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)

The Office Leaving Collection

It's that time where office politeness and politics clashes with sheer honesty and brutality. This is only in relation to the individual in the office who you really don't know, you have no clue who they are or why they are there. Or simply you hate the fucker, finding him an arrogant office lout questioning firstly how did they get into the senior position they did but secondly thanking the gods that they're fucking off out of the office never having to hear their poor jokes that people will laugh at just to stay on his side because he could take you down to rubble with his position and sly schemes.

That note bearing in mind, What direction to choose? Does one go with the sympathetic, polite option where one would reluctantly hand over their hard earned cash that can be no less than £5 or the games up! The office PA clocks that you slip in only a two pound coin. She notices that one coin will not suffice from the sound of it dropping into the brown paper collection bag, less sound would have indicated a £5 note plus, but the clink of one coin can only expose your dislike for this individual, plus the raised eyebrow of the PA informs one that you will be office talk for the next few days. you now have to work with your head hung low knowing you've signed your name on the envelope and in the card with the safe testament of 'good luck with everything you do best....' A safe comment yet fully indicating your full resentment of the departed with no real intention of 'good luck' hoping never to see them again and their career going to shit. Where others have paid there full price and more, your contribution is almost null and void or the gift; which often is a voucher or some 'hilarious' in-joke product that you have no fucking clue about is less your percentage than the rest of the office, hell, the joke could be on you, fuck!

If you do give the full £5, well done! yet it still displays that you are not a friend of his, almost like paying someone minimum wage you would never consider giving a penny more to this arsehole, yet again your cloak of deception is uncovered but you have the higher ground knowing that your money is as good as everyone else. You may have to opt for a cheaper lunch now that the office moron is getting a rare book and a card with his head photoshopped onto a monkey for comical effect, hilarious! is it necessary as he's a Neanderthal already?

Or you don’t give any money at all, do not sign the card and over-glance the envelope while swiftly moving it to the desk beside you while pretending to have chipped-in. Well your just a cunt and should be fired on the spot. even the tosspot who’s leaving wouldn’t sink that low.

Don’t be an arsehole for hating the arsehole.

Famous Last words #2

Oscar Wilde
(1854-1900)

"Either this wallpaper goes, or I do!"

Original Dictionary entry of OMG uncovered in the British Library

Ohg•emme•ghi

[ow-em-gee]

- adjective

1. For one to comment on ones state of shock or disbelief.

2. An announcement publicly for a subject matter that is clearly true yet continues to deny the facts - see also 'Shaaahup'.

Use of Ohgemmeghi in a sentence:

1. "Tiffany's Pregnant by Dean's Brother, ohgemmeghi you can not be serious!"

2. "Ohgemmeghi, I just saw Tracy with her ex!"

- Often used by Atheists in reference to a Deity they claim their own, to comfort them in times of horror or loss.

- Variant of OMG

Word Origin & History
Ohgemmeghi

"For want of a better word, I was in complete Ohemghia with the poor reviews of 'Queen of Carthage' [Christopher Marlowe] c. 1594,

Mid 16th century: From old colloquial Saxon 'Ohemghia', Meaning 'To call upon a God'.
The first 'G' was added much later in the 18th century by the French to disguise their despair of English cuisine and simply to confuse the village idiots that waited tables in the local taverns. The 'A' was later dropped in the early 1900's when L. Frank Baum couldn't fit the whole word on an edge of the page. The 'A' was then added to the front of the next word that became 'Ayemaite'.

Words of wisdom

The darkness that surrounds a candle,
is no more dangerous than the candle flame itself.

Monty

Famous Last words #1

Noel Coward
(1899-1973)

"Goodnight my darlings, I'll see you tomorrow."
(On going to bed.)

A great little site I want to share

For anyone with a love of Movie titles (and end cards) from the beginning of cinema or just an interest in typography-

Enjoy:

http://www.annyas.com/screenshots

The most Beautiful shot in Cinema #1

The Passenger - 1975.

A film directed by Italian filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni and staring the one-trick-pony himself; Jack Nicholson. I only watched this film very recently with a good friend and a couple of ales - or was it a couple of friends and a good ale? Either way I was in good company and hadn't really expected to be profoundly blown away. It was a flippant choice of sunday matinée and I often think Nicholson is a little over-rated; already my ultimate opinion was marred.

The film was relitively slow; typically european *pause*

For those who have not seen the film - Plot:
Jack Nicholson stars as a television reporter in Africa who assumes the identity of a dead stranger to escape his past life and to be free only to unravel the strangers identity is darker than his own.

*un-pause* Nicholson was surprisingly subtle and tolerant, but I'm not here to tell you about the film - that's your job, go see - I'm here to spoil it by expressing my love for the last shot, yes unfortunately the greatest shot is the second from last; I waited a whole two hours for this! and unknowingly, sitting becoming rather bored and lured into a sense of lull by the Bishops finger I had in me (the ale). But all of a sudden this tracking shot that started in the leads bedroom suddenly floated through wrought iron bars within a window, continued outside to follow the love interest only to rotate 180º and onto the bars we had just previously squeezed a huge panaflex 35mm camera through! I've not even finished yet, we go back through the bars that look solid as the earth they are built on!

Well, I believed I was watching black magic of some degree or a David Copperfield performance. All done so beautifully over seven minutes.

Like all magicians I will not tell you the secrets how they performed this shot (but Wikipedia will, they are just big tell tales), But I advise one and all to persist the movie only to be greatly rewarded with this work of art and self awareness.

Private possessions on the tube

The London Underground seems to be a hive of theft and vindication, where no one is safe from the next man and their prying buttocks. Thats correct I just said buttocks, or any other body part that might spring to mind. The valuable in your pockets are safe from harm, the purse is of no concern; who wants to reach in for a purse only to rescue a pocket dildo suffocating for some decent use, or even the ipod has become a chore to apprehend being tied to the victims ears; trouble is if my ipod would ever get stolen I hope to receive it back from the perpetrator because he values my eclectic choice of music - hopefully missing the whitney and Britney albums - and continues on his (or hers) merry thieving way seeking out people who probably don't deserve iPhone 4’s (a later discussion)
What I am talking about is our very British valuables or the private regions of our bodies. I don’t remember seeing a sign before stepping onto the central line at liverpool street station saying that its perfectly fine to rub other peoples genitals? It appears that there are no rules or regulation for personal space, cooped up like cattle off to be made into ingredients for chili con carne, people just seem it quite natural to place there hands where ever space will allow them.
I too am a victim of this sad attempt of clothed rape. Without even conscience thought or suggestion the train pulled into chancery lane and amongst all the jiggling of bodies and re-shifting of personal space my crotch was suddenly directly wedged between the buttocks of quite a handsome twenty-something gentleman. he didn’t seem to budge or move forward; maybe he had read the sign in the station? But for the next three stops with all the motions from the train or the change in speed this man did not budge! I started to think, ‘maybe he has claimed his space and defending it?’ rather than urinating up a tree like a tiger or fox, he has decided to bum-bard me, suddenly I felt in the wrong and retained my dignity by thrusting my crotch further into the seat of his trousers as the train sped up, alas no one moved, maybe if he moved forward his face could be suffocated between the enormous breast of the Jamaican woman in-front.
As the train pulled into Tottenham Court Road station he stepped off and turned to look at me, I’m not sure if I implicated a slight grin or my mind decided to fill in the gaps with positive thoughts. But if there was a grin or sly smile then I had lost the battle and had been violated! we didn’t even swap numbers. Probably the best one morning ‘stand’ I’ve ever had.
Beware people of your valuables on the train, for that short moment they are anyones.