Well, got jerked about royally this week on a booking out in Hertfordshire. After it was changed no less than three times, I turned up only to be told that they only had a days work for me – this after getting up at six and travelling for two hours to get there.
The work was fairly dull too, and got briefed in late, by someone hung over. Part of it was report and accounts, relentlessly copying and pasting figures from a word document into an Indesign template, then tabbing them, and after a few hours of that, my mind was well and truly fried.
Anyway, I'm using my newly non-working status tomorrow to flee back oop north, with the dual purpose of seeing some old faces and getting a few bits and pieces languishing round at my brothers. I'm getting a lift back with my new housemate Marvyn on Saturday.
I'm also getting my quarterly (or therabouts) haircut at the best barbers ever, in Manchester.. I shit you not, this guy is a dude.
But anyway, I'll blog about that later.
Just popped into Cash Converters on Walworth road and scooped a couple of CDs – a Shriekback best of compilation, and the Bring Da Ruckus compilation on Loud, which I've been looking out for a bit – mostly for the remix of Rainy Dayz by Raekwon, but really, it's crammed with what Tim Westwood would term 'hot joints', so a steal at £2.
Anyway, I'll probably write again post Manchester.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
I don't beliieeeeve it
I appear to be turning into a Victor Meldrewish type figure, really. Thwarted by petty beauracracy and nursing a throbbing vein in my temple the size of a Nik-Nak (not nice and spicy flavour, either).
But I'm going to moan about one more thing, and then stop, alright? then return to writing haikus about, I dunno, snow blossom or something, and gazing at my poster of a wet kitten with the 'bad hair day' legend embazoned across it in comic sans.
Had today and Tuesday off, so endevoured to fulfill the second leg of my quest to become a limited company by opening a business bank account. Unfortunately I hadn't reckoned with the Camberwell branch of HSBC, where they've presumably had to reinforce the floors to cater for a typical days traffic, whilst simultaneously forgetting to employ anyone – anyone real at least.
I eventually spotted a weary looking HSBC employee at the head of a queue, to be told twenty minutes later that the soonest I could be seen was next Monday afternoon, if the world didn't end first. Man this guy was getting me depressed. Fair enough though, the only other sound above the paranoid aandroid's valium induced drawl was the sound of teeth getting sucked and middle englanders tutting behind me, which would've induced clinical melancholia in Ebeneezer Goode.
I agreed, but on leaving thought 'fuck it' I'll see if any other branches of my bank in the nations's capital would see me tomorrow for half an hour. Herein followed a debacle it probably takes an institution as monolithic and arrogant as the HSBC to unwhittingly engineer, as this simple exercise is now seemingly impossible.
Having gained the number of the Baker Street Branch off t'internet, I rang it at home, only to be greeted by that flat robotic woman's voice that makes me want to go out and smash phone boxes.
"YOUR CALL IS BEING HELD IN A QUEUE PLEASE HOLD THE LINE WHILE WHILE WE ATTEMPT TO CONNECT YOU TO A CUSTOMER SERVICE ADVISOR"
It intoned at me, irritatingly, before a tinny loop of Handel's Water Music kicked in, in a vain attempt to soothe me.
Then, predictably, after some Parappa-the-Rapper-esque tone dialling shenannigans I got connected to the inevitable call centre located in Delhi, or somewhere, where my 'customer service advisor' was scarcely more helpful than robot bird.
"Er, hi, I just want to speak to someone at the Baker Street branch to see if they'll see me tomorrow?"
I asked.
No fucking chance, it transpires. The girl offered to ring for me, again putting me on hold for yet another bout of torpid lift music, before informing me that no-one was answering the phone, though if I liked, she'd leave a message for me.
Ultimately it transpires, any number I get off the internet leads solely to one of these places, where my 'customer service' consists of someone telling me no one is picking up the phone somewhere else. Thanks.
Ultimately, I ended up going into central London and walking to the Baker Street branch, where within quarter of an hour I'd arranged a meeting for tomorrow, and the staff were very helpful and polite.
It did mean I missed Countdown though.
'The World's Local Bank'? yeah right.
OK enough!
