Mobile hussle

Geez, when you sign up to a mobile contract you know what you're initially getting; a mobile phone, a charger and perhaps even a blu tooth head set so you can create a demeanour of importance to the rest of the public as you dally down the local kebab shop with a shiny blue thing hanging from your ear. What you don't expect is that by entering a contract you are also entering a mobile poker game, where in 12 months time you'll be contacted day and night via phone, e-mail and post informing you that you're a due an upgrade and you should contact them now. Well this is what’s been happening to me the last month, I've been texted and called. They managed to get me though, the other day I was phoned up by some wide boy who immediately starts to plant a tone that he's actually doing me the favour, constantly trying to close the deal before I close the flipper on the phone and end the call. "200 texts, 200 free mins, cross network anytime, I'll do that for you, yeah?" I get asked, well more like told. "I'll sort you out with a K800i too, nice bit of kit, cause you're a loyal customer and I like ya."

However, having done my haggling apprenticeship in the school of woeful decisions and experiences I'm now a little savvier in the art of 'upgrades'. Firstly I amass an armoury to let the wideboy know that I'm not one to be charmed by his friendly/threatening deal proposals. Luckily for me 02 have just brought out the £15 a month for 200 mins and texts so I tell the wideboy that I'm not upgrading and in fact I want to cancel and to tell me the procedures as 02 is offering the exact deal minus phone. The wideboy doesn't like this. I can hear his gold jangling on the other end of the line, probably motioning the wanker sign. Secondly, I play the silence game. After I've told him that I want to cancel I keep quiet, letting the static air and jangling gold create an uncomfortable silence. "Why you want to quit then?" He tells me. "I can leave 02 after 30 days notice, and I've already got a K800i." I tell him. "Right well, can I call you back I need to speak to the supervisor." While he's doing this I go on t'internet and look to see what's the most expensive gizmotastic phone available. I find it and discover their tariffs begin at £35 I don't really want it I just want to see how much I can get away with.

The phone rings and wideboy tells me I can have 400 free minutes, 300 free texts and a new handset for £22 a month. I tell wideboy that I want the N95 for £22 in order for me to stay with them. Wideboy mockingly laughs as he says the N95 starts from £35 a month. I don't laugh and tell him I want to quit. Wideboy says, "I'll just put you through to loyalty department". The third step I take is to ask the next person more than you originally asked for. "Hi, yes I want to quit but you colleague said that you may be willing to give me the N95 with a 2GB memory card, blu teeth handset, no cost for itemised billing for £22 a month, is this correct?" The loyalty person, who is in fact quite polite and well mannered, informs me that this cannot be done. "Ok then, no worries I thought it was too good to be true, can you tell me what I have to do to quit?" The silence erupts again and I wait for him to speak. “I tell you what I can give you the N95 only but nothing else." Success! I smile to myself even though I don't really care about the phone I was cajoled by them to enter this hussle game and so I wanted to win, and I think I did. "Ok, I'll take it."


I managed to channel my energies of success into writing some more prose. Hope you enjoy it.

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Yannish, couldn’t help but grin as he thought about what was asked from him. His first thoughts fluttered with the idea that he was definitely mad. The guy was a murderer who abused his position. He took great gratification in killing Polonius the old whinging crank, who wouldn’t? The only time he took a moment to reflect about his actions and the occurrences he caused was when he picks up the skull of Yorrick. Only then does he begin to realise what he has done, but true to a madman’s perceptions of reality he dismisses them as if they were nothing. Yannish presses the pen nib against the paper fighting against the urge to write ‘Hamlet was definitely a nutter’ and then let the potency of the short statement be interpreted by the examiner any way they wish. A few minutes went by before he decided against it thinking surely year after year at least one pupil writes that sort of drivel.

He did love though, can mad men love? Of course they can, does that mean that perhaps within all that madness there is also sanity? He thinks. What about if he isn’t actually mad at all, his feigned madness never seeped into realism. No no no, that can’t be it. The pen nib leaves the paper but is still hovering above. He wasn’t mad, he was fuelled, no drunk on the responsibility to exact revenge on his uncle. He couldn’t handle it so he decided to use this feigned madness as a coping mechanism, an outlet of this drunkenness to justify any actions he makes, even killing. Yes, yes that’s it. The nib is back on the paper. He looks up at the clock knowing there was still two hours and fifteen minutes to go. The last time he looked at the clock so intensively was when they were forced to watch Hamlet with the rest of his class. Mr Crooks originally brought in the 1948 Lawrence Oliver version of the play where even one of the finest actors couldn’t galvanise the classroom attention because it was in black and white. Mr Crooks knew this but shook his head in a pitying manner as he ejected the video cassette from the video player. The next lesson he brought in the 1990 version which featured a less formidable actor in Mel Gibson but it was in DVD and more importantly in colour so everyone watched. Helen Bonham-Carter was Ophelia and Yannish remembered just how beautiful she was, it was the only reason he concentrated on the film. Her long curly brown hair and those intense eyes, he’d love to have a relationship with her like that. They could spend evenings drinking fine wine and listen to each others stories, and when they tried to have sex it would take them about ten minutes before even the foreplay started because of the time it would take to remove the copious amounts of clothing. He could tell her anything.

