Thursday, May 17, 2007
No Weddings, two deaths and their Funerals
So, finally after 185 days and countless boredom packets of Walker’s Cheese and Onion crisps, I at last find my self no longer one of the great unwashed but a fully paid up member of the City Gentlemen’s club once more. And after more that half a year sitting on my butt it distresses me to say that it appears nothing has changed – other than the number of building site around the city (where the fuck did that building opposite Cannon Street go??!) - it’s still same shit ,different day.
Take the train for instance. I haven’t been in the 4th carriage from the front for 7 months but I get in and it’s instant déjà vu. There he is, the bleached-blond, perma-tanned fat bloke with a fetish for chunky gold jewellery and comedy ties. And still having a full strength coke and a double decker for breakfast. And the ugly couple who grin inanely at each other from five fucking millimetres away and insist on snogging even if you’re sardined up against them? Yep, there too. (and just so you know, not the sort of threesome I’ve ever dreamt of thank you very much you dirty mingers) And of course, the myriad people who forget they’re out in public and insist on using their mobiles as fucking megaphones to broadcast their dirty laundry to all four corners of the of the carriage? Check. God, I almost wish I hadn’t found another job – and it’s certainly fair to say that the chilled out, relaxed, karmic state I’d achieved over the stress-free weeks I was off had all but dissipated in the time it took British Rail to cattle-truck me one lousy stop.
Thoughts of unemployment and a need to distract myself from Dork and Mindy’s frenzied tongue session (she could at least have taken her gum out, oh hold on, perhaps it’s his?) lead me to consider whether living on JSA really was better than this. So with that in mind I start to analyse all I achieved in my marathon absence from the city. Rather embarrassingly, it doesn’t appear to be a lot.
Well, it seems that in succeeded in watching;
All five series of Six Feet Under
The first four series of Nip/Tuck
The first two series of 4400
Both series of Dead Like Me
The whole of extremely dodgy vampire series Ultraviolet
I also;
Learned how to play the Guitar Solo from Don’t Stop Me Now
Found out that you really can have too much time on your hands
Hmmm, not a lot when you really think about it, although it does explain why the batteries in almost every remote control in the house now appear to be dead. If it’s true what they say the road to hell paved with good intentions, it seems I’ll have my own three lane superhighway of freshly laid tarmac right to Old Nick’s door front door. I had great plans for how I was going to use all my free time; to get fit (5K run every day), lose a stone, read all those weighty tomes I’d always promises to broaden my mind with, do all those jobs round the house. So how come I’m a stone heavier, that curtain pole is still hanging from the wall, the loft, garage and spare room are still full of crap stuck in there since we moved in (4 and a half years and counting…) and I still haven’t hung up the pictures purchased on our trip to Venice last year (let alone printed out the photos taken on the same trip, the frames for which from part of the general detritus clogging up said spare room).
I also never wrote the novel I was planning, or became a Daily Telegraph columnist. In fact my seminal work the Diaries “What I did on Me Holidays: A Memoir in Words and Pictures”, the work for which I will one day receive the Whitbread and Pulitzer prizes, remains nothing more than a daydream, with its snappy title scribbled on the back of a beer mat being the only “ink to paper” that has happened so far.
In fact the most I’ll remember from my enforced sabbatical is there in the title to this entry (I suppose I could add a Coroner’s Inquest and a fortieth birthday in there, but then it didn’t scan), the second funeral of which deserves its own recognition. And so asI sit here at my new and shiny desk with new work colleagues to banter with and last night football to discuss I wish just one thing. God I could do with some time off…….
Take the train for instance. I haven’t been in the 4th carriage from the front for 7 months but I get in and it’s instant déjà vu. There he is, the bleached-blond, perma-tanned fat bloke with a fetish for chunky gold jewellery and comedy ties. And still having a full strength coke and a double decker for breakfast. And the ugly couple who grin inanely at each other from five fucking millimetres away and insist on snogging even if you’re sardined up against them? Yep, there too. (and just so you know, not the sort of threesome I’ve ever dreamt of thank you very much you dirty mingers) And of course, the myriad people who forget they’re out in public and insist on using their mobiles as fucking megaphones to broadcast their dirty laundry to all four corners of the of the carriage? Check. God, I almost wish I hadn’t found another job – and it’s certainly fair to say that the chilled out, relaxed, karmic state I’d achieved over the stress-free weeks I was off had all but dissipated in the time it took British Rail to cattle-truck me one lousy stop.
Thoughts of unemployment and a need to distract myself from Dork and Mindy’s frenzied tongue session (she could at least have taken her gum out, oh hold on, perhaps it’s his?) lead me to consider whether living on JSA really was better than this. So with that in mind I start to analyse all I achieved in my marathon absence from the city. Rather embarrassingly, it doesn’t appear to be a lot.
Well, it seems that in succeeded in watching;
All five series of Six Feet Under
The first four series of Nip/Tuck
The first two series of 4400
Both series of Dead Like Me
The whole of extremely dodgy vampire series Ultraviolet
I also;
Learned how to play the Guitar Solo from Don’t Stop Me Now
Found out that you really can have too much time on your hands
Hmmm, not a lot when you really think about it, although it does explain why the batteries in almost every remote control in the house now appear to be dead. If it’s true what they say the road to hell paved with good intentions, it seems I’ll have my own three lane superhighway of freshly laid tarmac right to Old Nick’s door front door. I had great plans for how I was going to use all my free time; to get fit (5K run every day), lose a stone, read all those weighty tomes I’d always promises to broaden my mind with, do all those jobs round the house. So how come I’m a stone heavier, that curtain pole is still hanging from the wall, the loft, garage and spare room are still full of crap stuck in there since we moved in (4 and a half years and counting…) and I still haven’t hung up the pictures purchased on our trip to Venice last year (let alone printed out the photos taken on the same trip, the frames for which from part of the general detritus clogging up said spare room).
I also never wrote the novel I was planning, or became a Daily Telegraph columnist. In fact my seminal work the Diaries “What I did on Me Holidays: A Memoir in Words and Pictures”, the work for which I will one day receive the Whitbread and Pulitzer prizes, remains nothing more than a daydream, with its snappy title scribbled on the back of a beer mat being the only “ink to paper” that has happened so far.
In fact the most I’ll remember from my enforced sabbatical is there in the title to this entry (I suppose I could add a Coroner’s Inquest and a fortieth birthday in there, but then it didn’t scan), the second funeral of which deserves its own recognition. And so asI sit here at my new and shiny desk with new work colleagues to banter with and last night football to discuss I wish just one thing. God I could do with some time off…….
# posted by Bucko! @ 3:49 AM 