But I'm going to moan about one more thing, and then stop, alright? then return to writing haikus about, I dunno, snow blossom or something, and gazing at my poster of a wet kitten with the 'bad hair day' legend embazoned across it in comic sans.
Had today and Tuesday off, so endevoured to fulfill the second leg of my quest to become a limited company by opening a business bank account. Unfortunately I hadn't reckoned with the Camberwell branch of HSBC, where they've presumably had to reinforce the floors to cater for a typical days traffic, whilst simultaneously forgetting to employ anyone – anyone real at least.
I eventually spotted a weary looking HSBC employee at the head of a queue, to be told twenty minutes later that the soonest I could be seen was next Monday afternoon, if the world didn't end first. Man this guy was getting me depressed. Fair enough though, the only other sound above the paranoid aandroid's valium induced drawl was the sound of teeth getting sucked and middle englanders tutting behind me, which would've induced clinical melancholia in Ebeneezer Goode.
I agreed, but on leaving thought 'fuck it' I'll see if any other branches of my bank in the nations's capital would see me tomorrow for half an hour. Herein followed a debacle it probably takes an institution as monolithic and arrogant as the HSBC to unwhittingly engineer, as this simple exercise is now seemingly impossible.
Having gained the number of the Baker Street Branch off t'internet, I rang it at home, only to be greeted by that flat robotic woman's voice that makes me want to go out and smash phone boxes.
"YOUR CALL IS BEING HELD IN A QUEUE PLEASE HOLD THE LINE WHILE WHILE WE ATTEMPT TO CONNECT YOU TO A CUSTOMER SERVICE ADVISOR"
It intoned at me, irritatingly, before a tinny loop of Handel's Water Music kicked in, in a vain attempt to soothe me.
Then, predictably, after some Parappa-the-Rapper-esque tone dialling shenannigans I got connected to the inevitable call centre located in Delhi, or somewhere, where my 'customer service advisor' was scarcely more helpful than robot bird.
"Er, hi, I just want to speak to someone at the Baker Street branch to see if they'll see me tomorrow?"
I asked.
No fucking chance, it transpires. The girl offered to ring for me, again putting me on hold for yet another bout of torpid lift music, before informing me that no-one was answering the phone, though if I liked, she'd leave a message for me.
Ultimately it transpires, any number I get off the internet leads solely to one of these places, where my 'customer service' consists of someone telling me no one is picking up the phone somewhere else. Thanks.
Ultimately, I ended up going into central London and walking to the Baker Street branch, where within quarter of an hour I'd arranged a meeting for tomorrow, and the staff were very helpful and polite.
It did mean I missed Countdown though.
'The World's Local Bank'? yeah right.
OK enough!
Monday, March 20, 2006
See how the money goes
I went into the bank on my lunchbreak today, to cancel a standing order to my housemate who's moving out. (It was for broadband and NTL)
I also canclled the insurance on my old flat, that while negligable was unnecessary, and also discovered that yet more money was being pilfered off me.
When I moved down in November 2004, whilst roaming central London with a sheath of CVs in search of work, I ran into one of those charity workers in bright jackets who try to catch your eye, then clothes-line your conscience into submission. Instead of mumbling excuses and swerving round him I actually stopped listened to what he had to say, and despite being strapped eventually agreed to make a donation in the new year.
The agreement was it would come out in March, and I'd get a phone call to confirm it. I didn't actually get any such call, and the money came out in February but hey ho.
Anyway I since learned today that the donation was not just a one off – which is something the guy completely omitted to mention to me. Indeed I'd go as far as to say the implication was very much the opposite. It's not such a big deal, and OK the money is hopefully going to do some good, but I find the fact that it was obtained by means tantamount to deception somewhat.. disappointing really. They relied on my good nature to stop and agree to making a donation in the first place so not being completely transparent upfront is pretty sneaky if you ask me.
The woman at the bank said it was a pretty widely used tactic, you should always check the fine print, but then, HSBC hasn't exactly got room to gloat (she kept dabbing at the blood of her last 'customer' on her HSBC tunic ).
Oh well. good karma for me I suppose (though I might have mitigated it somewhat by bleating about it in a blog).
I also got offered nine and a half weeks (oo-er) contract work in Watford.
