PHONE ETIQUETTE/METAL GEAR SOLID

I almost always have my mobile phone nearby.  There’s really no excuse not to.  And even if I can’t see it, I know it’s within earshot.  It’s really one of the basic prerequisites of owning a mobile phone, because there’s no point in having one if you’re just going to leave it lying around at home while you’re out gallivanting (yes, gallivanting) around.  By definition alone, this expensive piece of hardware allows people to get in touch with you whilst you’re on the move and/or toilet.

 

This preamble is necessary because you need to know that if you call me and I don’t answer, I’ll get back to you whenever/if-ever I can.  Calm down, bear with me, and the situation will be rectified in due course.

 

The golden rule is this: do NOT call me back continuously or leave multiple voicemails.  The game is not - I repeat NOT - fun.  There are no winners, only losers; specifically your dignity and (inevitably) any respect I had left for you.  Now granted, I may not be answering because I don’t want to talk to you, but you can take comfort in knowing that I would have probably heard my phone ringing and screened the call first.  That’s better than me just being completely oblivious to the call at all, isn’t it?  Yes.  Yes, it is.

 

My current ringtone is the codec noise from the Metal Gear Solid series of games, which was honestly as cool as fuck for like the first 3 phone calls I received.  Since then I’ve just kind of drowned it out along with the plethora of other noises the world hurls at me daily.  Before this, it was the Party Boy theme tune from Jackass, so at least I’m moving in the right direction.  However, when I’m lucky enough to receive a drunken call at 4:30am, computer game sound effects are just about as terrifying as it gets.

 

Now this whole thing sounds passive aggressive, but it’s not.  There is obviously an individual that this is directed at, and I won’t use his name here, but the important thing is that I’m not just going to post a surly blog from behind a shroud of internet mystery and hope he stumbles upon it, thus finally realising his wrong-doing.

 

No, the blog is simply a follow-up.  The incident occurred last week, and rest assured I called the man in question when I woke up the following morning, which turned out to be 7:30am Sunday, to properly answer for his crimes.  And answer he did, mostly to the tune of “What? Did I do that?  Did I really leave 5 voicemails at 4:30am, two of which were just me shouting your name and another which included a four minute monologue in a German accent?”  Yes.  Yes, you fucking did.

 

He learned a tough lesson in that short conversation, but we’re both better for it.  I covered all aspects of the Golden Rule, and even lied told him that he was one of the very few people whose calls I usually answered promptly.

 

He was ashamed of himself, and rightly so.

 

It’s like he didn’t even read my blog a few months ago about the difficulties I have with sleep.

 

How bloody inconsiderate.

--Tagged under: Phone Etiquette--

--Tagged under: Metal Gear Solid--

--Tagged under: The Golden Rule--

TEMPING/DOODLES

So, big news. 

 

I left the call centre.

 

Yes, after seventeen months of cold-calling old people and prising what was left of their pensions from their cold-but-not-yet-dead hands, I called it a day.

 

Basically, I got a bit depressed coming back to London after Christmas.  It’s always hard leaving home, but I had spent two and a half weeks there for the festive holidays and so had settled back into the easy life.  I didn’t have any acting work lined up upon my return to the big city, and so I knew I would be going straight back into the call centre.

 

This I could handle.

 

Upon returning however, I found a real gem in a stack of unopened Christmas post: a council tax bill of just under £1000.  It also stated that we were now beyond threatening letters and a court appearance date, so our account had been handed to a debt collecting agency.  And, at some point in the next few weeks, someone would be kicking in our door and repossessing our things to sell at public auction.

 

After I had immersed myself in full-blown panic mode, I knew I’d have to put acting to one side for a while and get a proper full time job.  A mate of mine recommended me to his temping agency, and away I went.  Make no mistake; there was always the option to work full time, 9-5, at the call centre.  But quite simply: fuck that.

 

Anyway, temping isn’t bad.  A lot of the time I just get put on reception - probably due to my sunny disposition and warm personality - so it gives me a chance to practice my small talk (which I’m fucking terrible at) when there’s people around; and my solemn-staring-out-of-the-window-in-complete-silence (which I’m fucking awesome at) when the lobby is quiet.

