Monthly Archives: November 2007

I’m afraid it’s a work rant

I tried to keep it in, but I can feel it bursting bile-like out of the pores of my very skin. A clammy urgency. It’s got to be purged, lest I rush in there tomorrow morning and start cussing like a black pimp from Jerry Springer and handing out vicious, back-handed slaps. (“Get my paper, skank-ho, get my money”)
Those bastards. Or, to be precise, those bitches.
I am the only bloke in a team of 6 and as a consequence I have largely and luckily avoided the terrible back-stabbing that goes on in teams of women. This may be construed as a misogynistic comment, but, if the mighty bolo is indeed surveyed by any lady lurkers, I ask you to think hard about the truth of this statement in terms of your own experience before judging me as such. Not that men are above bitching, god knows I’ve definitely caught myself doing it often enough, especially in the current office climate which has established itself, cancer-like, in the heart of our team ethos. Our company values proclaim that “Only when we work together as a team can 2 + 2 = 5″, but it would be more accurate to say “Only when we work together as a team can we find a scapegoat among our number worthy of a proper coating”. It might go down better than the mathematically dubious real value, given that I work for an IFA….
Anyway, due to a lot of drama that belongs nowhere here, work has been very far down my list of priorities of late. My immediate boss is a good friend of mine, and she was the only one to consider that maybe I had things on mind which had nothing to do with the office (god forbid). But the rest of the bitches, I have just learnt, have begun to use my admittedly slightly slack time keeping as their group gripe. I am the latest scapegoat that binds their idiot minds together. They are a beast, and they believe me to be their next easy meal. That I may be sacrificed, silently put to the sword by the coffee machine so that they may better overcome their differences and bond in a common purpose. Think again, you wily old skeets. The tables are about to turn, and I will expose your individual psychoses before you even come close to mine….Ha Ha, skeezers, get ready for Daddy.
Ah, but wouldn’t I just be falling into their trap to react like that? Shouldn’t I just be cool, keep my head down and wait until their evil eye moves on to another target? No, what I really, really should do, is create a “back-stabbing box” and leave it somewhere in plain sight. Every time they start slagging off somebody who isn’t there, I should pick up the box, saunter over to their desk and demand payment (“Cough up sugar, Daddy needs his paper”).
Work is a chore for me. I do not particularly enjoy it. I dream of making a brave, lone break to a land where I control my own destiny, but for the moment I have not cracked my escape plan. But, in the meantime, I will damn well defend my right to not work in a team of two-faced, insecure, menstrually-synchronized, rabid bitches. There are none for that.
Suggestions on a postcard to the usual address, but nothing from “Nippy” Dave please. I’d get more sense from Ronald MacDonald or Pete Doherty.

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Big Mac dreams and pox ridden Estate Agents

cooking with gasWay back when, long before the internet had really kicked off and people were forced to venture out into the wild once in a while to catch up with old friends and drink themselves into inebriation, I worked for the big M, flipping burgers for small change. I was young, but I had big dreams of Friday nights spent downing pints and staring at cleavage and that required some sort of fundage.

The money McDonald’s paid was pretty poor – I think I was on about £3.40 an hour at the time, but it was either that or Sainsbury’s and that was well known as being even more oppressive and dull. McD’s was partially alright in that while it was a) full of plumbait management that lacked any form of ability or power of communication and b) full of rude customers that believed entirely mistakenly that they were better than the 17 year olds manning the tills and c) a land of constant peril, where the repetitive tasks could lull you into a false sense of security causing you to hideously burn your hand on a grill or slice a wrist on a tomato slicer; it was redeemed by a good quantity of the staff. From A-level students (the vast majority), crazy economic migrants, reformed criminals, drug dealers, to young strumpets, miserable school leavers and black power supremacists, you were always guaranteed a laugh during the few hours you spent greasing up your hair and skin over the grill plattens.

I was consigned to the kitchen along with many of my closest acquaintances (we all pretty much joined up at the end of one summer in classic late adolescent sheep tactics), due to my inability to be polite to ingrates at the till and my saving grace of being able to simultaneously cook up to five types of burger at one time without breaking a sweat. Commonly teamed with Lurcho, Crimp or Steedo (on till for his greater skills of diplomacy) we would spend all day shouting abuse at each other, eating cheese and lecturing the constant stream of new recruits on the fine art of burger dressing, indie music and management baiting.