I turned it down because:
a) It was an in-house role
b) Brochure/Catalogue work (snore)
c) Watford
d) GOTO a)
I also canclled the insurance on my old flat, that while negligable was unnecessary, and also discovered that yet more money was being pilfered off me.
When I moved down in November 2004, whilst roaming central London with a sheath of CVs in search of work, I ran into one of those charity workers in bright jackets who try to catch your eye, then clothes-line your conscience into submission. Instead of mumbling excuses and swerving round him I actually stopped listened to what he had to say, and despite being strapped eventually agreed to make a donation in the new year.
The agreement was it would come out in March, and I'd get a phone call to confirm it. I didn't actually get any such call, and the money came out in February but hey ho.
Anyway I since learned today that the donation was not just a one off – which is something the guy completely omitted to mention to me. Indeed I'd go as far as to say the implication was very much the opposite. It's not such a big deal, and OK the money is hopefully going to do some good, but I find the fact that it was obtained by means tantamount to deception somewhat.. disappointing really. They relied on my good nature to stop and agree to making a donation in the first place so not being completely transparent upfront is pretty sneaky if you ask me.
The woman at the bank said it was a pretty widely used tactic, you should always check the fine print, but then, HSBC hasn't exactly got room to gloat (she kept dabbing at the blood of her last 'customer' on her HSBC tunic ).
Oh well. good karma for me I suppose (though I might have mitigated it somewhat by bleating about it in a blog).
I also got offered nine and a half weeks (oo-er) contract work in Watford.
I turned it down because:
a) It was an in-house role
b) Brochure/Catalogue work (snore)
c) Watford
d) GOTO a)
Bankers
A girl called Alli I went to uni with back in the primordial mists of time once told me how she and her housemate, high on student life and hell-bent on hi jinks, had developed a novel way of disposing of tea bags with the little bits of string attached, wherein having removed them, they’d whirl them round, sling like, before catapulting them into the wall above the bin, allowing them to slide down leaving a brown sluggy tea stain on the wall.
That’s how my head feels now.
I’m sat in an agency on Baker Street, waiting for copy, staring out at scaffolding across the road. I’m drinking strong tea, and have just polished off a cinnamon whirl and a croissant.
Things I saw on the way to work this morning:
Two traders setting up at the Elephant & Castle market trading fisticuffs completely silently, while a third bloke tried to break them up, with very little success. Hard to work out exactly what was going on, but it looked like they were on the same stall. They were really swedging though, with some serious head pounding action
An old guy on the escalator on the tube at Baker street, bent at a nearly ninety degree angle, due to what? old person spine shrinkage or summat. Yoga please.
Found out just Wednesday while doing some sporadic letter opening that I’d gone over my overdraft, and my bank was cheerfully crucifying me for it (figuratively speaking of course – sorry Jews, Christians etc) which pretty much wiped out any money I earned in oh, the last two weeks. Basically they were charging me £30 every time I used my card, on top of some other charges which were probably set out in six point type (80% tint) on page six of something I signed in 1997.
Fair play to them though, I hear HSBC are a bit strapped these days, and they did offer me a loan to sort it out.
*cunts*
And in saying that I apologise to female genitalia everywhere - no offense intended for indirect association with these vampires.
What annoys me is the utterly superfluous nature of these charges - which effectively amount to a poor tax for chumps like yours truly. As Simon said last night, evil geniuses. I hate the way banks have the gall to actually crow when they’re not charging you for something too.
“We will not charge you for withdrawing money from this ATM”
Beamed an earnest HSBC cashpoint at me this morning. And? So you fucking shouldn’t.you cheeky, cheeky money hungry bitches. Honestly. Come the revolution...
Anyway Jules’s birfday at the Funky Munky (hate that name) tonight, so no doubt japes await me there.
That’s how my head feels now.
I’m sat in an agency on Baker Street, waiting for copy, staring out at scaffolding across the road. I’m drinking strong tea, and have just polished off a cinnamon whirl and a croissant.
Things I saw on the way to work this morning:
Two traders setting up at the Elephant & Castle market trading fisticuffs completely silently, while a third bloke tried to break them up, with very little success. Hard to work out exactly what was going on, but it looked like they were on the same stall. They were really swedging though, with some serious head pounding action
An old guy on the escalator on the tube at Baker street, bent at a nearly ninety degree angle, due to what? old person spine shrinkage or summat. Yoga please.
