the simpleton's laundry

Back on the game

2009-07-24T03:43:00.000-07:00

The time has come. Approximately four months since I became an official redundant and signed my clogs into the Job Centre plus feckless tosser rehabilitation scheme, I'm back in full-time work. Sure, I worked during those four months as a freelance but you and I both know that being a freelance has nothing to do with work and everything to do with sitting, refreshing your email inbox, hoping, praying, and then switching on the TV to seek solice in the arms of lovely, gentle Ray Mears.

So now I'm back in the world of crystalizing my boxed off close of play, with a proper company email, a desk (facing the corner of the room for NO apparent reason, other than to make me feel naughty) and a mountain of copy to write. Sweet, sweet copy. Granted, it's not the 6-page 'day in the life of Status Quo' I might have liked but it's a start and I try to remind myself that Elaine Benes (Seinfeld reference) worked for J Peterman's clothing company as a copywriter for several happy (if not quite as happy as the first 4) seasons.

And lo, a new chapter of the Simpleton was born.

Not now Colin

2009-05-27T15:49:00.000-07:00

Radio One's covert assault on proper music is set to gain significant ground this week, as the station waves goodbye to Colin Murray's long-standing weekday evening slot. Colin - who will host a new show on Radio 5 Live - is to be replaced by Nick Grimshaw: a man for whom music represents nothing more than accompaniment to the sight of Alexa Chung snorting cocaine off the spade that hit Peaches Geldof in the face.

Grimshaw's appointment completes a kind of Holy Trinity of shite than begins with Chris Moyles in the morning and is then made worse by Scott Mills in the afternoon to early evening. 'Wake up with Moyles... Get home with Mills... Swallow some bleach with Grimshaw.' There has to be a thread of logic behind this change of the schedule - Colin's show was, at times, dangerously geeky and he may well be busy with his work as a commentator on anything with a score line. But to my mind, it just feels like one more step away from Peel and three more towards a radio station transmitting round the clock celebrity fart impersonations.

I used to be a growing boy, now I'm just a greedy man

2009-05-21T03:09:00.000-07:00

I am not a tall man. I am not an abnormally short one either, but I definitely sit a tad lower than the average. This prohibits me from ever looking classically handsome, receiving good service at a crowded bar or being selected to help old ladies reach stuff from a high shelf - I've come to terms with it, you must too. My Mother, bless her, has until relatively recently, clung to the desperate belief that I would enjoy a 'growth spurt' late in adolescence and spring to the lofty heights of her two brothers - who both grew to over 6 foot aged 18 (I am 24). Now, most of this can be forgiven as parental exuberance - she is still convinced I could have bagged a place at Oxford with my unquestionably average A level haul - but there has been another casualty, more easily startled than silly, fanciful hopes or dreams: my stomach.

You see, I grew up with the words 'eat more, you're a growing lad' as a kind of mantra. I had a metabolism that made FAT ladies at work SOB - 'I wish I could eat like you and not get fat(ter).' It was lovely. Boom time. I ate and ate, rarely moved, and yet somehow still enjoyed the figure of a pubescent choir boy. But now the boom is over. A great depression is setting in. My diet of beers, second dinners and blocks of bedside cheese is taking its toll. My stomach, once firm and innocent wears the remnants of a tough winter like a vagrant's sleeping bag. My face is now 'fuller' and, although the stages are early, there is little evidence of any drive to reverse the trend. My only hope is that I somehow, through no effort whatsoever, become one of those hard fat men - like James Gandolfini, or Dave Benson Philips - and am able to bury my inner turmoil under a festering slag heap of hearty breakfasts, violence and sexual oppression that will keep my tormentors at bay.

x x

Have you seen my other page?

2009-05-06T03:05:00.000-07:00

Ever been so eager to read my ill-advised ramblings that you type www.thesimpletonslaundry.blogpot.com into your browser by mistake? Probably not. Anyway, had you done so, you would know that some religious zealot in St. Petersburg, Florida is employing under-handed online tactics to divert fans of my teachings to his or her BIBLE STUDIES web site. Their plan seems to involve occupying the misspellt address and filling it with religious information, designed to lure you to one of their freaky bible camps.

