Heed my words and live your lives by them! [entries|archive|friends|userinfo] James- Now with added kittens [ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ] [ archive | journal archive ]

One gay beer for me gay friend and one normal beer fer me, because I'm normal [May. 15th, 2008|03:59 pm] In Bruges is fookin' deadly, so it is. Guns. Drugs. Irish accents (and ye know how I love dose). Midgets. I don't understand how anyone (I'm looking at you here, andyknifton) couldn't like it. Unless perhaps they are an anti-midget, Irish hating communist. In other news Toby's balls are huge. Like... massive. Like... super-huge. Like... two huge balls, massive with their hugeness. JmC Yes, Cinderella. You will go to the balls. link 9 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

People. Rubbish. [May. 13th, 2008|03:23 pm] I was cycling through our Nation’s capital yesterday, weaving in between 4x4s piloted by mothers screaming at their children, deeply aggressively driven white vans and unpredictable bendy buses. It was, if not entirely pleasant; toxic fumes and near-death put a crimp on even the nicest scenery, exciting and enjoyable. “Yes,” I thought as I cycled past a stationary Volvo, its driver seething in impotent traffic jam fury, “I could get used to this.” I had my new bike (well, actually my brother’s old bike that my parents insisted I take), I had my various Halfords accessories, I had that mild discomfort that tells you that you are going to pay for today’s exercise tomorrow. I was pretty happy. But then my cheery biking experience was ruined. A car door opened a few cars in front of me and a MacDonalds bag was kicked out into the road. My immediate impulse was to stop and scoop up the bag and fling it back into the car with a “You dropped this. Twat.” However a swift assessment of the situation revealed that a) I was in Tottenham (again) b) The car was populated by no less that four youngish men. c) I would very likely get kicked in adding a few of my teeth to the rubbish littering the streets. This flashed through my head quickly and made me even angrier. Was it worth it? No. Probably not. Definitely not, in fact. In the hierarchy of things to potentially get into a streetfight over Maccy-D-debris is not even in the top 100. Hell, even “Your pint is looking at my misses.” seems more credible than “You dropped some more trash onto the already trash-strewn Tottenham streets.” But still, evil prospers when good men and all that. And surely I could… At that point lights changed traffic, lurched forward, the offending car moved off, the bag disappeared under the wheels of a plumbers van and my dilemma became secondary to the more immediate not-getting-killed issue. It fucking aggravates me though. What’s wrong with people? How fucking hard is it to wait and ditch your litter in a fucking bin? You’re in a cunting car for cunting fucks sake. You WILL get to a bin. They put then in service stations. And in drive-thrus. And by the side of the fucking road. You can’t fucking hold on to your crap in the car till you get to a litter receptacle? Seriously? I’m not asking you to recycle (though that wouldn’t be a bad thing) just to not crap up the place for everyone. And not just everyone else- you! You probably live here, you selfish litter-spewing fuck-weasel. You are making your home more unpleasant, you trash-hurling ass dancer. Lets kill you. Cleanly, of course. JmC Still waiting to start his job. Tomorrow. Possibly Monday. Don’t talk to me about HR people either… link 30 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Look what I found in my parents house... [May. 9th, 2008|02:04 pm] ( A photo of me that will sear into your mind and haunt your dreams (but worksafe) ) JmC Man of a million haircuts link 21 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Iron Man ain't a patch on Machine Girl [May. 8th, 2008|10:59 am] This trailer for "The Machine Girl" is sheer awesomeness. Perhaps not work-safe due to massive amounts of bloody violence involving guns, swords, chainsaws, a flying guillotine, and a drill bra! I challenge you to watch this and tell me it not not the best thing to come out of Japan since that cat girl and the octopus. JmC Fear my drill bra! link 5 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Two wheels good [May. 7th, 2008|01:47 pm] I have a plan to fully realise my awesomeness but I need your help, Livejournal. As you may know I recently had all my sins wiped clean. Therefore, I’m thinking, any morally good actions that I do from now on will push my status from “sinner” to “saint”. And then, like all saints, I can focus this moral superiority into pure beams of goodness from my eyes to blast my enemies from the face of the earth!! And then I shall rule you all, RULE YOU LIKE A SWINEHERD OVER PIGS!!! Ah hahahahahahahahahahahahha!!!!! Ahem. Unfortunately my general low-level sinning (y’know, eating stuff I shouldn’t, laughing at blind people, oogling girls from behind my sunglasses, pasting your face over the model’s in a copy of Razzle then jerking off over it like a fat man over a pie-themed striptease.) is taking its toll on my sainthood. I need, therefore, a daily activity of moral goodness to wipe away these minor transgressions leaving my soul clean. A sort of moral dusting, if you will. But what? Then it hit me- cycling. Cyclists are pretty pure, right? Bob Geldoff probably has a bike. Santa brings good kids bikes. It’s well known that Hitler couldn’t touch a BMX without getting his hand burned by the purity. And did not Jesus himself bicycle over a lake into Galilee? I shall cycle to work (from Stoke Newington to Camden) every day and this two-wheeled, no pollution do-goodery will keep me in God’s good books. Plus the whole cheaper, nicer, fitter thing is a factor too. One slight problem, however- I don’t own a bike and haven’t been cycling on anything but an exercise bike in about ten years. So I could do with any advice that you there in Internet-land can give. Where should I get a bike? What should I look for? What accessorising do I need? Do I have to wear a dorky helmet? How much can I expect to spend? How can I ride around London without getting killed by a Bendy-Bus? All these things and more, I need to know. So give me your tips and advice, Internet! Do it and I shall spare you during my Pope-like sprees of destruction. JmC On your bike, son. link 32 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

