Damned if you do… anything.

There comes a time when you don't quite know how to take a compliment, simply because you've not heard one for some time. 

Does not matter how nice I try to be at times my actions always are considered a fault upon her indoors. My good deeds and sweet gestures are twisted to suit her and decimate me. For instance she slipped into a princess aura of snooze just after the hearty meal I prepared for us. My Prince Charming hat (or helmet) firmly on, I thought it would be polite to leave her drift into this sweet condition of subconscious with I cleaning the dishes and dirty pans and tinkering at my duties. From her slumber, this woman has been possessed by the fairy tale monster, telling me it was my fault she slept so long, that her evening had been wasted and could have 'done' something like 'watch a film' and I should never let her sleep like that again. 

Wow. Suddenly all my kind heartedness felt deflated and I'm the monster for letting them do something so terrible; such as sleeping. What can you say? How can you respond to someone who is pulling the 10 yard death stare be cause I didn't shake them to wake them; just like an Orangina forcing or advising; I haven't quite got the correct term yet, for them to proceed with activities half pooped?

I remain quiet for them to reflect. 

Woe with me; the life of a trainee teacher

What on earth am I thinking. To turn to a life of teachings miniature humans hot to build a bird box, just what we need another 25 bird boxes on this planet. My weekends are bloated with writing four page lesson plans and building my own power points with the slim window of recreation to cook. (Not that recreational but I've made it fun by whistling the alphabet backwards)

I've managed to live a little by playing my ps3 for 20mins.

More to come

The Cult of Cool

Breaking down the Term to be ‘cool’ has been a lifelong struggle for me. I’ve never sat with the flow of society but nor have I been counter-culture. I’ve just done like so many of us do, and that’s just to get through everyday without dying.
Teams of society strive to think they are cool, simply by having the evil monarchs of media tell them what they should buy, wear, watch, listen to. This without a doubt is not cool.

To start the debate, I despise BBC Radio 1 and all who sail in her. I Then get lynched in a discussion that concludes I’m not cool and subsequently boring because I prefer Radio6 music. A far superior station that plays quality and diverse music rather than a station that is told to play ‘safe’ music, (basically the top 40) purely for greedy ratings.
Me being the only one flying the independent flag, I was on a loosing streak to become the triumphant one blowing my horn, or maybe playing my gramophone at 76rpm’s. Therefore the cool gang continued to play their cool Olly Murs and Rhianna singles; Something about that last sentence just doesn’t gel?
Merely a week later and 6Music won ‘best radio station of the year’ at the SONY awards, this I had to brag about in-front of the larger party. Only I realised “this isn’t good” surely it’s now publicly ‘cool’ to like my station, a small posse of listeners may be bombarded with society’s 18-29 year old, Canary Wharf workers. Then they hear The Brothers Johnson ‘Strawberry Letter 23’ and the masses revert back to the top 40, all is well again.

Secondly I decided to wear corduroy trousers accompanied with a denim shirt, sure I’ve seen this to be the thing to wear around the bohemians of soho, but you try donning the same attire in Essex, The county where a high street can contain more nail bars than grocery stores. The same clump of opinions were present again to give an honest, yet short-sighted review of my dress code. Sadly someone who wears clothes that will only become fashionable to them in two years is presently open for ridicule on others (namely me). I just kept quiet an listened to the guy wearing a Superdull... sorry Superdry t-shirt and Evisu jeans. shh, just let them have their moment.

Now I’m not sure weather this has been a intellectual deconstruction of the term ‘cool’ or just a rant because I was bullied for my choices in culture? but we all know those who follow what a majority dictate only make themselves cool within that majority, look at the Nazi Party for example.

If only Hitler Listened to Radio 6Music things could have been different.

Welcome to the Industry: The Runner

• MUST have good sense of humour and a positive attitude towards work

This was a bulleted requirement on a recent advert for a runner position for a TV production. This Simply infuriated me, the very fact that an alumni that studied an arts course or more obvoiusly yet redunduntly, a broadcast course who has amounted the same steep of financial debt as someone studying Law, but the unequivocal difference is, when the Law Graduate apply's for a job one will discover required skills to be: Strong transactional skills, Ability and motivation to manage a broad range of work, Ability to adapt management style, Strong academics along with a 2:1 in Law related Degree. Salary: 45'000 to 50'000 Pa. Whereas our brethren in the Media industry are received with an initial application that contains: MUST have good sense of humor and a positive attitude towards work, starting Salary: 12K and a free Lunch.

All that money spent on a Creative Degree course and all along I could have got a BA (Hons) in quantitative humour.

The Job Interview

The Job interview. Why can't they be like the short pathetic celebrity interviews we are bombarded with between movies on 60Second news, often hosted by some mouthy brunette with a 2:2 in journalism thinking she's finally made it.