Hang on, he was sure that Hamlet loved Ophelia before his father’s death so therefore why didn’t he tell her his plan to feign madness. Isn’t that what people in love do? He could have given her the opportunity to try and understand what he was doing or what he was going through, but he didn’t. Why not? The pen nib once again rises from the paper, a page has been written. No, this is not it. He didn’t tell her because he loved her. What his ghost father said crushed him from the inside. His father speaking from somewhere he could not go telling him he was poisoned by his own brother tore hamlet apart. His mother no longer by his father’s side, by Hamlet’s side when he most needs her now but by the king’s side, the uncle’s side. The dual torturous motions running side by side in side of him. One churning out a passion for revenge only quenched by killing his uncle to relieve this pain. The other considers the magnitude of killing someone, he’s done it before, but not from the council of a ghost, so much conflict for such a young Hamlet that he couldn’t wish to share this with Ophelia. Would she ever believe him? Would she help him? She’d never let him carry it out because she would know, they both would know that in order to do it Hamlet would as well have to die. No, he would go succeed in what he had to do and then go back to her but unfortunately the bumbling Polonius got in the way so he had to kill Ophelia’s dad. Surely Ophelia’s opinion of him would be changed now. But no matter, by now it was too late, the feigned madness had become madness itself being unable to cope with the things happening to him. A vessel of coping, it’s just that too many people he loved/loves have been hurt by his actions that surely there was only ever going to be one ending. But damaged, though he became he fulfilled in revenging his father even though it cost him his life.

It’s hard for Yannish not to think about Hamlet’s predicament. He could have just walked away, ignoring the ghost. He could have listened to the ghost and believed what he said but still he looks at the pages he’s written and feels a little lighter after transferring those heavy thoughts on to the paper. There’s nothing he can do now but check the spellings and think about getting himself a drink after all this. Soon all exam papers are picked up and everyone is spilling out in to the fresh air. Yannish spots Keith from a distant, catches his eye and nods at him as they both start to make their way to the pub.

Sport-o-holic

I'm hell bent on a mission to break my body by playing so many sports that my skeletal frame will crack and that I will become nothing more than a light brown blob on the floor with dark hair hoping people don't tread on me. It started last Monday when I played squash at lunch time, the relentless pace and instinctive movement required left my muscles shaking involuntary as I sat down after lunch but I considered it worth it because I won even though I dropped my baguette numerous times because my arms kept twitching. The next day I played tennis which I hadn't played in about 10 years so knowing I'd lose because of this I brought my old wooden racket and wore a head band to create a Borg complexion and intimidate my opponent. However after being hit hard by a tennis ball on the thigh by my opponent who couldn't help but snigger as I crumpled on the floor wobbling a bit I decided to ditch the comical facade and give him a match full of my competitive venom. I lost. But I still think it's because I hadn't played for 10 years and aim for a rematch. On Wednesday I was dragged into a 6-a-side cricket match because they were one short, this was more of a relaxing activity as it required me to stand still and launch the ball at every opportunity. On the Thursday I tried out touch rugby (I'm not buff enough for the real thing) which I'd never done before and found it really enjoyable. It's basically playing 'tig' with a ball, if you're touched you need to release it. By now my body was creaking by lack of rest and fluid so on Friday I didn't do any sports and rested as all the past weeks activities caught up with me by experiencing episodes of cramp in my legs. On Monday I started the lunch time off with another game of squash and as the little ball bounced off the wall I couldn't help but think what the hell am I doing playing sport so much. Luckily, it's been raining most of this week so I've got an excuse not to play so many games as it's seriously screwing me up.

Here's some more prose to add to all the others.

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The alarm’s sound pulsated around the room as an arm rose up and tried feebly to press down of the snooze button. The sweaty thumb rubbed on the button but failed to put enough pressure to push it down. Instead it slid away causing the alarm to fall off the bed slide of the bedside table and crash onto the floor with the speaker facing upwards towards the bed. Yannish could bear no longer the whirring sounds coming from the alarm he heaved himself from his bed by rolling himself onto the floor wrapping himself round and round in the bed sheet, wriggling like Houdini making an escape.

“Can’t believe it’s 7am already.” He whimpered to himself as he finally managed to press the snooze button on the clock. He picked himself and watched all the old cigarette butts come unstuck from his knee from where he landed on his ash tray. He got up and made his way to the bathroom to do the usual morning routine walking along the landing where a butt was still become visible every time he raised his heel. After getting changed, slamming two slices of toast into the toaster he quickly ran back up to search for his college bag, grabbing it from amongst the pile of clothes in his room. The toast popped up and was deftly picked up buttered and ate as he shut the door crunching at the precise moment he slammed it shut as to muffle the noise and then head off to college.

Tethelforth College was an old looking Victorian building which was scarred with contemporary restoration so that its majestic presence was less prominent now that the new art deco offices had been rebuilt and grey bricks had been chosen to clash with the dusky red, it looked like an IKEA shop had set up business there. The place was named after an alleged local philanthropist who had gained a fortune in lace making. Mr Clive Tethelforth Jr was not known for his lace making abilities even though his family were all in the industry. Tethelforth Jr was more concerned with plundering his fathers savings down the public house where inebriation, a pinch of the bar maid’s backside and urinating on a lamp post with out being caught by the police was considered a good night.

“Did you hear here squeal, Treggers as I grabbed her from behind?” shouted Tethelforth as he finished up urinating on the high street lamp post and also his leather shoes making wavy patterns on them and making the leather go a darker shade of brown. Pulling up his cotton trousers and re-attaching them to his braces he looked round to see why Treggers hadn’t responded.

“Treggers?”

“Uh, sorry, yes. I did, the wench.” came the voice of Treggers.

