The Lord of Lash

Could Princess Di Get Me a Proper Job?

You might have noticed from my earlier post, The Barren Patch, that I had spent a large amount of time unemployed one summer. I took to the dole like a duck to water, but after a while I began to find it more than a little soulless. I tried and failed to write several novels, and my discipline of routine completely gave way. After about three months, I had to get off it, so I did what I had to do and went to the Job Centre.

The only immediate work available to me was a box factory - The London Fancy Box in Dover. This meant that I used my human dexterity to fulfill a role that robots just about couldn’t do, although i reckon a blind, brain dead chimp with no limbs could do it. I stuck approximately 4,000 little stickers over a magnet on various boxes, put a cd sleeve into a box and cleaned glue off around 2,000 of the cases of Robbie William’s DVD entitled ‘Rudebox’, which i’m sure was a blast.

One day in the first week, I had a day off, for no particular reason other than the factory is overstaffed. I did, however, have an interview. This was a group interview for a telesales job, selling advertising in publications run by Trinity Southern, such as the Dover Express or Adscene. It was fairly interesting to see what I was up against, five people who have actually worked in proper jobs and have vastly more experience than me. Unfortunately my qualification of English and History did little to further my application, and soon after I was anticipating my twentieth rejection slip since Uni.

The interview itself was pretty much a load of bollocks - so close to a joke that I almost felt like walking out. They got us doing a totally sad debating excercise where each person had to pick a person (ie celebrity) who they admire. I picked F. Scott Fitzgerald, simply because I think he’s probably my favourite writer and he probably was a pretty good bloke. Other people picked Ricky Gervais, Princess Diana, Freddy Mercury, John Lennon and Victoria Beckham; that tells you the kind of people I was up against. Then we had to debate, in front of our assessors, this problem:

All the celebrities (people) are in a hot air balloon that is going to crash if some people didn’t get out. We had to debate why our celebrity should stay in.

Now correct me if you think I should know this, but am I likely to know any qualities that F.Scott Fitzgerald should have that would keep the balloon in the air? Was he slightly underweight? How should I know? He wrote a couple of decent novels so he shouldn’t be thrown out? It didn’t add up.

We soon debated this most absurd of situations and decided posh spice (for obvious reasons, i.e she is the dimwitted husband of a dimwitted footballer that only dimwitted girls aspire to) would go first, promptly followed by Ricky Gervais because the second series of Extras just wasn’t up to the mark. The lady sitting next to me fought for Princess Diana. I just thought ‘What the f@ck?! I’m quite miffed by the memory of Princess Diana and how people ‘admire’ her. Her memory is kept alive by two racist newspapers more than anything. The Daily Express with more (now unsordid) secrets about her past, even though they loved criticizing her when she was still alive. I decided I really couldn’t be arsed with further debate, and seeing as the other uncouth people had either never heard of F.Scott Fitzgerald, or attempted to read the Great Gatsby but complained that it was boring, so I conceded and let other people fight it out. 4th is an admirable position under the circumstances, largely because the other people couldn’t fault a person that they had no clue about. To my horror Princess Diana won, as voted for by all the women in the room, who outnumbered the men two to one. The three women who were conducting the interview looked sternly on, it almost looked like one of them might suggest we had a two minute silence.

I still can’t work out why Princess Di would be anymore useful than F.Scott Fitzgerald if they were both in a falling hot air balloon…

Ronald McDonald and the Case of the McPanda Burger

I was flicking through the Observer Food Monthly on Sunday, when I was informed that McDonald’s has created a website called ‘Make Up Your Own Mind.’ I make up my own mind almost every time I’m hungover because you’ll find me chowing down on a Big Mac in a McDonald’s somewhere; it’s pretty much the only solids I can eat other than a fry up. Anyhow, that aside, I decided to take a break from work today and take a look at the site, as I was curious to see the ludicrous extent of the questions being asked on there. Basically, McDonald’s have given customers a platform to ask any question they want, which is a bit like bending over in front of Elton John and asking him to bum you - there’s going to be a at least few moments of suspense before he chooses to do the deed or not.