Sometimes I would work late, cleaning up equipment before clearing out the doughnut cabinet, while other times I would rock in at 7:00 on a Saturday, reeling from drunkenness rolled over from the night before. The trick on those occasions was to quickly fire everything up, get some food in the stager and then lie on the cool tiled floor, watching the ceiling spin until you felt a little better. Bloody hell, that was a long time ago. Before I had to pretend to be able to blag my way through decisions. Before the freedom and excess of university. A time of hideous A-levels you didn’t want to be taking, precariously balanced with a growing appreciation of the attractions of fucking about.

Anyway, it wasn’t all good, but it’s done now and in fact McD’s in Pinner closed a good year or so ago now. The franchisee wasn’t making the returns he had been used to now that the nation had suddenly gone health conscious and anyway, the groups of hoodies frequenting the place in the evenings were making the whole thing more trouble than it was worth.

It closed its doors and stood empty for a while until rumours took hold that it was to become a Wetherspoon’s. This wasn’t entirely unwelcome as though this portended the prospect of a town full of a old and unpleasant alcoholics at all times of day, in the last year, many of the pubs had closed down. The powers that be have decided that Pinner is to become one of those places full of restaurants that inextricably attract enough customers to make money while avoiding alcohol related disorder, noise and everything else that offends rotarians, spinsters and people who think that a Heath Robinson museum is a good use of a few million pounds of public money. The result of there being no pubs, meant nowhere for the upwardly mobile youngsters to go, which had detracted from the area, forcing me to near enough entirely avoid it in my weekend hours, keeping my money firmly in the illegal economy and out of the hands of faux Italian restaurantiers that charge high prices for poor food presented nicely, while people sit there going “lovely, lovely”, because they don’t know any better and it all feels like something slightly mundane, but no-one dares call it.

fiendAnyway, that’s a bad tangent to go off on. The point is really that Wetherspoon’s did not move in the space left by the Golden Arches. Instead they were outbid by the zenith of evil as we know it. The prepubescent boys of Foxtons Estate Agents have descended and now we are all doomed. Their sign lights up the dark street (primarily featuring signs fitted in the 1970s) changing colour as if to say I have no knob, but I shine very brightly, their scribbled on mini-coopers fill the carparks and pull out of intersections driven by scrotes that can barely see over the wheel. These same scrotes then turn up putting leaflets through my letterbox once a week telling us that we could sell the house with them for five billion euros and if you let them in, lecture you about Sport, the state of the market and their inability to give anything, but the best service. Knock-kneed greed merchants playing on the size of their organisation to practice unfair competition (they have launched with a no-fees for six months offer) on an already saturated market of independent providers, loss-leaders that can guarantee with a voracious approach to sales motivated by a policy of publicly humiliating low-performers on a regular basis, the right amount of shoeshine and enough Amy Winehouse powder on the nostril, that success is just around the corner. Ah, I have so much to say about this, but first I have go to go and plan a new strategy. The battle of Pinner has just begun and there is nowhere to get a cheap slab of meat wrapped in ketchup, plastic cheese and bread, to keep our sustenance levels up.

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Sunday night mumblings

Big up, fellow boloists and any regular, non-spam gunning lurkers. Just a few words to blow the dust off the keyboard before another week in paradise begins. Been a bit absent of late, but have been reading and appreciating the bolo wisdom on a regular. Just one of those times where you keep checking the site, selfishly devouring any new content, then not bothering to do the right thing and chip in a paragraph or two to the bolo cause. Imagine if all humanity were destroyed, apart from this website. What kind of an impression would the aliens have of us? Which is why it is important that I step to the table with my level-headed, xenophobic, rational, reactionary and often misguided rants. Yes, yes, motherf0ckers. That’s why I took the liberty of informing myself with a healthy dose of Sky News before coming out to play on the finer parts of the web tonight; I was thinking of the possibility of alien life and the bigger picture…

There were 3 main stories on this particular vein of knowledge impoverished sludge tonight :

1. “No New Finds Yet in Murder Suspect Home Search”
Brooksideesque body discovery in the chalk infested lands of my youth. Police to spend eons digging through concrete floors in the hopes of solving every missing person case since 1986. I saw the suspect and I’m fairly sure he didn’t have access to heavy mining equipment. Then again, you never really know with these sick, soulless wretches so I suppose that’s fair enough. What is not fair enough is Sky’s pedestrian “find some old dears who say they don’t expect this to happen on their doorstep” journalism. I mean, if you’re going to spend 10 minutes on a story, it should have at least some CONTENT, not give you the impression that you’ve walked past an incredibly long newsstand with 2500 copies of the same issue of the Daily Mail on display.

