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» Pubs
Sizzled.
I work in motorsport. Sounds glamorous, actually isn’t. My chosen branch of motorsport is the poor relation of Formula 1. The kind of motorsport that is kept chained up in the loft and never spoken of. You do however meet all kinds of characters, from multi-millionaires (of which there are many) to journeymen mechanics who have been spannering cars in all four corners of the globe, man and boy.
The maxim ‘Work hard, play hard’ has never been truer than for those people who work with racing cars for a living. Everyone seems to be a borderline alcoholic, but after pulling your plums out for seven days on the trot, for twenty hours a day, in the frozen wastes of Sweden to the dust bowls of Greece, you could be forgiven for wanting to let your hair down a little at the end of an event.
One engineer I had the pleasure of working with had a legendary reputation for mischief after a drink or two, he had that genius streak that left him perpetually teetering on the borderline of brilliance and madness.
He had a real Jekyll and Hyde personality, after just a single glass of red wine or a Gin and Tonic, the mild mannered engineer (who had spent just a few of his formative years in Liverpool) would transform into the most Liverpudlian drunk you would ever meet. It was a given that bad things always happened when he had a drink, and you could always be sure there would be a large, expectant, crowd gathered to watch the resulting mess.
After one particular session, he came out of a nightclub and got an attack of the munchies as soon as he saw the hot dog van serving tepid, vaguely burger and sausage shaped scrapings form the abattoir floor, to a captive audience of hungry drunks.
Full of Dutch courage our hero marched to the front of the lengthy queue and demanded, in the nicest possible way, to be served one of the vendors fine hot dogs. ‘Mate, mate, gis a hot dog mate’.
Obviously used to such behaviour, Mr Sizzle (other mobile food franchises are available) pointed to the back of the queue and politely invited our friend to join it. Not to be deterred, and now on a full charm offensive, Mr Engineer again demanded to be served a hot dog. ‘Aw, mate, come on mate, gis a hot dog’. Once again he is invited to join the back of the queue, but again he declines offer.
Mr Sizzle and the queue of angry drunks have now had enough, and despite desperate pleas, Mr Engineer is being ignored by Mr Sizzle. With logic that could only be applied by a steaming drunk, Mr Engineer staggers around to the back of the hot dog van.
Imagine the look on the faces of those in the queue, and Mr Sizzle, as the hot dog van drives off down the road just as Mr Sizzle is serving his umpteenth grease-fest of the night! The van draws to a halt, Mr Engineer disembarks, staggers back around to the front of the van and calmly and politely again asks for a hot dog, citing that he is now at the front of the queue, where-upon, as a nod to his ingenuity, determination and sheer cheek and stupidity, Mr Sizzle promptly served him his hot dog.
(Fri 6th Feb 2009, 14:41, More)
Sizzled.
I work in motorsport. Sounds glamorous, actually isn’t. My chosen branch of motorsport is the poor relation of Formula 1. The kind of motorsport that is kept chained up in the loft and never spoken of. You do however meet all kinds of characters, from multi-millionaires (of which there are many) to journeymen mechanics who have been spannering cars in all four corners of the globe, man and boy.
The maxim ‘Work hard, play hard’ has never been truer than for those people who work with racing cars for a living. Everyone seems to be a borderline alcoholic, but after pulling your plums out for seven days on the trot, for twenty hours a day, in the frozen wastes of Sweden to the dust bowls of Greece, you could be forgiven for wanting to let your hair down a little at the end of an event.
One engineer I had the pleasure of working with had a legendary reputation for mischief after a drink or two, he had that genius streak that left him perpetually teetering on the borderline of brilliance and madness.
He had a real Jekyll and Hyde personality, after just a single glass of red wine or a Gin and Tonic, the mild mannered engineer (who had spent just a few of his formative years in Liverpool) would transform into the most Liverpudlian drunk you would ever meet. It was a given that bad things always happened when he had a drink, and you could always be sure there would be a large, expectant, crowd gathered to watch the resulting mess.
After one particular session, he came out of a nightclub and got an attack of the munchies as soon as he saw the hot dog van serving tepid, vaguely burger and sausage shaped scrapings form the abattoir floor, to a captive audience of hungry drunks.
