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» Unemployed
Being Unemployed
There are a number of beautiful stages that you will go through:
1) Elation - The sheer freedom! A time in your life where you can look forward and think, in the next few MONTHS I have absolutely nothing to worry about. I can go anywhere, do anything (O.K. money might be a bit tight) but I AM FREE!
2) The Art of Sleep - Every day is the weekend. Sleep in until 11am. Then 12noon. Then 2pm. Then until when you get up its actually dark outside. Your slumber is so deep and relaxing that time is of no importance now.
3) Procrastination - After 3 weeks of living like a vampire, those computer games you have over-played are becoming tiresome. You are becoming increasingly frustrated with Phil and Fearns perpetual faux-happyness and smutty innuendos. You are ready to smash the T.V. after yet another glorious and smug attempt by Jeremy Kyle to belittle some working class scum-bag who beat up his daughter while shagging his own gran.
4) Depression. Months have passed and you can barely even sleep anymore. If you do it's at precisely the wrong time, perhaps when that girl you fancy is round and you miss everything. You have been gorging yourself on discount frozen pizza, out of date meat products and outrageous amounts of coffee. There is no structure to your life. It is sleep, watch daytime T.V., eat shit, shit shit and then struggle in vain to sleep. Hygiene is out the window, self-respect is at an all-time low. You hate even shopping or wandering the streets for fear that you will be exposed by the layman as the dithering piece of worthless shit that you are.
5. Suicide.
(Fri 3rd Apr 2009, 10:39, More)
Being Unemployed
There are a number of beautiful stages that you will go through:
1) Elation - The sheer freedom! A time in your life where you can look forward and think, in the next few MONTHS I have absolutely nothing to worry about. I can go anywhere, do anything (O.K. money might be a bit tight) but I AM FREE!
2) The Art of Sleep - Every day is the weekend. Sleep in until 11am. Then 12noon. Then 2pm. Then until when you get up its actually dark outside. Your slumber is so deep and relaxing that time is of no importance now.
3) Procrastination - After 3 weeks of living like a vampire, those computer games you have over-played are becoming tiresome. You are becoming increasingly frustrated with Phil and Fearns perpetual faux-happyness and smutty innuendos. You are ready to smash the T.V. after yet another glorious and smug attempt by Jeremy Kyle to belittle some working class scum-bag who beat up his daughter while shagging his own gran.
4) Depression. Months have passed and you can barely even sleep anymore. If you do it's at precisely the wrong time, perhaps when that girl you fancy is round and you miss everything. You have been gorging yourself on discount frozen pizza, out of date meat products and outrageous amounts of coffee. There is no structure to your life. It is sleep, watch daytime T.V., eat shit, shit shit and then struggle in vain to sleep. Hygiene is out the window, self-respect is at an all-time low. You hate even shopping or wandering the streets for fear that you will be exposed by the layman as the dithering piece of worthless shit that you are.
5. Suicide.
(Fri 3rd Apr 2009, 10:39, More)
» Nightclubs
Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima
Being a notorious drunk, I have many a tale to tell in this QOTW.. Hopefully I'll get some of the better ones out the way before the Thursday deadline, but while I scour the murkiest trenches of my drink-addled mind, I shall regail what happened just last month, in a town called Thurso.
The flimsy excuse for this particular all day drinkathon was a Sevens football tournament where we had done so-so. Who cares, the fact was the season had ended and we were neither bottom of the league or first out the cup - jobs a good'un. So - to the 'Bar Bar Drinks' as I like to say...
I was feeling saucy and decided to go for as many different spirits over the course of the night as possible. Starting with JD & Coke, working my way through Morgans, Jamiesons, Southern Comfort and so on.
Surprisingly I was in decent shape up until we were going onto the final venue for the night - Skinandi's. As we spent most of our time in the various public houses of Thurso, we were getting to the club late and a large queue had formed. So we patiently waited, and waited (and could see behind us the queue had been growing ever larger). After what seemed an eternity, we got to the front where things got interesting.
Two of my "mates" who were also exceedingly inebriated and with me in the queue, pushed me over, pulled one of my shoes off me and threw it quarter-back style over some kind of shop over the road. Then they ran away into the club giggling. What were the bouncers upto? Faced with the prospect of climbing over walls and raking in gardens, getting mucky and stuff (followed by rejoining the gigantic queue) OR hobbling my way into the club to get my vengeance, I opted for the latter.