The site's homepage alone is a frothing soup of biblical hot potatoes, featuring chunks of delicious non-information including:

'The Soon Coming Climax'
'Armagedon'
'666'
and 'Are You Ready To Meet Jesus?'

Every aspect of modern life is tackled in relation to the big man upstairs from sunglasses (‘If a person has on a pair of sunglasses called "easily offended" or "anger," when certain things happen to him, he will not perceive them correctly’) and sin (‘To adequately cover this subject would take far more material than any known Bible course offers’) to copyright information (‘Copyright © 2000 God.com’).

Obviously I'm poking fun and taking quotes out of context to derive humour from them, but there is a serious message to be taken from this website:

'Jesus stands at the door of your heart, knocking [continuously to the rhythm of 'Mambo Number 5']. If you will open the door, He will come in [rummage through your kitchen and then block your toilet].'

A redundant - or am I?

2009-04-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

Here's a little known fact: my writing is worth 99% more pounds describing bike parts than it is describing stuff I actually know about. Fact.

Let me explain how I come to have this statistic. I have recently been employed to write short descriptions of bike-related products for a mail order catalogue. The interview process was not stringent; I walked through the door and, upon demonstrating my ability to form sentences and breathe without assistance, I had the job.

So, whereas I used to write things like 'Erol Alkan reminds me of one of those gutsy, olive-fuelled ladies from the Olivio adverts,' I now write things like 'the Quadrahorse 2G bike mantleface is a serious piece of kit for serious pieces of human. Serious.' There seems to be no limit to the bare-faced nonsense I can churn out, but as long as it barely pays for anything whatsoever, I'm destitute and unhappy.

On a slightly cheerier note, my friend YouTube sent me this a second or two ago...

2009-04-10T05:59:00.000-07:00

A lot is made of this man's stupidity, but we rarely hear of the tireless work he puts in behind the scenes of his country's infastructure... Silvio, I salute you.

(out to Jonas for alerting me)

A redundant - part four

2009-04-07T16:57:00.000-07:00

This evening I tried my hand at a little sociological horse play. Making no attempt to cover up my redundant face, or mask the warm stench of rejection that wafts around me like an unwanted dog, I went to a glitzy nightclub (where people were eating and everything!) right next to Picadilly Circus. If you're struggling to picture the scene, imagine the type of venue where the only noise is that of tinkling tableware and polite chit chat. Sad thing is, none of the above was intentional; I went in support of a friend's band and misjudged the dress-code. Any 'sociological horseplay' was purely accidental – mainly, as I have been unable to distinguish between evenings out and breakfasts in, ever since I set foot in Job Centre Plus.

Anyway, I was there and things looked shaky from the word '£10 minimum to pay on card.' Despite choosing the cheapest drinks available, my companion and I struggled to muster the cash (refusing to meet their requirement out of principle). I made a good show of it – as though there was some reason other than financial frailty for the long time spent ordering – and after some fairly undignified sifting of bags, we clawed ourselves to the sum of £6 (5 pound coins, 2 twenty pence pieces, 1 ten and the rest in coppers). I wish I hadn't bothered. The barman took my offering without even counting and slung it pointedly into a nearby tip tray. 'Nuff said.

Having set out my stall as a penny-gathering, card-guarding bum wagon, I saw no harm in making things worse. An hour or so later, as my thirst became unbearable, I spent ten minutes watching the same barman prepare a cocktail - so elaborate it required no less than ten separate bouts of what can only be described as tender stirring, a painstakingly twisted scrap of orange peel and an OLIVE - before politely requesting a glass of tap water. My bar-riding chum obliged, but still managed to get his dagger in, serving me my water in a wine glass, highlighting my misery and making me look ridiculous in the process. Zing. I retreated once more, set it down for a moment and my companion - who had been too proud to get her own glass - gulped the whole thing down, my depravity and all. What fun.

