A Sport Named Whiskas

This has been pretty overdue, so sorry to all the…ermmm…one regular readers, for my uselessness. I shall endeavour to be better from now on.

So what’s new? Well many of you will know that I am now unemployed once more. Yep, quite the talent I’ve got there.

And it’s my own fault – I had a bit of a nervous breakdown and got £100 out of a cash machine on the company credit card to use on t-shirts and booze. In my defence, those are the two best things to spend money on though – especially when the t-shirts feature one Mr Scott Pilgrim. Yeah they still kick ass. They’re taking the edge off being a useless waste of oxygen for the time being.

So, in summary, Cambridge was shit. It didn’t work. Lots of posh people on bicycles. That’s really all I could see there. The main problem was that I wasn’t living in the city. I was living in Royston, about 10 miles south. It’s a shithole. Please, never go. Well, that is, unless you just want to sit around in a knock-off Wetherspoons. That’s all there is there. And I was living in a bed and breakfast for three months. Lovely as it was to not pay rent, get my washing and ironing done and not be tied into a contract, I could never relax properly. And I was always eating out at the pub because I had no means of cooking. Yeah, doesn’t sound too bad, until you see my waistline. I’m a tubby fuck right now, and I don’t like it. Couple that with the shaving of my head – it’s getting thin and I can’t afford haircuts right now – I’m starting to look worryingly like I did when I was 20, and nobody wants that, least of all the female population of the UK. They want pretty, confident Dan. They told me so – there was a protest outside my flat. It was weird, but flattering in a sort of backhanded way.

So what else should I talk about? I guess I should tell you all that I’m back in Portsmouth. That feels good, I have to say. Back by the sea and more importantly, back amongst people that I don’t just despise. Makes a big difference. Plus there’s the Honest Politician here, and that means £3 doubles with mixer and free pool. Can’t say fairer than that, can you? I bet it’s making a few of you wonder if you should move to Portsmouth. You should. Be near me. I’m epic.

Also, I’m on antidepressants. May as well throw it out there to those of you that don’t know. They’re really good – totally unexpectedly as well. I turned them down a year or so ago because I was in the “those things are fucking stupid and you get addicted to them” camp, but now I’m realising why they are actually, you know, prescribed by doctors. If I hadn’t been on them, I would almost certainly have fucked up immeasurably and been on the verge of suicide right now. I don’t think I’ve got the balls to kill myself though. It’s supposed to be a coward’s way out – and I get that – but really, it must take at least a bit of cajones to throw yourself in front of a bus or go buy a rope, ceiling hook and learn how to tie a noose. I’ve always wondered how suicidal people know how to tie nooses. Especially pre-internet. I mean there’s probably a tutorial on it on Youtube for it now, but it doesn’t look incredibly simple. Knowing me I would tie this piddly little thing that would snap as I kicked the stool away and all I would end up doing is spraining my ankle in the fall.

I have been feeling funnier in the last couple of weeks, since I got back, especially when riffing with Chris, but forgive me if this isn’t coming across right now because I can’t recall all of the hilarious stuff I’ve come out with. Just trust me, it was fucking funny. Oh oh oh. I have to tell you something that’s been tickling me for three days now – Chris told me that he has a new cat in his house now, and it’s been named – not by him, I must add – Tennis. That’s not an autocorrect error. That’s not my mind accidentally slipping out of my ear mid-sentence. That is a cat. Named. Tennis.

Tennis.

Tennis.

Drink that shit in. Is that not the most ridiculous name for anything you’ve ever heard ever? I mean, aside from a sport. Though it’s not got that lovely Ronseal logic of football or basketball to it, it still sort of works. I guess if you were to apply that basis of thinking to the world of tennis it would be racquetball, which is already a (rather similar) game. Or maybe runny-thwackyball. Or, judging by the last women’s game I saw, possibly gruntball. They do love a grunt nowadays. It’s all well and good when it’s a lithe Russian 18 year old, but when it’s a beastly Hungarian with arms the size of my legs, it’s just damn intimidating, and it puts you off your stroke.

Yeah, ok, resorted to lowbrow humour there. Apologies. Maybe I should stop now while I’m behind. After all, I have got my big telly back now, and there’s an awful lot of Assassins Creed Brotherhood to be played yet. And FIFA. And Mass Effect 2. Mmmmm games. Maybe I won’t bother getting one of those job things for a while yet. I’ve found I quite like sitting.