 

And believe it or not, I actually have good relationships with other staff members and clients in the offices upstairs.  They were obviously sceptical of me at first, but I gained their favour by going out of my way to help them with menial tasks (which was tough) and by regularly coming up with witty little remarks, like calling the reception area “the Western Front”:

 

Boss:  How are you, have you been busy today?

 

Me:  Well, I was this morning, but now it seems to be “all quiet on the Western Front…”

 

Boss:  AHAHAHA YOU’RE SO WITTY!!!!

 

Anyhoo, I don’t leave work each night contemplating murder-suicide, so already it beats the call centre.  I do get shit on occasionally by pissy clients, but rather than it actually being my fault or indeed anything to do with me, it’s because they think “Hey, I’m a total cunt, I’m going to take it out on the guy who’s expendable.”

 

I do think back to the call centre occasionally, but it amazes me that I have no real memories of the place – I mean, I remember being there, obviously.  But I was working there 4 days a week for a year and a half, and I really don’t know where the time went.  I doodled a bit, but not that much.  It really breaks my heart knowing that there are people I know still working there every day.  And by “breaks my heart” I of course mean “makes me briefly consider other human beings.”

 

I do feel bad for them, though.  I keep thinking that I should go back there, kick the doors in and tell everyone to get the fuck out of there and get the fuck on with their lives.  They’ve lost their way, just as I had, and I’d be more than happy to give them a smack around the mouth to bring them back to their senses.

 

But frankly I’d just as rather never see the place (or the people) again.

 

So come and see me in reception sometime.  You can tell me about your weekend or the weather or your kids, and in return I’ll smile, pretend like I don’t hate you, and reply with my patented “well, that’s whatever you were talking about for you.”

 

It’ll be fun.  I’ve had loads of practice.

--Tagged under: Temping--

--Tagged under: Doodles--

--Tagged under: The Western Front--

SNOW/BORIS JOHNSON

So it’s February, and the weather’s been deliciously mild for far too long and whoever’s in charge (possibly Boris Johnson) has just thought “Fuck it, it’s high time we had some snow.”

 

So we’ve had the extensive disruption on public transport; we’ve had the sensationalist end-of-the-world headlines in the newspapers; and, of course, we’ve had the sheer unbridled joy from everyone else.

 

Now I appreciate it looks nice, Oh god doesn’t it look nice and Oh how I wish the whole world could look this beautiful ALL the time but really that’s the extent of it.  I just don’t understand why people get so excited about snow.  I’m not going to “go out and play” in it because I’m not 5 years old.  Two decades ago I’d have been all over it, literally off my face.  But what do you actually do in snow?  We don’t have skis, we don’t have sledges, we don’t have snowboards. We live in London for fucks sake.  And I will kill you if you suggest making ‘snow angels’.

 

As you might have guessed, I don’t do well in the cold.  For the past week (and for the foreseeable future) I’ve been sleeping curled up in my sleeping bag, underneath two duvets, with the radiator on full whack.  I’m not kidding.  It’s pretty snug.  I suppose there are a fair many things that might be considered worse than waking up in the night because you’re too cold, but it’s pretty high on my list.

 

Now I *WILL* (begrudgingly) accept snow on Christmas day.  Everyone’s huddled indoors with their loved ones and inevitably someone blurts out that we’re finally witnessing that elusive “white Christmas” that we’ve all dreamed so much about and you really want to punch them in their mouth but you let it slide because hey, it’s Christmas, and people are idiots.  At any other time of the year snow is just a fucking nuisance.

 

As I mentioned earlier, the other thing that snow brings is stupid people believing stupid things the newspapers are saying.  The Sun’s front page two days ago warned that more snow was on the way, and that IT WILL BE SO COLD THAT THE GRIT ON THE ROADS WON’T WORK HOLY SHIT.  Don’t get me started on shitty newspaper headlines. 

 

Anyhoo, as I type this it’s started to rain outside, meaning the snow will have vanished completely by tomorrow morning and this whole rant becomes invalid.  But I’ve had fun writing it, and you’ve had fun reading it.  So fuck you snow, I win.