It was surprising how little people noticed that I only had one shoe on. And the floor was mostly in good shape, nice springy (read: marinated in sick) carpet, and smooth dancefloors. I was getting away with it. The floor was unkind to my plain white sock however, and this had to be discarded to the backpocket for now...
As Shylock famously said (possibly paraphrasification): "An eye for an eye, shoe for a shoe", I plotted my Jew-inspired vengeance. Not before I took a piddle however. What a strange experience to go into the man-toilets with a limp, only to feel the soft squidgy (albeit comfortable) carpet replaced by cold and slippery piss-ravaged tiles. Indeed, I got some very strange looks from my compatriots at the urinal, who I'm sure employed additional splash-back tactics to make my barefoot even warmer and wetter.
After shaking off my cock, hands and foot, I knew that I'd been got - and got good. And by God it was time to *got* the boys that had gotten me good. I prowled the upstairs balcony like a rare one-clawed eagle, spying my prey - the treacherous rats below. It didn't take me long to find them, acting all boisterous by the bar, oblivious to their betrayal - they had surely now forgotten, causing a scene like all good Weekers do. They were at the Champagne, in fact they appeared to be waiting for more glasses to toast their success no doubt.
I went in for the kill with all the grace of a shoeless man who'd just spent the last 10 minutes with his bare foot in everybody else's excrement. I took the sock out my back pocket and stuck it in the guy without the champagne's mouth. He recoiled, all grimacing and angry-faced, and backed away, dumbfounded as to what horror just breached his lips. Victim number two of my vigilantacious crusade had his back to me and was just popping the cork.
While the cork expelled along with the foam, I seized my chance and barged my way between some clingers who were waiting patiently for their share of the champagne. To their surprise I grabbed the neck of the bottle with both hands and started shaking it furiously, left and right, up and down. The foam was as relentless as my vice-like grip. John (for that was his name, perhaps a late time to introduce this revelation) had terror in his eyes. Champagne in clubs does not come cheap and at least half of it's volume was now at bare-foot level. But for £30 he wanted at least a taste and he would not let go, looking into my eyes he knew I was just as determined.
As this was by the bar, the floor was a kind of tile surface - no doubt to make sure incidents like this would be easy to clean up. By now the clingers had fled for their lives, and Kev (you know, sock-mouth) had returned to the fray. How it must've looked to the locals - me a semi-shoeless man battling for dear life with 2 other strangers for some precious champagne, white foam spraying everywhere and onlookers fleeing in all directions.
The frictionless surface of the champagne soaked floor against my baby-soft foot made the threesome collapse, yet the bottle was held aloft in the ruck - like a 21st century Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima.
It was at this point that we were ejected from the premises - soaked through and without drink. We hailed the taxi to take this ramshackle crew back to the good side of Caithness for £10-15 each.
The shoe was abandoned.
(Tue 14th Apr 2009, 13:35, More)
Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima
Being a notorious drunk, I have many a tale to tell in this QOTW.. Hopefully I'll get some of the better ones out the way before the Thursday deadline, but while I scour the murkiest trenches of my drink-addled mind, I shall regail what happened just last month, in a town called Thurso.
The flimsy excuse for this particular all day drinkathon was a Sevens football tournament where we had done so-so. Who cares, the fact was the season had ended and we were neither bottom of the league or first out the cup - jobs a good'un. So - to the 'Bar Bar Drinks' as I like to say...
I was feeling saucy and decided to go for as many different spirits over the course of the night as possible. Starting with JD & Coke, working my way through Morgans, Jamiesons, Southern Comfort and so on.
Surprisingly I was in decent shape up until we were going onto the final venue for the night - Skinandi's. As we spent most of our time in the various public houses of Thurso, we were getting to the club late and a large queue had formed. So we patiently waited, and waited (and could see behind us the queue had been growing ever larger). After what seemed an eternity, we got to the front where things got interesting.
Two of my "mates" who were also exceedingly inebriated and with me in the queue, pushed me over, pulled one of my shoes off me and threw it quarter-back style over some kind of shop over the road. Then they ran away into the club giggling. What were the bouncers upto? Faced with the prospect of climbing over walls and raking in gardens, getting mucky and stuff (followed by rejoining the gigantic queue) OR hobbling my way into the club to get my vengeance, I opted for the latter.
It was surprising how little people noticed that I only had one shoe on. And the floor was mostly in good shape, nice springy (read: marinated in sick) carpet, and smooth dancefloors. I was getting away with it. The floor was unkind to my plain white sock however, and this had to be discarded to the backpocket for now...