Having taken a look at Make Up Your Own Mind, I’ve decided that it’s a work of strange collective genius. Split between half serious questions, questions that are so ignorant you ask whether they could be serious, or the just plain ludicrous. The beauty of it is McDonald’s always responds with a reasonable answer. Just about every single conceivable urban myth about McDonald’s is asked on the website, while some matter of fact questions are also asked, such as:

Q. what weight are your big mac burgers?

A. The Big Mac weighs 216g. You might be interested to know that you can find portion weights on the back of the tray liners in all McDonald’s restaurants.

Ok, Ronald McDonald, I didn’t ask for your life story, but thanks for the message. The best thing about the question is that it’s in a string created when you type in a search for ‘burgers’ and that string begins with the classic question:

Q. Is their semen in the big macs

…and, shortly after:

Q. What is the average semen content of a big mac?

Both of these received an unsurprisingly similar response, going something along the lines of:

A. Zero. McDonald’s burgers are formed from 100 percent beef (no additives, no preservatives) and frozen into individual burger patties before it’s supplied to our restaurants. The beef patties are cooked, without added fat or oil, between hot plates that cook the patties from both sides - a similar cooking process to the grilling machines that are sold in a variety of kitchenware stores. Then they get seasoned with salt and pepper. It would also be impossible for people to add anything to the ketchups, mustards or mayonnaise because these are presealed in the factory before they are supplied to the restaurants and then dispensed straight from the presealed containers.

I’m certain that these guys are taking the piss. Of course there isn’t any semen in a big mac, and if there was, they probably would let you know. Thinking up something so banal isn’t exactly difficult (funny nonetheless) but there are others out there who take a step further:

Q. We were talking about McDonalds at the pub the other night, and this guy said that in McDonalds in China they use Panda in the burgers, and that they’re going to start importing them here?! Not only must this be illegal (surely they’re a protected species?!) but as a complete Panda fanatic I find this distasteful, immoral and just plain wrong. He also claimed that the McFlurrys contain a chemical to make you hyper, and that causes an enhanced trip if taken with LSD - is any of this true?!

A. No. None of these statements are realistic or correct. (June 2007)

What was this person thinking? One day he must have considered not that any of this was actually true at all, but that he was going to formulate the most ludicrous question ever known to man and ask it on the ‘Make Up Your Own Mind’ website. Pandas? WTF? Since when did anyone start eating bears instead of beef? ‘An enhanced trip with LSD…’ is beyond any resonable comprehension.

While the search for burgers is a provider of much merriment, the search for ‘clown’ can provide hilarity of even greater volume. Take for instance the return to the banal with:

Q. Is mcdonalds clown gay?

A. No

Not especially funny on its own, but the one word answer says a lot (I’m the website editor, and I’m getting rather fucked off with all this Ronald McDonald horse shit). Meanwhile, someone asks:

Q. Why do you use a clown for your mascot when 95% of people find clowns creepy and disturbing?

I love that statistic. Did they do a Gallup poll to find it out or what? Another gem is:

Q. Will you ever release a McClaren or Mclown burger?
A. Thanks for your suggestions. However, there are no future plans to introduce these specific burgers to the current McDonald’s UK menu. (September 2007).

Did McDonald’s ever predict the swathes of absolute nonsense coming their way? A limited edition Steve McClown Burger, I think they missed a treat there.

Next up things start to get a little weird, and they’re possibly written by slightly stoned teenagers who’ve got nothing better to do other than eat another Curly Wurly, but they’ve run out. Ok… here goes:

Q. Okay here is the deal. I have read numerous times that you and your shady pals over at Mc Donald’s Headquarters have killed Ronald Mc Donald and replaced him with a clone. Do you and your company think your funny? Do you think it is “cool” to kill clowns or something? Did the hamburgerler put you up to this or what? If you do not answer my questions truthfully, each one, I will never eat at your restaurant ever again and I suggest everyone else do the same. SPREAD THE TRUTH OF RONALD’S DEATH!

A.The company can assure you that there have not been any shady dealings with regards to the health and wellbeing of Ronald McDonald, nor has the Hamburglar been up to his old tricks. Ronald is very much alive and well and you can see what’s he’s been up to recently on his website www.bigredshoes.co.uk. (August 2007)

And next up:

Q. Is it true that Ronald Mcdonald used to be a normal 16yr old employee before he had an accident and fell into the deep fryer and came out all clown like and mentally retarded? I heard he couldn’t speak at all anymore and never left the restaurant so McDonalds covered it up by making him the mascot. I saw this in PETA’s documentary on your restaurant. Please set him free. This is a gross violation of child bondage laws.

