Have just spent a happy fifteen minutes checking my email and responding to a few received. Of late my email account has become spotted by the evil forces of spam email and the thing has become riddled with adverts. When I open it up each day, I’m lucky to have one or two emails from legitimate acquaintances and unlucky to have about fifteen offering me fit birds in my area, amazing share tips, fake rolexes (rolexi?) and an enlarged cock. Needless to say none of these items interest me (and I don’t need any help with the last, thanks) and I wonder if these people have any kind of success rate at all.
These days in a bid to get through spam filters, the emails come from realistic names. So you get emails from Rogerio Davies, and Stephanie Sambatini. I’m not sure whether these addresses lead back to anything, but recently in a new bid towards stress relief I have begun replying. “Why don’t you kill yourself, you horrible bitch” went to Stephanie, while Rogerio received the more succinct “fuk off Rogerio”. Kirsty, who is promising me daily that her breasts are firm and ripe and worth paying Â£1 a minute to phone her for a chat was told that “her tits will fall off if she keeps waving them about”.
Partly, I live in fear that these hostile return emails will end up with them sending me even more, but then actually I’m not too bothered. I’ve pretty much accepted I’m going to have to change my email address soon and in the meantime I mean to have fun by abusing as many people as possible.
Watch the advert… Personally I think it’s one of the greatest ads I’ve seen, almost as good as the original Sony one, but with much tastier fruit items. However, now the gays from Swansea Village are complaining about a bit of pulp messing up their streets?! Click on the petition at the bottom of the page to also find out that the local old people are now afraid to leave their houses, just in case there’s still some fruit hanging about in the air that hasn’t come down yet… Big up Tango for your fruity devastation tactics
It seems that the South Africans in a rare break from violence, rugby and cricket have invented a new sport which hopefully (if doubtfully) will appear over here. Good work, crazy train running youngsters.
Off to the 02 festival today which should surely fill the music gap quite nicely. Finally a chance to see world-wearied dance collective gods, Massive Attack, vibe out on the sounds of Gnarls Barkley and generally chill it out in the wide open, plebean soaked spaces of Hyde Park. Here’s to sun, a light breeze, the successful smuggling of a few cans in and wide eyed music soaked bliss.
Reading a report saying that cannabis is the drug of choice for young disadvantaged white females. Strange feeling and vision of a load of girls poorly dressed, kitted out in Burberry, with the Reebok Classic, lycra, slicked back hair look. Girls smoking on weed like they used to smoke on cigarettes. Watching your weight while you watch Hollyoaks.
Shit man, whatâ€™s wrong with my generation? All hooked on dreams of clear skin, gourmet food and fifteen minute MTV videos. Every girl looks like a star and every man like Alf Garnettâ€™s bastard nephew. Look at those pretty lips, man, did they use to glitter like that? Could they move like that? Whatâ€™s the etiquette here?
Staying late in the office
Is the chosen route for those with reports to write.
May well get you noticed by the right people.
Taking on a lot of pressure
Will get you promoted at dizzying speed.
While going home for tea
With a bag full of dreams
And staying up late every night
May well get you fired.
Home alone again. Too many memories of this journey home, clouding it up now. Confusing the way. Too many pots of foul tasting barley, smacked down with big grin. Joky asides to present company, old anecdotes and looking around at the people, all the people in the carriage tonight.
Morning time. Pangs of guilt and a waft of sick. I’m on my sofa. It’s 9.30am on a work day morning. My brain painfully begins to whirr at the immediate repurcussions of this information. I’ve got a phone call to make. Before that though, lets get to grips with the guilt and the sick. The latter appears to be all around the base of the sofa and also peppers the white throw that was inspirationally placed just a few weeks ago. Every cloud. Right, the sick is checked and the cleaning solution straightforward on the wooden floor.
