Much as I am a jaded soul, there are a range of small things that bring intense delight to my days. A few food based ones are:
Weetos – clearly the food of the gods. Great in both crunch and milk-softened form. Try heating your milk first for an insomniac snack that guarantees sleep. Kool Aid – made from depleted uranium and enough sugar to make a small child’s head explode, but tastes so good. Potato waffles – it’s got potato, it’s got air, it’s got enough crunchy greasiness to cure hangovers and nourish leanheads. Amazing with cheese and/or barbecue sauce. Ham – amazing animal death based tastiness. Apply mustard and bread for maximum results
Well anyway, that’s enough Delia. I’m off to throw rocks at passing estate agents.
Sorry about the deliberate swearage there Groover, but I spent half the day listening to a consultant talking about data cleansing. What she was essentially teaching us was the correct way to enter various data to clean up our data base before we attack the mother of all mailshots. Instead of just sending us the instructions, though, it was decided that our grand a day consultant and perhaps the most pedantic woman I have ever met should come over to Bordeaux for the day and bore the absolute biscuits out of all of us by reading out the instructions to us, explaining the thinking behind the creation of certain fields and generally making me want to close my eyes and rock in the corner by being so genuinely interested in DATA and all its corresponding merriment. Fuck off. Please, just fuck off.
She did, however, come up with perhaps the best blue sky thinking management speak combo I have ever heard. I even wrote it down (my only notes from the day as it happens, given that they turned up with instructions…) :
“I mean, what we’re saying here is that there really is no silver bullet, we really just have to clean up the shop going forward.”
Poetry in motion mate. A Geordie with a bag of coal. A cockney with a bucket of cockles. A Mancunian with yesterday’s pie. A prisoner with dyslexic twatoo. A Dovorian with a girlfriend of immediate blood relation.
1) I don’t know whether it’s a consequence of the twelve barbeques a weekend that everybody has seemed to be having over the month-long death throes of Summer, “British-Style”, but on yet another Monday morning it took three visits to the toilets at work before I could find a cubicle that wasn’t full or next to someone ‘having a bit of trouble’, with the full soundtrack of comedy sound effects. What versatile and perfectly-tuned instruments of embarrassment our bottoms are, and how we have been conditioned since birth to maximise the effectiveness of these “gruff trumpets” (Beethoven, I think) through toilet humour. Still, guffawing violently at the urinal may send a little Schadenfreude the way of the poor WC-ee, as all the while they hear your bladder contents trickle and splash their way onto the vinyl floor, via your new trainers of course.
2.) I heard today on LBC talk radio, in the traditional brain-dead cod-psychological lull between the morning shock jocks and the relative intellectual zenith of the Ross brother that isn’t the Woss bwuthah that writing a blog for ten minutes a day for about four days a week has significant emotional, spiritual, and physical health benefits. I would agree, and therefore vow to maintain that workrate at the bolo face: leaving nothing to chance I will be hooked up to a vitamin-enriched beer drip, respirated by pure nitrous oxide, in a brothel, on a laptop, whilst on my lap top a nun takes my communion into her mouth.
3.) On Mondays I vow to kill myself at least eight times before lunch, as the fragmented memories and vague hunches of crimes against decency and dignity over the weekend begin to take a De Walt chainsaw to the rapidly melting ice block of my self-respect and sculpt it into the shape of a wart-ridden flaccid cock. It is very frustrating that I can never fulfil this repeated promise to myself, but at the same time it is frustrating to think that I would be dead if I did it. And by Tuesday I’m just thinking about dismantling my reputation all over again in the pub the next weekend. Funny old game.
4.) This is the 3rd Monday in September already. Where the fuck is everyone?