I have been interviewed by writer, Rebeccah Giltrow, the result of which can be found on her excellent site. So, if you want to hear what I have to say about my works and writing, in general – read on here.
Link to ‘Rebeccah Writes,’ and my interview.
Cheers.
Nick
No, this isn’t another bit about people on the Jeremy Kyle Show who have bad teeth. The reason I’m posting a retro picture from a 1980s advert for toothpaste is that I had to go to the dentist the other day. The thing is … dentists – I hate going. The whole procedure is so invasive. On top of that, I’m sure my dentist hates me and took my ex-wife’s side when we divorced. Every time I go, he is far too rough with the scale and polish. Then there’s having a filling. He says having anaesthetic is dangerous these days and I need the drilling without one. I think he’s lying. Come on, I have reason to be worried. Even his name – Mr Carver. It send shivers. I insisted on a jab in the end though, then spent the rest of the day dribbling tea down my shirt as a result.
Still, I needed the filling done and all went well this time, apart from after Mr Carver finished and he asked if I needed to rinse my mouth.
‘Yes please,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have a cup of tea, that pink stuff is disgusting.’
Hmmmm. You know when you’ve said the wrong thing. Talk about no sense of humour. Mind you, with him being a dentist, perhaps it was the two sugars I asked for in my drink which he objected to?
It amazes me that in this age of equality (and supposedly, common sense), there are still narrow-minded bigots clinging onto outdated beliefs based on biblical teachings that are most probably works of fiction.
Michael Black and John Morgan had booked into the Swiss Bed and Breakfast in Cookham, only to be turned away by religious nut, Susanne Wilkinson when she found out the couple were gay.
Quite rightly, John and Michael have received a payout as compensation for being discriminated against but church groups are still smarting. They say Swiss B&B was also Mrs Wilkinson’s home. Yes, she may live there, but when you chose to run your home as a business, you lose the right to impose illegal bigoted stances.
Jumping on the bandwagon and defending Mrs Wilkinson was BNP slime-ball, Nick Griffin. Now there’s a guy, I’m sure even Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t want to be associated with. Slick Nick tweeted in her defence. I took a look at his page and replied, though he hasn’t reacted to me. I did find it amusing and ironic, though to see Nick Griffin use the terms vile and filth … about other people.
Pot, kettle, black?
The Swiss B&B – Not open to homosexuals, lesbians, unmarried heterosexual couples or just about anybody who isn’t a believer of the bullshitting work of fiction, commonly known as the Bible.
Poor George Pratt. All the 11-year-old wanted was to join the Boy Scouts. Unfortunately, he has been refused by the 1st Midsomer Norton Group in Somerset. The reason for this discrimination is that George is an atheist and will not compromise his beliefs. The Scouts say to join, you must pledge allegiance to the Almighty.
What a load of bollocks. It’s bad enough to have to say you’ll do your duty to the Queen to get into the scouts, but at least (unfortunately) a monarchy exists, not like this biblical nonsense. What bearing should that have on a kid wanting to join a youth organisation?
I never progressed to the scouts. I was in the cubs but left after being asked to dress up as a girl for a part in a drama play by a very suspect scout leader. He kept trying to play with my woggle.
Computer company owner, Maneesh Sethi, from San Francisco has employed a woman to keep him from straying onto Facebook while at work. He pays personal assistant, Kara, a wage to slap him every time he goes onto the social network suite. However, I bet Kara wasn’t expecting to come into work the first day and find this …
Personal Assistant … is that what they’re calling BDSM in the workplace, now? Perhaps more companies should try it.
On a different note, you would not believe how many sites I had to trawl to find a clean BDSM picture. Not only that, I got a virus from doing so, too.
And on an even more vague observation, does anybody else get fed up of Live Jasmin popping up every time you want to watch pre-recorded porn on the internet?
Saw the appalling treatment given to England’s Under-21 black players by the friendly Serbs the other day. Monkey chants throughout the game followed by thuggish behaviour by a sorry load of sour losers. Of course, the Serbians deny this. A bit like they’ve denied genocide in the past. I’d like to think this is the minority and most Serbs are a decent lot. Unfortunately, there weren’t many in the stadium in Krusevac the other night.
Stoke City footballer, Peter Crouch has been banned from driving after clocking up 21pts for persistently speeding. It’s nice to know the lumbering England forward knows the meaning of speed once in a while. Not only that, 21 points is way more than his team Stoke will achieve before Christmas.