Until next time, when I promise I’ll try to make it funnier.

Dan-gerous.

The Return of The Dan (once again)

So, welcome back Me! Nice to see you again.

Thank you Me, that’s very kind of you to say. But I think you’re a bit of a douche.

Sorry to all (both?) of my regular readers for this taking so long to get around to. I’ve been shit. I have no real decent reason to excuse my absence. I’ve been busy…ish. This new job is fairly hectic. Actually that’s a lie. It’s just taken it out of me, mentally. For a while it really was hectic. I spent an entire week with some Chinese colleagues which was fun, but tiring. Up to Sheffield, back down the next day, meetings, tours, talks, training, dinner out each evening. That made it better. I actually had steak five nights in a row. Needless to say, I’m getting a bit fat.

But anyway, that passed. Well, after the Poland trip it did anyway. That was interesting, but just really quite Polish. You have to wonder why you’re in a meeting when the people on the other side of the table can’t communicate with you. But I was. So I just sat there and looked polite, all the while trying desperately to stay awake.

Now, though, it’s all got shit. They don’t like me, basically. They think I’m lazy and uninterested. Which I suppose is fair…mainly because I’m not that interested. And I’ve always been lazy. But aside from that they should really appreciate me, no?! I’m double-layer awesome, whatever that means. I’m like an awesome sandwich…with salad…and mayo…and…I think I ruined it.

So I had a disciplinary, where they basically wanted to sack me. Which is always nice…especially when you’ve just started to feel like you’re doing some half-decent work and starting to feel a part of the team. But oh well. Woe is me. I told them that I was depressed – which I am – to explain matters, and it’s down to the company doctor tomorrow to determine if I’m a big fat porky teller. That, and if they fire me, can I sue them under the Disability Discrimination Act 1995. That’s right bitches, I’m disabled now! I might try and get into the Paralympics next year. I reckon I could take a guy with no arms in the swimming, something like that.

Not really sure what else to say. I’m not gonna go into everything that’s happened. I wanted to write about Nick’s wedding and the Weezer gig but too much time passed really and it’s not at the front of my mind. Brief recap then: I Best Man-ned the shit out of the wedding. Totally knocked it out the park, and looked sharp in my suit. Fuck yeah. And Weezer – well, the ticket got delivered to the wrong address. So instead of it arriving at work the day before the gig, it arrived in Portsmouth. So I had a choice. Do I discard my beloved ticket to my beloved Weez or do I act like a fucking madman and shuttle run to Pompey to fetch it?

…So halfway down the motorway, having taken a half-day at work, I start questioning how ludicrous this all is. But hey, gotta do it right? I went to the post office, grabbed the ticket, high-tailed it to Richmond, train to Vauxhall, Tube to Brixton…bit of fried chicken, couple of pints…and then they came on.

And boy did they ROCK! My lord…just…incredible. They opened with Undone. That beautiful little drum start…mmm…I might have made a small mess in my pants. Then it just continued getting better. And better. Jonas. Scorcho. Pink Triangle. The Greatest Man That Ever Lived. Then, just as I thought it couldn’t get any better…Only In Dreams followed by fucking PARANOID ANDROID! Yeah I just about exploded.

Ok enough of me geeking out. For many of you the previous paragraph just contained an awful lot of random words placed next to one another with initial caps, but to me it was simply one of the greatest nights of my life. Worth all the day’s driving. Worth the £50 petrol, the £10 train ticket. The overpriced beer, the sweat making my t-shirt stick firmly to my man-bosoms. It was all just amazing. If I could live that night again I would do so until the day I died. And I would die happy. Sweaty, but happy.

Ok this hasn’t been that funny but I’m gonna try to get better with that. Hopefully these antidepressants won’t dull my genius sense of humour. That would just be punishing the world needlessly. And the world didn’t do anything wrong, did you? No, you’re a good world. There’s a good world! I might have lost my mind. When I find it I’ll let you guys know.

Peace and love.

New Life v2.0

Ok, so let's give this thing another go. It's been a little while, hasn't it? And hopefully now I'll actually be capable of making this funny again, rather than simply bitter and twisted. Well, we can but hope. I'm still me, after all.

So I'm now not in Portsmouth. Nope. No more wonderous nights in Scandals or evening pool at the Poli. I will miss the Poli. I already do, to be honest. But it's fine - I've made some great friends down there and I'll visit regularly. I think you can all tell what I'll be doing when I'm there as well, seeing as those two things I suggested as examples of things I miss do basically revolve around getting hammered. I'm still me, after all.