“It was awfully funny I wish I’d done it again. Well I’d better get back we’ve got some French au pairs staying with us to look after my brother. If I get in too late I might scare them and then they’d be hell to pay. Now go find me a carriage! ” said Tethelforth.

Although Tethelforth Jr was in no way gifted in the arts of lace making he was gifted in the arts of exploitation, manipulation and motivation. The tools for a great businessman and that he became after he realised that the two French au pairs were gifted in lace making but their style and design were so original that Tethelforth Jr knew straight away he could have his own thousands to plunder and quickly forced the French au pairs to teach his father’s workers how to lace the way they did when they were supposed to be putting younger brother Gordon to bed. After a while Tethelforth Jr had enough people who knew the way to copy the flair of the French lace and started up his own business to rival his father’s. With his new style of lacing he soon managed to close down all the lace makers in the region including his father’s. He didn’t care and promptly moved out. He moved back in to the house once his family could no longer pay their way and were ejected. But alas, Tethelforth just sat back on his chair, settled his pipe into his mouth and laughed as he lit it.

Tethelforth Comprehensive was built it was said after one night most of the town’s people set his factory alight enraged that Tethelforth was hiring people but refusing to pay them come wage day, especially the vulnerable children he kept recruiting. Standing in the street with his night gown flapping upwards revealing his rotund belly and more he promised that he would pay everyone he hadn’t paid and build something for the community the next day if they would stop trying to burn down his empire. And so the next day work began on Tethelforth Comprehensive, based not on the ideology of knowledge is all powerful but on the foundations that if one has enough money they can buy their way out of anything. Even build a school. It became a college in 1981 after the Conservative party had a revamp of education.

The bus journey took about 20 minutes from Yannish’s house and had only just made it to the bus stop. Today was going to be his last day at Tethelforth College as he had only his literature exam to complete and he’d be finished there forever. He strode up to the exam room sat down and waited while all the usual procedures were spoken by the teachers and then he heard the words. “You may begin” and looked at the white A4 booklet, licked his forefinger and then used it to turn the page to read “In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, is Hamlet the true personification of madness or a young man pursuing a desire, discuss.” Yannish thought he felt vessels behind his eyeballs popping as he entrenched his pen lid with his molars while he contemplated what to write on the lined paper in front of him.

Transcribing Takes A Long Time

To earn a bit more money I subscribed to the transcribing register at my place of work. I get sent a CD or a DVD and I have to transcribe every word said and also the 'erms' and 'umms' that feature as well. In fact it's quite freaky the amount of times people say, " you know what I mean" or "like". And these people aren't chav's you'd find outside the local off licence as well which makes you think everyone really says these little things but just camouflage it with a plum voice. However whilst transcribing, writing a blog and tapping the keyboard at work my left wrist is starting to develop an ache. This isn't due to copious amounts of masturbation but because of constant bashing of buttons can actually give you pain. So I decided I had to with hold from one of the three and as work is something you can't escape unless you let yourself go (and to be honest wrist pain isn't a significant reason to do this) I can't really pursue that option any further. I like to write on this blog as I get some gratification from it if they day hasn't brought me anything already so wasn’t going to halt this. So I decided I had to stop the transcribing but when I found out that a lucrative transcribing package was involved I thought I can't give this up as it's such a nice little side earner. No, I'll have to carry on with this. So now I'm just typing with my right hand like a fool who doesn't know where the keys are on the keyboard. I can't help but feel kind of like Opi from Family Guy. Although I'm really slow at least I'm managing to maintain everything I want to do, for the time being without really suffering.

However, I’m currently discovering transcribing is a cumbersome slow process that requires copious amounts of patience. I’ve got an hour conversation to transcribe between three people talking about charities and arts. Sounds quite easy, no? No it isn’t, the three people talk over each other so you can’t work out what they are saying, one guy never ends his sentence before he starts another one and the other person only wants to talk about their charity and some how manages to do this even though it’s irrelevant. It’s been such a slow process which has taken up most of my free time during this past week, and even now I’m not finished. It’s one of those things that makes you feel uncomfortable because you’re body is typing away while your mind can’t help but whisk itself away and explore your imagination when all of a sudden you’ve got to rip it away from its indulgence and re-engage it because you don’t know if someone said ‘their’ or ‘they’re’. I’m due to finish tomorrow and already I’ve bashed out over 10,000 words mostly with only the use of one hand.

Well I managed to type up some more prose after my transcribing for the day but it’s full of typos because my eyes keep closing every time I focus on something.

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“I’m sorry I just can’t help myself sometimes.”

“Whatever, you need to fucking relax. Life doesn’t revolve around Kirsty. People don’t wake up thinking ‘what did Kirsty do last night? Is Kirsty alright? I didn’t come here to see what you got up to last night I didn’t come down here to see Hayley, I came down here to get the vacuum cleaner because Derek told me I’ve got hoover the men’s floor because I was caught putting a security tag on Timmy as he walked out the door.”

An eruption of laughter came deep within Kirsty’s belly as it belted around the stock room infecting both Dev and even Hayley from afar, who was laughing not for the sake of it this time. Only Yannish couldn’t hear any of the laughing. His eyes bulge out and he swallows slowly, ‘just like a cliché’ whispers a little voice in his head. This quickly snaps him from his trance and he closes the door quickly just catching a last glimpse of Dev turning around to walk this way. Yannish turns around and sees the battered vacuum cleaner lying there. The lid is hanging off one hinge and the bag is slit so that sprays of dust can be seen all over it. At first he considers lifting up and putting it by the front of the door and then hide until it’s collected. But where? There isn’t anywhere to go. It sinks into him now that to get out of here with some chance of living the life he woke up to this morning, he’ll have to shoot Dev. “I can’t do it” he says as his hand pulls the gun up to his chest and points it outwards. He can see his arm shaking as he holds it wobbling like he’s suffering an electric shock so he claps his other arm onto the gun to stop it, but it doesn’t. He waits now, staring intently at the door waiting for the handle to move, to see the tiny little shake it makes before either moving up or down. That’s what Yannish is waiting for, that’s when he knows he has to be ready. A tear appears on his left eye swaying slightly by the air ventilation, Yannish blinks to let it roll down his face leaving a small outline of its trail as it reaches his lip and he thinks “How did it come to this?”