There’s Peter Crouch …
And here’s wife, Abbey Clancy.
Hmmmm … Is it his good looks, stunning personality, or just the kudos for her of being a wag for the fame and the money?
And my teeth are fine. Not only that, there was hardly a mention in this post about Jeremy Kyle’s orally challenged guests. However, as I have said in the past, my site statistics show that is what half of you have Google searched before arriving at my page. Just to look at pictures of bad teeth. Christ, I’m going to have to satisfy demand again.
There, happy now?
Cheers.
Nick
Yes, four years ago this week, way back in the good old days of Myspace, I posted my first roast. Up until then, I’d been content to write about anything that took my fancy, blogging whenever it did. Yesterday, I was reminded of the birthday when I took part in two workshops at the Birmingham Book Festival and it was while going to one of the same in 2008, I found I had loads of things to write about. It was too much for one post so I bunged them all in one pot-pourri and called it The Sunday Roast.
As I say in my About Me, section, the Roast ran every week for two years, then on and off during 2011 when Myspace went down the toilet. Finally, the Roast began here once more, earlier this year. The old blogs are still there on Myspace, but it would take you a week to navigate the mess on that site.
Therefore, something I can do (as I have the original word documents stored on my computer), is re-publish this …
I had a dream about my younger kids last night. They were playing on some climbing frames and I was calling for them to come off so we could go home. It was one of those dreams where you think things are real until you wake and then question if it was true or not. However, after a few seconds, I knew this one was a dream when they actually came after only the second time of calling.
Rascals – Circa 2008.
As I have mentioned, I attended two writing workshops yesterday. However, as I was also going out in the evening, I wouldn’t have time to have done this roast had I not prepared it Friday night. And it is on the subject of writing workshops that I now wish to speak.
I love them. They are usually very good and I gain something from each I go to. The downside is, you sometimes come across some right arty-farty writers who are so far up their own arse, they could give themselves an enema.
Take the one I did last year. It was a great workshop at the Birmingham Museum Collection Centre – where all the exhibits are kept when not on display. There are literally hundreds of thousands of things, all in mothballs … including a collection of mothballs. Anyway, we were sent out to explore, choose an object and write about what inspired us.
Easy. You had things such as this …
And this …
And even this …
No problem with so many exhibits in this Aladdin’s Cave. No problem, unless you were Richard (real name changed). He came back and declared to the entire group that he had scoured the museum, looking for that special thing. In the end, he found it. There – waiting for him at the end of a dusty corridor. One, lonely, empty shelf. It was the only empty shelf in the museum but he chose it as his inspiration not because of what it held, but for the potential of what could be stored there.
Thing is, all the others in the group played a game of Emperor’s New Clothes and pandered to this pillock, clapping hands and commenting, “How clever,” and “How original.” I did bite my tongue at such pretentious crap but really, all I wanted to scream was “FUCK OFF!”
And that’s the downside of being a writer. Generally, most the people I meet are of a similar mind to me. However, in some writing circles there seems to be a huge desire to turn it into some kind of minority interest. Spouting complete bollocks while pretending they are the next literary or poetic genius, when really, they have absolutely nothing to say.
And that reminds me of something which was also in that very first roast …
I took part in my first ever poetry workshop this weekend. It was okay but I lost interest toward the end when it evolved into a self-indulgent discussion on “What is Poetry?” It would have been better if it wasn’t for the fifty-something woman who thought she was the bee’s-knees of poetry. In she floated, wearing a silken neck-scarf and arriving twenty minutes late. Next thing, she let her phone ring – twice, then proceeded to thrust her opinions without actually showing anything productive or original, herself. I must admit, I never trust women who wear silken neck scarves, indoors. What are they trying to hide? I think in the case of this one, it could have been her Adams Apple.
Blimey, I was bitchy back then, but things at these events never change. You see yesterday, as I was waiting for one of this years workshops, I spied a guy in his sixties waiting in reception and immediately, I could tell. I’d got him earmarked him as the potential knob and he didn’t let me down. The woman leading the workshop had only just begun to speak before this buffoon interrupted.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘could you explain a little about the layout of the session?’
The workshop leader looked perplexed. ‘I’m just about to do so.’ She’d only been speaking thirty seconds.