A. Ronald McDonald has been the company’s Chief Happiness Officer since 1963 and he’s definitely well and free as you can see at his website www.bigredshoes.co.uk. McDonald’s can only assume that the ‘documentary’ you saw was fictitious. (August 2007)

In conclusion: The Internet is weirder than expected.

The Barren Patch

Just above where the clock sits on the mantelpiece is a space that’s perfect for staring into. I don’t know how much time I’ve spent looking at it, and I wouldn’t like to add it all up, but I reckon it would be a very long time. Sometimes, when I stare at the white wall there for long enough, I can lose myself for a while, letting my mind wonder around without thinking of what I should do next. I just sit there, not doing anything, and no one can hear my thoughts. I sometimes like to think that I don’t exist, but that’s just a little game, and I’m often brought back around by the sound of the clock ticking towards the future.

During the summer months the wall space can reflect a glorious gold, created by the light that bursts through the large French window. The tone changes with the clouds, and as the sun is obscured the radiance is muted back to the most usual magnolia. It’s much duller when that happens, and sometimes it makes me feel a lot colder, it changes my mood, and grabs my attention.

One particular summer, not so long ago at all, I had a lot of time to stare at the wall space. I kept finding myself peering into it, not really looking for anything in particular, but without any realisation that I was doing it - and so time was spent, not really existing at all, only a heartbeat to tell me that I was alive.

The only time I spoke to people was when my dad came home from work, or when I met friends and went on the lash. I looked forward to going on the lash, because there was so little else to do.

Some days I’d fill out some more pointless application forms, always holding the belief that I could easily get that job, so I waited for a phone call that never came, still sat in front of that computer. Sometimes I’d watch a bit of Rick Stein on the TV, building up a culinary knowledge that was seldom exercised. Everything was a bit pointless really, nothing happened; job applications seemed futile. The only solace I got were ridiculous lie ins, a fortnightly sum of £91 in my bank account for doing nothing, and going out.

Despite the everyday monotony of sitting in front of daytime TV, and waiting for the phone to ring, I looked forward to things with candid optimism, with the belief that now was the time to be something, since University days were over. Technically I also got paid around £6 for playing Civilization IV all day, which was good. Nice to think my taxes now go to similarly lazy people like me then. But it wasn’t like I wasn’t searching for a job – I did way more than I had to so I could claim my benefits. The basic rules of that are you have to search for a job in three different ways in a week. But looking in the job section of the paper could count - no wonder some people spend a long time on the dole! If that counted then I had a tally of around 30 ways to search for a job. I seldom had interviews – two in three months, but I sent away a hell of a lot of application forms. In one day I phoned three job agencies, sent away four applications, and went to an interview at the local pub, in the end nothing happened. I guess you could say that’s a barren patch.

A Good Point Commuting

PICTURE THE SCENE

Train platform at Kew Bridge. It’s raining. There’s plenty of space on the platform as people are crowding into small shelters to get out of the wet. A young man walks down the steps onto Platform Two. He’s not wearing a coat, and needs to get into the shelter. He squeezes under the rain roof and notices that, strangely, one of a row of six seats is not taken, despite perhaps fifteen standing people crowding into the small shelter. The young man chooses to take the seat, as no one else seems interested. He’s glad to be out of the rain. He takes a copy of Last Exit to Brooklyn from his bag and begins to read. Next to him, an old man, sat with his wife and looking towards seventy, peers at him awkwardly. The young man reads on. When he turns the page, the young man notices the old man is still looking at him, and it makes him feel uncomfortable. He looks at the old man, questioning. The old man decides to speak.

Old Man: You know, in my day, young men didn’t just take the last seat and not offer it to anyone else.
Young Man: (Pensive, but looking back to his book) Your day is over.