A redundant - part three

2009-04-06T07:29:00.000-07:00

Time to return to the pleb machine - my pocket money is nearly ready. Today I paid more attention to my surroundings and noticed that my local job centre is actually part of a veritable complex of misery. To one side sits the county court, to the other the DVLA and, directly opposite, a Police station.

I see now why they call it signing on. I was out in five minutes - having signed the little slip to say I was still trying my absolutely bestest to find and apply for two jobs a week. I noticed that the employees of the pleb machine make a point of never shaking your hand when they greet you. Is this a health and safety precaution? Is it to perpetuate the idea of job-seekers as lesser beings? Or are the pleb handlers in charge of my 'claim' just all socially inept? In two weeks time I shall make a point of going for a shake, then we'll see.

A redundant - part two

2009-04-02T04:24:00.000-07:00

For years I have thought myself to be as Anglo Saxon as it is possible to be. You see, the side of the family where my name comes from are descended from Saxons. Lovely. However, this assumption completely ignores my other three quarters and offers nothing in the way of an explanantion for my large nose and stupid curly hair.

Anyway, the other day I discovered another quarter that filled my heart with pride so it did. Seems I am also descended from Huguenots. These guys sounded like great fun. From somewhere in France, cool sounding name (yes, Huguenot: Huge nose, i already made that joke), and finally something to say to all those people who have ever told me I look French - as if what they really mean is, 'you look like a whopping great ponce with onions for ears'.

So I headed straight for my computer to do a little research into my proud heritage. My mind was awash with thoughts of family trees and church records and long-lost cousins and all the other crap dribbled into my brain via the BBC's Who Do You Think You Are series. Things got off to a slow start:

"The Huguenots were members of the Protestant Reformed Church of France (or French Calvinists) from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries."

Not what I had been hoping for. But people were all religious back in them days, perhaps the good stuff was yet to come...

"Used originally as a term of derision, the derivation of the name Huguenot remains uncertain."

Right.

"So there are many inhabitants of these islands who have Huguenot blood in their veins, whether or not they still bear one of the hundreds of French names of those who took refuge here - thus bringing the word 'refugee' into the English language."

Brilliant.

A redundant - part one

2009-04-02T01:38:00.000-07:00

Straight out of administration and into the arms of the dole queue. Funny thing is, it's not even a queue these days. You do have to queue a bit but once that's done it gets a good deal more sophisticated. Theres a bouncer. He scowls a lot, takes down your details, yanks your forms from your hand and passes the baton to his colleague - a flat-chested, stern-faced old crow, selected specially for her lack of humanity. Having treated you to a few moments of resolve-sapping questioning (the first of many to come) you are sent to check the answers you've already given on the telephone - so as to undermine your confidence. Sensing that I might be a tough pleb to crack, stern-faced flat chest makes me check my form on a window sill above a radiator - as if to demonstrate the sort of ludicrous bobbins she can make me do to earn my £47 allowance.

Determind not to be beaten, I completed the check in record time - paying particuarly scant attention to the sections of legal importance - and handed my papers back. Stern-faced flat chest chooses my moment of vague success to strike her next precision blow, 'can I have the pen back please?' she chides before I've had time to withdraw my hand. I utter something unintelligable, taken aback by this cruel tactic, and then go to hand her my passport by mistake, 'BAHAHAHAHA,' she bellows triumphantly, nudging her brutish sidekick into life to share the joke, 'you can keep THAT! I'll take the pen though,' and before I have time to mumble appreciatively, I'm on my way again, to the next stage of my de-pantsing.