The idiot did it again a while later, asked if we should do something or other. Did he want to get up and lead the workshop? We had by now got an explanation for him being such an arse. He was a priest. Say no more. Then the best. Some poor lass, trying to do her job came round to take a few photos for the festival website. Guess who objected? Yes … Father Fuckhead.
‘I don’t want my photo plastered over the internet.,’ he spouted, full of pompous self-importance. When somebody said that the photographer had spoken about making sure he wasn’t in the shots, the priest wasn’t convinced. ‘But can I trust her to do that?’
Look, Mr Priest. If you don’t want you bloody photo taken during a workshop, leave the room.
Cretin.
I wasn’t going to bother reprinting this one but also from that first ever Sunday Roast, was this next bit. Not only that, it was my opening line.
I have to hold my hands up and say I haven’t had too much time for blogging this last week or so. Even when I have found some time, I have been struggling to get online as my eldest son keeps hogging the computer … in my room. I had to tell him to go just after midnight yesterday. Well, I did want to go to bed so I think I was justified.
As I say, I wasn’t going to include that because it is mundane and pretty boring. However, as I was compiling much of this on Friday … at eleven o’clock at night, he turns up and before I know it, has plonked himself at my computer.
Some things never change, do they?
Cheers.
Nick
Ugh! I’ve been ill these past couple of weeks. Starting on that day out in London, my sore throat developed into a full blown cold as reported last week and continued for much of this one. I am, thankfully, over it. Yesterday morning was the best day for ages. I felt bright, cheerful and raring to go at the monthly meeting of the Walsall Adult Writers. Then I walked into this …
Yes, that’s my loft ladder, left open while I was putting stuff up there and when I came upstairs with more things, I didn’t notice it as I was too busy reading while walking … and then smacked my head against the trap.
Ouch!
Yes, there was blood and maybe getting into the bath twenty minutes later wasn’t a good idea but it had stopped by then.
Thing is, as I’d decided I was going to blog about it, I needed a photo, which is the one you’ve just seen. However, my camera was downstairs so after lowering the hatch once more, later in the evening, I went to get it. I was returning upstairs (You know where this is going, don’t you), switched on my camera, didn’t look where I was walking and hit the bloody thing for the second time in one day.
Okay, on this occasion there was no injury and my staircase didn’t resemble a scene out of Saw, but I was disorientated. I retreated back downstairs to grab a drink from the kitchen.
Now, a lesson also to learn is that when it is dark and you have to go through your living room to reach the said kitchen, it’s a good idea to turn on the light, especially when the kitchen is in darkness, too. And if you’ve forgotten that you left the kitchen door like this …
Not my day, really. I suppose I am a little accident-prone. Still, I can relax now. All I have to do is write this roast. Oh yes, I also have to repair that loose floorboard. Now where’s the hammer and those nails?
I was in the queue at the local shop a while back. In front of me, a man was complaining as the Sun newspaper he’d bought an hour before, had most of the middle of it, missing. He should think himself lucky. Some poor bugger’s going to find himself reading pages 19 to 54, twice.
Remember these?
Today, where your local rag-man drives around in a van, you may be excused for thinking the likes of Steptoe and Son, were a thing of the past. But not so.
On quite a few occasions, and mostly in the neighbouring town of Bloxwich, I’ve seen a horse and cart driven around to collect scrap. However, it isn’t grown men as I found out recently, they are being operated by kids. I was in a massive queue. The tailback was immense but slowly, cars were overtaking the offending vehicle holding everybody up. Imagine my annoyance when I did too and saw this.
Yes, astonishing. To drive a car, you need to spend hundreds on lessons, pass a test and then get fleeced by greedy insurers who want all your savings just so you will be allowed to drive. On the other hand, by the evidence of this photo, any pizza-faced moron can grab hold of a horse, stick a couple of reins on it, whip it half to death and leave the roads full of shit as they can’t be bothered to pick it up.
How is this allowed to go on? There are strict guidelines for driving a motorised vehicle which is entirely in your control yet people are allowed to ride on the roads pulled by a creature that can be totally out of their control.
Something is not right there.
Last week, I spoke of 30-year-old maths teacher, Jeremy Forrest who was a silly sod and ran off with his 15-year-old pupil. In his defence, he does say that he took it literally when somebody asked him to work out how many times 30 goes into 15.
