say yes to things I can't afford -- expensive foreign holidays, charity muggers, more credit cards -- but I want to be open to more things.
Speaking of being open to more things, I agreed with Jon to go out on Friday night. I gave some thought to things we could do that didn't involve just going to the pub, because I knew if I said I didn't want to go he'd ask what else there was. So I was prepared, and suggested a few other things -- an indie night in London, or a random night in one town or another locally. All too expensive, he said, and not enough people were out. So it was never going to be anything else. The really funny thing was I had asked San the night before if it was the first Friday of the month that was the club night we liked. She had replied yes, and then decided it was worth having an argument over. Apparently, she thought that by asking her about such things, I was rubbing in her face that I was going out and having fun without her and trying to make her jealous. I didn't bring up our conversation earlier in the week about her confused feelings for my replacement and the fun things they do together.
For a week or more, San's attitude to me has been noticeably shit. Or else she has just been in a bad mood generally. She sent me a message the other day to ask if I thought she shouldn't go on holiday. I replied with something like "What the fuck? You're starting an argument about something we talked about yesterday?" but yeah she was. Then later in the week -- when she responded to a message I sent -- I made a comment like I didn't think she was talking to me. Apparently, this was a bad thing to say because if she didn't think I was talking to her then she would be bothered enough to find out why.
I think I more or less managed to defuse both disagreements, or whatever they were. And continue to try and keep her at a distance -- which is never easy because if she doesn't hear from me then she takes offence and doesn't talk to me, and then if I mention that she's been quiet then I'm bad for not caring enough to ask why. But she's got an interview for some thing teaching English in Japan. I asked her if there's something about this time of year that makes her hate me and want to leave the country, since it was this time two years ago she was a bitch to me, broke up with me, then went to college in Maryland. It wasn't personal at the time, and it probably isn't now, either.
So I'm browsing the usual places like Gumtree and Craigslist looking for volunteer work for some good karma credit ratings, and something to keep me out of trouble here and there if nobody is going to give me any actual, paid work. It's not quite the same as saying Yes more, but it's close. I might volunteer my time for all sorts of things -- teaching a Colombian girl English, in exchange for learning Spanish; or volunteering my services to hospital radio in East London, or doing DIY work for a charity despite having no previous DIY skills at all. Actually, the Colombian girl has got me thinking -- I could try something like "Wanted: hot foreign girl who wants to learn English in exchange for being my hot foreign girlfriend"...
I've been reading "Yes Man" by Danny Wallace, the book that people are always saying changed their life. In a way, not unlike The Dice Man, but without the rape and the murder and stuff -- it's a lot funnier, a lot more positive, and actually true. He just follows the advice of a wise stranger on a bus who tells him to "say yes more".
Parts of it strike me as slightly dumb -- when he's saying yes to everything it seems like it could get really out of hand. Sometimes you can't walk down the high street without being stopped by several different charity muggers, and who has the money to say yes to them all? Every day? And every time they ring you up and ask for a one-off donation or to increase your payments, you say yes? And that's nothing compared to when he gets emails from Sultans needing his bank details... But there is something positive coming out of it, and taking his lead I am trying to say yes more. I won't say yes indiscriminately, and won't say yes to things I can't afford -- expensive foreign holidays, charity muggers, more credit cards -- but I want to be open to more things.
Speaking of being open to more things, I agreed with Jon to go out on Friday night. I gave some thought to things we could do that didn't involve just going to the pub, because I knew if I said I didn't want to go he'd ask what else there was. So I was prepared, and suggested a few other things -- an indie night in London, or a random night in one town or another locally. All too expensive, he said, and not enough people were out. So it was never going to be anything else. The really funny thing was I had asked San the night before if it was the first Friday of the month that was the club night we liked. She had replied yes, and then decided it was worth having an argument over. Apparently, she thought that by asking her about such things, I was rubbing in her face that I was going out and having fun without her and trying to make her jealous. I didn't bring up our conversation earlier in the week about her confused feelings for my replacement and the fun things they do together.
For a week or more, San's attitude to me has been noticeably shit. Or else she has just been in a bad mood generally. She sent me a message the other day to ask if I thought she shouldn't go on holiday. I replied with something like "What the fuck? You're starting an argument about something we talked about yesterday?" but yeah she was. Then later in the week -- when she responded to a message I sent -- I made a comment like I didn't think she was talking to me. Apparently, this was a bad thing to say because if she didn't think I was talking to her then she would be bothered enough to find out why.