As Shylock famously said (possibly paraphrasification): "An eye for an eye, shoe for a shoe", I plotted my Jew-inspired vengeance. Not before I took a piddle however. What a strange experience to go into the man-toilets with a limp, only to feel the soft squidgy (albeit comfortable) carpet replaced by cold and slippery piss-ravaged tiles. Indeed, I got some very strange looks from my compatriots at the urinal, who I'm sure employed additional splash-back tactics to make my barefoot even warmer and wetter.
After shaking off my cock, hands and foot, I knew that I'd been got - and got good. And by God it was time to *got* the boys that had gotten me good. I prowled the upstairs balcony like a rare one-clawed eagle, spying my prey - the treacherous rats below. It didn't take me long to find them, acting all boisterous by the bar, oblivious to their betrayal - they had surely now forgotten, causing a scene like all good Weekers do. They were at the Champagne, in fact they appeared to be waiting for more glasses to toast their success no doubt.
I went in for the kill with all the grace of a shoeless man who'd just spent the last 10 minutes with his bare foot in everybody else's excrement. I took the sock out my back pocket and stuck it in the guy without the champagne's mouth. He recoiled, all grimacing and angry-faced, and backed away, dumbfounded as to what horror just breached his lips. Victim number two of my vigilantacious crusade had his back to me and was just popping the cork.
While the cork expelled along with the foam, I seized my chance and barged my way between some clingers who were waiting patiently for their share of the champagne. To their surprise I grabbed the neck of the bottle with both hands and started shaking it furiously, left and right, up and down. The foam was as relentless as my vice-like grip. John (for that was his name, perhaps a late time to introduce this revelation) had terror in his eyes. Champagne in clubs does not come cheap and at least half of it's volume was now at bare-foot level. But for £30 he wanted at least a taste and he would not let go, looking into my eyes he knew I was just as determined.
As this was by the bar, the floor was a kind of tile surface - no doubt to make sure incidents like this would be easy to clean up. By now the clingers had fled for their lives, and Kev (you know, sock-mouth) had returned to the fray. How it must've looked to the locals - me a semi-shoeless man battling for dear life with 2 other strangers for some precious champagne, white foam spraying everywhere and onlookers fleeing in all directions.
The frictionless surface of the champagne soaked floor against my baby-soft foot made the threesome collapse, yet the bottle was held aloft in the ruck - like a 21st century Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima.
It was at this point that we were ejected from the premises - soaked through and without drink. We hailed the taxi to take this ramshackle crew back to the good side of Caithness for £10-15 each.
The shoe was abandoned.
(Tue 14th Apr 2009, 13:35, More)
» Tales of the Unexplained
When I was but a boy
Of around 12 or 13, I had a good friend who, looking back was outrageously camp and unquestionably gay. Not that it stopped us having a good time....ahem.
Before this progresses into a homo-erotic frankspencer effort, let me get back.. This chuffters father owned a fair bit of land out in the country, and a group of about 5 of us went "camping" there during one long hot summer.
Things can get quite scary for an impressionable youth like myself, especially out in the dark in the middle of nowhere.
I know what you're thinking you sick animal and at no point will this story turn gay.
So around midnight the topic turns to ghost stories and urban (or rural! ha!) legends.
It transpired that a few miles out in the country there was an abandoned house where once a woman did live. Now I can't quite remember the details, but this ugly and lonely woman, with such a burning desire for a child "mated" with a rabbit(!) and produced some kind of mongrel humany rabbity monster baby.
However God or nature didn't take too kindly to this DIY family planning and ended this babies life in its infancy.
So off we ambled in the dark to this so called house to find "evidence". Even the talk and walking in the dark was making me shit myself, and for some reason I thought I was being watched - possibly by Rabbit Satan - as we stumbled around the country trails.
We eventually made it to this godforsaken abandoned cottage, and complete with torch plus stick (to help defeat any still-surviving rabbit-monsters) we entered.
My god, it was like the Blair Witch project before that poor excuse for a film was a twinkle in some cunts eye. Scary half torn wallpapers and curtains... Damp on the walls... Weeds growing within.. Awful stench - the lot. Yes I was just about ready to have a full on seisure. Which would be disastrous as we all know rabbit-men like nothing more than to rape semi-conscious young boys.
At the back of what could of been a bedroom, we could see through the murky air, illuminated by the moonlight poking in through the broken old window... What appeared to be... A childs cot....
Naturally we edged closer, pushing each other on to have a look inside. Someone thrust the torchlight inside and my good god yes indeed was the carcass of what looked like a vicious Ferret fully clad in baby clothes. Remnants of dead flesh still clinging to its face. And of course a ghastly snarl like the cause of death was rupturing the anus with a snooker cue.