Mum’s the Word wth the Cafe Chics

It’s towards the end of May and it’s a beautiful day. Sunlight charges past the intermittent clouds from a sky somewhere between Manchester City and Everton. Outside and no one’s wearing a coat. Quaint cafe’s interiors are only full because there’s no space on the stainless steel tables and chairs that pour out onto the pavement. Cafe’s quaint indeed. So quaint, you might almost consider to use the most horrendous word in the English language: ‘chic’. It’s all very Mediterranean, and it’s encouraging Brits to have a good time by acting like other human beings.

In one particular quaint/chic cafe on a quiet lane close to Blackfriars Road, a mother and her late teen daughter are being served the main course of their lunch. The mother has a delicious dish of creamed porcini and oyster mushrooms on a lightly toasted ciabatta, with a little rocket on the side. The daughter smiles as the waiter places her meal in front of her. It’s a neatly built salad of lettuce, spinach and watercress topped with three spears of asparagus and a poached egg and finished with lashing of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. They each have small glasses of chilled white wine. It’s bordering on the edge of too chic for words.

Fifteen metres across the road a man sits down on a low lying wall. He looks a little dishevelled, but not particularly trampish. Builders boots, grubby jeans, coat (strangely) and beany hat. He’s tired, unshaven, perhaps unwashed, but not shocking, although certainly out of place in the warm rays of the day.

The mother begins to tuck in, favouring to use her knife and fork when her daughter thinks she should really use her fingers to pick up the bread. It’s silent as they both eat. The man pulls a can of White Strike from his pocket and opens it; there’s a tcchhh of the can opening, the fizz of the next lash. The daughter hears the noise and worriedly peers at her mother, but she’s taken by the creamy mushrooms in her mouth and the crunch of the bread. The man isn’t looking at them. He’s in a world of his own, not really thinking as his head falls back and the can hits his lips. He gulps greedily. The mother can’t get enough.

The daughter is becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the guy, but the mother is totally oblivious, rolling her tongue through another mouthful of bread and extra creamy sauce. Closing her eyes, the daughter takes a tincy slither of lettuce on her fork. As it reaches her lips there’s a smack of something on the floor. She turns to the guy. Next to him is a pool of orangy brown liquid, trickling down the pavement towards the road. The guy is sipping on his can again. She starts to realise what’s happened.

‘Mum,’ the teen says, peering at the guy. All of the sudden the guy hurls a flood of vomit onto the pavement, on top of the one he clearly laid before. Then, silence; he continues to sip his can. The mother decides on no action, choosing to try and believe the man and the White Strike and the vomit aren’t there, ruining this perfect meal. But he does it again, hurling the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. Amazingly, there’s easily as much liquid coming out this time as the last. It’s almost impossible to fathom how much liquid was in there to start with. He sups back at his can, wavering a little, yet silent. The mother looks at the daughter and smiles.

‘What are you laughing at?’ The daughter asks.
The mother peers at the man and back to the daughter and bats her eyelids, ‘It’s just such a beautiful day dear…’

Picture the Scene: Weirdoes on Trains #1

Two pissed mid fifty year old men (skanks) got on the train at Canterbury and were going to Dover. They were absolutely battered. It was New Years Eve… the ticket conductor came round and asked them, ‘Tickets please.’ Unsurprisingly they didn’t have one.
‘Er, we don’t have one.’
‘Where did you get on?’

‘Canterbury.’
‘And where are you going?’
‘Dover.’
‘£4.50.’
‘Do we have to pay, it’s New Years Eve!’
‘Well you still have to pay.’
‘Oh, don’t be a wanker, where’s your New Years Eve spirit?’
‘New Years Eve spirit?’
‘Yeah, it’s fucking New Years Eve and you’re making us pay for our tickets.’
‘That’s the rules.’

Grudgingly the pair paid. New Years Eve spirit? Forgot that everything was free when you play that card.

The Kid That Shat in the Pool

When I was a lifeguard dull things happened. You might almost say that nothing happened at all, so dull things happened. It was mind numbing. Being a lifeguard strikes me as a kind of pointless job, because very few people go to the swimming pool if they can’t swim, and alas you are but a glorified cleaner.