Now – the guilt. It’s not work. It will have something to do with a woman, but that’s not the main event. A friend is over from blighty and, him having arrived yesterday, we completed the obligatory heavy night out at the earliest possible window of opportunity. Lager, wine and whiskey all played an essential role in our total and utter ascent into oblivion. Until 1am memory implies that we had a pretty splendid night out, with just the suggestion of a few trampled toes along the way. Past that point though, it’s a mystery. What was the last place ? did we pay our bill ? did I see my mate home, or even try and point him in the right direction ? Ah – there’s the source of the guilt. I can’t remember doing so and my instinct tells me that means no.
An hour passes. The sick is mopped. The woman’s scorn is manifesting nicely. The phone call has been carried out with aplomb. Time to find out about my foreign-street-wandering visitor…..One phone call later and the worst is realised – he got mugged on the way back to his hotel last night. Fuck. Kept hold of his wallet though and elbowed some thoroughly deserving bastard in the face to boot. The jacket, sunglasses and hotel key will be refunded by a wise man’s travel insurance. The guilt didn’t cost a penny, but I wish it would leave me alone and stop making me swear out loud on my own. Oh well, as any woman would only be too quick to tell me – I’ve only got myslef to blame. Will that ensure my good behaviour from now until the end though ? The odds are not good.
Actually scratch that, maybe on a trip to Brighton you don’t need a classic convertible. You probably need a car that does not fire a bolt off its alternator somewhere on the way down, breaking down teasingly close to the city, in the middle of a 4 lane A-road, where you have to push the car to the side, getting abused by passing chavs and wheeled warriors – the type of people whose confidence grows while they are in their car and safely passing you in seconds at 50mph, so that they feel entitled, no compelled, to shout an obscenity, which you only catch the first syllable of as by then they’re gone down the road. Praise be for the AA and the benefits of a chilled disposition, when dealing with these kind of crises, but the upshot is that the trip to Brighton remains unfulfilled and must be reattempted soon, car with roof or no roof.
M25 cruising on a Sunday, lanes overpopulated with weekend day trippers, sun seekers and hedonists, out snatching at the last chance of fun before the week begins again. Sun beating down on the car, a special detail of this trip: A mk 1 Golf GTI convertible, essential because, well if you are going to Brighton you need a classic 80s car.
On a mission to see Morg, master of the South East division of the FW business empire. Try to shot some tshirts then down to the beach for a birthday barbecue. Sounds like a plan, and maybe, just maybe, if we can get above 40mph and play enough good tunes, it’s going to be a great day.
I wrote three posts for this blog yesterday. Two while sitting in a hot car, people watching and itunes listening. Unfortunately, like a fool, I have left the pad with the entries on at home, covered in scraps of food and baccy. I shall endeavour to bring it in forthwith.
Friday night at the Greek’s and he’s like, “c’mon man, lets go to my uni party man. It will be great.” And I’m like “look dude, I’m not usually up for crashing official events.”
House parties are ok, see also wedding, work parties and other assorted events. Official events can smack of lameness, but in this instance I make an exception – “I’ve had a few drinks dude, why not?”
After a bit of procrastination we eventually rock up and it’s kind of like I expected. Finance masters students wearing sharp suits, casting furtive glances at the their business studies lady counterparts, that dance in groups, sometimes round piles of designer handbags. A large group of Norwegian drunks marauding it on the dance floor, spilling pints and trampling ankles in some kind of tenuous homage to their Viking anscestors. The Greek running around kissing girls on the cheeks in response to their squeals of delight – attempting a quick Sean Paul grind with the lucky few……. And me, bopping to Aretha Franklin records, gradually building my stack of empty beer bottles, slowly gathering my exuberance before training a load of chinese nationals how to appreciate the good Reverend Al Green, before getting the now paralytic Greek home relatively safe.
Proper rinseout day today. Up at crack of dawn, scrabbling around for fruit and horrible depression. Back into the office for a long day of coming up with interesting phrases in reports and trying to keep head down. Calm peace of third coffee mid-morning shattered by call from a client reporting that everyone in his organisation had lost their email. Spent the rest of the day running around like a mad thing, tweaking nameservers and cursing the miscreant who told me that the email was no longer connected and I was cool to go ahead transferring everything a few days ago. Fingers crossed and prayers for a working email tomorrow, following my repair work today, otherwise I’m toast.