I think I more or less managed to defuse both disagreements, or whatever they were. And continue to try and keep her at a distance -- which is never easy because if she doesn't hear from me then she takes offence and doesn't talk to me, and then if I mention that she's been quiet then I'm bad for not caring enough to ask why. But she's got an interview for some thing teaching English in Japan. I asked her if there's something about this time of year that makes her hate me and want to leave the country, since it was this time two years ago she was a bitch to me, broke up with me, then went to college in Maryland. It wasn't personal at the time, and it probably isn't now, either.
So I'm browsing the usual places like Gumtree and Craigslist looking for volunteer work for some good karma credit ratings, and something to keep me out of trouble here and there if nobody is going to give me any actual, paid work. It's not quite the same as saying Yes more, but it's close. I might volunteer my time for all sorts of things -- teaching a Colombian girl English, in exchange for learning Spanish; or volunteering my services to hospital radio in East London, or doing DIY work for a charity despite having no previous DIY skills at all. Actually, the Colombian girl has got me thinking -- I could try something like "Wanted: hot foreign girl who wants to learn English in exchange for being my hot foreign girlfriend"...
Wednesday 1 November 2006
New Birds (Musical Monday #10)
#"...it's very easy to forget -- she's just sitting there in the pub with her new friends and her new life and her new hair, and it's been five years but you'd know just to look at her"#
Arab Strap "New Birds"
I did think of making this a belated Musical Monday post -- a Monday post, made on a Wednesday about events from a Tuesday. It's probably that kind of confusion that has brought down CastPost, since it's not working -- and unfortunately that means you won't get to hear the rambling Scottish indie low-fi genius of this Arab Strap song. I can't say if any of their other songs are rambling low-fi genius as I can't recall any others, and besides they're splitting up.
Anyway, the song is the usual fare -- boy in a pub sees girl he used to go out with years before, and can't stop thinking about kissing her, but when she invites him back to her place he remembers his girl at home and he says "there might be a slight regret and you might wonder what you missed but you have to remember the kiss you worked so hard on -- and you'll know you've done the right thing".
The thing with the song, though, is that it seems so sad. I think he misses the girl, maybe he still loves her and it's jarring to see her in the pub with her new friends and her new hair. Even though he is clearly very much in love with his own bird at home -- he does the right thing, after all -- the sadness in the music and his tone of voice is palpable.
And the music itself, it's a very low-key low-fi affair, although building to a suitably understated indie crescendo. I'll link to it here, if I'm ever again able.
I mention here the other day -- in my slightly cathartic and uncensored post about the fucked up things I do to myself -- that Fiona wanted to meet. She's been mentioning it for months, and when I couldn't see her Monday I suggested Tuesday. She accepted. So on a cold and dark Tuesday night in south west London -- after three years, I met Fiona off a train and we went to the pub.
It's been three years, and you'd know it to look at her -- she's just sitting there in the pub with her new friends and her new life and her new hair, and she's sitting next to you, showing you on her camera phone pictures of her flat. Alongside pictures of her friends in wigs, and lots of pictures of her boyfriend that he's taken of himself. He's not vain, she says, he's just amused at the sight of himself.
I forget most of what we talked about -- the usual unimportant stuff, but occasionally we'd talk about us. Talk about our relationship as it once was, or rather not the time we spent together but more about how it all fell apart when I went away. I broke her heart, and I never wanted to. She tells me cried for months, but I remember her seeing someone else by February -- probably just to make me jealous. We didn't know what the other was thinking at the time, and I didn't want to hold her back. Didn't want to hold myself back, just wanted us to be free and grow and then live happily ever after a little bit down the line. Except that, her current boyfriend aside, her relationships since have been typically shit.
Boyfriends with bordering-on-psychotic jealousy, boyfriends who really were pyschotic, had the nickname "psycho-" but she was still surprised when he turned out to be a psycho, the boyfriend that was a dick and cheated on her for months. I can't help but maybe feel a little responsible. But I also remember only too well the time I told her I still loved her and it was a huge drama -- even if she later on at the time did admit that she still loved me, too. And she only chose the other boy over me because he lived locally and I didn't.