What.
thefuck.
Cue Goonies like comedy escape with unmasculine screaming. Yes that's probably the most scared I've ever been. Maybe twas the dark/full moon.
Or maybe it was the fact some psycho-spastic dressed a dead rodent up in baby clothes and left it to rot.....
(Fri 4th Jul 2008, 12:28, More)
When I was but a boy
Of around 12 or 13, I had a good friend who, looking back was outrageously camp and unquestionably gay. Not that it stopped us having a good time....ahem.
Before this progresses into a homo-erotic frankspencer effort, let me get back.. This chuffters father owned a fair bit of land out in the country, and a group of about 5 of us went "camping" there during one long hot summer.
Things can get quite scary for an impressionable youth like myself, especially out in the dark in the middle of nowhere.
I know what you're thinking you sick animal and at no point will this story turn gay.
So around midnight the topic turns to ghost stories and urban (or rural! ha!) legends.
It transpired that a few miles out in the country there was an abandoned house where once a woman did live. Now I can't quite remember the details, but this ugly and lonely woman, with such a burning desire for a child "mated" with a rabbit(!) and produced some kind of mongrel humany rabbity monster baby.
However God or nature didn't take too kindly to this DIY family planning and ended this babies life in its infancy.
So off we ambled in the dark to this so called house to find "evidence". Even the talk and walking in the dark was making me shit myself, and for some reason I thought I was being watched - possibly by Rabbit Satan - as we stumbled around the country trails.
We eventually made it to this godforsaken abandoned cottage, and complete with torch plus stick (to help defeat any still-surviving rabbit-monsters) we entered.
My god, it was like the Blair Witch project before that poor excuse for a film was a twinkle in some cunts eye. Scary half torn wallpapers and curtains... Damp on the walls... Weeds growing within.. Awful stench - the lot. Yes I was just about ready to have a full on seisure. Which would be disastrous as we all know rabbit-men like nothing more than to rape semi-conscious young boys.
At the back of what could of been a bedroom, we could see through the murky air, illuminated by the moonlight poking in through the broken old window... What appeared to be... A childs cot....
Naturally we edged closer, pushing each other on to have a look inside. Someone thrust the torchlight inside and my good god yes indeed was the carcass of what looked like a vicious Ferret fully clad in baby clothes. Remnants of dead flesh still clinging to its face. And of course a ghastly snarl like the cause of death was rupturing the anus with a snooker cue.
What.
thefuck.
Cue Goonies like comedy escape with unmasculine screaming. Yes that's probably the most scared I've ever been. Maybe twas the dark/full moon.
Or maybe it was the fact some psycho-spastic dressed a dead rodent up in baby clothes and left it to rot.....
(Fri 4th Jul 2008, 12:28, More)
» Workplace Boredom
I recall..
Working for the UKAEA in Dounreay Nuclear Power Development Establishment, middle of nowhere. What you have to understand about this place is that it was I believe the first fast breeder reactor in the U.K. and back in those days this meant danger. Hence sticking it pretty much as far away from London and any major conurbanation as possible.
With this great responsibility and danger came great wealth to the land, really just to sweeten the deal to the locals that Parliament has planted an experimental nuclear facility on their beautiful and untouched environment. This ridiculous amount of GBP which began flowing North in the 50's still lingers to this day and still we have thousands of overpaid and underworked people dossing around as the place is slowly dismantled. It's a fantastic gig if you can get it, great pay, great holidays, very secure, looks great on a C.V. and of course theres fuck all work to be done and less so by the day.
So erm, anyway this long-winded story is the precursor to my lazing about half asleep in the Estate Records Office, spacing out the window watching the rabbits frolick in the irradiated fields.
As one beautiful little creature bounds care-free through the toxic flowers and shrubs and finds itself on the man-made concrete supply road. Meanwhile a giant crane steams into view, the first of its 18 or so wheels connecting at pace sweetly with little bunny foo-foo.
As I consider whether or not I'm dreaming, the rabbit promptly explodes into a fine mist of red, punctuated with heather coloured fluff and dark gristle, as the behemoth rolls on blissfully unaware of the atrocity.
Well maybe not completely unaware as roughly 20 minutes later as I slowly raised my weary head from my folded arms I spied one of the janitors, no doubt just awaken from his own slumber in the cupboard, scratching his head, pondering the bloody mess complete with shovel in hand wondering exactly how you shovel up freshly blended rabbit with a consistency of dishwater spread over an area of about 8 metre squared....