Now in the middle of the office, I'm ushered to a line of about five chairs where two of my fellow moops are waiting. There is a distinct stench of unemployment (in this case sweat and skunk) and my comrades cower - still weak from the handy work of stern face - clutching their papers nervously. I take my place at the end of the line and survey my surroundings. There are two types of people in the job centre's next line of defense:

Emotionless, orange women with precision-straightened hair and joyless smatterings of jewellery (probably issued to them as they come to work), who pace through the questioning with the detatched air and business-like misery of an experienced prostitute.
Disconcertingly cheery middle-aged men, who treat the whole thing a little too optimistically - as though secretly planning a sudden and unexpected stabbing. They greet their appointments with inappropriately flashy pointing routines lifted straight from American films about Dads coaching their sons' baseball teams. They make me sick.

Before too long I am summoned. Thankfully, my interviewer seems to have been drafted in from a stock cupboard somewhere at the last minute and conforms to neither of the above categories. She is a bedraggled old coot, with a mysterious sweat patch on her right shoulder, as though wearing her armpits inside out. I have little trouble explaining my situation and although she has 'studied my file' she finds no problem with any of my answers, moving straight on to the important stuff:

Almost everything I do or don't do from now on might effect my claim.
I am expected to go to any lengths to find work, this includes travelling for 2 hours, heavy lifting and, if required of me, killing a man. I nod in agreement.
I am to return once a fortnight, giving me ample opportunity to joust with stern face some more.
I had better buck my ideas up.

And that's it. Less than an hour out of my arduous daily routine (of sitting in front of the computer, writing balls about nothing) and I can expect my 'wage' within three working days. God bless you stern-faced flat chest, I'll be seeing you soon.

Into Administration - covering letter

2009-03-24T01:58:00.000-07:00

Welcome to me

I have just spied your advert on Gorkanapr.com. I check this reputable database on a thrice daily basis and am usually under whelmed by the jobs it has to offer. Today however, as my mouse hovered over the ‘back’ button, I saw something that made me revaluate my evaluations.

A PAID internship! Wowee. That sound grand. For you see, I am a redundant. And not a redundant in a good way, like a sweet old lady or a well-worn bib. No. Redundant like a child’s bike or a well-worn potty. Don’t worry though, it’s not my fault, it’s down to E C O N O M Y, have you met her? She’s a mean old crab stick with income tax for mayonnaise. I hate her, for she has reduced me to the right prickly pine cone writing this plea/application. A husk! Yeah! HUSK.

I digress. I’d love to be your reviews editors’s assistants internship. How much does it pay? My needs are few: Once a day I ingest a handful of ham. Easy. Then, when I get in I drink a cup of tea, and conk right out on the goose. I then sleep for 12 hours, rise, head into work, eat some ham and away we go again. Sound like your particular brew? Perhaps. Also. Don’t think me to be an odd – that’s discrimination.

If you would like proof of my suitability, you’ll be liking for a long old time, for you see, there is none of it to hand. None. I can send you a few scraps of paper I keep about me person, but only if you send them back when you’ve done – for I needs ‘em, you know… to work F R O M. I could also send a photo of meself if you be a little of the type to superficial a fellow. Would that help your endeavour? Let me know at this address.

I think that’s all. I have attached me CV – except I haven’t because it’s at home. S O R R Y, but you know… don’t hold it against her.

If you should ever have a question, leave it on my inbox and I’ll nail it right back when I’ve finished it.

Yours

Into Administration - Redundant

2009-03-18T04:37:00.000-07:00

Sank to a depressing new low yesterday evening. It seems times are so hard here, in The Ministry of Confusion, that the company, for which I have done so much little work, no longer needs me. Although they chose to avoid the word redundant itself, which evokes a miserable list of distant memories - including MS DOS, Communism and Richard Blackwood – I read between the lines and, as of next Tuesday, I will be out of administration.

More to follow

The box of idiots

2009-03-17T06:48:00.000-07:00

The BBC’s campaign of self-flagellation continued apace this weekend, as they fell back on that most tried and tested source of badly-chosen words: The football pundit.

Sunday night, and I sit watching Match Of The Day 2, furiously trying to fathom what Alan Pardew might have said to trick my mind into thinking he had used the verb to rape as a metaphor for Michael Essien’s superiority to a member of the opposing team.