There have been times where I've asserted I fall too easily -- a pretty girl who's nice to me and I'm already starting to fall, if she's funny and cool then I don't stand a chance. So I would tell myself it's not her, specifically, any more than I was in love with her the day we met. Any feelings stirred up aren't about her, they're probably more to do with me and my ridiculous obsession with love. I remember now her eyes, her hazel eyes being one of the first things I ever noticed about her, how the greens sparkled in the sunlight. But last night as we talked and I looked her in the eyes, in the light of the pub they seemed only brown. Pretty, but not sparkling.
#"You remember the way she swung her arms when she held your hand but you can't remember how she kissed and now you've got the chance to find out."#
We drank and talked and passed the time until it was time for us to brave the night air and catch our trains. I got off the tube at the same stop as her, even though I had to go one more further along -- just so I could say goodbye to her properly. I hugged her hard and close to me, wrapped my arms around her and just hugged her. I kissed the side of her head and said goodbye, and that was it. She left, I got the next tube and went home. I sent her a message when I got home, to say goodnight and let her know I was safe -- but I didn't get a reply. She said today she was probably already asleep.
Arab Strap- New Birds
Monday 30 October 2006
Torture
Why do we do things to torture outselves? Why when we know things are wrong, or will hurt us, why do we go ahead and do them anyway?
I left my job on Friday, and I continue to be incapable of grasping major events as really happening. It didn't feel real to me, even when I knew that people were secretly signing a card and gathering in an office to say farewell to me, it still didn't feel like it was any different to normal. Even when I cleared my desk, sent emails saying goodbye, and put on my out of office to tell people I'd gone, it still didn't feel real. I gave in my security pass at the end of the day, because this time I really wouldn't be coming back.
The funny thing is though, I can still login to my company webmail and check for any new emails for me. I logged in yesterday to email accounts about some expenses I am still owed, and I logged in today to check for any misguided and belated declarations of undying love from former colleagues.
What there was in my inbox was an email from HR entitled "Welcome". I know these emails only too well -- when someone new joins the company, they get their photo taken and later in the day an email circulates with the picture and a brief bio on them, instructing us to welcome them to the company. I knew I didn't want to open the email. I knew who it would be welcoming. But of course I opened it anyway. Welcome the new account coordinator, this pretty girl fresh out of university with a degree in business studies. Who today will be sitting at what a week ago was my desk, chatting and laughing with my now former colleagues. It feels like being dumped.
Last night I was talking to San about this boy she's seeing. She's been seeing this guy for months. Of course, to begin with she claimed they were only friends but one thing always leads to another -- talking leads touching, and touching leads to sex -- and now she's complaining to me that's confused because she likes him and she doesn't want to scare him off and why does she always fall for friends. I told her that was absurd reasoning, why shouldn't you fall for someone you like? It's not like they have been platonic friends for years and years. And I kept berating her to just tell him how she feels -- especially as apparently he's been making suggestions of the same thing, about how spending time with her makes him happy. I think I did get through to her, eventually -- made her see that he won't very well and tell her he doesn't like her "in that way" or isn't ready for a relationship if they've been sleeping together for however long. I told her she'd got things in the wrong order, but couldn't criticise because she and I did exactly the same thing. And if he now turns around and says she's alright as a fuck buddy but not a girlfriend, then she shouldn't be with him at all.
But that too feels like being dumped. She seems compeletely oblivious to how I might be feeling in all of this. In the past I have half-jokingly referred to him as my replacement, and that's what it feels like. However many times we may sleep together, or just share a bed, or drink too much and make out it's not me any more, it's him. We've been here before, she and I, and it's obviously a character flaw in me that we keep ending up back here. The whole thing with the over-enthusiastic bunny boiler girl just made me miss San, and want her back, and make me want to tell her I loved her. But you can't go back. Even if she felt the same way, even if I asked her to take me back, I know now she wouldn't. It was a bit like with Fi, I felt like with each successive boyfriend of hers since me I was getting one step further from ever being able to have her back. Perhaps it's good that Fi and I only see each other once every few years. Incidentally, she wants to meet soon -- asked me again today when we could go for a drink. And I still fantasise about winning her back.
