Sunday, January 01, 2006
I need to get back to my boat dammit! I never thought I utter those words (well... write them). I’m by suffocated by proxy. Even though it’s not the kind of weather to dwell in a place that has less insulation than an umbrella; I’d prefer to freeze my bollocks off then remain here. Here being home, (somewhere in west
“Have you enjoyed being back” inquired mother expectantly.
Joe shrugs and grunts “huh... yeah” shrugging, paying more attention to the defiant roast beef his knife was wrestling with. DIE DAM YOU (not you mum).
“What have you liked best about it? Seeing you brothers? Wide open space? The comfort?” Blatant attempt to prize me back home with the obvious digs at boat-dom.
“The Xbox” Quipped Joe with down-turning of the lips which usually indicates a judicial weighing up process.
Ah…. the Xbox or Sexbox. Having no TV aboard – I needed to cram as much gaming and technology based entertainment as I could before going back. No time for Presents Mum – I need to capture the rebel base before Darth Vader dies! No don’t stand there! For fucks sake! Now I’m dead…
It’s addictive, makes you really edgy too. When you’ve just been in an intergalactic war, fighting over brussel sprouts just doesn’t have the same intensity any more… I used the Sex-Box as a means of escape because CHRISTMAS SUCKED.
I’ve learnt a few valuable lessons this year. One is NEVER GET DRUNK AND DO YOUR CHRISTMAS SHOPPING.
You invariable blow fuck loads of money on decadent but slightly rubbish gifts. Not only that – a disparity between gifts makes everyone feel bad. I spent 20-25 quid on each family member (4 bros 1 sis two parents). What do I get back? Shoddy books, a home made compilation CD, poker chips and beer. Apart from the Vietnamese xylophone Bren got me… ALL SHIT.
Everyone was over appreciative except Michael – the cunt. I don’t think he said thanks and threw his new, tastefully chosen top, in the corner- didn’t even try it on and is now still there! He, incidentally, gave me a cd of tracks he listens to – even though I give them out willy nilly to people all the time (I’ve given him three off-hand).
Phew. That’s my Christmas rant out the way – Christmases need to be annotated before the merge seamlessly in to one (horrible nightmare).
Spending time with Patrick’s always good (Youngest at 17). We actually get on. I got him Knights of the Old Republic Two as a poorly disguised gift….
“da daaaaa Knights of the Republic Two”
“Wow Joe – you’ve really pushed the boat out! (ha)…how much did th-”
“Get out my way!” Joe shouts as he pushes past Patrick with the game.
Appropriately deciding to do the game as a dark sider. Reflecting my couldn’t-give two-hoots-even-if-I-was-stamping-on-an-owl attitude over the Christmas period. I knew this would happen – I even prepared myself by reading Dickens – Pickwick Papers. Dickens description of Christmas only put my (great) expectations up.
New Years Eve was spent in what appears to the untrained eye in a totally shit fashion – but was actually enjoyable. Past New years usually involve following the herd to central
1. With money I’ve saved I can get a new bike (70 – 100 quid).
2. Used to living by self and I really missed it just being me.
3. Match of the Day.
4. I’ve narrowed my friends down to a select few – I only really enjoy myself with them.
5. I had to get a good swoop time to beat C9 T9 (Knights of the old republic).
No regrets. Most people would feel depressed but I can honestly say that it was the best New Years ever.
“Don’t you want to spend New Years around people that you know?”
“Yeah… Me – I spent it with me”.
I guess it’s a bad sign. I’m 23 and already a grouchy hermit. People hating is only a recent development. One thing I have noticed is that I can’t compose. All creative juice is drained from me whilst at home – which actually had some disastrous consequences…
Unbeknown to me, my mum’s friend came over. Now her son is chief talent scout for a major label. He discovered the Killers and Keane (although he wasn’t allowed to offer them a contract). He did sign Athlete though. Anyway, there I was playing on the old Sexbox, when all of a sudden she and husband request to hear my stuff. Now I didn’t have a CD with me so I reluctantly grabbed a shitty Spanish guitar from my dad’s room. Bad move. I totally fucked up. Forgetting chords, lyrics the whole sherbang! This was after I talked myself up by comparing my song writing techniques to Brian Wilson's.
They still pretended to like it (bless) and I patched up some of the damage by playing a few Simon and Garfunkal numbers. But still the damage is done – they have indirect power to make me rich and famous – and I blew it!
And I forgot to send Christmas cards to people on my island (with the word “fucking” etched in between happy and Christmas).
Well... there’s always next year…
Friday, December 23, 2005
Computers are noisy buggers aren’t they? Mines currently destroying the Zen of Joe with an omni-present buzz. Yep – one of the reason’s I’m saving up for a laptop. The other is that I guessed my pin number incorrectly too many times and can’t actually get to my money – therefore saving by default. What’s the source of this new found income? (My non-existent readers cry in chorus). Well… it all started a long, long time ago…
Mon 12 12 05 s--- county hall
After another white knuckle ride of the vehicle of endless surprise, and a visit to the illustrious primark to pick up a moderately priced waist coat; I arrive.