I Should Check The Weather Forecast More Frequently

I hate trying to predict the weather. I don't want to as it's an element of nature and she herself is unpredictable. The only reason I do is like the majority of people you need to know what clothes to wear. Saturday, I put on jeans and a sweatshirt because it was cloudy in the morning. But by 11am it became so hot that I wanted to remove most of my clothes which wasn't very practical in B&Q.

So when Sunday came I woke up thinking today is going to be like Saturday, start off looking grey and then brighten up. So I don a pair of shorts and a vest and make my way to town. Instead I'm hit with torrential rain that catches me as I'm about to enter the city centre so that my clothes end up sticking to my skin while my arms are pink from the lashings of the rain and to top it off my Dunlop's squelched every time I took a step. Should really pay attention to weather forecasts more.

Anyway, I've styled some more prose.

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“The other fucking way is going to be difficult” he whispers to himself. The other way is to go through now and try and bring the two ladies together. However, the blond one is obscured behind the shelves and is actually closer to the fire exit than anyone else in the room. He could come through and try and terrify her into moving to the centre but she’d have a good chance of turning and running to the Fire Exit or through the other door. He’d then be forced either to shoot her or let her go. Both these endings would definitely end in turmoil for him. No, Yannish wasn’t going to risk this happening, he didn’t like that ultimatum. He sits back and tries to calm himself down by taking slow deep breaths. He’ll wait out a little longer until they get closer to each other and so sits back and waits.

His eyes spring open and his neck jerks up like a Meer cat peering out over from the ground in a David Attenborough documentary. The other door on the other side of the room begins to open. Yannish quickly gets up from his position and immediately goes to turn the handle down to see out the other side but decides not to straight away instead he carefully lays his body and head against the door thrusting his ear to the wood attempting to hear everything.

“How’s it going Hayley?” Comes a male voice.

“Hmm, bit of a bitch I’ve got to do this stock take on these shoes before we close tonight, it’s a bloody nightmare because I was only told about it about a half hour ago. Now I’m stuck out back in this bloody sauna and having to listen to Kirsty recounting every moment of her night out and how she got so lashed she couldn’t remember half of it. However, she seems to be doing a pretty good job at doing it! Stay clear of the kitchen area if you don’t want to get caught in a ten minute conversation about falling over and kissing various things.”

“Thanks for letting me know, but I gotta go that way. I’ll just walk past her and ignore her, I know it’s rude but I can’t be fucked to listen to other people’s tales which are probably made up anyway.”

“How long is this man going to be in here?” Thinks Yannish. His undesired scenario was unfolding before him and he really didn’t know what to do other than open the door and try and see who it was that was out there. The situation is really getting to him now, the nervousness is creeping around him sucking out all the breath he has and making him agitated more than ever. He has to see who’s behind the door now. Even if the guy walks out, he may return when Yannish has exposed himself onto his stage. He needs to know if it was someone that could cause him problems or even worse someone who could be a hero. The door is nudged open once more so that his right eye can see out. He sees, a tall young man of Indian-Asian origin. His face is covered with stubble, not thickly spread but it surrounds all around his chin. His eyes, although not facing Yannish are wide, almost bulging with eagerness but are being contained by the high cheek bones. Large rimmed earrings encircle both his earlobes and slightly sparkle against the lightening. This guy is big, not muscular but large framed and looking like he contains enough power to tackle Yannish.

“Uh huh, ok, that sounds very boring.”

“Don’t walk away from me Dev I’m trying to tell you something.”

Dev turns away and then spins back to face the kitchen area again. His body already set to spin off in the opposite direction while his head uses itself as an anchor restraining himself from moving off.

“I was going to tell you about last night, we had a great time. You should of come. Why…”

“…I couldn’t be arsed and Hayley told me a condensed version a few mins ago. I need to go.”

Yannish feels the relief spread over him as he hears of Dev’s imminent farewell. Although the guy is large and powerful he does seem to be unable to completely drag himself away from the beckoning story telling of Kirsty. Either way, he knows his gamble didn’t pay off and the thought of even more people entering this room, Yannish’s stage, only plunges him further into confusion. His mind is set, as soon as Dev leaves he’ll do what he has to do. He can only watch now like a member of the audience waiting for the scene to end.

“Hayley’s a bitch, she’s just jealous because she couldn’t afford to come out so she’s just talking behind my back. I can’t stand talking to her, she’s always quiet and just nods and laughs when it thinks it’ll please me. Stupid cow.”

“Don’t call Hayley a bitch or a cow. Maybe she just didn’t want to go out last night with you and all your mates. You got some serious issues to call some one a bitch and a cow so quickly. Maybe if you let her speak instead of talking at her you might actually think she is a sound girl, instead of mouthing off to me she’s a bitch and cow.”