This could not be closer to the truth, for in the time that I worked as a lifeguard (a mere two years in student holidays) in the glory of Dover leisure centre, I certainly didn’t save anyone’s life. Nobody at all. I didn’t see anyone anywhere near drowning, or anywhere near anywhere near drowning, and I quickly learnt that staring at the glistening water of the pool was a sure way to send you to sleep. Especially if I’d gone to the Reading Festival on a three day bender from hell, where apparently ‘legal’ mushrooms were what we had for dinner. Things got a little weird on that shift.

In my whole two years there were no incidents in the whole time I was working. I spent more time looking at the sly hands on the pool clock, edging ever closer to home time, than I ever did looking at the pool. And anyway, it was totally pointless staring at the pool, because no one ever drowned. However, there was one time when the kid shat in the pool. This was the biggest incident in my years of honourable service.

One particularly quiet day, when I was half asleep staring at glistening water, a mother approached me with what was presumably her child in her arms. She looked kind of frightened, as if she might tell me that there had been a real accident. Instead she said, ‘He’s done one, over there, in the small pool.’
‘He’s done what?’
‘A poo. He’s done a poo in the baby pool.’ Came the reply. She then let out a wry smile, as if it was fair enough. I stood confused, not really sure of the procedure. How could she let this happen? Oh well, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go, no matter what your age. I tried my best not to look both disappointed and frightened of the task at hand; I feared there would be some scooping involved. I calmly said, ‘It’s okay, these things happen,’ and made my way over to inspect the mess. However, as I did so, the kid turned from his mother’s busom to look at me, then his eyes widened and lit up. All of a sudden liquid poo erupted from his nappy, all over his mother’s arms and spattered against the pool floor. While I stood aghast, the mother just looked at me and said, ‘Sorry,’ and quickly scampered off to the changing rooms, a small trail of poo dripping in her wake.

Now I was left with poo in two places, but I cunningly thought of how to use the situation to my advantage. They’d always been dead keen on pointless inductions at work, like the chemicals inductions. This consisted of half an hour of: ‘This is Germaline, follow the instructions on the back, don’t drink it.’ Followed by the same about another chemical. Once they even showed us how to brush shit off the back of a toilet. So, as I wasn’t sure of what to do next, I radioed through to reception, ‘Er, hello, yes, a little boy has just pooed all over poolside and i don’t have any cleaning materials.’ I thought I would get away with it. ‘Well, just do your best.’ They replied.

Shit.

Literally.

I collected some bog roll from the changing rooms and did my very best to mop up the poo. I think I managed quite a good job and eventually the poolside was clean, although I never put any chemicals down. But then the real task lay ahead: what chocolate delight was waiting for me in the small pool? I sheepishly wandered over.

I’m not sure it was a feeling of horror or hilarity as I inspected the small pool. The child’s turd had, by now, disintegrated into tiny little bits and was rolling around the bottom. I was quite happy with the situation because I had no idea how to clean it up, because I didn’t know how to use a pool vac, so I just put a big sign up saying ‘No Entry.’

An hour later the new shift came in. ‘Hi how’s it going?’
‘Good thanks, apart from a kid shat in the pool.’
‘A kid shat in the pool? And you didn’t clean it up?’

‘Sorry, I’ve no idea how to.’
‘You don’t know how to use the pool vac?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well I’ll have to do it, you can watch if you want. Watch and learn.’
‘No, it’s the end of my shift, I’d have to be paid overtime, you can do it.’ I walked off and got changed.

I’ll never forget the guys face as he got the pool vac out and plopped it in to suck up all of that poo. Pure and utter disgust.

Life guarding turned out to be not quite as I had anticipated…

What’s the Point in All of This?

This is the first entry for the Lord of Lash blog. I guess I could stick down a massive entry down about how I didn’t have a job for ages after Uni, or how I went to military school for seven years, or even how or why I haven’t had a proper girlfriend for about three years, but those finer details will come out the more I write. One thing’s for sure – I’ve got a pretty damn good memory, so everything is pretty vivid, and there’s certainly loads to write about.

I go out nearly every weekend, because I have a job now and I can’t go out much in the week. Normally it ends up with me getting horrendously drunk – that’s almost a certainty, then other things can happen. Run ins with bouncers, pulling girls and forgetting their names, upsetting people’s parents, mini adventures in all sorts of strange places – stuff like that is all fairly common. I just got to write it down first, so keep reading.