On surveying my team members, I quickly discover no hot girls. Dam. Four guys and one rough looking woman – I strictly asked to placed in attractive female environments only! What kind of depraved temping agency is this? Instead of jumping on the phone I decide to turn the other cheek this once and follow the group upstairs.
Ian the manager.
Late thirties, used to be the front man of a glam rock band. Refers to everybody as “guys”, and keeps saying “get ready to rock” - even though were waiters for a load of civil servants (evidently from his frilly haired, tight donning days). Think a bland version of Brent, attached great importance and difficulty to the task of running a shoddy Christmas party for the paper pushers of surrey county council. Order us to furnish the tables with coloured tissue I wouldn’t grace my arse with, cram as many chairs around them and throw stained cutlery about. Easy.
Ian: “Are any of you guys buddies – you’d like to pair up with?”
“No…we all hate each other”
Joe retorted, mistakenly taken in jest.
The fact is that we’d hardly been introduced; I was just voicing the instincts people have when seemly in direct competition (all from the same temping agency). E.g. the hissing when you get too close etc…
During the hour long lunch break I got to know them better – which co-incided with the discovery that we could waltz up to the canteen and order anything we like and not have to pay (the fools! ha ha)
I order a chicken bacon baguette with cucumber and mayonnaise. I felt pleased with myself until I discovered that I’d wasted 55 p on a can of tango when I had the choice of a variety of soft drinks -free. This dismay increased double fold when I observed the guy next to me had a considerably better sandwich then mine! At the counter he asked what meat do they have - went on to say “all of it” in a thick Hungarian accent.
Zoltan Alban (29)
The master of extravagant (free) sandwiches. Only his second month in the u.k; so his English was limited. He made up for it by possessing extremely funny mannerisms – usually ferocious, predatory behaviour toward poor, unsuspecting diners. He was paired up with me and I felt like he was my evil hunch man. I’d teach him tricks e.g. if a grazing civil servant catches your eye – hurry her up by making eating gestures. I’d have to hold him back when clearing time approached – he’d probably snatch the plates away before you’re halfway into your second bite. I’d say “not yet Zoltan…” Zoltan restless with anticipation, then I’d say “NOW” and he’d storm in. We admired each others style – prided ourselves in being the fastest… at all costs. Plus Zoltan is a cool name – like something off flash Gordon (or something…hmm)
I may as well profile the other members of the group.
Tom (26)
Looks and acts like Darren Brown – but with beard. Out of work thespian (no not lesbian). Very deliberate, and has a theatrical use of intonation. “You’re nothing without your talking car hasslehoff!” He cried (angry fist in the air) when hasslehoff was on the radio announcing some competition where you can win tickets to see Madonna’s music video being shot. “Tickets to see Madonna being shot would be better” this time muttered by me (I develop repours with people by nicking their humour). He was a good person to exchange one-liners with. I told Zoltan he could take away a bottle of soave away from a table. Tom suggests having a glass. “Soave...” I said distractedly “I’d rather drink someone else’s sick” matter of fact-ly. Snobbery comes with the job. Unfortunately the owner of the soave bottle was standing right behind me and wanted it back. I blamed Zoltan for taking it away – I console her with “you can’t trust these foreign types”, patting her on the back. If all else fails - Pure effrontery never does.
Leo (23)
Slippery Brazilian, reminded me of what-his-face in “that 70s show”. Like chesure cat, laid back wide smile, very likeable. Avoided hard work at all costs. Extremely bad drawer. He once offered to sketch the table plan. Tom mentioned it looked like a Picasso. Ian blandly retorts with a “yeah right” and Joe produces a tantalising “more like… Pick-your-ass-o!” If any one could depict the glee upon my face when I said this would be worth a thousand Picassos. Leo too, was blessed with occasional wit- I’m asking Zoltan about his girlfriend and what he gets up too – and then said I needed the information for a biography of his life. “It’s not going to be pretty” Zoltan said Hungarian girls are pretty (Faulty towers moment). I correct him adding that I’m sure that his girlfriend is pretty. Leo interjects, with a timely “I’m not…” Leo in the meantime, broke up with his girlfriend in
Idris (23)
Tanned, surfer type. Fathers welsh, mothers Malayan. Intelligent enough to realise how funny everything is, pleasure to have around. Looks foreign which is an asset in waitering because then you can pretend not to understand anything at all. For example, the other day after buying seemingly flame – resistant fire lighters – I return to the convinence store (the only shop which sells stuff apart from antiques in
Gill (37)
Looks like a female darth vader when he takes the mast off. TOTALLY GORMLESS, WADDLING PEDANT. And that’s putting her in a good light! The sort of person you don’t want in you way when trying to serve food in a confine area. Just piss off! AARGH She actually had the temerity to call me unenthusiastic. Those words actually passed those down turned trout lips to encroach upon my ears! I was the light of that group cheering everyone up whilst she was the dark side – sucking up good feeling with her death grip comments.