So...Cambridge baby! Well, Royston, actually. Yes, like Royston Vasey. But I'm not actually living inside Roy Chubby Brown (not that I'm saying there's not enough room. I think you could house at the very least a medium-sized Polish family within that man). Nope, this is a ickle town/village/thingplace with not a lot going on. Very quaint, but just not much there. Like a town version of Boris Johnson, really. But less funny.

So I'm in a B&B, which is....boring but fine. I do get pub dinners every night which is just lovely. Can't complain at that. Though my waistline is starting to. It's not so keen. It likes it when I don't go near pubs. I hate how we fight.

New job as well, obviously the reason I'm here. I'm sat in work right now actually, just finished and wondering what to do with my night. I'm trying to talk myself into, and then out of, going to the gym. I know I should, but I sort of don't want to. I've only gone once since I joined last week, so my body hasn't adjusted and I know it will hurt if I do a big workout. I'm basically just lazy to be honest, but hey. I don't care. I am missing football Thursday evening though, which sucks, so I should go do something. That way I can at least justify a big fat meal or two the next couple of nights.

Ah damn it. The sun has come out again and it's tempting me outside quite badly. I don't want to fight the urge for much longer, so I'll keep this brief for today and fill you guys in properly (ooh er!) sometime soon.

I've made a couple of new friends, seemingly. Which is awesome. A guy and a girl from my office who both seem very nice. The guy got me into the football game - instant best mate, in guy terms. Give me football and I give you my heart. And the girl and I had a pint yesterday and a bitch about the world. and those of you who know me well know that's a sure-fire way to get me to love you as well. So it's all good.

Right, I'm gonna go get a burger, methinks.

Laters, bitches.

Ah I'm an idiot

Just generally, you know? Always shooting myself in the foot or shoving my foot in my mouth, or shooting my foot while it's in my mouth and blowing my brains out. Metaphorically of course. I'm not that flexible!

I'm just sick of being a gullible twat with women and not having enough self-confidence or self-respect. But that's only because I'm a twat, so it's understandable.

So yet again I fucked up another "thing" with a girl. I say thing because they're never relationships. I never get that far. It's always a case of "yeah, you're lovely, but I'm just not in a 'relationshippy place right now' and all that shit. And I sort of try to believe it, because in the short-term it's easier than hearing: "It's because you're shit in bed and clingy."

But in the long-term, that shit would be helpful, you know? A bit of brutal honesty which would help you become a better catch for the next person who comes along. But it never happens. Well, maybe it does, but only if you get into a bit of an argument about things, and no girl ever does that with me, because I'm too nice. Fuck being nice, I totally need to learn how to come across as a callous knobhead who only wants them for their abilities as a semen receptacle. Those are the guys they stick with.

And I know it's not just girls...guys are bad at this too, probably worse. Because we fear the tear. Not a tear like you get with paper...well, unless you have a particular gift from nature in your pants, but like tears, out of your face holes.

Guys are absolutely terrified of the tears because we don't know how to deal with them. It's never really been a factor for me - no woman ever wants me enough for me to have to break up with them. Result.

But wouldn't it lead to a better world? Wouldn't you appreciate it, in all honesty, if somebody you had got close to told you exactly how you fucked it all up? I've been single for about 7-8 years and I know I would. I'm clearly a fucking nightmare to put up with and if that could be tempered slightly, it would possibly reduce my chances of ending up owning 14 cats and living in my own filth.

I know it's not really going to happen and I do know a number of the things that I've done to fuck things up by simple deduction and reading between the lines. I come across as too interested too soon, which is only exacerbated by the fact that it's been so long since someone could stand me. I end up clawing for their adulation almost regardless of how fantastic they are. I can know that it logically is going nowhere, but I just end up becoming so desperate to be the one in control, the one who is adored and chased-after, that I accidentally push it too hard too fast, almost demanding confirmation of their feelings before I've fully formed my own.

Meh it'll be ok. Maybe therapy would help, but then again, those of you who have read a few of these will realise that it didn't quite work out so well for me last time. I want proper tv-style therapy. I want a fucking chaise longue dammit!!