It's absurd. Last weekend I was taking an Italian girl to a snowboard show and taking her picture on my phone, thinking how beautiful she looked in the picture. Even now, she's going back for a couple of weeks and I tell her I want to see her and I want a postcard from Italy. But I don't know if I really like her, if I just want to like her, if I just want to be with someone. Part of me says it would be unfair on her to do anything, if I'm still moping after a girl who dumped me two years ago, and part of me says it would be an excellent way to move on.
Thursday night was a haloween party at work. It was messy. Anything that involves a "vodka luge" -- a kind of ice-scuplture ski run they poured vodka down to your waiting mouth at the bottom -- was never going to promote responsible drinking. Most of the night seems hazy to me now -- flashes of memories, here and there. Talking to a woman from a neighbouring design agency, telling her I wasn't a frustrated novelist and her trying to convince me to take part in NaNoWriMo. Or a half-remembered flash of hugging the cute redheaded girl -- how small her waist felt, as I hugged her. She was drunker than I was, hugged me and told me she was so sorry I was leaving.
"I didn't think you knew who I was", I told her. Trying to be cynical, probably just slurring my words.
"Of course I know who you are!" She insisted, "You're Jay [or insert real name here]! Everyone knows you!"
I don't remember much else. There was certainly nothing inappropriate. I remember very vaguely the train home, hiccuping. I remember throwing up on the walk home in someone's bushes. I have a very vague memory of buying Burger King before catching my train, which probably explains why I threw up in a bush.
The next day I can't find my Oyster card -- and I only just put a tenner on the damn thing -- or the photo portion of my travelcard. Mysteriously the ticket portion was in my coat pocket -- I mus have taken it out of the travelcard wallet to get through the barrier. That's a small mercy.
Last week, before I even heard about not getting the job, I cut myself. For months I have mentioned here feeling confronted by sharp objects. Feeling uncomfortable around a stray craft knife left on my desk. I can't be trusted with sharp objects. And eventually it became a self fulfilling prophecy, a scalpel used for cutting pages from magazines eventually was put to good use -- cutting short, sharp lines into my forearm. More of a scratch than anything else, wary of not drawing undue attention to myself -- but all the same I'd look down later to see small trails of blood. Small enough you could wash them off, or keep washing them off until they clotted, and the cuts small enough to hide.
These are the things I self censor.
I left my job on Friday, and I continue to be incapable of grasping major events as really happening. It didn't feel real to me, even when I knew that people were secretly signing a card and gathering in an office to say farewell to me, it still didn't feel like it was any different to normal. Even when I cleared my desk, sent emails saying goodbye, and put on my out of office to tell people I'd gone, it still didn't feel real. I gave in my security pass at the end of the day, because this time I really wouldn't be coming back.
The funny thing is though, I can still login to my company webmail and check for any new emails for me. I logged in yesterday to email accounts about some expenses I am still owed, and I logged in today to check for any misguided and belated declarations of undying love from former colleagues.
What there was in my inbox was an email from HR entitled "Welcome". I know these emails only too well -- when someone new joins the company, they get their photo taken and later in the day an email circulates with the picture and a brief bio on them, instructing us to welcome them to the company. I knew I didn't want to open the email. I knew who it would be welcoming. But of course I opened it anyway. Welcome the new account coordinator, this pretty girl fresh out of university with a degree in business studies. Who today will be sitting at what a week ago was my desk, chatting and laughing with my now former colleagues. It feels like being dumped.
Last night I was talking to San about this boy she's seeing. She's been seeing this guy for months. Of course, to begin with she claimed they were only friends but one thing always leads to another -- talking leads touching, and touching leads to sex -- and now she's complaining to me that's confused because she likes him and she doesn't want to scare him off and why does she always fall for friends. I told her that was absurd reasoning, why shouldn't you fall for someone you like? It's not like they have been platonic friends for years and years. And I kept berating her to just tell him how she feels -- especially as apparently he's been making suggestions of the same thing, about how spending time with her makes him happy. I think I did get through to her, eventually -- made her see that he won't very well and tell her he doesn't like her "in that way" or isn't ready for a relationship if they've been sleeping together for however long. I told her she'd got things in the wrong order, but couldn't criticise because she and I did exactly the same thing. And if he now turns around and says she's alright as a fuck buddy but not a girlfriend, then she shouldn't be with him at all.