 

 

I can’t wait until it’s Summer again, so I can complain about it being too hot.

--Tagged under: Snow--

--Tagged under: Boris Johnson--

--Tagged under: Sheer Unbridled Joy--

INSOMNIA/SOPHIE ELLIS BEXTOR

This one’s been coming for a while now.  And when I say “a while”, think in terms of years.

 

I’ve never been a good sleeper.  It’s not something I usually make a fuss about (except to anyone at all who happens to ask) but it’s annoyed me for a long time, and we all know the system by now:

 

Something annoys me > I write a blog > You lap it up

 

I’ve never truly known deep sleep.  I’m just a ridiculously light sleeper.  Things that wake me up most often include my pillow becoming slightly too warm; lying in the same position for more than 4 minutes; or the sound of my own heartbeat.  I seem to only ever find myself stuck in the empty ether of semi-consciousness; not properly awake, just resting delicately on that mysterious cusp of “light snooze”.

 

A friend of mine pointed me to an iPhone app called Sleep Cycle.  You set the app going, and then rest your phone underneath your pillow all night.  By monitoring your movement and vibrations on the mattress, the app can supposedly tell how soundly you were sleeping.  It then produces a rather satisfying graph, so you can show off your results to all those friends who give a shit about your sleeping patterns.  Here are some of mine:

 

 

 

November seemed quite a successful month.  A bit erratic, sure, but clear signs that I’d been achieving some of that elusive deep sleep.  On the night of the 7th , in particular, Sleep Cycle suggested I had reached deep sleep on more than more occasion.

 

I know. 

 

Shocking stuff.

 

And then December hit me:

 

 

 

I don’t know what Tuesday nights have against me, but the nights of both the 7th and 14th were a fucking horrowshow.

 

Strangely enough, I can actually remember the night it all began.  Admittedly, I couldn’t tell you how old I was – ten, maybe, based on the dinosaur wall paper - but we’ll never truly know.  Still, the night itself has been etched in my memory, mostly because I was sure – absolutely positive – that my curtains were alive and coming to get me.  They were black as the night itself, covered in little spots of assorted jovial colours.  As I watched these spots grow larger, I knew death was close.  It took some severe screaming (from myself) and then some severe counselling (from Mother Dearest) to convince me that the coloured spots held no malice for a boy like me.  However, the memory remains, and I’ve neither sleep soundly nor trusted curtains since.  I’m a Venetian Blind man, and I don’t care who knows it.

 

On a slightly different-yet-relevant-note, I can quite often recall dreams I’ve had the previous night: but of course, so few of them are even worth recalling.  Mine range from the most vivid incantations of zombie-apocalypse-survival-horror, which are always head-smashingly fun, to something as awkwardly colourless as buying bread from a cornershop.  I genuinely had a dream last week where one of my friends had called to say he’d bought a new 3DTV.  So I went round, put the glasses on, and the thing wouldn’t work.  Then I woke up.  What a fucking let down.

 

Also, a lot of the time I wake up with a ridiculous pop song stuck in my head.  Yesterday morning was plagued by an appearance from The Wanted (with Glad you came); but other awakenings have come packaged with various featurettes from the likes of Sophie Ellis Bextor (Murder on the Dancefloor), Linkin Park (In the end) and even TATU (with their timeless classic All the things she said).  I came to the conclusion a while ago that my subconscious was lazy.  So lazy, in fact, that my dreams are plastered with shit pop songs just to make them seem more interesting.  As if buying bread wasn’t exciting enough.

 

Unfortunately, there’s not a lot I can do about this whole fiasco.  And yes, I know I havent been to see a doctor about it, so without proper diagnosis I can’t technically be considered an official ‘insomniac’, but whatever.  You don’t know what it’s like.  I go to bed each night trembling in fear at what might come next next.  Just how bland could my dreams get?  What nauseating chart-topper will I have stuck in my head all day tomorrow??  Will tonight indeed be my last on this earth, as the curtains finally leap forth and reap their drapey vengeance??? 

 

Only time will tell.