I'll work on it, and I'm planning to move - if things go well in my interview on Monday then maybe to Cambridge - and I think that will help me. Getting back into a proper job will resurrect my confidence and self-respect - even if it doesn't fix my self-loathing. Then I can get into a city where 90% of the women aren't orange by their own hand. A city where the idea of a good night out doesn't generally involve glassing someone. A city where an educated man isn't seen as a threat. That would be a novelty.

Ok I'll end this one there. It got some shit off my chest, even if it wasn't that funny, so thank you very much if you managed to make it to this point. I'm genuinely flattered that any of you would read these at all, and all comments are ridiculously appreciated - they keep me going. You know, unless they're from my brother.

I'll have a bitch about being back at that shitty call centre next time - maybe that will be funny. Until then, be good. And if you can't be good, at least steal me a present :)

I've been Dan, by the way.

Irony and Idiots

Hello again my lovelies :)

How lovely to be speaking to you. Yes I should do this more. I know. I'll be better. I've got someone on my case whipping me into shape about it now which is actually great. Means I don't put it off for the sake of sitting on my arse some more. Because I've pretty much mastered that.

Aaaaaanyway...what should we talk about? That's a good question. I've been bitching at almost anyone who would listen for the last few days about my brother. That's been a treat for them. I tried to keep it localised to my family, because, well, they understand, but I couldn't. Especially as he called me at midnight Saturday and talked at me (not to me, not with me) for an HOUR AND A HALF! Fuck dude....I was trying to complete Fable 2. The best laid plans of mice and men and all that. Such grand plans. I wanted to watch the F1 in the morning, as did he, and yet he continued to talk to me until I had not enough time to get a decent night's sleep before watching it! If only I could explain to him what irony was...

I should stop. He may well read this and get sad. Then call back.

So what else has been happening? I've been watching Dexter. That's awesome. Though by the end of season two I have been wondering whether I should identify with a serial killer quite as much as I have been. Worrying times...especially when coupled with Alec suggesting the other night, apropos of nothing, that I was the most likely of his friends "to grab a knife and just stab someone in the heart". I suppose it's possible. I get angry at the stupidest little things.

I was shopping earlier and I felt a murderous rampage brewing when, while attempting to purchase a football for common-based japes and indeed, possibly, some larks, I was confronted by a massive queue (of the sort of uber-chavs you only find in the Portsmouth job centre and Sports Direct shops), and only one fucker serving. Grrr...it's sunny. You sell sports equipment. Put two and two together and realise that maybe some of these people might want to buy a tennis racquet or a pair of shorts on a day like this and put some more people on the counter! Instead they were all just lolling around (not laughing out loud, but the old-school interpretation of the term - that would have been creepy. All these workers just wandering around the shop, not helping anyone and instead just maniacally laughing in their faces). These people don't ever help you. They just try to sell you more than you need. Like Shoe Repair Creme ("it keeps your shoes in tip-top condition - it's got Protraineron X50 in it which is great for trainers") or any other fucking impulse buys nobody asked for.

I hate that shit. Selling you things based on basically ambushing you and pelting you with nonsense until you give in. I want to hurt those people. I get it in Game now as well. One of the places I used to adore going, just mingling around, browsing the games, seeing what bargains I could uncover or just keeping an eye out for what's new, maybe playing the latest console release in the corner to get a feel for it while saving up money. And it was sunny all the time. I swear it was. And the summers lasted for at least 11 months of the year.

But now, no. It's all changed. Ah capitalism. It's all about the power sell now. You can't mingle in Game. You get Kevin - 22, in his fucking purple shirt and with his big, shit-eating grin - come up and ask you if you need assistance, or, worse than that, just try to offer it without being asked. I was looking at a few games a month or so ago and this guy came up while I was reading the back of the box and said "would you prefer the pre-owned version? It's a pound cheaper". A POUND? Really? How you spoil us so! I'll immediately go out and spend that extra Free Money on....ermm....well...a lottery ticket? A McDonalds hamburger? No, I'm alright thanks, I'd rather not line the pockets of this company that has become so fucking disgusting to me, just another cog in an already sickening machine. The problem I have is that pre-owned games sales give nothing to the developer. You know, those lovely people who actually MAKE the game you're playing. The ones providing such enjoyment. And then you get Game, who are the chief high street stockist of these beautiful gems of escapism, who are actively trying to kill the very market they're ostensibly working on behalf of. Bah, it makes me mad.

But sod it if I'm paying £45 for a fucking new one. It might be shit.