D.I.Why? [May. 6th, 2008|03:28 pm] Given that I am unable to eat an ice-cream without getting a milky 'tashe (and nose. And chin. And sometimes eyebrow.) and that I find it nigh-impossible to eat pasta and not get utterly splattered with my own food to the point where I look like I've been shot I don't know why I'm surprised by how covered in paint I am. Me. Paint. Brushes. Rollers. Wandering interested felines being the opposite of help. It was never going to be a totally clean process, lets face it. But seriously this is a bit silly even for me. I mean its on the back of my head for God's sake. How the fuck did that happen? Right, as I'm getting paint on my keyboard I'm going to have a shower (and hence discover what bits are covered in nice emulsion paint and which bits waterproof gloss paint) and then go out into the sunshine. Probably still 74% covered in paint. JmC Paintbrush with death link 9 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Yup. I can fly. [May. 2nd, 2008|09:48 am] Greetings all! I was having a chat with a chum (I shall not embarrass them by revealing their identity. They know who they are.) about the Transformers movie recently. To summarise- They- “Waffle, waffle, PLOT, waffle, NONSENSE, waffle, GIGANIC HOLES, waffle, waffle, SUPERFLOUS CHARACTERS WHO VANISH HALFWAY, waffle, waffle.” Me- “GIANT ROBOTS, witty and erudite comment, PROPER OPTIMUS PRIME VOICE, some filler so charming I cannot put it into text, MEGAN FOX, a joke so funny the Pope himself would weep and wet himself with mirth, GIANT ROBOTS FIGHTING.” They- “Blah, blah, COULDN’T SEE WHAT WAS GONG ON, waffley, waffley, blah, BOOBS DO NOT MAKE A FILM*, more bollox, waffle, blah, POOR JAZZ, blerp, blah.” Me- “THE ROBOTS! THE FIGHTING!, imploring speech so awesome it would convince even the most hard hearted Cylon, THE NOISE! THE MASSIVE BR…” They- “Waffley bollocks waffle contemptible word vomit waffle. I didn’t see it in the cinema.” Me- “Ah. No vote for you then. Your words are as meaningless as a politicians promise. Away with you. ” They- “Bu…” Me- “Silence! NO VOTES FOR *CENSORED*!” Some films, you see, are cinematic. They need to be seen on a mahoosive screen with a sound system that makes your ears bleed, preferably whilst you shove popcorn into your eternally gaping maw. To see them on a dinky screen reduces them, often to absurdity. (The 300? On a small screen? Less with the awesome and more with the very, very gay). Some films, don’t get me wrong, have plot, substance and all that additional stuff and can be seen wherever- I saw “Son of Ranbow” the other day at the Camden Odeon. It was a crap, tiny screen and had a dinky sound system but that didn’t matter because it was a indy, offbeat, charming tale of two school-friends that didn’t rely on spectacle and things going ker-boom. Had I gone to see an actual Rambo film at such a pathetic front-room style cinema however I would have been most upset. With that in mind, I plan to see the Iron Man film this Saturday afternoon. And I needs me a good cinema. Because, y’know ROBOTS** FIGHTING! Yes, the Electric may give you sofas, cake and wine but does it deliver a screen so big you need to prop your eyes open with cocktail sticks to take it all in and a sound-system so loud that the vibrations destroy any kidney stones you may have picked up? I think not. So, London-types, where can a Stokey-based person (with a car!) go to get hizself a big-assed, motherfucking cinema? And does anyone fancy coming? JmC I am Iron Man * at this point I realised he was insane. ** I know he’s not a robot. I’m pitching to the masses. Don’t come to me with your comic-book knowledge. I will own you. (Unless you’re Tony [Lee not Stark] in which case I might have some trouble.) link 32 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