“errrg you’ve got some mud on your shirt”
“yes.. Well you’ve got slapped bottom were your face should be” (I should have said).
Appalling….
The actual feeding of the civil servants would usually commence with an announcement from Commander-in-chief Ian.
He’d first mention the raffle and how in previous years it was done by some guy dressed up like Santa; unfortunately he is now passed away so give generously. Right, so what you’re saying is SANTA IS DEAD, great way to start a Christmas party, Ian. I’ve got to hand it to him – he said that EVERYDAY –I trying my damnist not to laugh. (if they asked me to do the speech I’d counteract with “ho ho ho dear”). Fortunately, Ian got ill for the last couple of days of our week long job. In fact I was all most in a position to completely take over. First I’d get rid of the shitty Christmas music, mostly comprised of “I saw santa fucking mommy” or whatever. Replace it with “people equal shit”. The raffle was fucking lame too. The final day the dinner ladies massacred it by using two books - so there were two winners every time (inexpressively dumb). The top prize being either a sugerbabes DVD (Ian’s wife works with them or something) or a Blink 182 DVD. Usually handed to some coffin dodger who wishes he came second to win the whisky.
The END of the (Gravy Train) line
Something foul was afoot; Joe could smell the fear in the air (apart from that emitting from his de-deodorised armpits). Gillian from the agency had just phoned asked me to work from 6 till one after the shift at county hall. I agreed, she then phoned back saying actually from 3. Fucking hell, give them an inch and they’ll ram it up your nose and slap you about a bit. That’s when my other shift finished, which means I was to be automatically late. She told me that everyone seemed to be pulling out of this one and that she needed me. Alarm bells were going off in my head. Temps are like shawls of fish, somehow always the first to sense danger; darting away in waves. Unfortunately, it was too late to back out as it was the day before plus I’m new. Idris was also caught in the net – no amount of wriggling can save us now…doomed.
W---house
I’d asked the others what they knew about this place, tom screwed up his face to emphasise his disgust, expressing it simply with “no….” Adding how anal they were about everything. I asked Zoltan if he’d been asked to work there he initially replied in the affirmative. He then retracted that statement upon further enquiry (text – book foreign card). I did detect, however, a glimmer of fear in those wolf-like eyes.
Friday
Hills aren’t my forte, especially on a bike as ill-equipped as mine. Want to change gears? Forget about it!
A worn out Joe approaches his new employment peril. A Posh conference centre.
“Nice trousers” Yep being too poor to buy matching trousers with my waist coat sucks. Christoph is French and a sadist. “Nice stubble” WHAT? I’d shaved that morning! What does he want? The moon on a stick? (Tom requested it at the sandwich bar). Of course the first call of action is to immediately ask every member of staff if they have a razor; I paraded like a shamed school boy. Surprisingly no-one does but hold on… – he now remembers (fancy that he knew all along!). Pulls out a shoddy bic razor I wouldn’t graze my arse with and tells me there’s no shaving foam but the toilets this way. The Blood was pouring down my face – no preventing it,
Shit razor + no foam = cut to fuck face. Idris was horrified when he walked in. I said “welcome to hell…..”
When a staff comprising half temps, half regulars culminated in the pantry he told everyone to sort out the menus while he decided who was doing what. Now this job requires communication – especially if you haven’t done it before. AS soon as anyone uttered a word it was an abrupt “Quiet!” ejaculated from the French mans mouth. Probably the only word universally understood – so thick was his accent that his directions to the new comers were totally beyond comprehension. If he looked at me - I smiled and nodded. If he laughed – I laughed. He asked who among us was experienced in serving drinks. Now even though this agency specialised in catering/bar work no body dared to put their hand up – that is all apart from me. “Where have you served drinks before?” he asked haughtily. Don’t fuck with me you snivelling frog – I’m doing you a favour here. “A pub?” my reply indicating that I really don’t give a shit and am not about to start name dropping places I’ve worked. “A pub ha” he echoed contemptuously, deliberated before assigning me the drinks task. This involved handing out champagne willy nilly. Yep- because that is a highly skilled job, requires years of high pedigree training to achieve; prick.
