gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever
Friday, April 29, 2005
To The Legion last night for an evening of shoegazing and bands. Mark Gardener (ex of Ride) played first and he treated us to both Taste and Vapour Trail. So overcome was I that I whooped, prompting R to threaten to go and be near someone less embarrassing. Can't blame her, she rightly thinks everyone in the world is cooler than me and at that moment, they were: favourite Ride songs - played live, for fuck's sake!! Mind you, for most of the set it did sound a bit like they needed more vocals in the monitors - some of the harmonies were a bit ouch.
Amusement Parks on Fire were good, but less so. I think I felt they were going on a bit, because I remember saying to R at some point that they were boring. They weren't, I just wanted the song to go somewhere, and then it did, into a big noodly noisefest, which was much better.
A lovely night with friends old and new but then I had to go to work and realised I was, in fact, a little bit pissed. The clues should have been there with the whooping and so forth. Another crap thing about this night working malarkey - it's impossible to tell what my booze limits are any more. Some nights I'm fine after 5 (no, not work nights!), others I'll have a pint and feel leathered. Back to my resolution not to drink during the week, perhaps? Well, until I get a day job.
I have no idea how people ever knowingly drink-drive, because operating a keyboard and mouse (and body, for that matter) like you're sober when you feel a touch... wobbly, shall we say... is a fucking nightmare.
Meanwhile, someone at work was saying there's supposed to be a terrorist attack in London on Monday, probably on the Tube. Nice. I must be getting far, far too cynical because my brain first went "Yeah, bollocks - they're always saying that" and then "Mind you, if there's a serious threat what's the betting the Government wouldn't actually do anything to stop it happening - nothing like a bit of 'We told you so' to frighten people into forgetting about all that pesky anti-war nonsense, eh?"
And on that note, I shall bid you good day.
posted by bandhag | 4/29/2005 09:24:00 AM
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
I hate my job. I have been taking steps to get out of the job I hate. This morning, I went to see an agency that'd been recommended to me by a friend who has managed to escape the hell that is my job.
First thing the bloke says to me "Well we'll see how your tests come out, but I have to warn you that it's going to be difficult to find you something because at first glance, your CV looks like you tend to jump around a lot".
Way to set me up for the really nerve-wracking stuff - cheers, Guv.
Anyway I did the tests and it turns out I can type 80 words a minute and I get full marks on spelling and comprehension and the highest marks anyone's ever got on their advanced Word, Excel and PowerPoint tests.
HA! In your face, space coyote!
Recruitment Man's attitude changes. Although my CV is still a problem, he's going to do some tweaking and he's sure lots of his clients will want to meet me on the basis of these technical skills. Albeit not either of the places I was interested in when I first contacted them.
Meeeeanwhile, due to my own huge idiocy, there's this secret gig by one of my favouritest bands ever that, up until last night, I'd managed to convince myself was on Friday. No. It is not on Friday. It is on Tuesday. Tonight. "No matter", thought I "I've realised in time, I've not got plans for Tuesday so it's all good" and I laughed to myself - a carefree, tinkling laugh - that although I had been useless, I had got away with it.
I get a text from Middle Sister this morning asking if we're still on for dinner tonight or whether I've "planned something else more important instead. AGAIN." The arrangement to go out tonight was made about two weeks ago. I have put her off about four times in a row for one reason or another. I have to cancel going to the gig of one of my favouritest bands ever.
And don't even get me started on the story where I have to run home on the way to meet someone very important at the Toob station, because I've got halfway down the street and realised I'm wearing my slippers, and in my blind panic to correct my footwear malfunction I run out and slam my house keys inside the house that no-one else has access to except my flatmate. Who is in St Albans. And does not turn on his mobile phone when he's out of the house...
No wonder the CV skips around all over the place - look at the fucking brain that created it!
posted by bandhag | 4/26/2005 11:10:00 AM
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
M seems to have a thing about milk containers. He appears to be totally unable to throw them away - he just uses the last of the milk and leaves the container on the side. As an experiment, I've been resisting my normal habit of clearing them up after him; perhaps, I thought, he just doesn't notice them.
I got up last night to find him cleaning the kitchen. He was in there ages, washing up and then scrubbing all the sides down. Spick and span it was when I went in there this morning.
Except for the three empty milk containers which he'd picked up, cleaned under, and then put back down again.
Should I try to get him some kind of help, or is this a complicated and important boy thing that my feeble ladybrain can't understand?
posted by bandhag | 4/19/2005 06:19:00 PM
As of half an hour ago, I'm on holiday. Only until Sunday night, but it feels like forever just now. CV is ready to go and I've seen a couple of things to apply for so that, with any luck, by the time I go back I'll be well on the way to being able to tell them where they can stick the fucking job. No big career moves planned, but something that will get me away from working five people's jobs on a graveyard shift.
Lovely things are happening in my life. Spring has sprung. So has hope.
posted by bandhag | 4/19/2005 04:35:00 AM
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Well that's just lovely. It would appear that the dream world is fighting a battle with my current happy awake mode, both on the home front and elsewhere.