 

Oh, and lastly, a quick final nod to my Sleep Cycle graphs.  Just to prove that the system does work; just to prove that the graphs you’ve seen aren’t just selectively biased; and just to prove that there have actually been a few rare occasions on which I sleep somewhat soundly,I will direct you to the following two graphs.  Ladies and gentlemen, behold the power of alcohol:

--Tagged under: Insomnia--

--Tagged under: Sophie Ellis Bextor--

--Tagged under: Bread--

HOUSEHUNTING/MENTAL STABILITY

It’s August, which means two things – firstly, British Summer is no more; and secondly my current flat tenancy is running out, so I’ll be out on the street if I don’t find somewhere new and exciting to live before September.

Unfortunately, househunting is nauseatingly high on the already extensive list of Things I’d Rather Not Do; falling somewhere inbetween contracting cholera and a threesome with Jedward.

I like to see myself as an optimistic person (shut up) so when a problem presents itself – and if I can’t immediately overcome it – I remain calm and rational (shut up) and plot the next-best plan of attack for success. Or, at the very least, a simple ‘well, at least I’ll know for next time!’

But with househunting there is no such strategy. I am yet to find a single genuine solution, one sure-fire way to find the sort place I’d actually want to pay to live in. The whole fucking thing is hit and miss. I’m calling estate agents chasing up properties on their websites that have been taken off the market weeks ago.

Why the fuck would they put pictures up of your perfect place with a large LET AGREED sticker over the top? Are they taking the piss? “Here we are - this property meets all your requirements! It’s within budget! It’s in a nice area! It’s close to a tube station! And someone else has already signed for it!! WELL DONE THEM!!!”

After 3 solid weeks of this shit I was about ready to just start pulling phone numbers out of the fucking ether and hurling disgusting insults until whoever answered had agreed to aid me on my quest. Last Monday, I found myself in such a foul mood that I was actually looking forwards to going in to work that afternoon.

Monday was a dark day for me.

So I bit the bullet and went to a branch of Foxtons.

Foxtons may be the biggest and most soulless of all the London estate agents but they get the job done. This branch had about 60 employees, all permanently stuck in that heart-attack-inducing state of high tempo business. But then again, an estate agent I visited the week before took my name and phone number with a pen and paper. He didn’t even have a computer at his desk. I’m all for supporting the little guys in the business, but for fuck’s sake – how was he supposed to list all the properties online that had been taken off the market weeks ago?

Back to Foxtons - the ‘negotiator’ I was dealing with didn’t have anything suitable for me (obviously) but suggested we take a look at a property that had just that day been put on the market.

It was neither in budget nor area-I’d-want-to-live, but I was running out of time and patience, and basically my simple brain works in such a way that I knew that viewing this property would substantially aid my mental stability; as if (ignoring the fact that I had already decided the property was a no-go) my brain would be somehow appeased by the fact that I was being proactive - rather than just sat at home crying and punching things.

Begrudgingly I went along for the viewing.

On the way there, the guy spouted this little gem: “Last Tuesday we had a property come in at 3pm: 1 bedroom, £350 per week. Now I knew a woman off the top of my head it was perfect for, so I called her up, we went and viewed it at 3:30pm, and by 4 o’clock she had signed the papers. But the following week I had people ringing up saying they’d seen the place online and wanted to put an offer in.”

HOW DOES THIS HELP ME? Regardless of how desperately lonely this one guy may be, I flat out refuse to befriend every estate agent in London in the vague hope I might one day also find myself “off the top of someone’s head.” Like I said, his branch has about 60 negotiators. That’s a whole lot of small talk. Which I’m terrible at.

Anyway, fuck it. The flat was nice, the area is ok, it’s got good transport links, the landlord could meet us in the middle with the asking price, blah blah blah. I went for it, and got it.

Because, when it comes down it, I’m just like Foxtons.

Big, soulless, and I get the job done.

And I can finally get back to hating work again.

--Tagged under: Househunting--

--Tagged under: Mental Stability--

--Tagged under: Cholera--

TWITTER/PHILLIP SCHOFIELD

--Tagged under: Twitter--

--Tagged under: Phillip Schofield--

--Tagged under: One more 'ugh' for good luck--

LET’S SEE WHAT’S IN THE NEWS

Islington was rocked this week with the news that the oldest gay bar in the area was shut down.  But fear not!  Why not try a drastic lifestyle change?