A small shriek can be heard from the kitchen and then the appearance of the green mug comes into Yannish’s view stuttering through the air towards Dev who raises his hands firstly to cover his face but as he realises that the mug isn’t actually going at a fast pace to hurt him twists his writs out to open his hands where the mug lands almost gently into his palms. Dev looks down at the mug and then places it on the floor and looks up again towards the direction of where it came from.

“What the hell was that for you nut case? I was only telling you not to call Hayley a bitch and you launch a cup at me. I’m just lucky it wasn’t full of boiling coffee or some other crap you drink.”

“I’m, I’m, I’m sorry…”

“…To right you should be sorry, that could’ve smacked me in the eye or something, then you’d be sorry.”

“Shit” thinks Yannish, he’s turning into a fucking hero. The comedic element of the expletive only lasts a moment as the seriousness settles in that this was exactly the person he didn’t want to confront. Someone he actually might like.

Avatars and Barbers

We all know that Groening et al realise The Simpsons is now as ingenious and comedic as the Eastenders cast performing a musical for Children In Need every year. So as one last attempt to sap the milky money from the teat of its Cash Cow they made a movie. In my opinion this is a clear indication that things are coming to an end. I do not care much for the movie as I’m sure it’s no motion picture masterpiece but I will see it out of curiosity. I just can’t get it out of my head that I’m about to experience a two hour episode without any adverts and nothing more. But that’s not really the reason I’m writing about them.

Someone sent me an e-mail the other day entitled ‘If you want to time waste click here’ so I did and was sent to the Simpsons website where you have the ability to create your own Simpson avatar. I spent the next ten minutes building myself to fit in the world of Springfield (My results are pictured on the right or above). Anyway, check it out if you want to see what you’d look like if they ever approach you for a guest appearance (which is plausible as they’re running out of people to get on there). But you’ll probably do what I did and get stressed because you can’t save it unless you register and then think bollox to that and go back sipping your coffee and checking your mails whilst getting some else to register.

http://www.simpsonsmovie.com/

That same day I was due to get my haircut so headed down town for my appointment. I’ve been growing some sort of baby mullet and been calling it ‘the mud flap’ for the last four months. I sort of liked the feeling of the back of my hair wrapping around behind my ears as reassurance that I’m not going bald. Or when I go running and then stop, my whole body comes to a jolting stand still whilst the mud flap flaps that extra second. It’s like a sort of extensional limb only it doesn’t conform entirely with what my brain tells it to do. One problem with having the mud flap is when walking out in general public, people would look at me and snigger, even though it was in its infancy it was still open to ridicule. However, I persisted with it as I liked it until one day I realised that this extenuation was gradually starting to dictate my life. I’d have to get up 10 minutes earlier each morning just to comb it so I would avoid an Amy Winehouse-esque look. When it came to washing my hair I only used to squeeze the bottle once and one dollop of shampoo was more than sufficient. With this sprouting I had to squeeze it once to do the front bit and then again to cleanse the mud flap from all the dirt and muck it seemed to collect during the day. I just couldn’t be fucked with it in the end, it had to go.

So now I’m sporting a hair cut you could set your watch by. Yep, short and chopped. I guess I have to accept long hair will never suit me (even though it wasn’t very long) because I’ve got an odd shaped head.

Forgetfulness

I hate being forgetful, it really vexes me when I forget something relatively important. I feel a little embarrassed of my actions and then that feeling is quickly followed with one of being pissed off as to why I forgot in the first place.

Today at work I had just sat down with my coffee and was just checking my mails when my mobile buzzed in my pocket. “Hello Sir, I would just like to inform you that you have forgotten your dental appointment with Dr Ambrose at 9am. Can you be here in 15 minutes? He can just about fit you in.” Said the receptionist, or words to that effect. So I take a huge gulp of coffee and let it burn my throat as it goes down and dash over to my boss, tell her I’ve got dentist and won’t be back for half an hour and make my way down to the dental clinic.

I get there all hot and bothered, no one is impressed with me getting there super fast, especially not reception. I sit down in the waiting area and stare at all the other people who just look like they’re preparing for their auditions as manic depressives for the remake of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. At least Dr Ambrose is more joyful, in fact he always is, as he calls my name after a twenty minute wait. I always wonder why he can be so happy when he has to stick his hand in people’s mouths exposing himself to the threat of being nibbled at by an uncooperative patient. I conclude that he’s happy because he gets sadistic revenge by injecting people with needles the size of my hand, letting the local atheistic pump slowly. I’ve been his victim 4 times now and don’t fancy going there a fifth time. Luckily for me, I escape this as I’ve been brushing my teeth regularly so I get a pat on the shoulder instead for not getting any fillings.

On the way back I see Salmon (you may remember him from a previous entry). Turns out he’s quit that Internet game, World of Warcraft. I didn’t know whether to hug him or tell him I’m glad he’s re-plugged himself back to the real world. I ask him where he’s going and to my horror but not my surprise he’s going to the computer game shop to buy another online game called Guild Wars. Soon after this, I wish him luck on his quest with knights and head off to work thinking, shit I’m going to have to stay back late tonight.

I’ve written a bit more progressive prose to keep my mind on an active vibe.

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Two young women in their twenties are laughing and talking on the other side of the door. One has brown hair and is dressed in a red top with dark blue jeans, she’s talking rapidly and seems to be giggling at every other sentence she speaks, her head bouncing back and forth like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. She’s talking to a blond haired girl with a bobbed haircut who keeps playing with the strap on her black top by twirling it and then letting it go. She’s seems completely entranced at what the brown haired girl is saying, nodding her head every time there is a pause for a breath and laughs when a sentence finishes on an enthusiastic note. Even though, Yannish can’t hear what they are talking about he can tell just by his observation that the blond girl is faking her interest in the topic of conversation. In fact, it isn’t even a conversation, how can it be? The brown haired girl is just talking at the other girl while she politely responds accordingly at every cue given to her, nudging her along the conversation like a school teacher does to help the pupil get the answer in the end.