2. “Cyclone Sidr: Hundreds still Missing”
This headline is succinct at best – the hurricane has killed an estimated 15 000 people. But, don’t worry, never fear – us Brits have stepped up to the plate and delivered the good news on the aid front; £2.5million! That’s the equivalent of say, one of Simon Cowell’s London properties. My heart is swelling with national pride right now. Still, I suppose it’s only fair that we look after those less fortunate than us, especially when we are probably helping to nail their economy and national debt to the floor by setting up umpteen sweatshops to keep our fat, misguided idiot nation in size 38″ waist Carharrt combat trousers. I am being slightly unfair as this aid offer was made when the death toll was only estimated at 2 500, but you get the point.

3. “Madeleine’s alive and we’re closing in on Her”

I was intending to add this one in jest (given the recent, fairly heated toings and froings on this site a few months ago), but having checked their website it seems my dubious sense of humour pre-empted the fact. Now, I’m not going to launch into the whole thing again, but I would just like to say that I am convinced that half of the time and resources spent on finding one little English girl would belittle our meager aid efforts to Bangladesh, to name just one possible cause. I understand that people need to relate to events to become involved in them, but we are badly in need of the iron fist of perspective up our proverbial pipes if you ask me.

There was also the small matter of the Japanese restarting commercial whaling under the guise of “scientific research vital to the future of Japan”. It just so happens that this research must ultimately result in the killing and eating of 50 hump backed whales. Quelle coincidence, you knicker-sniffing psychopaths.

Looking forward to a novel start to the day tomorrow – a driving test to kick the week off. Been trying to keep busy today, which did result in all too infrequent trip to the cinema to see American Gangster (well worth a watch for those not afraid of very convincing acts of violence and Russel Crowe’s “balls in a separate bag” Americano accent), but it hasn’t kept the demons away entirely. What’s bothering me is more the fact that the guy who owns the driving school will be in the car during the exam. He is not my regular instructor, and although I have only had 1 lesson with him I can tell you he is simply one of the worst people I have ever met. A squat, arrogant little shit who believes he is France’s answer to Tom Cruise, with a way of talking about teenage girls (including this rank horse like “clop-clop” noise he makes) that makes me feel guilty for having a penis and not being gay. The bloke is a total James Blunt with the ability to sap all positivity out of you with his mere existence.

Anyway, if I remember my left from my right through the judgmental mists of acrid, pedarastic fug I may just crack it, so wish me luck.

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Tiscali and The Ether

Baited my visage,
My square eyes await
A message from afar,
Sent hither adress’d with care.
A page -
A note
Sealed with a kiss it wends its way
By Fairy, Pixie, Goblin, Wisp
And o’er many a furlong and many a day.
I wake at once on its fanfared arrival
And rush so expectantly to the metal box
In anticipation of a sumptuously rewarding perusal.
Yegads! Hallelujah! Fruit of my patience I reapeth!
Hotmail has loaded. Quicker than usual.

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If only…

As I stood watching a load of poxy fireworks last night, I couldn’t help wondering what life would be like had old Fawkesy and his crew not been thwarted. Also, given the state of our morally and intellectually bankrupt political system, I further mused over whether or not we should really be celebrating it.

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Pimlico: notes for a poem I couldn’t write

I was out walking today in the autumn sunshine – the most beautiful, clear, brilliant white variety that intricately defines every feature, enhancing everything you see and creating a beauty in many things that that seems only to exist in these conditions, or rather revealing one hitherto latent. Colours that in summer give out a saturated glow and radiance now take on a new intensity; intense yet pale, pale but without the harsher steeliness of winter. Leaves without their absorbent chlorophyll now seem to be returning unwanted light, flashing pure gold, while what green pigment remaining appears to want to engage in synchronicity, lending to a strobe-like rhythmically oscillating bifrequency kaleidoscope effect above one’s head whilst walking. There just seems to be so much light – to look within several degrees of its source will cause pain, yet just one fleeting glance in that direction reveals a newborn view of what lies there: a haze, but not one that would seek to obscure, rather to render everything in a blue-white soft-focus, with every feature visible but taking on an ethereality indefinable, as below, in the Thames water nuclear Roman candles are swirling on the riverbed, periodically sending showers of sparks up through the surface to dance and collide in retina-burning flashes that spin your countenance back to the pale, intense, golden shafts that you now know are an evolution of it all. And with every shaft of light comes shadow: longer, darker, more defined, maybe perceptibly more nefarious than in previous months; nevertheless providing borders, frames for light’s dynamic chromatic canvases: its purpose never ancillary to light’s eye-fucking floorshow but crucial, for without the contrast they provided me and they richness they lent to my visual world, then much of what struck me today would not have done so so poetically as to move me to write.

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