OK, ok...less ranting now. Or maybe just a change of target. I feel like ripping somebody a new one today, as you may well have guessed, but I just can't figure out who best to destroy. Overall, I'm just sick of idiots. They're fucking everywhere you turn. Just doing their idiot thing, talking bollocks. In a ladies clothes shop I happened to be in earlier in town (not perving - well ok, not just perving, I was in there with my mate Zoe), we overheard this woman chatting on. Well actually no. It wasn't overhearing. It was just hearing. She was shouting across the shop. About her drinking habit. Most people would call it a problem, but I don't think she considered it that way. Going on about how her friend should go out instead of staying in because "I end up staying in every night and opening a bottle of wine and watching that SHIT tv and I just end up finishing it all myself and shouting at the SHIT tv and feeling really depressed". Across the shop. Thanks for that tidbit of information about your life that none of us asked for. Funny though, I have to admit.

I'm gonna end this one now and maybe work on another particular slice of idiotdom to target next.

Peace, love and giggles. Hahaha no I'm kidding, don't worry.

War, famine and depression :-)

The Dan

Alex Zane has a punchable face

Ok so this might not be as targeted a blog as it seems from that title, but Marcel was just watching Rude Tube and I couldn't help but think it. He really does. And I want to be the guy to do the punching. I just don't like him. He's a smarmy prick, and if any of the girls reading this fancy him, go punch yourself in the vagina, now. It deserves it. It should have better taste.

Slightly forceful opening there, but I stand by it. So what should I talk about? Not sure really. I just felt like having a little bit of a rant while I'm sat in on a Saturday night with no money or prospects. Mmmm, how I love life right now. And clearly, it loves me.

That being said, I've had an alright week. Hung out with Chris, which is always a giggle, and watched an awful lot of Cougar Town, which is just brilliant, so I shan't complain too much. Though given that I'm not up to an awful lot, I should really be concentrating on the creative side of my life. Believe it or not, I do mean this blog, to a certain extent. It doesn't strike me as being particularly creative either, but I started it to try and store comedy ideas online so I didn't lose them. Most comedians carry a notepad around with them all the time to jot down ideas. Great plan. Except I'm shit. I forget. Everything. Always.

So I decided to just rant away on here and try to put new ideas into my phone when I deem them good enough. That's half my problem though, I self-censor. I don't think most of my ideas are any good at all so don't jot them down. Thus removing the opportunity to return to them later and do a second draft that would actually make them funny, or combining them together. Meh, I'm a dick. Oh well.

So what should I talk about? Damn that's tricky. Maybe I'll just slag myself off some more for a while and try to write something funny later or another day. Because I'm not feeling that funny today. The most hilarious thing I've seen all day was Tottenham's woeful attempt at scoring goals against bottom-of-the-table Wigan earlier. Fucking pathetic.

So yeah, my paintings are shit at the moment as well. Oh well. I can't be arsed! I've got so lazy with them, I just want to cover the canvas as quickly as I possibly can and get onto another one, thus the black foregrounds and lovely blended sky look I've gone for. It's just easy. I could knock one up in 15 minutes. But ask me to do anything with detail and I'd rather grate off my foot. Dunno why, I just can't do it right now. I need to challenge myself, but it's hard to get motivated and inspired, especially when you don't officially have any reason to get out of bed in the morning. Ok, afternoon. Picky fuckers.

I'm wondering whether I should even bother carrying on with this, as it really feels as if it's going nowhere. Let's see what 'comedy' thoughts I stored in my phone shall we? I have "Tony Barbados". Just Tony Barbados scribbled in. Though I did think that was funny. It was just a fake name Chris cooked up while taking the piss out of me, and I decided that it was an epic band name, so I now need to get yet more creative and actually learn my bass, so I can be one half of the Tony Barbados nu-funk beast. You know you'd listen if that was the name.

Oh yeah and I just found the thing I wrote on my first day at TLC that I forgot to share with you last time. This basically summed up for me what this whole experience was going to be like. I was waiting for the bus because I'm a lazy cunt and couldn't be bothered walking (piss off it was cold!) and this guy also waiting for the bus sneezed.

So I thought to myself "Dan, you need to go into this with a good attitude or you'll be back home by 11am", so I said bless you. Like a good Christian. And instead of just saying thanks, like you might expect, this dude slowly walks up to me and says in response "I'm blessed enough as it is thanks"

What? Stop being creepy, old man. That's just a weird thing to say. Oh, so then you follow it up with: "I can show you..."