But that too feels like being dumped. She seems compeletely oblivious to how I might be feeling in all of this. In the past I have half-jokingly referred to him as my replacement, and that's what it feels like. However many times we may sleep together, or just share a bed, or drink too much and make out it's not me any more, it's him. We've been here before, she and I, and it's obviously a character flaw in me that we keep ending up back here. The whole thing with the over-enthusiastic bunny boiler girl just made me miss San, and want her back, and make me want to tell her I loved her. But you can't go back. Even if she felt the same way, even if I asked her to take me back, I know now she wouldn't. It was a bit like with Fi, I felt like with each successive boyfriend of hers since me I was getting one step further from ever being able to have her back. Perhaps it's good that Fi and I only see each other once every few years. Incidentally, she wants to meet soon -- asked me again today when we could go for a drink. And I still fantasise about winning her back.
It's absurd. Last weekend I was taking an Italian girl to a snowboard show and taking her picture on my phone, thinking how beautiful she looked in the picture. Even now, she's going back for a couple of weeks and I tell her I want to see her and I want a postcard from Italy. But I don't know if I really like her, if I just want to like her, if I just want to be with someone. Part of me says it would be unfair on her to do anything, if I'm still moping after a girl who dumped me two years ago, and part of me says it would be an excellent way to move on.
Thursday night was a haloween party at work. It was messy. Anything that involves a "vodka luge" -- a kind of ice-scuplture ski run they poured vodka down to your waiting mouth at the bottom -- was never going to promote responsible drinking. Most of the night seems hazy to me now -- flashes of memories, here and there. Talking to a woman from a neighbouring design agency, telling her I wasn't a frustrated novelist and her trying to convince me to take part in NaNoWriMo. Or a half-remembered flash of hugging the cute redheaded girl -- how small her waist felt, as I hugged her. She was drunker than I was, hugged me and told me she was so sorry I was leaving.
"I didn't think you knew who I was", I told her. Trying to be cynical, probably just slurring my words.
"Of course I know who you are!" She insisted, "You're Jay [or insert real name here]! Everyone knows you!"
I don't remember much else. There was certainly nothing inappropriate. I remember very vaguely the train home, hiccuping. I remember throwing up on the walk home in someone's bushes. I have a very vague memory of buying Burger King before catching my train, which probably explains why I threw up in a bush.
The next day I can't find my Oyster card -- and I only just put a tenner on the damn thing -- or the photo portion of my travelcard. Mysteriously the ticket portion was in my coat pocket -- I mus have taken it out of the travelcard wallet to get through the barrier. That's a small mercy.
Last week, before I even heard about not getting the job, I cut myself. For months I have mentioned here feeling confronted by sharp objects. Feeling uncomfortable around a stray craft knife left on my desk. I can't be trusted with sharp objects. And eventually it became a self fulfilling prophecy, a scalpel used for cutting pages from magazines eventually was put to good use -- cutting short, sharp lines into my forearm. More of a scratch than anything else, wary of not drawing undue attention to myself -- but all the same I'd look down later to see small trails of blood. Small enough you could wash them off, or keep washing them off until they clotted, and the cuts small enough to hide.
These are the things I self censor.
Sunday 29 October 2006
Pointless
I'm beginning to wonder what the point in keeping this blog is if I don't feel I can write honestly in it. Its role has always meant to be partly as therapist, but when it comes down to it now I keep silent, and keep things inside, rather than writing about them as I want to do. And I don't know what this means I should do.
Saturday 21 October 2006
Misplaced, my faith in the dark side was.
Yesterday I was sat at my desk, working like any other day -- perhaps not quite like any other day as we have a big event coming up on Monday and Tuesday so have a lot of work to do. But I was minding my own business, when I got an email from the associate account director with the subject "Your Interview". It read:
I did not like the sound of it. I was forwarding it to colleagues expressing my concern, and it seems now like they were conspicuously non-committal. San told me not to worry, and that it could be good news. It didn't sound like good news.
The afternoon rolled around, I got a phone call inviting me upstairs to a meeting room and off I went, especting the worst. We chatted a little about all the stuff we had going on, and then it started. She began telling me how much they liked me and that I had interviewed well and what a great job everyone thinks I do. But you know that none of that stuff ever precedes good news.