The area is brightly lit with huge halogen lights pouring down making them look like they are in a theatre performing on stage. They are on stage, Yannish’s stage in Yannish’s theatre. The room itself was full of clothes hanging on shelves at every level and in no apparent order, these must be the returns. On the left is the kitchen area with a sink, a table, three chairs and a microwave with the door swung open revealing various remnants of readymade meals splattered all over the inside and hanging from it’s ceiling. The right shows shelves upon shelves of shoe boxes, all neatly stacked up at the bottom but as the eye follows upwards the boxes become more ragged in appearance, until you get near the top and it becomes obvious someone just throws the boxes up in the air and if it manages to land on the shelf it is considered neatly stacked away. Just beyond the rows of shelves, Yannish spots a green light, it’s a familiar light that illuminates the word ‘Fire…’. He peers forward looking for the “…Exit” to confirm exactly what it is. Even though he knows what it is, it surely can’t be “Fire Hazard” or “Fire, Fire”. He gets the anxious feeling you get when you’re late and waiting for a train and you look at the Departures screen to see what time your train is and then you look 30 seconds later to see if it’s coming earlier. And then 1 minute later, even though you know the screen hasn’t changed you still look up and check. He can’t resist, he needs this confirmation so moves forward towards the crack opening the door a bit more so that the front part his hair flops out over on to the other side. He arcs his neck so that his eyes can see the “Exit” which settles any doubts he has. He quickly moves back into his space with a gleeful look spreading across his face. He knows now, his escape route. All that is left is to estimate how many people are in the building and how is he going to handle the two women on the other side of the door. They had now split from their conversation and moved to other ends of the room with one over by the kitchen looking into the cupboard. She pulls out a green mug and loosely places it on the table. The mug lands at an awkward angle and sways to the left, raising the right and then rocks back onto the right leaning so far forward it tips over the ledge heading towards the floor. The brown haired girl notices and dives forward cupping the mug with her hands as she crashes to the floor. She raises her head with a look of pleasure and looks around the room to see if anyone else had seen her catch. Her expression drops slightly as no one else had seen it, except of course for Yannish who dips his eyes to the ground just in case they catch hers.

Eventually, after a few seconds, he looks up to see the other woman on the right of the room, she isn’t in complete view because of the grey metal shelving interweaving with one another. Through the shelves and joints he makes out her head and a right arm and hand which is writing something down on a clip-board. “This could be a problem,” Yannish tells himself as he recoils his head from the door. He carefully shuts it and slides down the back of its wooden frame to fester in his own thoughts. If he had made his move just minutes earlier, he could have charged through that door made his way through the middle of the two women and be in between them and fire escape exit. He’d have both of them in his clear sight and be able to watch their every movement, twinge and expression. Behind them was only the wall so they’d have no where to turn making the situation all the more claustrophobic for them. He could have got them to barricade the door he came through earlier by pushing one of the shelves over the entrance. Then it would be just those three and he could get what he wanted and be out before they could sound any kind of alarm. But that was minutes ago. “Should I wait for a change, or just accept what I’ve been dealt with?” Thinks Yannish, whilst tapping the gun just above his temple to help ease the pressure that seems be concentrating there. Waiting for a change, was a gamble. If the women decided to stand close to each other and near the utility cupboard that would be an ideal occurrence for him and he could revert back to the way he had just imagined he’d do it. This of course was a definite possibility. However, by waiting might mean someone else from outside might enter the room. Ruining the plan, but also the dynamics of the group, the three of them, meaning the situation would need to be re-thought. This makes Yannish irate, his way was flawless, if only the two women would come closer again. Now if another or others enter the room, there will be more people to handle, more minds thinking how to undo him. Could he be undone? Yannish gets angry, angry enough to pull the trigger a little less guiltily?

Carrying On

Today, I'm actually feeling a lot better. The cold is evaporating now even though I am still really weak. In fact I'm sure Ian Hislop could swing a haymaker at me now and I'll crumble on the floor screaming for no more pain. After work I went into town and bought Kanye West's first album as I stumbled across Late Registration the other month and surprisingly thought it was excellent. He's definitely a lyricist who considers his words carefully and someone that has an ego but is fortunate and able enough to have talent to back up his bravura. College Dropout seems to be just as good even though I haven't heard it in it's entirety, it's actually playing as I'm scribbling this gibberish down. Any how, "We don't care" definitely stands out with its comedic theme and serious lyrics… Shit, I'm starting to sound like a critic so I'll stop.

Anyhow, I need to go get me some sleep as I've got to, like many tomorrow, hurdle the last day of the working week before I can rest up for two days at the finishing line. Here's a bit more progressive prose, although this contribution is a bit shorter because I'm knackered and towards the end what I was writing wasn't even legible.