On being unemployed [May. 1st, 2008|11:28 am] Thank you all for your messages of support! You’re all great. I feel so much better now because, let me tell you, being unemployed is RUBBISH. I’d never done it before and, to be honest whilst I’ve technically (and financially) been unemployed for a month moving house, birthday celebrations and general setting up have conspired to mean that I’ve only felt unemployed for about a week and a half. And trust me, that’s more than enough. You don’t get to really enjoy anything- you know that feeling when you’re a student and you have a essay deadline hanging over your head so you can’t really have fun doing stuff because you know you should be doing the essay? You still DO go out, obviously, but that guilty niggle in your head kinda ruins the fun of being drunk as hell, high as a kite and balls-deep in some Fresher (or flaps-wrapped round some Lecturer if you’re a girl.). Like reading the calorie content of a chocolate bar you’re eating should you want a less graphic example. Now imagine that multiplied by ten with the added stir in that have no money coming in so anything you spend that isn’t directly related to keeping you alive you probably shouldn’t spend. Even buying cat food was becoming a concern- if it wasn’t that I thought that the other cats would tease them about their Brummie accents I was just planning to sling Penny and Cassie out the back to forage for themselves. You can’t plan anything- Weekends, holidays, events: people ask you and you honestly have no idea because you don’t know what the fuck your situation is going to be in three weeks, four months, a year. And you’re gonna feel pretty silly if you have to eat your sallopettes that you bought in that moment of “of course I can come skiing!” optimism. Worse, you can’t even plan your day-to-day life; you can’t commit to a gym, an evening class, anything because you just don’t know. You don’t know where you’ll be, you don’t know when you’ll be working, you don’t know IF you’ll be working. Plus people tend to be less than positive if rather than asking them to wine and dinner you wonder if they’d care to share some chips and a bottle of cooking sherry in the graveyard. And that’s not even mentioning the crushing boredom of doing nothing and the overpowering apathy that prevents you doing ANYTHING. Hell, look at my LJ- the lack of recent postage isn’t for lack of anything to say, fuck I can spout on about absolutely sod all (and do!) and certainly isn’t for lack of time. But you get seized by this apathy- if you’re not job-hunting then you shouldn’t do anything else so you don’t. And then you get drunk. And then you drunk-dial the speaking clock and yell “No! WRONG, motherbitch! It’s Miller Time! Ahahahahha!” until you break down and weep. After three hours of that even the clock sounds disgusted. Job means goals to achieve which means self-esteem (trust me, you just don’t get that buzz from beating your “how far can I spit my finger-nail” record), job mean seeing people which means social contact which means not going fucking mad on your own in a flat, job means structure and planning and opportunity. Job means running an eye over job-site seeing if there is anything you want to apply for rather than anything you could (and therefore should) apply for. The money doesn’t hurt either. Being unemployed SUCKS. But on the plus side given that part of my new job consists of helping the homeless and long-term-unemployed then even a little taste probably helps my understanding. And it means I never EVER want this to happen again. JmC I’m back, baby PS. Will be at the Rochester Castle tonight to celebrate. Join me! (and there's some 25th Bday nonsense too, I hear...) link 11 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Guess what? [Apr. 30th, 2008|07:28 pm] I GOT A JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!! Working for the Novas Group (http://www.novasscarman.org/) a community support Charity as a Recruitment Manager. Based in Camden, 35K + 15% PRP (performance related pay). Starts in a couple of weeks. YES!!!!!!!!!!!!! JmC Yippee Ki-Aye, Motherfuckers!!!!! link 32 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