Well, judging by the evidence – no.
The other day, I got up, yawned, walked downstairs and avoided walking into a door. I stared out of the kitchen window and imagine my surprise as I saw this …
Okay, that’s weird. It’s not like my garden is a right of way so how in the name of sanity did that training show get there? The thing is, it gets weirder. I was due out the house and didn’t have time to investigate. By the time I’d got home, it had gone.
WTF? It’s my back garden. So some bloke has lost a bloody shoe and tries to think. Oh, now where did I leave it? I know, it was in Nick’s back yard.
Also, next day I looked out and there was a pack of half-eaten sandwiches.
Am I missing something; has somebody stuck up a sign saying Picnic Site and not told me?
Ha Haaaa! Hook-handed Abu Hamza has been extradited and you lot over there in the States have to foot the bill for his upkeep now.
It’s ridiculous how long it’s taken for this low-life scum to be kicked out. Come on, authorities, sort the bureaucracy and make it simpler.
Still, he’s gone after eight years. Three in prison and five to get him through the metal detectors at Heathrow Airport.
I told at the beginning of my attempts at head-butting the loft hatch. I was worried at first as there was quite a bit of blood but it soon stopped. I did make a mess of a nice white towel though and after I’d used it, forgot and left it at the foot of the stairs. Now imagine this. I’m chopping some meat to prepare a meal and the bell goes. I walk to the door, see the blood-soaked towel and think, Oh, I must wash that. I pick it up, open the door and all my visitors see is me with a large knife in one hand and a blooded towel in the other.
Brilliant. Don’t think I’ve ever got rid of Jehovah Witnesses so quick.
Cheers.
Nick
I must have a liking for all night events on a weekend. A fortnight ago, I was ghost hunting at Woodchester Manor. Last Saturday, it was writing while deprived of sleep inside a historical building while taking part in an event laid on by the excellent Birmingham Book Festival. Unlike two weeks ago, I wasn’t actively seeking ghosts but still found many as there were plenty to experience with all the exhibits on view. And that’s what a ghost is, an image or echo of the past.
The Locksmith’s House – Willenhall, is a museum dedicated to the town’s once thriving lock-making industry. A working forge, period décor and furniture; who could not be inspired by such surroundings?
The Locksmith’s House – Willenhall. As seen during the day.
Many writers find they work well during the early hours. Let’s face it, this is a time when the kids, allegedly, are in bed and lucid thoughts can hopefully prevail over the weapons of mass distraction during a typical multi-tasked day. In fact, as a writer of so much dark fiction, it’s only once the house goes quiet that I can finally rest at ease – before the screaming begins on my laptop. Therefore, what better than a few hours after midnight in surroundings a little different to that which you are used to.
On Saturday, the setting was excellent and the group of writers assembled, were the nicest bunch I’ve ever done a workshop with. We were well-led on this night-time literary feast by Anna Lawrence-Pietroni, author of the novel, Ruby’s Spoon. Good, useful exercises, all managing to stimulate the mind and inspire creativity. As well as writing, the evening included a demonstration in the art of making a sliding bolt and other items at the forge. There was also a tour of the house plus toasting bread in front of an open fire at nearly four in the morning.
Middle of the night feast. Toast made the traditional way.
Being a writer whose tales often include a higher than average body count, I was delighted by the array of ready-made murder weapons at my disposal, should I choose to write historical fiction. The bolt from the forge, any number of tools and even the toasting fork would prove painful, positioned in the right place. There was also the gas lighting. Surely some devilment could transpire from a little tampering with a valve or two?
Those gas lights were a high point for me. They were something I’d never seen before. Holding a taper (burned too near the end for my liking) then hearing the pop as the ball ignites was an experience surely destined for a place in a short story, somewhere in the near future.
As for the writing? I have to admit, I found it hard going that night, which is unusual for me. I’d been struggling with a bad cold and nearly thought of crying off but am glad I didn’t. Besides, I’d already paid and I’m mean when it comes to cash.
I noted down many ideas for stories during the night but did flag as the hours grew long and dawn approached. This wasn’t through tiredness. My cold had, unfortunately, decided it was time to raise the temperature a bit and by the last exercise, my head was spinning and not with multiple plot lines, either.
There was a bed in the house, but this was for display purpose, only.