Last 'night' (day - I work nights, it's all topsy turvy, do keep up), I dreamt that I had a row with my best mate because of something she thought I'd said, which I hadn't and within one day literally everyone I know, from best friends to passing acquaintances, had turned against me - with one exception. It was all to do with these really hateful things I'd supposedly said, suddenly turning up in the collective conscious and being passed from person to person as truth. It's still deeply unpleasant remebering how I felt, that people would be so ready to believe that I'd said such appalling things no matter how much I tried to plead my innocence.
Mmmm, refreshing anxiety dreams! How super.
So anyway, I told M and R, laughed about it, forgot about it, then came home this morning to hear that last night (proper night - he's normal), M dreamed that I died and he, R&A dumped my cat on the streets.
He did say that they went back to visit and feed her, and found her eating out of bins so they were asking strangers whether they'd done the right thing. I believe the strangers said that they had.
Naturally, I know that dreams aren't real. However, I have told M that if I die, I should very much like him not to dump my cat on the streets. She is a fat, lazy attention whore and would surely die without the requisite amount of fuss each and every day. And later I will go round to visit my lovely friends. They didn't hate me yesterday, after the dream, but you never know how far in advance all this dream stuff is predicting so it's best to be on the safe side...
posted by bandhag | 4/13/2005 10:11:00 AM
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
So, what - will my body seriously never run out of new ways to embarrass me?
One of those blokes who hands out those "aimed at office ladies" mags at Tube stations offered me his wares (matron) this morning, and on opening my mouth to say "No thanks, got one" (I'm looking for a job) I got attacked by a surprise burp. We were both shocked, I attempted to apologise but cackled instead. In a split second, rather than being what most Londoners would consider unnecessarily polite to this guy, I had burped in his face and then laughed at him. Poor bloke. I'm definitely going to Hell.
I hope my mouth isn't broken.
It may be. Because I can't seem to stop grinning at the moment.
My lips are sealed.
Like a splint.
In case my mouth's broken.
posted by bandhag | 4/12/2005 09:52:00 AM
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
I have been unable to write. I've been Not Very Happy. There. I've said it. I'm not going to talk about it because I didn't then, and couldn't now and don't want to here. It's not my style and although people around me knew some of it, it would've been impossible to carry on as I was, if they could come here and read my head horrors. And yes, I realise that probably the reason I get that way is the fact I am literally unable to deal with it in any way other than keeping it to myself and carrying on "regardless" but there you are.
Anyway. On the mend now. Lookit me, Maw, I's a-typin'! Ahee-yuk.
So, to the news:
Misplaced Etcetera Man at Bank has moved his etcetera. Imagine, won't you, my joy? I like to think it's because TfL bosses are avid blog readers and, knowing the political might that bloggers now represent (must be true, I read it on BBC Online), heads were threatened with rolling should MEM not correct his grammar like what that Bandhag had noticed innit.
Only, now that he's moved it I've noticed he pronounces it "ECKcetera". Oh well, one step at a time and all that.
No photo of the possibly-foxy hair, I'm afraid. I appear to have misplaced the USB cable for my camera. Mmm, what's that you say? My room, resembling a crack den? Well it was like that when I found it, it really was! (true Simpsons geeks will know how to voice that last sentence...)
I have a new phone. I heart my new phone. However, I plan to start a campaign to make all phone manufacturers use the same keys for shit when you're doing texts. And to make their predictive texting all work the same. I feel like some technologically retarded 80-year old when I have to delete half the fucking text because I've pressed all the things that used to make my old phone write stuff I wanted and iTcomes OUT a ll wRon.
Talking of predictive texting - why, in the name of all that's holy, would phone makers think you'd ever need to use the word "adds" in preference to "beer"? And don't even get me started on swear words. Dualing idiots.
Terri Schiavo kept alive for years in vegetative state as her husband - her legal next of kin - has to endure seven years of legal wrangling to let her go in the way that he knew she would have wanted. "An attack against life is an attack against God, who is the author of life," said Cardinal Jose Saraiva Martins from the Vatican.
Pope John Paul II refuses to go to hospital for treatment and dies two days later with dignity in his own room.
I don't think I need to comment further on that, do I?
Incidentally, does anyone else wonder whether they did just enough to keep him alive long enough that people wouldn't think it was an April Fool's joke?
And before anyone wades in to warn me of my imminent hellfire and damnation: I'm pretty sure that, as an illegitimate half-breed whose parents were (lapsed - durrr) Muslim and CofE but who follows neither faith and commits each of the deadly sins with a level of regularity that could be considered almost deliberate, my place in the Hot Zone is surely guaranteed. Should such a place exist. Which it doesn't. God is dead. And so on.
Oo, controversy. Just call me Julie Burchill.
Actually, don't. I'd have to cry at being compared to her. Not least because I don't have a voice like Minnie Mouse. I'm gruff. Like a billy goat.
Aaaanyway. I'm going to bed now. Where I hope I will not suffer from the sleep paralysis that has characterised the last two 'nights' of sleep. Deep joy.
posted by bandhag | 4/05/2005 10:39:00 AM