My group included Nigel, Joel, Lucy, Rin, Heng, Ed (dam I’ve got a good memory). Nigel (permanent) was a very proper, balding butler (forty –odd) type who seemed to be disappointed with life. Joel (Permanent), Aussie with wobbly head, seemed okay although hated the job and his workmates. Lucy (temp) quite cute Slovak. Rin (permanent) tried to be the ultra-logical pragmatic type but in reality ultra stupid and awkward. Heng – a cheery Chinese guy, from shanghai, I liked the most. Ed – something familiar about ED. Rin even remarked upon it. He had a massive sandy bouffant, what I’d call a lion/ trumpet head. Wobble his head around totally oblivious. He said “oh – I’ve never been a butler before” Well you’re not one now – YOU’RE A WAITER. Slight difference, numbnuts. He’d answer questions with “hmm possibly” trying to act knowingly when I knew full well he knew FUCK ALL. Turns out I did know him. I mentioned that the lead singer of Keane is playing in the cricket team I used to play for and mention the small town I come from. He comes from the same place and I realise that he’s that annoying little twat two years below at prep school. Great this job is going bad to worse. We had to stand there for over an hour before people came. Christoph frequenting the room in the mean while sending me off to do pointless jobs – all because I looked bored. PUT ME IN A ROOM OF BORES AND TELL ME TO STAND STILL FOR AN HOUR AND YES, I WILL BE VERY...FUCKING…BORED. The only noteworthy conversation being when Ed suggested spiking the drink with E and getting everyone raving (what a tit). I said that I thought he was about to suggest spiking the entire party with date rape pills, raping them and then sending them the tapes. That’ll learn them…
Finally people arrive and the first thing Ed does is drop a tray load of strawberry champagne. Witnessing this hugely embarrassing incident was “Possibly” worth my previous tribulations. He then tries to pick up another – almost dropping that before a sturdy Joe intervenes. “Perhaps you’d better stay away from trays”. I start a funny conversation with the first group (who look bewildered by the impressively white room and silent staff) – it’s against the rules to engage them (you have “know your place”), but I live dangerously.
“So… what company is this?”
The women said something that sounded like fabric sunglasses. I remarked that fabric sunglasses would fall off. She corrected me and told me they used to be called animal sunglasses. I go “animals can’t wear sunglasses some see in black and white don’t they? – they’d get really confused” It turned out it was just the name. After demonstrating my extensive knowledge of the client I leave with the leer of Christoph on my back. As the Party wore on –all I had to do was serve out drink on food on trays. Heng managed to get the top button of his waist coat caught in the centre of someone’s low cut dress – a 50-old women with full bosom. He desperately tried to yank away, as the two did a sort of entangled dance. He made the mistake of accidentally fondling the woman’s breast as he tried to release himself. Thankfully the woman saw the funny side (like the other 90 odd watching in hysterics). What was shit about this job? The total lack of ergonomics. The kitchen station miles away from the function rooms meant we had to endlessly dilly dally about with trolleys – only to be confronted with a swamped washing area. Total nightmare. The staff were nearly all foreign and had their own little language so it was hard to discern want anyone was fucking going on a about. Amongst the chaos I ran into a bedraggled Idris – who clearly isn’t enjoying himself. We both get roped into to glass shifting debacle. Due to the necessity of using this extremely hard to steer trolleys, a number of skirmishes broke out over control over them. Everyone would try and fuck each other over for possession of the precious trolleys.
After clearing up we had to set up stuff for the morning, polishing plates and shit. A related the tale of ED to Idris. - Idris goes “yeah smarmy type was he?” and this guy ~Rin who I’d mentioned before and interrupts and goes “Smarmy…Interesting – I’d never heard that expression before…interesting...” and wanders off, posing upon his observation like a wise old philosopher (no sense of jest). I and Idris both look at each other and I go “yeah - just like that!” The most perfect example of smarmy kindly demonstrated by our observational colleague. He had goggley eyes, weedy constitution with glasses. Carried himself a bit like a mousey woman. Thought he was the catering industries answer to Spock.
Anyway to cut a long story short it was a shitty job which went on to a whopping HALF THREE in the morning. That’s 17 HOURS STRAIGHT and by this time dead man shoes were seriously kicking in. Idris foolishly offered me a lift home – that meant a good ten minutes trying to cram my bike in the back seat (stupid bike!) ten minutes when our patience was not to best be trifled with. Idris remarked on the way home that “they all prided themselves on being gits” – my sentiments exactly. Exactly – that’s how everything was to be done, slogging on in the early hours of the morning with some French guy correcting every spoon position laid down for breakfast. How about getting the basics right? Like temperature – for instance everyone was fucking baking in the room I worked in, plus the stereo was in the adjourning room instead of the room where it was needed. I had to do another shift the next day, shifting my motivation for living more like. Idris and I had been given water duty for this old girls birthday party (god knows why anyone would bother with a massive non-Christmas party so close to Christmas). I thought –Great an easy job…WRONG. Gittiest job ever… “Remember what everyone is drinking – so you don’t have to ask them twice” WHAT! There’s about a hundred guests – all related (I know – weird) everyone looked the same – like fat prince Charles’. Fuck. Idris took one half of the room – I took the other. Unbeknown to me this Chinese girl had served half my tables. Fuck. No way of knowing what they had. (Choices being sparking or still). Worse still I had to keep everyone’s glasses to the brim.