This is the second night writing event I have done and it surpassed that of last year. Hopefully, there will be more to come in the future. The Birmingham Book Festival is a fantastic event and one which writers local and beyond ought to have firmly written in their planners. I’d recommend it to all. You may even find a few ghosts of your own.
Cheers.
Nick
Last Saturday, myself and fellow troublemaker, Rich, took the 0830 train to London in order to have a 30-second pitch to an agent, plus useful feedback then question and answer sessions. This was at Foyles Bookshop and the agents were from Curtis Brown – just about as big as you can get in the UK.
Okay, I didn’t get my novel taken on but I did see a book I have a piece in, smack bang in the window of Foyles.
Me, and you can just about make out Alarmist Magazine above the sign by my hand which says, magazines. It’s the dark cover with The Holy Book, on the cover. I will add, Alarmist isn’t a religious publication, just in case you think I’ve turned towards the light. Nooooo! Happy being a church-fearing atheist, me.
Still, it made my day and how many others pitching could boast being in the window of Foyles. The only way I’d have thought it possible for me was if I took part in a ram-raid which went wrong.
After we left Foyles, neither of us really knew where we were going but we still had four hours to kill before the panel event later in the day. We were also hungry so we set off to find food, promptly getting lost before coming across this …
Ha! Knew where were, then. So, navigating the streets of London from memory of a Monopoly Board, we took a chance, turned into Leicester Square with me narrowly avoiding jail after an unwise attempt at chatting up a woman young enough to be my daughter.
Okay, there does come a time in life when you realise you’re too old and not going to shag Buffy the Vampire Slayer. For me, this was it. And it was pointed out that having a cute lass on the door, does not constitute a good reason to go inside and eat there.
So we opted for Pizza Hut instead and contrary to my normal eating-out disasters, this particular Hut, hadn’t, as is normally the case with me, run out of Pizza. Believe me – it happens.
So I survived London, and even managed to find my way back to Euston Station, despite it not being on a Monopoly board.
These days, I accept the only virgin I’m ever going to get inside, is the express train home from London. Not so, maths teacher, Jeremy Forrest. He failed to learn the ultimate lesson. After being on the run for a week with his 15-year-old lover, 30-year old Forrest is rightly, in custody. Idiot. One career up the spout. Just hope that’s the only thing that is. It’s ironic really. One week, he’s taking the register, next week, he’s on one.
Lisa Marie Presley has been a busy girl.
She was in the papers on Wednesday with the article about her farming exploits. Then, yesterday, she’s in them again but now, apparently, she’s helping out at the local chip shop. I won’t make the Kirsty MacColl song reference. Even I wouldn’t be cruel to stoop that way on down. However, what now? Is she going to be working on the reception of a Heartbreak Hotel next, or will she be a postal worker, returning letters to sender?
Crackhead, Blake Fielder-Civil has finally admitted he was responsible for Amy Winehouse getting into drugs.
No way! Next you’ll be telling me Quentin Crisp was a homosexual.
Waiting in a dental reception, I picked up a copy of scummy paper, The Sun. Yes, it was a bit like pulling teeth but I was amused by the leading article, namely the exclusive on pop artist, Tulisa’s, autobiography.
Honest? If she was honest, she’d say which ghost writer really penned the book. Also, how anybody at the age of 24 can have done stuff to warrant a biography, is beyond me. Still, people will buy and read it. I wonder if Tulisa has, yet?
However, the most amusing thing in the Sun’s article was the warning about copyright and that their lawyers are watching, in case anybody wants to plagiarise.
Come on, who’d want to admit to that … apart from Tulisa?
Apparently, 4,000 people gatecrashed a party in Haren – Holland after some silly girl posted it on Facebook.
Amazing. 4000 people without a social life.
Last week, I told about nobhead minister, Andrew Mitchell. He’s the pillock who thinks he runs the government and all under him are plebs. Poor old Andrew, he says he’s being judged unfairly. As well as calling the police, plebs, he has just demanded a £60k Jaguar as a perk of his job while the plebs have to use the bus. He also, apparently, had a mug specially printed with his former job of Secretary of State, written on. Nothing pretentious there, then? How about next week, going the whole hog and having a tattoo? Maybe the word Tosser, written on his forehead would be a good idea.
I have to shout support for the police officers who picketed his constituency office the other day. Brilliant.
Yes, the police. They’re some of the guys who keep the country running, not cretins like Andrew Mitchell.