‘He can’t have said rape, surely not… What did he say? Rate? Rain? Raid? Rake? Is this program filmed live?’ Somehow the answer to all these questions came back no. Pardew said, ‘he’s raped him’ and Hanson drew some circles on a screen to demonstrate how it came to pass.

Now, I of all people appreciate the value of taking a violent, abhorrent act of physical oppression and using it to describe something relatively harmless and inoffensive. However, I would think twice, thrice and then twice again, before employing this particular comedic device on the MOTD2 couch. Furthermore, I would think as hard, if not more so, when editing a programme as stern-faced and conservative as MOTD2, before allowing such a device to survive the final edit.

But the BBC likes to do things a little differently. Things have changed at the home of Last Of The Summer Wine, Songs Of Praise and Ben Fogel’s big soppy Lion face. A new directive is in town – effective as of Brand & Ross – that stipulates constant pushing of boundaries and flicking of switches. Brilliant!

So, never one to pass over a job opportunity, I have drafted a handful of suggestions to pitch to the lofty old Owls of BBC tower that might fit right in to their new and improved programming objective.

- Badger-baiting with Bill Oddie. Send that beardy old Goody into a Cumbrian forest with a bag of butcher’s off-cuts and a large stick, to document the reaction of badgers to the BBC’s own violent brand of carrot and stick psychology.
- Big Ron pays his tab. Have disgraced football pleb ‘Big Ron Atkinson’ decked out like the naughty little strumpet he is – short skirt, high heels, face thick with make-up – and sent to wander the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, plying his “trade”.
- Clarkson's abomination hour. Everyone loves Jeremy Clarkson and it's a generally accepted FACT that his views are reasonable and well-founded. So, why not have him spend some time outing the travesties of Britich culture as he sees them? Imagine episode one: Clarkson races past the camera on horseback, screaming 'some people think fox-hunting is a barbaric, sensless pastime... THEY'RE WRONG, it's really the future solution to this country's illegal immigration problems... IN DISGUISE!'

Googled

2009-03-11T08:47:00.000-07:00

I have recently become Googlable. Try it if you don’t believe me. In amongst my meagre academic ‘achievements,’ scraps of ‘journalism,’ and a site that appears to measure my global popularity by combining the letters of my name, I found a brief synopsis of a film from the 1970s in which I (apparently) play a key role. Admittedly it sounds a little far-fetched, but stick with it, dear simpleton - it might be a corker.
CRAWLSPACE
USA. 1972.
Director – John Newland, Screenplay – Ernest Kinoy, Based on the Novel by Herbert Lieberman.

Plot: Richard Attley comes to do a repair job at the home of aging Albert and Alice Graves and she on inspiration asks him to stay for dinner. Some days later after hearing noises at night, Albert discovers a book he lent Richard and some other items in the crawlspace in the cellar. They discover that Richard has quit his job and that, now homeless, he has taken refuge in the crawlspace. They start to welcome him, leaving food and clothing for him. Eventually Richard accepts an invitation to Christmas Dinner and emerges. He soon becomes an indispensable part of the household doing odd jobs and they regard him as the son they never had. But when they send him into town to buy groceries, a dispute ensues between Richard and the store clerk – Richard insisting that the clerk took his $20, the clerk that Richard started a fight. But then someone breaks in and vandalizes the store. Albert lies to defend Richard, insisting he could not have done such, but Richard later admits that he did. As local youths begin harassing Richard and he responds with violence, Albert and Alice decide they want him out. But this serves to turn his violence against them.

Natwest

2009-03-10T13:36:00.000-07:00

I know the new Natwest advert on TV is designed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy, like maybe banks aren't all that bad. Like, 'those people seem lovely and middle class, without being too middle class, yeah, maybe I'll go leave all my money with them in a hole in Iceland. Yeah.'