Oh fuck. He's gonna show me his cock. It's 8:20am. There's no chance I'm ready to see old man cock at this time of the morning. I've not even had a cuppa. Cuppa before cock, that's always my rule. Except after C.

So he continues..."I can show you...the secret to eternal life". Oh shit. I'd rather have seen his cock. It'd be less disgusting to me. I did worry briefly that he was going to show me his cock and then kill me, but then he started to tell me how you live forever.

I'm struggling not to laugh in his face at this point. It's hard, believe me (ooh matron). But he only gets as far as point 1, which I fear is the only step he was told as well. "First of all, you need to get yourself a good Bible." Hmmm, yeah, not one of those dodgy black market Bibles with Steve in the lead role and lots of wookiies in it. A good one. Maybe he meant laminated or something.

Then he tells me something which again I struggle to not laugh at. He says: "Some people say it's out of date. I tell you, it's more in-date than any book in the world right now. Seriously."

Hmmm, really? Is it mate? Are you sure? Cos I can think of a few more in-date books than the Bible. The Very Hungry Caterpillar for one. Windows 95 For Dummies being another. And Courtesan Etiquette in the 1700s.

Fucking Christians. Do you think he'd have forgiven me if I'd stabbed him with a pen?

The First Flirty Smile

So this was a workshop exercise from my 'how-to' book that I did while outbound calling at that hell hole :)

Isn't it lovely before it all goes hideously wrong with a new partner? The calm before the restraining order, I call it.

I think we should be more bureaucratic about it - like you officially register your interest in someone via email. Sod the romance, this is the technology age!

Surely there's an App for that. Integrate it into Facebook, whatever, I don't give a shit just get it done!

That was you just point your camera at somebody or enter their name and then you tick a box to say what you want from them. These range from Possible Spouse all the way through to One Five-Minute-Behind-The-Bins Stand.

Or there are the more obscure options:

I just want to follow you home

Let me lick your feet, or

Be my new mummy

Then the recipient (victim?) gets a little alert on their phone or computer with a cheesy picture of you doing the double-thumbs-up with a flashing message underneath it that reads:

PISS ON MY HAIR?!?!

That way you avoid all that awkward 'reading the signs' nonsense. I can't do that shit. It drives me crazy. Unless the girl is wearing a neon flashing sign with arrows pointed up her inner thighs that reads 'Get in me!' I really struggle to catch them.

I currently rely on the tried-and-tested British technique of staring, immediately followed by hiding. You look, they look back, you look away. You wouldn't want them to know that you liked them, after all, would you?!

That would be ridiculous. Then you just might end up happy, and we just can't have that. It's not on. We're British.

If we, as a nation, weren't constantly moaning, we'd be walking around like headless chickens. We need to vent, and thus we need stuff to vent about. Our heads would literally explode from the build-up of pressure if we didn't moan.

I mean, look at America, they go around being polite and nice and all 'have a nice day' and don't like to moan. They can't praise enough. Everything is awesome. Everything. But that pressure builds and builds underneath the surface. that pressure of being less intelligent that the person they're talking to, possibly.

And then, it builds up to such a level that they have to go and start a pointless war just to get it out of their systems.

Back in the Game

Okay, okay, so it's been a while. You missed me. I get it. I've been busy ok?

Stop laughing. I know anybody who reads this knows me and is well aware what a lazy sonofabitch I've been over the last few months but leave off - I was depressed. Not that that is a legitimate reason to stop laughing at the world, but it did make it harder to share things with you all.

But now...well I'm still jobless but I have at least remembered why I started this in the first place. Partly to craft new material for stand-up (yeah it's hardly going speedily, with me being such a wuss, but hey) and partly just because I love to write, especially like this. I don't have to worry about using clever words or using the correct sentence structure. Fuck that. I iz just gonna rite wot I want how I wants it. Blud.

Ok enough of that. But you get my point. I will at least endeavour to spell correctly with you all. Consider it a life lesson. Bad spelling ain't sexy. Well, not if you're trying to ensnare a wordy geek with sexy stubble and eyes you could get lost in, anyway. Ahem.

So on with the bulk of this thing. Not that I'm sure what that is. But I may as well fill you in on what's been happening in my life. I've done a lot of sitting. That was pretty fun. Sleeping is ace, truly. And my Xbox Achievments score has literally tripled. Take that, capitalist definition of success!