Christoph “if the glass is half empty – fill it up”
I felt like saying – is the glass half empty? Or half full? One guy keep downing his, he must have drunk about 5 litres! (I’m not joking) I almost decided to refuse to serve him and safety grounds (you can die). Decided against it – it might be funny, save sending in the clowns. The worst thing was that everyone had being given these party bags containing pea shooters with fuck loads of ammunition. So as well as endless towing and fro-ing trying (in vain) what water people had, I’d be pelted with soggy balls (the pea things – not sexual abuse). What is it with coffin dodgers and their obsession with acting childish at parties? “Hey look at us were so full of beans” “still young at heart” yeah if you confuse ‘young’ with ‘disease’. I kept hoping someone would swallow their ammunition and choke which would then force me into performing the heinrech manoeuvre. That’s what people would think I was doing…really I’d just be thrashing them about a bit, smack them about a bit before they die. Ultimate revenge. Like that punch in the heart – yep..Take that you fucker. “He was dying?” the inventor of that would have said with a dismayed look on his face as he realises he’s revived the cunt.
Occasionally I’d look enviously at Idris, pouring with a devil-may-care attitude. How is he remembering? I catch him on the landing. “I don’t – I just pour any old drink in” Shoddy. I get one persons drink wrong and I have to change it while Idris wilfully pour sparkling into still and verse versa and get away scot free! Doesn’t anyone complain? I ask. “No –I just say it was somebody else”. That somebody else would probably be the only other water guy being… me. Perfect. Right – it seems Idris is adopting the resident staff attitude of fucking each other over – whilst Joe has to deal with the continuing sabotage. Not only that but the tables kept swapping over so any semblance of a system I built up was quickly destroyed. ARGHHH.
I did have my moments of cheek though. Two guys were walking out of the toilets and one ra ra head was saying he was sick of people telling him what he can and cannot do.
“You can’t say that, sir” He probably thought I was joking (one step away from in forcing it with some on- the spot – dentistry).
At the end of the shift (half three in the morning again). Christoph ask me if I want to work full time – I hastily mention that I’m moving to
Word just crashed. Thank fuck for auto save that’s all I can say. More on my life when I can be bothered.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Apart from having a shit bike, my life is actually enjoyable…for now. A week worthy of note: new characters and events which are to be included in the open book (more like flimsy magazine) that is my life. Just swatted a fly - which ought to be included in this week’s ever-growing list of achievements.
Friday. Around 9, Kingston student union.
“Niko, What would you do If you were the supreme ruler of the world (God forbid).” The on-the-spot, hypothetical quiz I like to engage Niko with – often yielding surprising results…“Everyone would get the same pay”Time to dissect.Me: “No-one would want to do the hard jobs”Prof Niko: “Make them swap after a while”Me: “So the bin man takes over from the brain surgeon does he? “ Excuse me…I haven’t done this before – but I’ll give it a bash””.Niko: “erm… swaps only should occur in the same industry”Niko looks unsteady in his conviction, time to attack from a different angle starting with an innocent change of subject.
“What’s your position on prostitution – do women (or men) have the right to do want they want with their bodies?”Niko “well… in a controlled environment – I don’t see why not”Me “is that part of the job swap?”
A good snippet, these hypothetical debates are good fodder when you try and look interesting to outsiders who sit in groups and can’t muster a sentence between them. Niko’s ex band were playing tonight. He was taking it well. This is a band comprising of his music tech peers, one which he was a member (vocal) and dismissed without the decency of being told, merely phased out of rehearsals. Probably didn’t have the heart to tell him, but still… It annoys me and it made me want them to fuck up. I decided not to fuck them up myself, but to call in some favours from god (maybe induce incontinence or if god asks want I want I’ll say “surprise me”). They even made Niko get up and dance – the ultimate humiliation. “that’s it, dance…” they were thinking as Niko did a turn of rhythmical stooping and pointing which all boys co-ersed on to the dance floor inevitably do. However, the evening was jovial, even more so as the remnants of wealth I possessed were spent on beer. Not enough to induce beer goggles, which would make my new female acquaintances attractive but enough to babble unintelligibly. I decided to do a good deed and offer my profound wisdom on the band. As I’d already announced myself as a composer, they lapped it up like cheap spunk. I told them mostly obvious stuff - like they need a vocalist, a good falsetto male (they were funk/disco). Hooked them up with a guy I work with in my new bar job – this gobby nineteen year old – total tit but good voice. Phew, that’s my good deed over for this year. Hopefully he’ll annoy the hell out of them and give Niko his job back (who didn’t look impressed when I told him). Meh… Still… they invited me back to their party. Where I argued passionately about miking guitar amps only with condensers with this fat bloke who thought he was the nuts. I didn’t really care how’d you’d mike an amp (stick it up your arse!)- but I thought I’d ruffle his feathers a bit for kicks. In fact I was the only interesting person at that party – which is against my golden rule so I left, promptly. Well, would have left promptly if it weren’t for the fact that someone had appeared to have nicked my fucking bag – even though it was surrounded by easily portable, expensive musical equipment. It contained my birth certificate, favourite jumper and a bow tie I had just bought for a whopping nine pounds (for a waitering job). I then spent a good 15 minutes ransacking their house and generally feeling annoyed. Niko had a gone because his girl friend had wanted him back my twelve (curfew); so I left. Cycling home dejected. Niko then rings telling me that he was still at the party and he’d found my bag. Yes! Although I was pissed that I’d spent 20 mins feeling pissed. Good old Niko, risked punishment from girlfriend to stay and find my bag. Plus he got me plasters when he saw me plummet down stairs on my bike (stupid bike!) – that was a few weeks ago. Some hot girl eyes me as talk on my mobile – yes I am cool enough to receive calls in the early hours of the morning.