It's that time again [Apr. 29th, 2008|01:21 pm] FHMs Top 100 Sexiest Women in the World has come out so, as is tradition, I shall give you a the top 25 to agree with/ bitch about/ scream that they aren't REMOTELY attractive and what the fuck is WRONG with men?. ( Nothing particularly unworksafe but still lots of photos of girls. ) JmC Top boy Link to FHM Top 100 link 38 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Run away, run away, run away from the pain. [Apr. 28th, 2008|12:19 pm] You know those people who tell you stories like “This one time, this guy, right, he went jogging and, right, his heart, it, like beat so hard it pumped itself into his throat and he, like choked and had a heart attack at the same time. That’s why jogging is bad for you.” Or “I knew this girl went running and she was shot to death by jealous midgets. True story. That’s why running is bad for you.” These stories, whilst obviously true, are nonsense. The fact that these things happen because of running, as do knee sprains, heart attacks, aneurisms, AIDS and baldness to a very small percentage of unfortunates does not mean jogging is bad for you. For the vast majority of people going for a bit of a run will do them all sorts of good. It is only one or two unlucky souls who power the above stories where running is not so great. Sadly it seems I may be in that second category… Being still a member of the dole-blagging, unworking, tax-sucking unemployed last week I had to go to the dole office, sorry job centre (for they will help you get a job. Ho yes. They are not there just to stamp your forms, no, no.). “I know!” I thought, “I’ll run there. Hell, I’m unemployed and there’s only so much masturbation a man can do in a day! I don’t think I’ve reached that limit but that can be tomorrows project!” So I grabbed my canvass army surplus satchel- you know the ones you got as kids and put band names on- filled it with various forms and scampered on my merry way. After running two miles to the job centre I was told that the person on the phone had, in fact, sent me to the wrong place. I needed the other one. Could they not help me here I pleaded? Surely all the computers are linked? Surely? No. Take your limping and gasping self away, I was told. So I “ran” (I am being somewhat charitable in my description of my locomotion) to the swimming pool for a cooling swim. Except my cooling swim was anything but as the metal strap-clips on my canvas bag had rubbed and ripped open my back leaving me with large attractive open sores on my shoulders. Nice. Particularly fun when you add chlorine to them. Incidentally don't try and scream underwater. Your lungs will not thank you. However I am not one to give up just because I probably should. So during the sun-kissed day that was Saturday I decided to go running again. But this time I would take no bag. No bag, no metal clips, no rubbing, no rubbing no more large open wounds that you can't reach to dress so now have bits of T-shirt fluff in them. Ah-ha. Whatcha think of THAT? Sadly no bag also means no wallet, no phone and, most crucially, no map. Something that became quite apparent as I promptly got lost in Tottenham. Not a place to jog. Not unless you want to be joined for a time by some local drunks, sloshing their Special Brew as they stumble to keep up. Not unless you want to be yelled at by “yoofs” with only the sounds of Eye-Of-The-Tiger in your headphones drowning out what were probably not encouraging yells. Not unless you want to be beeped at by a car every single time you get near the edge of the pavement. Not, in fact, a place to jog at all unless you wish to ask yourself “Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?” with every step. Particularly not a place to jog if you get utterly lost so it takes TWO FUCKING HOURS. Finally I found a bus number I recognised and, after following it to the bus stop and discovering I was headed in the opposite direction to where I needed to go, figured out a route home. A route I still had to run as I had no cash. Bonza. On arriving home from my hellish exercise I got sent an invite to go and relax in Clissold park. A nice big, pleasant park. A park perfect for running. And where was this park? Why it’s ten minutes walk from my house! JmC Fortunately on discovering this my severe dehydration prevented me from weeping like a girl link 15 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Wedding Daze [Apr. 22nd, 2008|03:06 pm] Well, its official. I am now TOTALLY a write-off in the offspring department. My Mother will shake her head, my Grandmother spit on my shoes and my Father softly weep in the corner punching his balls for producing such a worthless son. Oh, its not the career thing, although I admit that I could be doing a touch better with that. No, it is because my sweet little baby sister, Emily, ten years younger than yours truly… … is getting married. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I scream, by the way, not because I don’t like her boyfriend, uh fiancé, quite the reverse in fact. Sean is everything one could want in a guy dating your sister (aside from being devastatingly rich, devastatingly penis-less or devastatingly a woman). He’s so nice that at no time have I had to give him my “I have freens, amigo. They cu’ you. They cu’ you goooood, comprende?” speech. Which, whilst a shame as it’s a speech I very much enjoy doing, is a pretty ringing endorsement for him. I scream because, well, it my LITTLE sister. My TEN YEARS YOUNGER little sister and she’s GETTING MARRIED. Holy frickin Jesus on a pogo stick! Yes, she and Sean have been going out for three odd years but still- Holy dancing Moses on a monkey-wrench! And yes the actual wedding won’t be for two years when Emz has finished her PGCE but still- Holy burning Buddha in a all-anal whorehouse! There’s only one thing to be done. I must salvage some pride. I must marry before her. That’ll put the universe back in it’s proper place! Anyone know any chicks looking for a Greencard? JmC Hot chicks, obviously PS. CONGRATULATIONS EMILY AND SEAN!! link 27 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Paws the game [Apr. 18th, 2008|08:52 am] Success! If by success that is one means ramming books higgdly-piggldly on to shelves, stuffing DVDs out of order (Ong Bak next to Freaky Friday? Nooooo!) and ignoring the weeping of ornaments as they are torn from their friends to sit next to a hammer or canister of nail-polish remover. And right now I’m pretty happy to coult that as a success! So… success.! (I take my victories where I can get ‘em.) So all my stuff is shoved where ever it fucking fits put away. This has now opened he flat up to a fun game called Cat Chess. For those of you who have no idea what cat chess is; fear not- you are not alone. Cat Chess is a complicated feline game with most rules not discernable to we mere lurching monkey-people. It is along the same lines as “Toy with the still half-alive bird” and “Sit in the doorway” but a tad more complex. To establish- my beloved Cassandra and Penelope, being my property and therefore subject to my whims, nuances and movements (plus I can totally kill them. I can! I own them! And still they don’t listen…) have come with me to my new flat in London. However residing in said flat is an already established kitty-cat; Iggy. Iggy is Caroline’s cat and is a good 400 times bigger (I may exaggerate a touch) than either of my little fuzzballs. You might think, therefore, that Iggy, being the long term resident and also the larger by a considerable margin, would be ruling this particular roost. You might think that. You would be wrong. On meeting Penny and Iggy locked gazes and she did that low growl thing where the noise seems at least two thirds bigger than is possible to come from her dinky body. Iggy made the mistake of hissing at her and she bashed him in the nose. Pwned. After this initial feline foray Ig, Pen and Cassie have been locked in their game of Cat Chess. On careful observance I have figured out some of the rules: a) Owners beds are “home space”. Sitting on opposing beds is an infringement. b) You should sit somewhere where you can watch your opponent, ideally in a place where they cannot get past you. If this means they are upset because they can’t get to food/bed/litter tray so much the better. c) Higher up is better. Sitting on James’ head, however, is not recommended. d) Despite the palatable tension in the room you must pretend to be cool and casual. Washing is good. “Sleeping” (we can see your eye open. We knows you ain’t sleeping…) is also good. Wandering over to human and getting fussed whilst locking gazes with another cat is extra good. Sitting on a human and yawning “Fuuuuuuuck YOU, bitch.” at a rival is extra, extra good. e) Size, apparently, matters not. f) Aggression, apparently, matters a great deal. As does volume, glaring and giving off a vibe that declares “I’ve fought dogs. I will fuck your shit up if you make a move”. g) Don’t blink, don’t look away. This is a loss. h) If your rival moves you must halt them with the least possible movement. If you can curtail them by opening an eye, a bass growl or a lip curl then you get points. Actual hissing or movement loses points. Running away loses all accumulated points and you look wussy. There are a lot more nuances to this game but so far it seems that the pecking order is Penny-Iggy-Cassie (though to be fair Cassie hasn’t really been playing and merely skitsing about being upset and occasionally imploring me with heartbreaking meeps to take her home). Whether Iggy will man up and put the diminutive glowering intruder in her place or get knocked to the bottom of the pile as Cassie decides to get involved and drops an anvil on him remains to be seen! JmC Pussy to Queen-Rook two link 7 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