That right!

“Cute Kids - ENTER NOW”

…Maybe not.

--Tagged under: LET’S SEE WHAT’S IN THE NEWS--

A job I heard about the other day. Notice that they’re only looking for someone to play the front-end of the horse. They’ve already got someone enthusiastic/desperate enough to play the rear-end, but it’s someone who just doesn’t have what it takes to play the front.  The ability to stand upright, perhaps?  We’ll never know. I’ve applied for the job.

A job I heard about the other day.

Notice that they’re only looking for someone to play the front-end of the horse.

They’ve already got someone enthusiastic/desperate enough to play the rear-end, but it’s someone who just doesn’t have what it takes to play the front.  The ability to stand upright, perhaps?  We’ll never know.

I’ve applied for the job.

--Tagged under: Horseplay--

OFFICE JOBS/CREATIVE-TYPES

It started with a phone call.

 

“Mum, I need some help.  I’m walking to work now, and I just want to jump back on the bus and go home.  I hate it.  I just literally HATE it.  New people are starting every week because other people are leaving, and I want to join them.  This job isn’t meant to be done long term, it’s low commitment because you’re not meant to stay on longer than 3 months.  I’ve been here since September, and it’s destroying my soul.  I just don’t think I can carry on doing it.  I’ve got my birthday coming up, and 5 separate acting workshops in July, so basically… I just need to know whether I can jack it in.”

 

“No.”

 

“Ok, thanks.  Bye.”

 

This month I’ve been hating work even more than usual.  I think it all started around the Royal Wedding/Easter Bank holiday-fest we’ve just been through.  Obviously, a bank holiday is an excuse.  A doctor’s note.  A get-out-of-jail-free card.    The Queen herself (probably) decrees that working folk across the nation are to take a day off.  So we did.  But having so much time off meant going back to work was a particular ballache.

 

Which got me thinking – during the British-bank-holiday-fest, was anyone actually disappointed about not going into work?  

 

Gosh darnit, another bank holiday.  And I was really looking forwards to just getting back into the office, logging on, and grinding out.

 

Does ANYONE actually enjoy their job?  I mean, not creative-types who literally just get to fuck around with paint or clay or graphic design programmes or whatever, I mean office workers.  The bulk of the working world. 

 

My argument is (and always has been) that I’m not built for office work.  I couldn’t sit in the same swivel chair, in front of the same computer screen, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week.  For, I suppose, the best part of half a century.

 

So is anyone built for it?  No one wants that to be their life, do they?  Because that’s what happens.  The work becomes your entire life, and the personality you once had gets sucked up into the drudgery.  A lot of people at my work actually sicken me to my soul.  There are very few (3, I just counted) that I can actually hold a conversation with.  But seeing them 5 days a week just makes everything seem so laboured.

 

The one guy I talk to most, we have a lot in common; we both play football, we… well, that’s about it, but that’s enough.  He strolled over to my desk the other night and after the compulsory small talk I realised we were skating into uncomfortable silence territory.  For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a conversation starter.  I’d only known him 6 bloody months, and we’d exhausted all our options.

 

But this must be what happens in workplaces across the world.  No one wants to know what you ate for tea, or what TV channel you fell asleep to.  But these are the ONLY factors which make your day different from your contemporaries.  THIS IS ALL YOU HAVE LEFT TO TALK ABOUT.  When work is your life, and work is DEPRESSING AS FUCK, well… I’m sure you know where this is going.

 

So what I’m trying to say is, if you enjoy your job, please let me know; because I’m struggling.  I need some inspiration, someone to tell me to hang in there.  I accept email, post, and positive mental attitudes.

 

Unless, of course, you ARE one of the creative-types who literally just gets to fuck around with paint or clay or graphic design programmes or whatever.  In which case, don’t bother.

 

And in which case, can I have a job?

 

 

 

 

 

--Tagged under: Office jobs--

--Tagged under: Creative-Types--

--Tagged under: Motherly Support--

LET’S SEE WHAT’S IN THE NEWS

 

--Tagged under: LET'S SEE WHAT'S IN THE NEWS--

LET’S SEE WHAT’S IN THE NEWS

This is a new segment I’m going to start, and I’ll add a new photo as and when something interesting comes up.  There are two things you should know:

1 - I live in London.

