gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
John Peel's dead.
Fucking unbelievable. I'm not going to get all mawkish and I hope this doesn't spark a rash of Death of Princess Di-style hair pulling and chest beating from people who actually don't give a fuck, but there's genuinely a bit of a lump in my throat about this one.
This is a Very Bad Thing.
posted by bandhag | 10/26/2004 03:14:00 PM
The way I remember last Saturday night:
I went out for a birthday drink, got fairly merry, danced for a bit, waited for a bus and talked to my friends about how The Bloke I Know Fancies Me But Who I Don't Really Like In "That" Way (TBIKFMBWIDRLITW) was a good kisser (from memory of when he'd waylaid me on the way out of a club once), and then quietly thought to myself how cute some guy on the nightbus was.
The way it really went down:
I went out for a birthday drink, got pissed out of my tiny mind fairly early on in the proceedings, danced almost all night, including indulging in some frankly pornographic "bootie dancing" to Sean Paul with R, snogged TBIKFMBWIDRLITW on Highbury Corner, talked loudly to my friends about whether or not the cute guy on the nightbus would like to talk to my Spiderman finger puppet and just about survived the whitey on the pedestrian crossing near our house.
The way I remember last night:
I had several beers, I was drunk but not very bad - no blackouts tonight, I thought - I remembered all the bands, remembered going home, remembered being at R&A's. Spotted the boy I really fancy, across the room. Sighed to self. Fretted a bit about the fact he hasn't spoken to me since I had to email him to say that my friends had told me we'd been sitting talking to each other for quite a while at one of their club nights, but I'd been so drunk I couldn't remember even doing that, let alone what we might have been talking about "Hope I didn't make too much of an arse of myself!" I wrote, breezily. "Please God don't let me have told you how much I fancy you" I thought to myself, desperately. Anyway, yes - fretting that he hadn't spoken to me since then and worrying that he maybe knows that I fancy him and is avoiding me. Because, of course, I really am 14 years of age.
The way it really went down:
I am told that he came over to talk to me and I went all shy, didn't speak to him and would only speak to his friend. I have not yet found out whether he actually said anything to me and I blanked him, or whether he just kind of stood near me waiting to start a conversation. And I blanked him.
Fuck. Also, shit.
This blacking out stuff only ever used to happen when I really, really, really went for it booze-wise. I may be wrong, but this "total memory loss of certain sections of the night" thing has been happening almost every time I have alcohol ever since I took the 'macaroons' and had the Dodgy Flapjack of Death and whatever that was spiked with, at Glastonbury last year... I don't know. Maybe it's age. Maybe my brain can't cope with boys when I'm pissed so it blocks them out, bad or good.
Whatever it is, it has to stop because it's just not funny any more. I really like this guy. It's really not going to happen and I know that, but I don't have to make things worse by having to explain each time I see him that the only reason I'm aware of talking to him last time I saw him is because someone else told me. It's kind of freaked me out, to be honest, that I really didn't think I was that pissed and that I was convinced I hadn't "lost" any bits of yesterday but I clearly have. Wonder what else I'm forgetting...
Welcome to your thirties, bandhag. Time to fucking grow up, wouldn't you say?
posted by bandhag | 10/26/2004 12:41:00 AM
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Galligan, get your fucking arse back here, you spaz.
Grrr, arg! Hulk smash!
posted by bandhag | 10/13/2004 03:57:00 PM
I had a phonecall earlier that has displeased me. I am long overdue a rant, so if nobody minds, I think I'll dive straight on in to one without form, structure, logic, fairness or reason. And if anyone does mind, they can kiss my natural born brown ass.
The names have been changed to protect those too fucking stupid to bother naming. And me. As background, I used to work for Cuntrag Group full-time a couple of years ago, they got into major financial trouble and had to lay off a massive percentage of their staff and then later took me back on as a freelancer.
To: Anuswhore of Cuntrag Group
Re: Termination of contract
I feel I was not quite forthcoming enough on the telephone and would therefore like to make the following points about the termination of my contract as a freelancer for Cuntrag Research:
1. My contract with Cuntrag Research clearly states that I will be given one month's notice of termination of my contract. Y'know - as opposed to you ignoring my calls and emails for a fortnight and then phoning to tell me the reason you haven't got round to sending me this month's work yet is that I'm no longer needed. You are in breach of contract. Please explain how you propose to remedy this situation.
2. Recent activities would suggest that, once again, the Cuntrag Group found itself in financial hardship and as such was forced to sell out to A.N.Other Co. It seems rather coincidental that this would also be the time that you start laying off freelance staff. I suspect that, once again, I have fallen victim of Cuntrag choosing who they want to do what job and getting rid of everyone else with flimsy excuses.
However, I really must compliment you on your choice of flimsy excuse this time. Where you get the fucking audacity to fabricate the reason that my work was not of a high enough standard I am not sure. If you put that on any references that are requested from you, I will find you and Fuck You Up. This is not a metaphor.
3. What. EVER. You may feel that this is the most immature and least professional thing I could say at this time. Not a bit of it. The most immature and least professional thing I could say at this time would be "Urgh! Fleabag! Fleabag! Everyone run away from Cuntrag Research - they've got FLEAS!". But the fact that you have fleas, along with the fact that your mum's a slag and your proper name is Joey Deacon Fleacon Spazmohican, is common and ancient knowledge in the world of IT and telecoms consultancy, so what would be the point?
I'm glad you sacked me because I fucking hated working for your company, which is full of self-important Oxbridge cunts who like to clap each other on the back for being so Frightfully Clever and having jolly good wheezes that they don't know how to turn into viable business plans. For old time's sake, I'll give you a little tip: a consultancy that finds itself on the verge of bankruptcy TWICE because it goes "Oopsy, even though we're all tewwibly tewwibly clever consultants, we didn't see that massive decline in the market or think that it would affect people being able to pay us! Durrrr!" is not very much cop. Perhaps you should pack it in and go back to Winnie the Pooh Club or however it is you all met.
Oh, and by the way - you may recall sending me a bouquet three years ago, almost to the day. Remember? The card said you were sorry to hear how I'd just sat alone in a hospital room and watched my mother die after she'd had a coronary arrest and laid in a coma for four days turning into a brain-dead vegetable. Super timing. Cheers.
Anyone who's still counting will know that this only leaves me with one freelance job, which is about to dry up. But that's fine, because of course November and December are the absolute BEST times of year to look for a job, aren't they?
Oh fuck then, eh?
posted by bandhag | 10/13/2004 03:30:00 PM
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
I appear to be taking a bit of a break from blogging. Mostly through choice, partly through inability. There are few times I feel like writing here at the moment and the times that I do all that comes into my head is dreary boring shit and stuff that I don't want to write about - stuff that some weird self-imposed editorial style I came up with when I started this blog still prevents me from writing about.
It's weird, because I feel I owe some kind of explanation. And I also want to talk. But I also really really don't. The blog has become an extension of my day-to-day self, all forced smiles and "If you just keep laughing and behaving like it's all ok, it'll all be ok". I'm tired of being that and I'm tired of writing it.
It's a bad time. Calendar dates fast approaching that I'm allowing to have more effect on me than they should. I can't drown them out. And an email accidentally forwarded to me from people I work for, that confirms my paranoia and cripples my ability to prove them wrong.
I'm tired. If I post at all for the next week or three, it's likely to be depressing shite. Don't say I didn't warn you.
posted by bandhag | 10/06/2004 09:58:00 PM