Full of Dutch courage our hero marched to the front of the lengthy queue and demanded, in the nicest possible way, to be served one of the vendors fine hot dogs. ‘Mate, mate, gis a hot dog mate’.
Obviously used to such behaviour, Mr Sizzle (other mobile food franchises are available) pointed to the back of the queue and politely invited our friend to join it. Not to be deterred, and now on a full charm offensive, Mr Engineer again demanded to be served a hot dog. ‘Aw, mate, come on mate, gis a hot dog’. Once again he is invited to join the back of the queue, but again he declines offer.
Mr Sizzle and the queue of angry drunks have now had enough, and despite desperate pleas, Mr Engineer is being ignored by Mr Sizzle. With logic that could only be applied by a steaming drunk, Mr Engineer staggers around to the back of the hot dog van.
Imagine the look on the faces of those in the queue, and Mr Sizzle, as the hot dog van drives off down the road just as Mr Sizzle is serving his umpteenth grease-fest of the night! The van draws to a halt, Mr Engineer disembarks, staggers back around to the front of the van and calmly and politely again asks for a hot dog, citing that he is now at the front of the queue, where-upon, as a nod to his ingenuity, determination and sheer cheek and stupidity, Mr Sizzle promptly served him his hot dog.
(Fri 6th Feb 2009, 14:41, More)
» I'm going to Hell...
Dad would have been proud.
Finally, a QOTW so perfect for me that it has snapped me out of my habitual procrastination and forced me to register to share my story.
2008 has been a shit of a year. I lost my Grandmother at the end of March and then my dear (not so) old Dad in June, meaning my poor Mother became an orphan and a widow in the space of three months. A messy business all round.
The task of organising Dad’s funeral rolled around, made easier by the fact we had got a bit of match practice in a few months earlier, and I decided I wanted to write a eulogy for him.
As an aside, Co-op Funeral Services (other funeral directors are available) do not feel it is appropriate to offer a loyalty card system for funerals.
The funeral, at Dad’s request, was to be a happy occasion, with bright clothes, rock and roll music and a big party afterwards.
The day came; we arrive at the crematorium in the cars, piped in by a lone bagpiper. There are literally hundreds of people stood waiting. I’m cacking it. I’m not the best public speaker, and the thought of standing up in front of a capacity crowd, combined with the emotion of the day was not one I relished.
So, yer man in the dress does the God bothering bit and then it’s my turn to speak.
I take a deep breath and begin to address the masses:
"This is the part of the service called the Eulogy; it comes from an ancient Greek word, (Dad always insisted we look up a word if we didn’t know what it meant) it means to give a speech praising someone. Eulogies can also be used to praise those that are still alive, and I would like to think that today is more about keeping alive the happy memories we all have of Dad, rather than focusing on the sadness of his passing."
It’s going well. Lots of people in the audience cooing and muttering things like, ‘Isn’t he brave’ etc.
… and then I got to this bit.
“I have Dad to thank for my dry, slightly dark, sense of humour. You could always rely on him to tell a most inappropriate story or joke.
Right now I am sure he would be telling the one about the boy who went into school one day and apologised to the teacher for not being there the previous day.
‘Sorry I wasn’t at School yesterday Miss, my Dad got burnt.’
The teacher says; ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope it wasn’t serious’
He says; ’They don’t fuck about at the Crem’ Miss!’”
I should have just got onto the conveyor belt and ridden it down with him.
(Thu 18th Dec 2008, 11:56, More)
Dad would have been proud.
Finally, a QOTW so perfect for me that it has snapped me out of my habitual procrastination and forced me to register to share my story.
2008 has been a shit of a year. I lost my Grandmother at the end of March and then my dear (not so) old Dad in June, meaning my poor Mother became an orphan and a widow in the space of three months. A messy business all round.
The task of organising Dad’s funeral rolled around, made easier by the fact we had got a bit of match practice in a few months earlier, and I decided I wanted to write a eulogy for him.
As an aside, Co-op Funeral Services (other funeral directors are available) do not feel it is appropriate to offer a loyalty card system for funerals.
The funeral, at Dad’s request, was to be a happy occasion, with bright clothes, rock and roll music and a big party afterwards.