I’m writing much of this, full of heavy cold in the hope my nose has stopped running by the time I go to an all-night writing session, Saturday evening. I’m not off to London like last week but am taking part in Birmingham Book Festival’s, Night at the Locksmith’s House. I only hope the locksmith knows there are load of writers descending on him. Still, if my cold gets too bad, I can always rest up here.
Actually, the house is a museum. It is hoped, spending the night there, pen and pad in hand, I can come up with some inspiration for future stories.
Back to my trip to London and it was there, I had the usual problem of queueing up for a toilet cubicle. I always feel silly. There’s loads of empty urinals but I have to wait for an enclosed cubicle to empty, just so I can pee. You see, I always seem to wear jeans with about a dozen buttons to undo. Have a zip? Not me. It takes about five minutes struggle to get the buttons undone, then another ten to do them up again. It’s far easier just to pull your trousers down to the ankles. Therefore, I have to use a cubicle. You see, if I dropped my trousers in a public convenience, people would be thinking I was touting for sex. Then I really would be sent to jail on the Monopoly board.
Cheers.
Nick
Back in June, I relayed the news that I had won the Walsall Writers’ Circle, Non-Fiction competition. My article on autism, The Invisible Nation, is now in print in the Autumn 2012 (Vol 45. No 4) edition of Blackcountryman Magazine.
Also in the same issue is a piece I wrote on the ghosts of local, Haden Hill House and Hall.
Magazine available at various outlets in the Black Country and also from this link.
Cheers.
Nick
Apparently, last Wednesday was Act Like a Pirate Day.
Well shiver me timbers, I never knew that until I read it in the newspapers later on. I wondered why there were men with eye-patches, all wearing striped shirts, bandannas and drinking rum in the Spicy Chicken Takeaway. I was charged ten doubloons as well, just for a kebab. Sheer piracy in their pricing, methinks.
But I feel as if I’ve missed out now. Pirate Day? I should have taken part. I mean, piracy … what can I do? I know, I’ll go and illegally download and distribute a load of Ben Dover porn films. Titillating.
Q: Why are pirates so funny?
A: Because they just arrrrrrrrrr!
I see Peaches Geldof was in the spotlight the other week when her baby buggy overturned, tipping four-month-old Astala (Yeah … I know) onto the pavement. Can’t post a picture of Peaches as it’s no doubt copyrighted. Instead, I’ll just have to improvise.
Anyway, google image search “peaches geldof baby pram” and see what I’m talking about. The horror. I mean, if she’d been more careless, she’d have dropped her mobile phone too. You know, the bloody device glued to her ear that she seemed more concerned hanging onto rather than her poor child.
Idiot.
Celebrity, Peter Andre wants to concentrate on a career of being a TV presenter from now on. He says he’s even ready to give up singing to do so.
Amazing news … Peter Andre is a singer?
Yes, Lady Gaga is in the news again. She’s been smoking dope on stage in Amsterdam. Way to go. What a plonker but the burning issue of bad taste is … What the hell was she thinking, choosing to wear this?
Had the lights gone in the dressing room? Now that’s what I call being a dope.
I read on Tuesday, that car repair bills have soared and some garages charge over £80 an hour. Now in the past, I’ve generally found places who don’t fleece you. It’s more often than not, the manufacturer doing the piracy.
Ah-haaaaa!
Sorry, still in pirate mode. But anyway, I recall my Renault Espace from a few years back. It was a lovely car until the warranty ran out, then everything conceivable fell apart. It wasn’t the garage which was the problem, the parts were extortionate. All seemed to have to come from France via snail-mail and you were charged about £200 for a wheel-nut.
The good old pirate ship – Espace.
Wiper blades. I remember the days when I could replace my own blades by buying a cheap set from Halfords and doing the job myself. Not Renault. The ones for the Espace, even in 2006, cost over £50 each and needed to be fitted by a mechanic. It was the same when the clutch went. In my old Montego, I just had a new clutch cable fitted. Twenty minute job and about a tenner. Espace? I was told the hydraulics had gone.
Now then … Clutch-cable – Hydraulics. Which of those two do you think sounds the more expensive? Over bloody £200 if I recall with all the labour.
I’m just glad I got shot of the thing. Mind you, I made it good and even stuck a new engine in before I could sell it as the original only lasted 50,000 miles.