Few days earlier…
“hello Joseph” “hi”“I’m going to an art exhibition, Kate C----s displaying her work near Sloane square”“Great, can I come?”“yes dear, it’s called g--- ---- on king’s road, so just arrive at six and as I said just walk up kings road from Sloane square underground”
Right then,I had a total of one pound twenty – that’s my entire fortune. I see it as a challenge – like grand theft auto (except without the killing people – well … mostly). Getting into central is easy – no barriers between Hampton court and Waterloo, and never any ticket inspectors. One day I’m going to shout “tickets please” and make everyone shit themselves. From Waterloo to Sloane square slightly more troublesome, but thanks to a stunning girl who gave me 80 pence near the machines – I made it. Feeling Shane's business card in pocket, I resented not having one of my own in such a circumstance. Although, what would it say Joe C--- professional scrounger and pickerup-er? What ever it is – it can’t be as pretentious as Shane’s: “media designer, Audio technician, and composer” he forgot to mention TWAT. It’s in grained gold, plastic –like a bank card (I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it comes with its own fucking account). Fucker. Right just up Sloane square. Okay, walk for ten minutes… no. Mum rings and inform me its number 574, I look at the number of the nearest shop: 56. FUCK. Why did I put dead man shoes on? (charity shop shoes I needed to break in for work). They dug in as I stormed up kings hill and twenty five minutes later - am confronted with a somewhere which is obviously not a fucking art exhibition. 5 mins of wandering and asking strangers for directions and trying a wrong door – a cross-looking Joe enters the building. The pain is soothed by champagne and a kiss from the artist exhibited (“I wouldn’t say no” I thought, as she stroked my cheek and muttered “handsome boy”) A good spread too, only slightly hampered by the presence of both parents thankfully mediated my some women who was talking about stuff. Allowing an off-the-cuff Joe to waltz in and out the conversation as he inspected and sampled the various pate. Then something happened – Alex ----- walked in looking extremely hot. I knocked a plate over and started choking on my pate for ten minutes. Last time I saw Alex, she introduced Biceps or Abs whatever (from five) as her boyfriend. Previously gracing the front of just seventeen a few years back gives you an idea of the hotness of this girl. This reduces me to an incoherent, blushing fool. I always do that. E.g. Once I took a large gulp of boiling coffee right before the first time Mina spoke to me – she spoke, I mostly tried to speak and motioned to my mouth and coffee as tears streamed down my face.
I semi- recovered enough to engage her for the evening. My dad trying to show off - handed me sixty quid in twenties. She left to go on date with new bf (dam) I then met some whippersnappers, who go to Kingston, exchanged numbers and then I buggered off. Went to Garage for change for the bus back (buggered if I’m walking). This big cunt walks in door at the same time. I look up…
“Hello Sol” “After you” Sol Campbell - graceful off the pitch as on it. I fumbled, starstruck, for something to acquire change with. Lion bar? Chewing gum? Yes; wafer strips? No; don’t want to seem totally mental in front of Sol- so I stick with orbit icy white peppermint. The man at the counter obviously doesn’t have a fucking clue makes a joke about charging me extra for being so extravagant; paying for chewing gum with a twenty. Now instead of explaining the principles of consumer economics – I decide to turn a blind eye and said “ Right well if your basing prices on wealth – he’s buggered then!” pointing at the twenty seven million worth of footballer behind me. He laughed. Ha! here’s me hobnobbing with England Internationals- I should made him cross the road into the exhibition and make him pretend he was my friend. No, he would have probably thought I was trying to rape him.
Day after Band party
Another free train ride and trip to Shepard’s bush, to grace Ben M----at his party.