Found out just Wednesday while doing some sporadic letter opening that I’d gone over my overdraft, and my bank was cheerfully crucifying me for it (figuratively speaking of course – sorry Jews, Christians etc) which pretty much wiped out any money I earned in oh, the last two weeks. Basically they were charging me £30 every time I used my card, on top of some other charges which were probably set out in six point type (80% tint) on page six of something I signed in 1997.
Fair play to them though, I hear HSBC are a bit strapped these days, and they did offer me a loan to sort it out.
*cunts*
And in saying that I apologise to female genitalia everywhere - no offense intended for indirect association with these vampires.
What annoys me is the utterly superfluous nature of these charges - which effectively amount to a poor tax for chumps like yours truly. As Simon said last night, evil geniuses. I hate the way banks have the gall to actually crow when they’re not charging you for something too.
“We will not charge you for withdrawing money from this ATM”
Beamed an earnest HSBC cashpoint at me this morning. And? So you fucking shouldn’t.you cheeky, cheeky money hungry bitches. Honestly. Come the revolution...
Anyway Jules’s birfday at the Funky Munky (hate that name) tonight, so no doubt japes await me there.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Airhead
Well, I wrote a blog post yesterday, but it is currently languishing in simple text format on the desktop of a Mac in central London, so I'll have to get it up later.
I currently don't have internet access at my yard, so have returned to one of my haunts of old, the Banjonet internet place on the Walworth road. It's not even an internet cafe as it doesn't serve food, and it's the very definition of no frills. The keyboard I'm typing this on feels like a car has reversed over it, and beneath each of the mice is a patch where the paint has worn through to the wood beneath. I actually find it faintly dismal here, but at least there's not some dude next to me blasting out Usher while watching porn, as has happened in the past.
Went to Julia's party at the Funky Munky last night, which was good fun, though mitigated somewhat by the fact that the Funky Munky sucks ass, through a flesh coloured straw.
In the past, we've put on nights there, and have been allowed to hire the top room for free, and get 10% at the bar. Now it costs £250 to hire a not especially large cold room, with knackered old decks on pillows, and a mixer whose power lead kept popping out. It looks like it was knocked up by McGuyver on a bad day.
They were even charging people going to the party at the door which takes the piss a bit, and the drinks aren't exactly cheap.
I was deejaying for the first hour and a half or so, and the second thing that really pissed me off was when of my friend Julia's mates mistook me for a gatecrasher, and said:
"Come on mate, don't be a knob, go downstairs"
Which pretty much left me speechless. I thought she was taking the piss at first (which, actually, she was, in a matter of speaking) but it dawned on me that she was being completely serious, and before I could concoct a cutting riposte, she turned 180 degrees in disgust.
Fair enough, there happened to be some townie who'd wandered in next to me, and I've only met her once before, but on that ocassion I did spend most of the night talking to her, and some of it getting off with her. So obviously I mustn't have been very memorable.
Anyway. Woke up today and went for a bite at the Jungle Grill for a veggie breakfast. After things I've read recently, I might steer clear of Rocksteady Eddies.
Off to Camden tonight, to the Lock Tavern. Going early to hopefully get a table. With any luck, they'll have dismantled the Krypton Factor-esque assault course of tables and chairs that make cat swinging impossible too.
I currently don't have internet access at my yard, so have returned to one of my haunts of old, the Banjonet internet place on the Walworth road. It's not even an internet cafe as it doesn't serve food, and it's the very definition of no frills. The keyboard I'm typing this on feels like a car has reversed over it, and beneath each of the mice is a patch where the paint has worn through to the wood beneath. I actually find it faintly dismal here, but at least there's not some dude next to me blasting out Usher while watching porn, as has happened in the past.
Went to Julia's party at the Funky Munky last night, which was good fun, though mitigated somewhat by the fact that the Funky Munky sucks ass, through a flesh coloured straw.