Well, it DOESN'T. It makes me think...

a. Those smarmy, bottom-feeding bank people - who will do and say ANYTHING to get their hands on those poor people's money - make me sick. One particularly slimey character even tries to pick the pocket of some adorable little kid - who only really wants a piggy bank - but probably says too much about how much pocket money he's saving at home. The suited swine can scarcely contain himself, slobbering, 'well [those pounds] should really be in the bank.'

I'd rather leave all my money in the hands of that friendly singing fella.

b. The whole thing is so budget. And, combined with the weird, desperate vibe that lingers from scene to scene, it makes me think they aren't doing too well. I want big budget, cinematic spectacles, expensive music and beautiful people in beautiful places promoting my bank. I DON'T want some 2bit shambles, as though I'm rolling up to B&Q and dumping my cash in a flat-pack shed for £199.

...aaaah, that's better.

Into Administration – Part five

2009-03-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

Sure, my work robs me of my youthful verve and optimism, fills my soft little head with thoughts of kicked brains and dissolving souls and leaves me feeling like a hollowed badger. Sure. I am however, in spite of all this, thankful not to be the man sat opposite me who, for the sake of anonymity, I shall refer to as Horace.

Horace is roughly 65 years of age and has (until recently) enjoyed what I can only describe as a gritty existence: working as a doorman, debt collector or warehouse guy – permanently on the brink of a good old fashioned seal-clubbing. Sadly, and thanks to the vagaries of the British economy in 2009, Horace now finds himself in an environment, into which he fits like a Buffalo in a child’s sock. I am yet to see him smile.

This is a man, not well-suited to the mindlessly sunny banter of the gaggle of women on our ‘pod’. He has in the past spoken of working men’s clubs, pubs where ‘people of your sex are forbidden’ and his time collecting debts ‘before regulatory bodies came and spoiled it.’ His only possible salvation lies in the companionship of the two other ‘men’ on the table. I use the term ‘men’ extremely loosely.

Man #1 is an effeminate character by the (false) name of Cyril. Cyril is a sycophantic sort, who pursues his work with the smarmy satisfaction and blind enthusiasm of Captain Darling from Blackadder Four. He wears a soppy expression, as though being reprimanded by Mummy and has almost certainly NEVER taken part in the unprovoked beating of a homosexual. No hope for Horace there.

Man #2 is me. I am no doorman. I have never (to my knowledge) successfully operated a spirit level. I did work, for a short while, as a labourer but I spent most of my time larking around LIKE A NANCY, hammering nails so they ended up all bent, and chatting to the little old ladies, whose work we were doing. The one time I was permitted to drive the van, I parked it badly and in the wrong place. No hope for Horace here.

Four weeks into his contract and things are taking their toll. Desperate for ‘proper’ talk he leaps at the chance to discuss a practical problem – often when his advice is unwanted and inappropriate. Questions like how best to identify and deal with asbestos, handle a leaky stop-clock (why is it a clock? Is it a cock? Since when did a clock or a cock stop anything?), or find a quick alternative route to the A436 have all been graced with Horace’s unnecessary input. Any one of the burly technicians, foolish enough to come within shouting distance of his desk, is immediately engaged in a bout of sturdy ‘man-chat’ – which can last up to 30 brutal minutes.

So, like tarmac under the wheels of an abandoned Ford Cortina, Horace is starting to relent, because in spite of himself, Horace likes to talk. The resulting conversations are comedic gold (for want of a better cliché). Below are a few examples of the sentences entering my ears on a daily basis.

On Christiano Ronaldo: ‘He’s a pooftah.’ Pauses to reconsider. ‘A skilful pooftah.’
On fish: ‘I’ll tell you what’s a really sturdy fish.’ Silence – the anticipation is too much. ‘Halibut.’
On health & safety: (Delivered with the sombre tone of a BBC news reporter and directed at a young lady who doesn't really deserve it) ‘Don’t put possible health and safety issue... you’ll make a deadly mistake.’