Now this was a Party, everyone witty and beautiful and penguin bars in bountiful supply. Ben’s a lucky cunt; a massive house in Shepard’s bush, his dad’s fucked off to live in France. Here you go son and get all your mates to live there too. I thought yep... I’m living on a boat by myself –an aspiring composer and then meet Ben who puts me in my place by telling me he’s having an interview for a job (his first ever job mind) starting at a lowly 29 grand. Bastard. Nice house mates too. I’d been a fortnight ago for a small dinner party. “yeah all bond girls have a pun in their name…like pussy galore…erm octopussy”“octopussy doesn’t count”Joe interposes with a timely (and particularly loud) “MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE SHE HAD EIGHT CUNT’S?”Possibly my favourite comment of the night. Yes, play the nice boy routine and then drop the word ‘cunt’ in – get their attention. Posing the inevitable question of which one you’d go for.Back to the party – some guy looked really like the main character off of scrubs. Plus, this girl I was chatting up, looked exactly like the girl who played Marty McFlys mum (when he goes back in time- not the fat version). I told her so and she told me I looked like Stringray out of neighbours. Face drops. What? The little annoying guy who looks about twelve? There goes my chances (and self esteem). Ben informs me that I can sleep in his ensuite bath. Mrs Mcfly (Emily – I think) tells me someones been sick in it. Typical, I rant about it to rob (Ben’s house mate) who tells me it was him. Fucker. Nearly everyone came from Bristol – which is amazing as about forty people are there. I thought, shit – if I invited my uni mates to a party – how many would travel the distance? Probably one who was secretly in love with me (that would be awkward). Mcfly’s impressed with my boat living ways, starts winking and feeling me up. Her mate grabs here and says let’s find somewhere to sleep. I ask her if she’s going to bed - she beckons me with her finger. Oh yes… she goes up and then I attempt to go up before being pounced on by Ben (who reminds me of the tiger off of Calvin and Hobbes) Ben and his mates are drunkenly play fighting and have ambushed me. I fight them off, eventually. Then it dawns on me. Where is she? Each room full to the brim with bodies. God – it’s the holocaust all over again! I give up and retire to my lonely bath – least I’m the only person with his own room. Woken in the morning by the giggling of Ben as he walks in imagining me to be asleep. I see through the slits of my eyes as he sits on the toilet. GOD NO! for a good while I thought he was dropping bum spuds in my presence plus leaving without flushing. Thankfully proved wrong as it later turned out that he did it to make less noise and that if was the heater that makes weird shit noises ( I want to believe…). We depart in fine style after a slap up breakfast (which cost me a slap to face, if my face was my wallet). I had to get down to Hove, once again with fuckall money.
Skilfully avoid inspector by jumping into toilet and then pay for the shortest journey at the barrier. Journeys are so much shorter if you don’t have to pay. The family gathering went better than I expected. I was late but in time for the food, which thankfully was bought–in-curry instead of the home-made contrivance of a buffet. Filled my belly and lelt – in and out – you can’t fuck around in these family do’s. One slip and you’ll find yourself trapped in a conversation with Nana (there’s no escape). On the way back – I foolishly opted for the Brighton station. Dismayed – as I had to wait an hour for my train and I’d already told Niko I would be round later to get my bag (with essential bow tie). Someone tries to ask me for change for the ticket booth. Yeah right… I know your game you CUNT. Pay two pounds for the shortest journey and plonk next to toilet for an easy escape. This proved to be a bad move as both ticket collectors are alerted early on to someone smoking in there –they suspected me – I meanwhile pretend to be asleep. If only they could see the bead of sweat which teased across my forehead. I’d never anticipated two. These guys are use to the artful dodger types from Brighton. The woman comes back half an hour later and shouts TICKETS PLEASE practically in my ear. I act dazed and say I don’t have a ticket. She asks me where to. I clutch the seven pounds, in my pocket, I need to buy a waist jacket for this job I have the next day. Shit. I remember the last stop and state it (even though I know she saw me before) and said to Clapham (two stops away). She tells me that a gentleman will shortly come my way. Moments later he does- I let him walk passed before he is called back the woman. Stupid woman! He sits down wearily – we were alone and similar age. We look each other in the face – there’s something in my face which makes him say “I’m sorry – I haven’t got time” amazed I utter a thank you. I didn’t even need to say anything! He just let me off! Skipped successfully all the way back to Hampton court. Knackered, I cycled the seven, hilly miles to Nikos at midnight – with a heavy bag full of equipment he wants back.
After staying round at Nikos – tired from the 100 decibel snoring I managed to make it to my new job of waitering at surrey county council.
Friday, December 09, 2005
“Taste that” a spoon crammed into my mouth before I could even object.
“Mmmmm” - usually a favourite of mine to express patronising disinterest; in this case rendered to appease this ape of a chef.
“Now that’s what we do here! Perhoper food” in his convict-cum-jamie oliver voice, as he bounded into the kitchen.
Not bad I mused, before noticing the empty box of cart dor and biscuits which I had just been spoon-fed. His sincerity produced an alarming effect not so much because of the deceit but the lack of thought into the cover up.