The day came; we arrive at the crematorium in the cars, piped in by a lone bagpiper. There are literally hundreds of people stood waiting. I’m cacking it. I’m not the best public speaker, and the thought of standing up in front of a capacity crowd, combined with the emotion of the day was not one I relished.
So, yer man in the dress does the God bothering bit and then it’s my turn to speak.
I take a deep breath and begin to address the masses:
"This is the part of the service called the Eulogy; it comes from an ancient Greek word, (Dad always insisted we look up a word if we didn’t know what it meant) it means to give a speech praising someone. Eulogies can also be used to praise those that are still alive, and I would like to think that today is more about keeping alive the happy memories we all have of Dad, rather than focusing on the sadness of his passing."
It’s going well. Lots of people in the audience cooing and muttering things like, ‘Isn’t he brave’ etc.
… and then I got to this bit.
“I have Dad to thank for my dry, slightly dark, sense of humour. You could always rely on him to tell a most inappropriate story or joke.
Right now I am sure he would be telling the one about the boy who went into school one day and apologised to the teacher for not being there the previous day.
‘Sorry I wasn’t at School yesterday Miss, my Dad got burnt.’
The teacher says; ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope it wasn’t serious’
He says; ’They don’t fuck about at the Crem’ Miss!’”
I should have just got onto the conveyor belt and ridden it down with him.
(Thu 18th Dec 2008, 11:56, More)
» Unemployed
The Ironing!
The letter in the brown envelope congratulated me on passing the first stage of the selection process and detailed the time and location for the numeracy and literacy tests which would form the basis of the second stage of the candidate selection procedure. At the end of the letter was a paragraph, in bold, instructing candidates to bring a calculator and a passport sized photograph.
I arrived at the venue in good time, suited and booted, and reported to reception whereupon I was instructed to go and sit in a room with the other fifty ‘successful’ candidates.
This all took place in a dreary conference room at the foot of a monstrosity of a hotel alongside the M6 toll road in Cannock. A town famous only for the fact that Stan Collymore threw one up a dirty housewife at one of the local ‘Dogging’ spots. It was particularly galling as I had left behind the hills, open countryside and sunshine of North Wales to travel to the tests.
The room was filled with three distinct types of people. Middle aged women who had made a career out of administration. Middle aged, middle managers; men called Colin, with pot bellies and bad ties who most probably drove a Vauxhall Astra and still lived with their parents and a selection of ethnic minorities who had probably demanded an interview under the governments inspired ‘guaranteed interview’ scheme.
Fucking communists and their politically correct ‘jobs for everyone’ bollocks.
We were ushered into the conference room where the tables had been laid out like a school examination hall. As the middle aged lady administered our details the late-comers started arriving and questions were posed by the candidates too stupid to read the instructions in the letter. One middle aged administrator had brought a passport sized photograph with her. And beautifully laminated into the identification page of her passport it was too. A number of candidates had neglected to bring a photograph at all. This was no problem for our model of efficiency who was ticking boxes and writing names in triplicate. “That will be fine as long as you bring a photo in before three o’clock”.
Thus began my lesson in the equality, politics and inefficiency of a public body. If I was invigilating the exam this would have provided me with the perfect opportunity to sort the wheat from the chaff.
Late? See you, good luck.
No photograph? See you, good luck.
No calculator? See you, good luck.
Too much of a mong to spot that the passage contained the word ‘there’ instead of ‘their’ or that the word ‘difficulty’ contained about six additional letters? See you, good luck.
At the end of the thirty minute test, the affable middle aged administrator collected our answer sheets and promptly despatched them to a room full of middle aged administrators who kept us waiting for twenty-five minutes whilst they marked the papers. Upon her return the room a roll call of twenty names was read out and each was issued with a brown envelope and ushered out of the room. I did not know if I was annoyed that I had not made the grade in what were almost patronisingly easy tests, or relieved that I had been spared the ordeal with working with these types of people. In Cannock.
I need not have worried. I was one of the ten people who could obviously use a calculator to subtract one number from another and were deemed worthy enough to face an interview panel in three weeks time.
The only redeeming feature of the post is the fact it is for a job at the local job centre and in these times of doom and gloom I quite like the irony of that.
(Fri 3rd Apr 2009, 17:35, More)
The Ironing!