Into Administration - Part four

2009-03-05T08:19:00.000-08:00

Introducing a little feature I like to call I have the mind of a child...

One of my favourite ways to pass the time (and prevent my soul from dribbling out through my nose) is fabricating hilarious queries and sending them to colleagues. Sometimes it works and they have a laugh. Other times it doesn't, and questions are asked of my work. Here's the first installment...

Into administration - Part Two

2009-02-25T02:03:00.000-08:00

Back to the nonsense today, and it's amazing how much fresh perspective a little time away can provide. So far, I have been mainly laughing at:

The office lunatic – fuelled by a seemingly unquenchable thirst for confrontation, she stomps around in a constant state of hysteria, 'kicking off' at the drop of a call. In the time it took me to write my last sentence she passed by my desk no less than three times, a seething ball of repressed desire, searching for problems to escalate and unsuspecting call centre operatives to head butt in the brains.

No one is safe. Earlier this morning I consulted those around me before opening a nearby window. No sooner had I turned back to my work, than an almighty thwack of glass and wood shook the room. ‘Don’t be so selfish!’ the lunatic screamed, before marching away, revelling in the moment. Apparently she would rather the window remained shut.

The sanctity of meeting – There is no greater honour than that of doing a meeting. Although, as far as I can tell, no good has ever come of the literally hundreds of meetings that take place here on a daily basis. Unpeturbed, like drugged cattle blindly stumbling to slaughter, the moops flock to meeting. It goes a little something like this:

Moop #1 – ‘Blah Blah, can we have a meeting at some point to discuss blah blah?’
Moop #2 – ‘Can’t I’m afraid, I have a meeting with blah blah,’
Moop #1 – ‘Well it’s important, we need to have a meeting about this – I’m going to send a meeting request to blah blah,’
Moop #2 – ‘No problem, but can’t it wait until the weekly meeting with blah blah,’
Moop #1 – ‘Not really, I’m going to kick off if blah blah blah blah blah blah blah,’
Moop #2 – ‘fine by me,’
Moop#1 walks away
Moop #2 – 'I am so going to have a meeting about her'

More to follow.

Into administration - Part One

2009-02-18T03:23:00.000-08:00

In these times of economic downturn I am finding meaningful work hard to come by. I can't grumble though, as I have employment for as long as I should need it in a cheery little company, tucked enticingly between an unmarked exit of the A1035, a Premier Inn, a Travel Lodge, a Holiday Inn and - best of all - the Big Brother house. Should i ever need a depressing place in which to end it all, I am not short of options.

Seeing as music, internet, food, drink, unauthorised movement of bowels, laughter and personal improvement are all punishable by one day's archiving in 'the hole', i plan to use this blog - like Morgan Freeman used that juvenile car thief's bottom in the Shawshank Redemption - to vent my frustrations and (hopefully) prevent them from erupting through my chest in a massive throbbing hernia. Here's the first installment.

Once a day, I break off from my work to investigate the morning food trolley. The chef behind its menu is an unsung hero of British cooking. Inspired in no small part by culinary maverick Heston Bloomingdales, this anonymous kitchen-wizard pushes the boundaries of the humble pasty blueprint on a daily basis. While sceptics implore him to stick to tried and tested combinations, he presses on, challenging the brittle, flakey pastry to contain foods that, on the face of it, were never meant to be contained.

Today however, I venture he took on too much. Peeling back the foil that lay across the tray of cooked goods, I recoiled in horror at the carnage that lay beneath: An orgy of dismembered pastry, sodden and matted in a thick orange gunge. Seeing my reaction, the trolley's minder looked disappointed, her faith in her master's vision had been dented, 'they've gone a bit soggy,' she conceded, 'i think it's the beans.'

Dizzee Rascal concedes: political parties do exist

2008-11-06T07:45:00.000-08:00

What a shame Jeremy Paxman was unable to prevent his obvious superiority from trickling into a smarmy little smile, as he interviewed Dizzee Rascal on the subject of Barack Obama's election as US President.