(Tue 13th Jan 2009, 13:35, More)
I recall..
Working for the UKAEA in Dounreay Nuclear Power Development Establishment, middle of nowhere. What you have to understand about this place is that it was I believe the first fast breeder reactor in the U.K. and back in those days this meant danger. Hence sticking it pretty much as far away from London and any major conurbanation as possible.
With this great responsibility and danger came great wealth to the land, really just to sweeten the deal to the locals that Parliament has planted an experimental nuclear facility on their beautiful and untouched environment. This ridiculous amount of GBP which began flowing North in the 50's still lingers to this day and still we have thousands of overpaid and underworked people dossing around as the place is slowly dismantled. It's a fantastic gig if you can get it, great pay, great holidays, very secure, looks great on a C.V. and of course theres fuck all work to be done and less so by the day.
So erm, anyway this long-winded story is the precursor to my lazing about half asleep in the Estate Records Office, spacing out the window watching the rabbits frolick in the irradiated fields.
As one beautiful little creature bounds care-free through the toxic flowers and shrubs and finds itself on the man-made concrete supply road. Meanwhile a giant crane steams into view, the first of its 18 or so wheels connecting at pace sweetly with little bunny foo-foo.
As I consider whether or not I'm dreaming, the rabbit promptly explodes into a fine mist of red, punctuated with heather coloured fluff and dark gristle, as the behemoth rolls on blissfully unaware of the atrocity.
Well maybe not completely unaware as roughly 20 minutes later as I slowly raised my weary head from my folded arms I spied one of the janitors, no doubt just awaken from his own slumber in the cupboard, scratching his head, pondering the bloody mess complete with shovel in hand wondering exactly how you shovel up freshly blended rabbit with a consistency of dishwater spread over an area of about 8 metre squared....
(Tue 13th Jan 2009, 13:35, More)
» Thrown away: The stuff you loved and lost.
I'm not sure where....
I lost the character trait of "giving a shit"....
I sometimes think about this and look over the 23 short years of my life. I look over the problems I've had in family relationships, the alcohol abuse, the not really giving 100%. Maybe I point to various tragedies involving people close to me and indeed traumatic experiences of my own. (Hmm this is getting depressing!).
But fear not!
The reason I've lost the ability to give a shit is because I'm a bit of an arsehole. Couldn't really give a fuck about anyone else and all I'm interested in is working enough to pay for the weekends full of drink, drugs and debauchery.
None of my material possessions are worth a thing. Couldn't give a shit. My career is not rocketing into the stratosphere as I would have imagined as a youth it should be at this stage of my life - yawn. My passion for football has been pissed down the pan and now instead of exercise, I eat too much good (but terrible for you) food, drink too much booze, take too many drugs and when I'm not doing that all I want is sleep.
I don't have a girlfriend. And? She'd only cost money and deny me the things I really enjoy as described above.
I have no savings or have invested in nothing. Some people my age already have houses and mortgages pinning them down. Some have children, wives, bills and some kind of place in society.
Not me. Couldn't give a fuck.
*Skulks off to a darkened corner to wait for the weekend*
(Thu 21st Aug 2008, 10:31, More)
I'm not sure where....
I lost the character trait of "giving a shit"....
I sometimes think about this and look over the 23 short years of my life. I look over the problems I've had in family relationships, the alcohol abuse, the not really giving 100%. Maybe I point to various tragedies involving people close to me and indeed traumatic experiences of my own. (Hmm this is getting depressing!).
But fear not!
The reason I've lost the ability to give a shit is because I'm a bit of an arsehole. Couldn't really give a fuck about anyone else and all I'm interested in is working enough to pay for the weekends full of drink, drugs and debauchery.
None of my material possessions are worth a thing. Couldn't give a shit. My career is not rocketing into the stratosphere as I would have imagined as a youth it should be at this stage of my life - yawn. My passion for football has been pissed down the pan and now instead of exercise, I eat too much good (but terrible for you) food, drink too much booze, take too many drugs and when I'm not doing that all I want is sleep.
I don't have a girlfriend. And? She'd only cost money and deny me the things I really enjoy as described above.
I have no savings or have invested in nothing. Some people my age already have houses and mortgages pinning them down. Some have children, wives, bills and some kind of place in society.
Not me. Couldn't give a fuck.
*Skulks off to a darkened corner to wait for the weekend*
(Thu 21st Aug 2008, 10:31, More)