The Manager, mike, a different character displays the patience and egoless logic usually associated with Scandinavians (well – the ones I’ve met anyway). It was a bit of a shock not to be working for a dick, to be governed by reason instead of sheer Boss Bravado. Still he doesn’t seem cut throat enough to be a success in the cunt-eat-cunt industry that is bar/catering. Not that I particularly want to be. I only took this job to survive the cruel winter of Hampton Court, and the fact that the last interview I had went so badly….
Esher, last week in a restaurant, formerly a pub called The George and now cunningly called “George” see what they’ve done? Genius.
Potential employer (max): “Tell me about your approach to waitering”.
Hapless interviewee with the words “just be yourself” from the girl at the agency echoing in that cavernous skull: “Well Max…(soave Tony voice) Waitering is a bit like making love to a beautiful lady. First you treat her with respect... ply her with drinks, give her a good stuffing and then … (searching for a punchline) slip her the bill?”
Stern look. That’s bad, quick say something “he..erm.. that’s why they call me..err.. gigolo Joe ..he” shit I should have left it at bill now I’ve underlined my self as a sexual deviant. He frowned - I smiled which looked more manic that I’d hoped. All was not lost – he gave a trial day of Saturday (6 30). Not waitering though – he wouldn’t dare unleash me upon unsuspecting customers. Consigned to the living hell that is kitchen portering. I backed off and nodded my way through the rest of the interview recklessly agreeing to anything in the vain hope of success. If he told me I had to wash the dishes in the blood drained from my bollocks – I would have probably assented. He’d already wrong footed me by asking me for a cv (which he should have asked the fucking agency for). He had the upper hand and he knew it, displaying his tenacity by bawling at some barman for no apparent reason (although he was sporting a scarf whilst wearing a t-shirt indoors – the true sign of a pretentious cunt).
Saturday 6.35 pm
Bepedadappa “ Hello?”
“who’s this”
“max”
“yeah?”
“just wondering where you are”
“ I’ve had a change of heart, didn’t the agency tell you?”
“oh right okay bye”
HA TAKE THAT YOU FUCKER!
Checkmate. True - I had to sacrifice my queen, but the prospect of working for MAX CUNT was worth the lost income.
Yes, I hope he enjoys his understaffed Saturday pondered Joe as he supped his beer watching footy with sibling Bren in a pub near Kingston in a picturesque blokey way.
I thought the agency would be pissed after I told them I only want easy part time, ad hoc temporary work. Otherwise, I shall forever be skivy instead of an aspiring composer. But no, agencies are like girls either never call you or once they do they don’t fucking stop. I’m tempted to say “sorry can I ring you back? – I’m in the middle of a wank” I never do – I’m not wasting precious credit – so I just carry on, imagining how she’d sound with my cock down her throat – probably mumbled but professionally enthusiastic. Yes I’m available and no I don’t have a clean white shirt. Why? because it costs fiver a go on what a loosely be described as a partial soaking and then warmed in the tumble dryer (tumble my arse!). I could clean it better by stuffing it in my portaloo and pissing on it and swing-dried by slapping it around peoples faces! (always the preferred option). They gave me the forms and a map a whole 10 mins before I was supposed to start! Right.. when I said “ad hoc” I didn’t mean - due to my powers of teleportation I was able to work anywhere at a moments notice; and if I hadn’t brought my bike I would have been late – not that it mattered it was only a one-off (or was it?...)
“Right Joe, I’m giving you the easy job”. Music to my ears. Mike, this could be the start of something beautiful, I thought as my boss explained the taxing duties bestowed upon me. Serve out lasagne and just take care of things in the buffet room – which his occupied by school teachers and mums. I was to be der der daaa… a school dinner lady! Well sort of (minus kids). Piss easy, the chef was a wanker and kept telling me to stay out the kitchen even though the boss told me to go in there to get something so I just barged passed the fucker. 6’ 1 in my new shoes, unstoppable. He was saying stuff but he’d visibly backed off – the type who’s used to pushing waiters out of the way was now cowered by the almighty Joe, champion of the oppressed! I made it up to him later with a scornful “sorry I invaded your special area” that’s right, let’s get this straight: I’M THE GROWN-UP WHO’S ABUSING YOU KIDDO, sorry.
My charms worked too well as I chatted up forty-odd forty-odd women, swarms of them went up to mike and raved on about me. I am a Mums (wet) dream, polite – hint of posh, semi-good looking and skilled in the art of flattery centred humour. Yes! I basked under the glow of their approving eyes! Mike now wants me to work all the time. I bartered him down to part-time starting next week - but I know the game; the emotional blackmail – like I really need you to work something or other sob sob. They’re all the same - bosses just want you for your body. He even rang me today (the day after -classic mistake) begging me to work Saturday. No-fucking-way! Saturday I’m in the recording studio making fat hip hop and then off to party full of posh totty . Anway, it’s good to make them wait…