Rubbish vehicle in the end. Couldn’t trust it for fear something else would blow. I’m just glad I managed to sell it to that vicar.
Apparently, Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene. Scholars have come up with this gem, now. Still, it’s about as credible as the other bullshit in the Bible so why not this?
Catholic priests are going to be a bit peeved though. The theory of Jesus abstaining from women is the reason for celibacy in their church. Still, doesn’t stop them having scores of love children already and if they were allowed to have relations, perhaps they wouldn’t spend so much time abusing kids.
That’s the only word to describe the new Tory chief for discipline.
Andrew Mitchell, MP for Sutton Coldfield (great, the knob lives near me) shouted abuse at the police standing guard in Downing Street. He moaned about being told not to ride his bike out of the main security gate. He screamed at the cops to learn their fucking place.
Now what place would that be, Andrew? Would it be the place of being in charge of security and protecting your sorry ass when people want to take a pop at you for making a mess of the country?
Dale Creegan. I’d post a picture of him but an image of dog shit is one I’d find offensive on my site. This piece of scum, blasted two unarmed women cops who were routinely doing their duty. Creegan wants to be famous, or infamous. The thing with dog shit though, you soon forget it once it’s been on your shoe, and that’s where Creegan belongs.
Also, shame on the shits who didn’t report the fact he was flaunting himself about the neighbourhood, days before committing murder. Hope you can live with yourselves.
What a society.
Farmer, Alan Graham, blew his top after allowing pop star, Rhianna to use his field to shoot a video. You remember her? I featured her a week or so back. Here she is, under her umbrella.
Anyway, Bible-basher (Oh dear, now that explains it) Alan Graham, didn’t like it when the pop-star got her breasts out during the shoot.
Christ. Get a life, Alan. They’re nothing to be ashamed of. How do you think your mother fed you as a child?
Former soccer goalkeeper, Richard Kingson’s loss of form has been blamed on witchcraft.
There he is in 2006, on his arse as Ronaldo beats him to score. Hmmm. Maybe the witchcraft theory is true? Or could it be he’s just a rubbish keeper?
Fake cigarettes containing human poo have been discovered by customs recently. Don’t know what the fuss is about. No different from the other crap they stick in cigarettes.
I’m going to join in the pirate fun, if not a few days late. I’m off to seize a boat and torture a couple of helpless pensioners.
Cheers.
Nick
For the past 18-months, I have been the full-time carer to my autistic son, David. I quit work to do the role, having combined it and work for many years. However, over those years, the toll was taken and had I continued to do both, I probably wouldn’t be here, roasting away.
Having left work, I’ve lived mostly off my savings but now, things are changing. David has started residential college. I am free to find work again. Easy? Not one bit. Everybody in the same boat, tells me that there are no jobs and soon, I could be as desperate as the famous character from the 1980s TV series – Boys from the Blackstuff.
I guess it’s depressing in the fact that in over thirty years, it appears nothing has changed since the time of Yosser Hughes. It’s been a long while since I was looking for work and I guess I’m a bit sore that the government are happy enough for me to give up my life to be a carer, then offer no help whatsoever when I need to return to work.
I went to sign on the other day for the first time. God the Walsall Jobcentre is depressing.
Not the nicest of places, full of badly dressed folk of unkempt appearance. How on earth are customers supposed to have a positive outlook when you have Jobcentre staff like that? Still, at least my advisor was decent enough. I’d filled the forms online and received notification that I had an appointment so I strolled in with my CV as requested, expecting to be informed of options but all I got was a conveyor belt and the news it would be two weeks before I saw somebody to discuss work. To be fair, my advisor was very pleasant about it. He even laughed at the irony when I informed him the latest news stated only that only six people had found work in Walsall during August.
So there we have it. I will wait two weeks and see if anything has changed since 20 years ago – the last time I was out of work. Now there’s a story …
Yes, I was out of work for about two years all that time ago. Back then, if you were unemployed for more than six months, you were put on schemes to help and mine was a Return to Work Course.
The course involved teaching you how to get up in the morning, look in the situations vacant pages of the local press, and then apply for jobs. Great. Now I knew what to do, because obviously I had been pissing about for the previous months.
There is a fantastic parody of this set-up in the show League of Gentlemen where the course leader, Pauline, plays tyrant over the unfortunate subjects in her care, calling them useless and a bunch of work-shy dole scum.