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It’s the guilt that would gnaw away at his mind. Eating slowly at his thoughts, bit by bit seeping the remembrance of murder more and more into what he’s thinking and eventually taking over his head. He can’t comprehend killing someone, not like this, only if it was fully justified and Yannish couldn’t justify it to himself what he was considering doing. But he needs the pistol. It’s so powerful, visually, obviously for its ability to maim or end life but perhaps more because of its connotations. People who would see it cowl in terror knowing that a gun could mean death unless utter compliance was given. He wouldn’t have choose words to convey that he was serious, the gun would do it for him, no one was going to mess with him while he held it in his hands or at least showed it to people. He could really only choose this weapon because of the power, a baseball bat, although dangerous can still be over powered by more than one person. The thought of carrying a knife and stabbing someone made him queasy as he imaged the squelching sound as he pierced through skin. No, a pistol, was the best choice, he could show everyone what he’s carrying, wave it above his head or hold it out straight and his intentions will be obeyed. No one would dare try and stop him. No one. Or would they? It would be someone filled with the virtues of integrity and pride that might tackle him. They would see this man waving a gun in the air harshly as if it controlled him, not the other way round. He would gage the possibilities of any sign of weakness and measure them up with the risk of his own safety. And being someone so virtuous they would rather risk their own life to try and save someone else’s than stay still and watch someone get shot. Yannish didn’t want to kill anyone, let alone the person he imagined with integrity and pride, they would be the last type of person he would want to shoot. He didn’t want to murder someone he wanted to be himself. Killing someone who Yannish wanted to be, and briefly was in his early pre-pubescent years, would be like shooting the shadow he was chasing. How could he be possibly be a virtuous person after he’s just committed murder, a pointless murder and not some serial killer or rapist, no, someone who had enough guts to tackle the psychotic fool waving a gun over his head shouting at anyone within eye sight.

Yannish backs away from the door and scrunches his eyes. “I can’t kill. It’s too much.” The pistol slides along the floor as he tosses it away like an empty cigarette packet. In fact a fag was the exact thing he lusted for now, to help calm those twitching nerves from snapping but all he has is his thoughts to help or torment him. He kneels down and starts to think of what could happen. “No shots need to be fired, I can just stick it in peoples faces, get what I want and get out. No shots, nothing.” Thinks Yannish as he looks at the floor following the trail of where the gun slid. “Ok, ok, if someone does try it I’ll just shoot it in the air or above their heads.” But as soon as he thinks that, he considers the alternatives that could happen. He could miss and end up shooting someone in the head or the heart. “Fuck” whispers Yannish. He knows the risks and if it came down to it he’d consider killing himself if he was boxed into a choice of ending another’s life. He gets up and walks over and picks up then gun. He wipes the floor dust from his jacket and places the side of his head to the door, pushes the handle down and pushes the door forward very slowly so that if it began to creak he could immediately begin to retract it before anyone knew what was going on. He briefly feels like a boy creeping down the stairs at Christmas eve, opening the lounge door ever so slowly until a gap large enough appears to spy through. A small gap opens up now and Yannish brings his eyes towards it and looks through.

Difference Between Fatigue and Tiredness

This morning, I finally concluded to myself the difference between fatigue and tiredness. I've spent the last week going to bed late and falling asleep later. This is mainly due to having a cold that seems to block my nose only when my head hits the pillow forcing me to breath with my mouth open which means it gets dry and I wake up thirsty every other hour. However, even though I was falling asleep late I would wake up at 7am without fail for no apparent reason. I'm sure if I hit the sack at 6:49am I'd wake up at 7am like a switched on robot. So last night I decided that sleep had caught up with me, like a mobile phone bill forgotten underneath the bed. You think you can get away but it always gets you in the end. So I forced myself to go to bed at 8pm and was asleep by 9 I believe. When I woke up at 7am I was still tired, at first I thought it was because I slept for 10 hours but I didn't get that groggy feeling in my head that reminds me of an ever so slight hangover. I felt achy and still tired. At work I couldn't hold a conversation let alone lash out witty anecdotes that usually gain me kudos over by the water cooler. By 3pm today, I decided that I could only be suffering from fatigue and needed to rest up for a few days and not a few hours here and there. So I'm going to take it easy for a few days and chill out and hope I can get some zest back into my system. However, with the morsels of energy I have left I have written some more progressive prose. To be honest it wasn't tiring to write.

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His eyes notice what he’s holding. His neck cranes down as his interest is drawn to the pistol. The sight of the scratched weapon is the symbolic reminder that this is definitely reality and no dream. Yannish knows exactly where he is. He draws his head back quickly whacking the left side of it against the wall. His index finger runs along the gun feeling the cross stitch texture of the top leading all the way to the tip where curiosity overcomes him and sticks one of his digits into the hole of the gun just to make sure it feels real and to investigate the barrel that could quite easily end life. He feels the rush of anxiety pulsate through his body now like a roller coaster ride going along in his veins, making him question why he’s here. Is there an escape? Can I run now and all will be forgotten?

The room is dark with the light bulb in pieces on the floor with a broken vacuum cleaner lying over the metal railing, it hangs over like an unconscious drunk flopped over a park fence rail on a Saturday night. There are shelves to the right with bottles containing cleaning products. His body is still utterly still but inside the messages to his brain have doubled since he noticed what’s in his hands, the awareness of the situation only becoming more significant to him now. His breathing doubles in its heaviness and intensity panting like he’s just run a couple of miles and is taking some time to recuperate. He starts to walk up to the wall then turn around again, each time he exhales he puts a foot down, thinking what to do next. “Should I move out?” “Is it the right time?” He thinks to himself, running the pistol along the wall so a slight scraping sound could be heard by only the occupant of the utility cupboard. “I can’t run now, I’ve come too far. I’ll have to go through with it” comes the justification from his lips. But the thought of going through with it terrifies him, sure, the consequences of getting caught would ruin his life in a social sense.