But aside from that, I did in fact work in a call centre for a bit. Yeah. Me. As I'm a freak boy I couldn't help picturing it as the brief for a slightly poor sitcom or film. "So yeah, you've got this guy, and he's all smart and stuff, and his life falls apart and he ends up working in a dead-end call centre with a bunch of orange morons and hilarity ensues. Then, by the end, he realises a few things about respect and not judging a book by its cover and walks out of the building on his last day with Don't You (Forget About Me) playing and, with the camera behind him, punches the air in silhouette." Fuck off, I love the Breakfast Club. It's an homage, it's not a rip-off.

That reminds me - everyone go download (or legitimately purchase...haha) Community season one. It's just genius.

So yeah, the call centre. It didn't start too well. We were training on Tuesday, with work starting on the Wednesday. Always a good sign. And apparently we were to be trained on inbound calling - this is for Debenhams by the way - and then the subsequent day, doing outbound calling. After not being trained. Yeah. I know it's not exactly rocket science, reading from a script, but we at least needed to be shown how to use the phone systems, you would have thought.

So I managed to annoy the two women "training" us before the end of the first day. I have that sort of talent. They were fucking idiots though. I wish I'd just said that to their faces. But I didn't I gritted my teeth. and then it got worse.

Fast-forward to Day Two. Outbound calling. It takes the techy team 2 1/2 hours to get everyone up and running, and thus, we are behind on our targets. Well, the management are behind on theirs, but, you know. So I'm making a call, reading out this fucking script about a new sale - yeah, we were calling Debenhams card holders to let them know there was a sale coming up, really - and this tiny little witch comes up and starts shouting at me to get my "wrap time" down. Now this is the time it takes from when you finish a call to the time you return to 'ready' and make another. In this time you have to 'code' the call -successful or otherwise - and click things in a sequence at just the right time to get back to 'ready'. If you do it too quickly, you remain in 'wrap' and someone comes and breaks your knees.

So I've bit my tongue about the first, ridiculous instance, and this fucking bitch won't stop. She decides that everyone is too slow - which is weird, because we're all so well-trained on the phone systems we're using - and makes us all stand up. Not to tell us off. To carry on working. Like a fucking concentration camp or some shit. Not impressed. We all have to stand until our combined wrap times come down to somewhere near 3 seconds. At this point I think you can imagine the sort of Itchy & Scratchy-style ultraviolence I wanted to bring on this woman. I'm talking Mortal Kombat rip-off-her-leg-and-beat-her-stupid-face-with-it levels of anger. But I managed to hold it in.

It was tough, but after that and her subsequent Worst Pep-Talk Ever, in which she stood up on a chair and said "I know it's been tough and manic and you've been getting to grips with it all...but it's not going to get better. It will only get harder." it was kinda hard to still be on her side. Mmmminimum wage :) Again, tongue bitten. Not sure how I still have a tongue really now, but thankfully I do. Otherwise this would be my only way of staying in contact with the world and, well, despite how grateful I am to everyone who bothers to read this, there aren't many of you, so I'd be quite lonely.

Ok ok so I'm basically just rambling...what are the chances?!...shut up schizophrenic sarcastic commentator voice on my life!

But I did meet some nice people. And some fucking morons. And drama queens. And orange people, lots of orange people. Though even if they were nice, they also did tend to come out with brilliant quotes. I don't remember them all but my favourite one revolved around a customer enquiring as to a possible delivery to Denmark. The girl calmly placed the customer on hold, turns to a few of us and casually asks: "Guys...where's Denmark?" ...pretty funny on its own, but ok, if you're talking specific location I don't really know. It's Nordic. It's Scandinavian. It's over there ->

But it was the next bit. Oh lordy. So we've had "Where's Denmark?" now follow it up, bring it home, fill us with joy..."is it in Sweden?"

BOOM! I laughed for a week. Seriously. Awesome ignorance. Just awesome.

Oh yeah and even though this isn't as funny I'm gonna share it before I go - a woman actually called up because she had bought something in a jar from Debenhams, and couldn't get the jar open. She didn't call a friend or neighbour. She called customer services. About opening a jar. That tickled me.

Ok so I'll try to do this more often for all your enjoyment, plus my own twisted sense of mind. I wrote some funny shit while I was there as well - I'll write it up later or tomorrow maybe. Get excited. It's actual jokes. No, really.

Much love.