We got lights.... [Apr. 15th, 2008|01:27 pm] ... we got music! This is James broadcasting live from his new bedroom in Stoke Newington, London! Woo! I have not clue one where this connection came from nor how I will put my stuff in places other than the floor. But fuck it. I had a wonderful leaving party (paticular thanks to thehappygoth, Rach and jesswah), days of driving, unloading (ten thousand cheers for emptyjohn and badusernametag for assistance), cleaning, billing and lots n lots of stuff. I'd expand on this but as I'm typing lying on my bed surrounded by ALL THE JUNK THE WORLD I feel my time could be better spent. Much love to all I left in Brum, I shall visit soon. Expectant love to London people, I shall see you sooner. Apologies to anyone who's emailed/facebooked/etc me, been kinda busy. Will catch up on the back log soon. Mwah! JmC Would consider trading the lights and music for a bit more space. link 14 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

As Max said to me; "You literally have to watch this immediately." [Apr. 9th, 2008|11:14 am] JmC And he was right link 7 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

A plea [Apr. 9th, 2008|10:44 am] Hullo! Anyone around in Stoke Newington tomorrow afternoon (about 4.00ish onwards) who fancies helping me move furniture up and down stairs? It'll be fuuuuuuuuuuuuun! JmC No it won't. But beer after. link 3 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

How old? [Apr. 8th, 2008|03:13 pm] Oh my God. It's my birthday. I'm thirty-one years old. Now I'm in my thirties. Some amongst you might argue that this has been the case for a year now but I, and all who have shared my sober-inducing predicament, can tell you this is just not the case. When you are thirty you are just thirty. Singular. You are not in your "thirties". You can cling to the belief that you're basically still in your twenties. Flies in the face of logic but there you go. Once you hit thirty one, however this self delusion is ripped away- you are thirty SOMETHING. That 'something' demonstrating that you are in your thir-TIES. Oh you can dress it up how you like, early thirties (31 to 34) mid thirties (35-38) and late thirties (39) but the fact remains- you are in your thirties. A time to be stable. A time when you have a career. A stable relationship. A mortgage. Probably some kids. A time to reflect and consolidate. Me? I'm ditching everything to go be job-less in London town. That THAT, thirties! JmC Though I have spent most of today signing up with job agencies link 24 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

S'no joke [Apr. 6th, 2008|01:03 pm] What is funnier than waking Harry up with a snow ball to the face? ...NOTHING! Nothing is funnier than that! Hahahahhahahahahhahahahah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm gonna miss him. JmC Not sure the feeling is reciprocated link 8 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

Can you say "My hero"? [Apr. 4th, 2008|12:24 pm] That theme song touches me in my very soul. JmC Don't worry Charlie Sheen, I love you too. link 6 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

A visit to the jobcentre [Apr. 2nd, 2008|03:16 pm] Well that was kinda fun. After the advice given yesterday I went for my “interview” thing at the jobcentre suited and booted. I joined the queue for reception behind a man singing along to the voices in his head and a woman who would only interrupt playing with her fags to loudly sniff and wipe her nose with her sleeve. Nice. Within seconds of me standing there I was whisked away by some chap in a bad tie who enquired what I wanted. When I informed the guy that I was there for an interview he looked me up and down baffled before rather shamefacedly telling me that I needed to go back to the queue he had wrested me from. The queue that had now added a cheery hippy-looking fellow and annoyed looking black guy to its number. I looked at the queue and then back at him with the unspoken question on my face. “I, uh, could ask, uh,” Bad-tie stammered. Annoyed black guy was becoming more annoyed and was switching poisonous glares between his mobile phone into which he was punching a message and singing-man who was dispensing with words for a sort of humming. “Do you want me to, uh?” Clearly Bad-tie did not want to ask these people to let me jump back into the queue. I wasn’t that surprised- being stabbed in the face is generally not high on anyone’s want-list. Fortunately I was feeling generous and had been prepared for this sort of waiting so just smiled and tapped my book. “No, problem.” I said, joining the back. Several desks (“You need to take this and go there,”) forms and queues later I came to the actual interview bit. Lynn, the lady doing the interview, was very nice but obviously a touch overwhelmed by my preparation. “So you’re looking for?” “Management type role, mainly people or project management but happy to do events management or training. Ideally in a charity environment but would happily look at Public Sector. If the job was a suit, say corporate investment in community I’d consider private. Pretty open really.” “Oh. Right. I’ll just put… public sector management?” “That’s fine.” “And you’ll need a CV. I can give you a template if y…” “Here. Achievements based, general chronological and a charity focused. Here’s a list of websites I’m registered on and the papers I get.” “Oh. Yes, right. I’ll put that down. And do you look at local paper for jo…” I slowly shake my head “…No, that’s probably not the right level. But you could look at the job points we have here with all the jobcentre vacancies?” “Lynn. Is that seriously worth my time?” “Well it… No. Not really. But do you mind if I put it on the system? It looks better if I put that on the system.” “Whatever makes you happy.” Laid it on a bit thick but still- I’ve done my time at McDonalds and I have no wish to be told I should go back! JmC And how are your burger flipping skills? link 20 decapitations|Bring me the head of John the baptist!!

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