Prison would be definite as he’d never plead innocent because he wasn’t and there would be no point trying to tell them the reasons why. They wouldn’t listen, even if they did there wouldn’t be enough time because time in court is precious as it tries to uphold the creaking social laws that are spread through out the country. He could start to explain his reasons, but someone would usher him along considering his point too time consuming and insignificant for the context of the case. In prison, he’d be treated badly, he’s not a fighter, even though he’s fought, he’d much rather live an anonymous life. Inmates would see this, not in the lack of battle scares on his body but by the lack of primal fighting instinct that floats around in the eyes of every brawler. The ones that look for fights, who don’t care who they fight as long as their craving is quenched, by impact or by the spill of blood. They’d see he didn’t have it and would go for him. Constant barrage of beatings and whippings from bars of soap put in pillow cases, his time there would be bloody and strenuous. Should he survive the physicality of what prison would bring he was sure he could endure the mental marathon as well, there was no way he’d accept any invitations from insanity’s open hand that seems to run frivolously through the corridors of her majesty’s many hotels. If he got bored, he’d try and remember the books he read during his lifetime and if he couldn’t remember all of them, then he’d splice another passage from another book to form his own tome made from all the different books that had passed under his nose during time. If he found his head submerged in the toilet water where he’d be forced to suck up the putrid brown liquid through his nostrils be the wing’s hard bastards. He wouldn’t spend the evening curled tightly together and sobbing profusely into his palms thinking why he hadn’t the fighter’s look. Why couldn’t he fight back? Why was he being bullied? No, his capacity for mental torture could endure this, he could survive this sort of mental aggression and come out of it with a slight smirk and a whimsical step in his walk.

Even as he whimsically walks out of prison with a defiant cock of the leg, as he lands he’ll be landing back into society, a society where now he was a criminal. Or by most of the consensus still a criminal. He’d never be able to get a job. He’d try, of course, but no one would employ him. He wouldn’t even be able to get a job in retail with the teenagers as no one would trust him behind a till. Could they be blamed with their suspicious minds about the young man who has just been released from prison? “We’ve got to protect the company’s image”, would be the diplomatic but hollow justification from the proprietors. Pressed a little harder the sympathetic theme would be adapted to justify their decision. “Come on, I’ve got a mortgage, a wife and children, I can’t afford money to go missing. I could get sacked!” So, Yannish wouldn’t be able to get a job and would have to revert to signing-on, receiving government income support. By some it is considered more criminal to stand in a queue and wait the cheque to be handed over to you, than actually walking into a bank and robbing it. Abuse would be hurled as he walked along the path as he held his cheque. “Why don’t you get a fucking job?” would come the bellows from the houses. But all this doesn’t bother him.

What Did Blair Do For Me?

2nd May 1997, Anthony Blair, a wily, charismatic, precarious looking fellow with big ears who has a tooth behind his front bottom two becomes leader of the United Kingdom. Big deal thought I, staring at the ceiling while lying in bed. The confirmation came around 5am in the morning, I couldn’t sleep so had BBC 5Live on to keep me company. I turned over cringing and threw the pillow over my face when I heard D-ream’s “Things can only get better” as he emerged on the podium victorious. I scrunched my eyes thinking “fuck off, this is shit. How can anyone lead a country with an anthem this crap”.

Now I’m sitting in a café mulling over Blair leaving office on the 27 June 2007. I shouldn’t really give a crap. But I do. Not on the heroic political level of his achievements and failings. No, I thought about what he done had affected me over time. Was there something he did that really helped me out? He’d been there for 10 years of my life, 10 good prime years of my being. In that time, I’ve become more educated, lost my virginity, drank Whisky and decided I liked it, drank Tequila and decided I didn’t. Worked in a plastic milk bottle factory and left, worked in an office, and left, worked in a sport shop, stayed there for a bit and then decided to go back to another office all under the regime of Monsieur Blair. In fact, it was when I worked in the sport shop that I became an advocate of one particular policy.

A rare day April 1 1999 was, as left wingers shouted aloud in the streets, when those from the wrong side of the status quo gained a valuable victory over the ‘oppressors’. The minimum wage was introduced. This affected me straight away in so many ways. Beforehand I was getting fucked over for £3.00 an hour in a sweaty sport shop, working ten hour days, which were really 11 if you take into account the half hour walk to and from work. I used to hate working those long hours running up and down those stairs, serving people who believed they were re-enacting a scene from the Dickensian time period, where they are the portly statesman in a top hat and I am the lowly servant in a rags with a black tooth who runs at their beckoning call. “Boy get me those trainers”. “I said now, boy”. So when the minimum wage of £4.10 was introduced a great elation spread through me and I remembered the scowled look of management as they begrudgingly had to inform us that we would all get pay rises but none of us deserved them. Even though this was a nationwide policy, they seemed to think (New) Labour had specifically targeted them, a pot bellied baldy and a scrawny crooked nosed arse. The effect of our new wage policy was almost instant, I was now able to work 8 hours a day and get the same amount of money if I was working 10. After 2 weeks I went back to 10 hours as I would get more money which would mean being able to spend more money on drinks when we went out. In fact had the minimum wage not been introduced I would never would have been able to go out on Thursday nights where on one particular Thursday I managed kiss the fit girl who worked on the tills. So Tony, I know you’ve done a lot of bad but you’ve also done some good, for me. Thank you.

On another note I haven’t written anymore on my progressive prose because I’m knackered after writing this and it’s 12:30am and I’ve got work in the morning.