Or what about the celebrity interviews on guest shows hosted by.... celebrities? Celebrities talking to celebrities, Celebrity², One can achieve the same volume of information watching Apes smelling each others feces at the zoo, next we'll have celebrity gardeners with their own chat shows.....
If only the job interview is just as simple in comparison;

"So how did you get the record deal/role/on the team?",
"Dunno realay, mi dad suppose/dey found mi hot/all I wanned to do was kik a ball"

Instead we are subjected to questions that 'defy us as a strong candidate' or 'an incident where you've dealt with and managed a high pressure task'. Even worse, the initial question, the one that will decide the employer wether they like you or if there's still a warm panini still sitting in the company cafe? 'So tell me about yourself' What the fuck do you want to hear! you've seen my CV and cover letter! or have you not even bothered to read it you lazy fuck, just because it's sitting on your lap, don't pretend you've read it you tit!

I almost feel that the interviewer needs to be interviewed in interviewing, or in retrospect to their position in the company in which no doubt is very comfy since they started at sixteen in 1967 with their 2 O-Levels.

One can not generally feel entirely composed within the situation however prepared. The generic question about the role; check, the attire and the dumb-down socks; check, the faux-posh voice; check, the occasional subtle flirty smile; check, the fact that your interview is conducted by some bimbo younger than one's self and you're asking about salary that no doubt will be grossly inferior to the role, did not check! but life is cruel.

Life is a cruel and bitter place for the intellect who dons knowledge, wisdom and barrels-full of fruitful inspiration. We are the people that want to live life and live it creatively; learning a Language and then travelling there; learning a guitar then producing your first song; picking up a pencil and displaying your sketch at the local town hall. Shame none of this is creditable when all the job centre can find you is admin assistant in a local solicitors.

That's why I'm remaining a bitter, unhappy, depressed individual amongst the other 2.7 million unemployed, is because society doesn't grant us, nor wants to know about the beautiful things in life. The government merely wants you to earn a so-so amount of wonga in a job that's vacuous of any creativeness and pride - especially when so many have debts equal to uneducated friends' mortgages from earning a degree - just so the broadsheets can print 'PM pleased with fall of unemployment.'

We must change the world, lets start with free hugs every Tuesday.

Jeggings, Leans and other elasticated nonsense

I noticed I had worn the crotch out of my jeans - I prefer to open a monologue in the same fashion as my flies; swiftly and unprepared.

Whether it's because I tend to walk most places in London or my large thighs rub constantly? It could even be that Levis have gone down the pan after selling there classic weave to Uniqlo, alas I noticed a draft around the Baltic's one afternoon on Regent Street only to realise there was little in the line of defence against the elements. It was now high time for a new pair of jeans... Being not very affluent, clothes shopping occurs once every Stikklestead Day; a Druid Holiday that occurs every other two years on July 29th, and it just so happened to be that day (today, happy Stikklestead Day!) I could not comprehend the wealth of choice I had once the kind European shop assistant directed me to the Gents jean section. Not only did I have to seek out my waist and leg length, then I had the embarkment of choosing a style!

Not just a colour, 'blue please, no the lighter blue ones, that's it stonewash' or 'i think ill have the dark blue ones please' or 'blue please'. Surely thats all the colours jeans come in? Oh how wrong I was. A smorgasbord or hues and tints; red, orange, yellow, black, purple, "sorry sir, blue's out of stock"

Well if that wasn't enough there were styles to consider; straight cut fine, boot cut no problem, loose fit not a problem, skinny, cargo, elasticated ankles, three quarter lengths..... wait! Hold it; elasticated ankles?

I could not comprehend the shock horror abortion that I had bare witness to. In whose right mind conceived the idea that to elasticate the ankles of jeans a great idea? It's not even practical; drunken friday night/ saturday mornings attempting to remove ones ale sodden clothing half-way up the stairs of the flat share in Shoreditch or Clapham your trousers drop to the floor expecting to walk out of them. Then Suddenly without any preparation you discover that you're shackled at the ankles like a Death Row criminal except they're smelted in Jean fabric.

Purely unpractical and unsafe for drunken youths; who seem to be the only customers for this design flaw. One is also banned from wearing socks by ones own conscience basically because you will look a first rate dick, instead you have to expose the only percent of your body that's hairless to the British weather. Not only that, but if one was to purchase these two-legged monstrosities - and shame on you if you do - one also has to buy shoes that match; those darn espadrilles or Tom's which I'll comment at a later time.

Elasticated Jeans, don't do it, expensive faux par. 

Famous Last words #3

Kenneth Williams
(1926 − 1988)

"Oh, What's the bloody point?"

(Final entry in his diary)