Now the person running my course wasn’t that obnoxious. No, we had a different approach from her. She was unbearably patronising.
Looking the spitting image of Oprah Winfrey, she floated into the room, writing her name on the white-board and proclaiming that we were to treat the experience as an adventure. She went on to say, ‘I know most of you don’t want to be here, but we must get you on the employment ladder. Now don’t be embarrassed, there is no shame in your situation and remember, we are all in the same boat together.’ Horror then dawned before she added, ‘Well, obviously that doesn’t include me, because I have a job and you haven’t.’
Incredible. And so the week went on for us poor unfortunate souls, having to learn the art of writing after a job. One incident involved me volunteering to select people for a mock interview. All of us, including Oprah, filled in the forms and stuck them in an envelope, addressed them and sent them all to a fictional employer – me. I specifically chose Oprah’s first and looking at the envelope, proceeded to throw it out of the window on the basis she hadn’t put (or drawn) a stamp and it wouldn’t get there without one. Her face was unforgettable.
She sought revenge and while completing one module, some of us were … lets say, a bit fractious. Others were completing tasks and five of us were just being plain silly, with Oprah as the target. To combat this, she removed us from the group, took us to another room and had us sitting in a straight line of desks in silence as she sat at the front of the row facing us. It was surreal. I was 29 at the time. I wasn’t going to be treated as if I were a school kid on detention was I? Therefore, I proceeded (and encouraged the others) to put fingers on lips. Oprah didn’t like this and threatened me with expulsion, to be kicked off the course with my benefit stopped.
‘But it’s Friday,’ I exclaimed. ‘The last day. We finish in an hour.’
‘Do you think I care,’ she cried. ‘I run this course, not you and what I say – goes.’
It’s sad to realise these cretins exist and are among us as we speak, wreaking havoc and misery on others. Hopefully, some will get their just rewards but many will simply go on to be Personnel Officers.
Schemes like that are now privatised and it’s criminal that companies like A4E are making millions from folk being unemployed. You go on these courses, get bullied and end up taking jobs on an unpaid, trial basis at crappy shops like Poundland. Now there’s an incentive to sort myself out, quick.
At the same time, we had a thing called Job-Club and it was there I was sent when Oprah kicked me off the course and I ended up meeting Mad Pete.
Job-Clubs were supposed to be organisations where people attended to seek help and guidance in getting back to work. They were kitted out with all the latest technology and tools needed to achieve this. Well, that was the theory. The reality was, you had a small room, pens, paper and a copy of the local Yellow Pages. Here you could flick through at your heart’s content and write to any company that took your fancy and politely ask them if they had any jobs going.
It was while I was there, I encountered Mad Pete. Pete was a sacked sales representative and the spitting image of Harry Enfield’s, Scouser character.
Pete was unemployable because of his hyper, over-the-top, aggressive approach, and the fact he frightened all his customers. He had been attending Job-Club for longer than any of the staff who worked there and turned up each day in his crumpled suit and tie from his former sales days.
Pete had no luck whatsoever in finding work for himself, but he was very good at helping other people do what he couldn’t. He would go from one attendee to the other, help, bully and browbeat them into doing what he thought was the right way of getting the correct result.
‘Yow dow effin’ dow it like that, yow tosser – yow dow it like this – and dow it ten times over. Yow dow wanna be here for a nuvver effin’ year, dow yow?’
All the folk attending and having this help thrust upon them had the added incentive to find work. Get a job quick or have the prospect of coming in next week and facing Mad Pete, again.
As I say, each day he wore his old sales suit. Well, apart from one Friday when he strangely arrived in full combat gear. A tad weird and a little bit frightening. He told me it was due to the fact he was in the Territorial Army and due to go on maneuvers that weekend. Now I was really scared. Not only was he to blame for forcing unemployed folk into highly unsuitable careers just to so they could be shot of him, he was also part responsible for our national security.
However, it was a case of good on him in the end. He spent so much time at Job-Club, the organiser gave him a job. Well, a somewhat pretend job but he did get £10 on top of his benefits for doing so. Even so, I still don’t think I’d like to meet him down a dark alley at night in the near future.
Heck, I wonder if Pete still works in my town? Best get my applications out or they’ll send me on a course. Worse still, I could end up working here ….
Arrrgghhh!
Cheers.
Nick
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