And so it goes. They decided not to offer me the position of account assistant. I don't know if I mentioned it here, but I had a nagging feeling after the first interview that maybe I know had too much experience -- especially since they said I would be in this position for as long as 18 months without promotion. I insisted then it didn't worry me. But apparently it was an issue for them. They wanted someone "fresh out of university" without any experience, someone who would be happy to do the job for 18 months -- and that I was too good for that job, and should be aiming more for an Account Exec position.
I think what it came down to is that they thought I'd be frustrated and dissatisfied in the job after about six months -- and is I'd thought myself, I could always leave at that point. They don't want to have to hire someone else in six months for this position.
But what it means for me is that not only do I not get the job, but I can't continue to work there. I now have no job to go to at all. I have emailed my loathsome recruitment consultants this morning, telling them this and to step up the pace in finding me a job. I have some friends taking my CV and tentatively asking contacts of theirs. I have also emailed a couple of style magazines my CV in the hope they might be able to make some use of me.
We walked out of the meeting and on the side of a nearby desk was a selection of soft drinks and a couple of beers. I'd originally declined a drink before the meeting, but thought now I could really use a beer and picked one up. I went back to my desk long enough only to open the bottle, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and went to sit on the fire escape outside. I saw on the fire escape -- just far enough down that anyone looking out of the window wouldn't see me. And I cried. It sounds stupid, to be so upset over a job, but I insist it wasn't just that. It was frustration and disappointment and the fact that my parents want to move house so I need a job and a place of my own quickly if I don't want to go with them. It was a hundred things. I've no idea what my colleagues thought of me, when I went back to my desk with bloodshot eyes and constantly blowing my nose.
Now it looks like I get to look forward to the wide-world of office temping.
"Thank you for your interview yesterday.
As discussed we need to feed back on that interview. I am out of the office until later this afternoon yet back at around 5 if that suits you to sit down and allow us to feedback.
I will call you when I am back in the office later.
Thanks"
I did not like the sound of it. I was forwarding it to colleagues expressing my concern, and it seems now like they were conspicuously non-committal. San told me not to worry, and that it could be good news. It didn't sound like good news.
The afternoon rolled around, I got a phone call inviting me upstairs to a meeting room and off I went, especting the worst. We chatted a little about all the stuff we had going on, and then it started. She began telling me how much they liked me and that I had interviewed well and what a great job everyone thinks I do. But you know that none of that stuff ever precedes good news.
And so it goes. They decided not to offer me the position of account assistant. I don't know if I mentioned it here, but I had a nagging feeling after the first interview that maybe I know had too much experience -- especially since they said I would be in this position for as long as 18 months without promotion. I insisted then it didn't worry me. But apparently it was an issue for them. They wanted someone "fresh out of university" without any experience, someone who would be happy to do the job for 18 months -- and that I was too good for that job, and should be aiming more for an Account Exec position.
I think what it came down to is that they thought I'd be frustrated and dissatisfied in the job after about six months -- and is I'd thought myself, I could always leave at that point. They don't want to have to hire someone else in six months for this position.
But what it means for me is that not only do I not get the job, but I can't continue to work there. I now have no job to go to at all. I have emailed my loathsome recruitment consultants this morning, telling them this and to step up the pace in finding me a job. I have some friends taking my CV and tentatively asking contacts of theirs. I have also emailed a couple of style magazines my CV in the hope they might be able to make some use of me.
We walked out of the meeting and on the side of a nearby desk was a selection of soft drinks and a couple of beers. I'd originally declined a drink before the meeting, but thought now I could really use a beer and picked one up. I went back to my desk long enough only to open the bottle, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and went to sit on the fire escape outside. I saw on the fire escape -- just far enough down that anyone looking out of the window wouldn't see me. And I cried. It sounds stupid, to be so upset over a job, but I insist it wasn't just that. It was frustration and disappointment and the fact that my parents want to move house so I need a job and a place of my own quickly if I don't want to go with them. It was a hundred things. I've no idea what my colleagues thought of me, when I went back to my desk with bloodshot eyes and constantly blowing my nose.
Now it looks like I get to look forward to the wide-world of office temping.
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