The letter in the brown envelope congratulated me on passing the first stage of the selection process and detailed the time and location for the numeracy and literacy tests which would form the basis of the second stage of the candidate selection procedure. At the end of the letter was a paragraph, in bold, instructing candidates to bring a calculator and a passport sized photograph.
I arrived at the venue in good time, suited and booted, and reported to reception whereupon I was instructed to go and sit in a room with the other fifty ‘successful’ candidates.
This all took place in a dreary conference room at the foot of a monstrosity of a hotel alongside the M6 toll road in Cannock. A town famous only for the fact that Stan Collymore threw one up a dirty housewife at one of the local ‘Dogging’ spots. It was particularly galling as I had left behind the hills, open countryside and sunshine of North Wales to travel to the tests.
The room was filled with three distinct types of people. Middle aged women who had made a career out of administration. Middle aged, middle managers; men called Colin, with pot bellies and bad ties who most probably drove a Vauxhall Astra and still lived with their parents and a selection of ethnic minorities who had probably demanded an interview under the governments inspired ‘guaranteed interview’ scheme.
Fucking communists and their politically correct ‘jobs for everyone’ bollocks.
We were ushered into the conference room where the tables had been laid out like a school examination hall. As the middle aged lady administered our details the late-comers started arriving and questions were posed by the candidates too stupid to read the instructions in the letter. One middle aged administrator had brought a passport sized photograph with her. And beautifully laminated into the identification page of her passport it was too. A number of candidates had neglected to bring a photograph at all. This was no problem for our model of efficiency who was ticking boxes and writing names in triplicate. “That will be fine as long as you bring a photo in before three o’clock”.
Thus began my lesson in the equality, politics and inefficiency of a public body. If I was invigilating the exam this would have provided me with the perfect opportunity to sort the wheat from the chaff.
Late? See you, good luck.
No photograph? See you, good luck.
No calculator? See you, good luck.
Too much of a mong to spot that the passage contained the word ‘there’ instead of ‘their’ or that the word ‘difficulty’ contained about six additional letters? See you, good luck.
At the end of the thirty minute test, the affable middle aged administrator collected our answer sheets and promptly despatched them to a room full of middle aged administrators who kept us waiting for twenty-five minutes whilst they marked the papers. Upon her return the room a roll call of twenty names was read out and each was issued with a brown envelope and ushered out of the room. I did not know if I was annoyed that I had not made the grade in what were almost patronisingly easy tests, or relieved that I had been spared the ordeal with working with these types of people. In Cannock.
I need not have worried. I was one of the ten people who could obviously use a calculator to subtract one number from another and were deemed worthy enough to face an interview panel in three weeks time.
The only redeeming feature of the post is the fact it is for a job at the local job centre and in these times of doom and gloom I quite like the irony of that.
(Fri 3rd Apr 2009, 17:35, More)
» Workplace Boredom
Action Man
Is he the greatest hero of them all?
Turns out Action Man is in fact a bit of a fanny and any one of the Wacky Racers could probably have him.
It did take us three twelve hour shifts of trudging up and down aisles, in a warehouse full of plastic signet rings and other assorted high street jewellers crap, to come to a conclusion on that particular conundrum.
At my current place of work the skives are much more of a challenge. Who can get a an empty water cooler bottle to go the highest when attached to an airline, who can learn to ride a unicycle, who can learn to juggle fire clubs etc.
I don't work in a circus. Well, there aren't any elephants and my office isn't in a big stripey tent but to all intents and purposes...
(Fri 9th Jan 2009, 12:25, More)
Action Man
Is he the greatest hero of them all?
Turns out Action Man is in fact a bit of a fanny and any one of the Wacky Racers could probably have him.
It did take us three twelve hour shifts of trudging up and down aisles, in a warehouse full of plastic signet rings and other assorted high street jewellers crap, to come to a conclusion on that particular conundrum.
At my current place of work the skives are much more of a challenge. Who can get a an empty water cooler bottle to go the highest when attached to an airline, who can learn to ride a unicycle, who can learn to juggle fire clubs etc.
I don't work in a circus. Well, there aren't any elephants and my office isn't in a big stripey tent but to all intents and purposes...
(Fri 9th Jan 2009, 12:25, More)