2 - People are idiots.

--Tagged under: LET'S SEE WHAT'S IN THE NEWS--

HOTPANTS/NOSTALGIA

This week, I’ve found myself getting nostalgic.  I don’t know why, and frankly it’s doing my head in.  I’ve also been having some SHIT crazy nightmares, but I don’t think the two are connected.

 

Specifically, I’ve been thinking about my school days.

 

I was a bit of a loner to be honest.  It would probably be a trait my friends would say I’ve carried through into my adult years; but I don’t have any friends.  My “independence” was most prominant in primary school.  It was never too bad - I mean I always had a couple of best mates.  I wasn’t a freak or anything.  But there were a few distinct occasions I remember being stood in the school playground on my own, flicking malevolently through stacks of football stickers or Pokemon cards (probably deciding what to call the new game only I knew the rules to and utilised a combination of both).

 

The point I’m very, very slowly getting round to making is that on the back of one of these nostalgia trips, I decided that probably almost everyone starts out as that weird kid who’s a bit of a loner, and yet most people turn out ok. 

 

From weird loner kids, we come to Hotpants.  And yes, that’s a capital ‘H’.

 

I grew up on a delightfully middle class housing estate, and there were plenty of kids around my age.  One kid, let’s call him Ben, lived across the road from me.  One day Ben turned up with a new mate, who wasn’t from the estate and who no one had ever met before.  Ben’s sisters informed us that this new lad had stayed over at Ben’s house a couple of times, which was normal enough.

 

What wasn’t normal was the rumour that, during a game of “I’ve-no-fucking-idea-what”, this boy had apparently tied Ben by the wrists and ankles to the bed.  In his underwear.  So I did as anyone would do:  I christened the unknown boy ‘Hotpants’.

 

The name stuck, and took on normal use.

 

“Is Ben coming out today?”

 

“I don’t know, I think he’s out with Hotpants.”

 

“Hotpants?  Well, get Ben to come round later.  And Hotpants can come round too if he fancies it.”

 

So back to my point (I’m still making it).  I’m not a bad person.  I hope everyone who started out as a weird loner kid turns out ok.  I hope Hotpants wasn’t mentally or emotionally scarred by our namecalling.  I do feel bad about the whole thing.  But to be honest I haven’t seen him in 15 years and wouldn’t be surprised (given his track record) if the worst had already happened.

 

So Hotpants; if you’re reading this (which you’re not) then I’m sorry (which I’m not).

 

--Tagged under: Hotpants--

--Tagged under: Nostalgia--

--Tagged under: Pokemon Cards--

PIRATE RADIO

In my post this week:

Please, for the safety of yourself and others, only listen to internationally approved radio stations.   Yes, it’s 2011; but pirate radio gangs could be broadcasting in your area RIGHT NOW.

 

You’ve been warned.

 

 

--Tagged under: Pirate--

--Tagged under: Radio--

--Tagged under: IT'S 20-FUCKING-11--

INTERPOL/TIDBITS

I’ve seen Interpol live before.  They’re one of my favourite bands, and Antics is one of my all-time favourite albums (alongside Songs For the Deaf and Lullabies to Paralyse by QOTSA, and maybe Daft Punk’s Discovery in case you cared).   So there you go, you’ve learned that little tidbit about me in one sentence.

 

Lessons aside, a guy I knew from school who now lives in New York.

 

I’m *guessing* he went to see Interpol last night:

Like I said, just a guess.  Just call it a wild stab in the dark.

 

Which is incidentally what he’ll be receiving if he doesn’t cut this out.

 

Honestly, just get Twitter. 

--Tagged under: Interpol--

--Tagged under: Tidbits--

--Tagged under: Adding to the already extensive list of unsolved New York murders--

FUN AT WORK

Well done to anyone who notices a common theme emerging.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

--Tagged under: Fun--

--Tagged under: Work--

--Tagged under: All work and no play makes Marts a dull boy--

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