In the past, we've put on nights there, and have been allowed to hire the top room for free, and get 10% at the bar. Now it costs £250 to hire a not especially large cold room, with knackered old decks on pillows, and a mixer whose power lead kept popping out. It looks like it was knocked up by McGuyver on a bad day.
They were even charging people going to the party at the door which takes the piss a bit, and the drinks aren't exactly cheap.
I was deejaying for the first hour and a half or so, and the second thing that really pissed me off was when of my friend Julia's mates mistook me for a gatecrasher, and said:
"Come on mate, don't be a knob, go downstairs"
Which pretty much left me speechless. I thought she was taking the piss at first (which, actually, she was, in a matter of speaking) but it dawned on me that she was being completely serious, and before I could concoct a cutting riposte, she turned 180 degrees in disgust.
Fair enough, there happened to be some townie who'd wandered in next to me, and I've only met her once before, but on that ocassion I did spend most of the night talking to her, and some of it getting off with her. So obviously I mustn't have been very memorable.
Anyway. Woke up today and went for a bite at the Jungle Grill for a veggie breakfast. After things I've read recently, I might steer clear of Rocksteady Eddies.
Off to Camden tonight, to the Lock Tavern. Going early to hopefully get a table. With any luck, they'll have dismantled the Krypton Factor-esque assault course of tables and chairs that make cat swinging impossible too.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Pigeon Blog
I stumbled across this blog the other day, and was so taken I had to contribute an old pic (just under the merch).
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Sawbridgeworth
This week I was working out in Sawbridgeworth, in deepest darkest Hertfordshire, which was neither very deep or dark. It actually became a royal pain in the ass, as I had to get a bus, tube, then train to get there; a total of two hours travelling time.
It was sort of strange working in a little village, as living amongst the litter and pigeons in London tends to make you forget such places still exist.
I mentioned on someone elses blog how despite being assailed by a blanket of media hype surounding the Arctic Monkeys, I had as yet managed to avoid hearing them, with the prediction that the next time I worked in a studio where they played the radio I would be inevitably hearing it on heavy rotation.
This prophecy proved true, as the studio I was in had Radio One on constantly. I'd forgotten just how much the inane twittering of daytime radio jocks annoyed me, and this week was an unwelcome reminder. Flashbacks keep coming back to me: Jo Whiley talking to the Sugababes and complimenting them on how 'raw' their new tune is. Really Jo? which bit were you listening to? More needling yet is Roy Walker's guest spot on lardarse Chris Moyles show, but the most irritating of the lot have got to be JK and Joel, who used to terrorise Manchester with their spot on Key 103, have now been given the keys to the gun cabinet with their vastly annoying stint in the afternoon. They're basically the Chuckle Brothers of daytime radio, except less funny - a fact amply demonstrated by their tedious 'remix' sketch where they take an old tune and create a hi-energy dance version of it. It's infinitely worse than it sounds too, and serves as evidence of how music can actually function as a torture device.
Anyway. Other than that work was OK. There was too much of it on Friday for my liking however, and being the type of guy who's only recently graduated to chewing gum and walking, was less well managed than I'd ideally hope for. I prefer to know where I'm up to with everything, and have a manageable workload, or else nothing gets done very well - which I hate.
Saturday went for a curry at Clapham Tandoori, and then a 'polite' party afterwards in Clapham South. This meant music - (but not too loud) drinks (but no drunks) and a general absence of hotel trashing antics. Fun enough though I suppose.
Sunday was Round 2 of our interviews for a new flatmate, with two guys who were both really nice. I got outvoted over the one I prefered, but It doesn't really matter. In the end it was getting slightly irritating the amount people were vascillating about it. Just make a decision for fucks sake..
It was also St Patricks Day, so me and Ade's evening consisted of finding an Irish theme pub in the West End, drinking stout til we couldn't see, then passing out in the fountains at Trafalgar Square while wearing those krazy Guiness hats people wear on such ocassions.
Actually no, we just went to the Sun and Doves, where some girl group calleed Inside 65 were performing. They were pretty good too.
It was sort of strange working in a little village, as living amongst the litter and pigeons in London tends to make you forget such places still exist.
I mentioned on someone elses blog how despite being assailed by a blanket of media hype surounding the Arctic Monkeys, I had as yet managed to avoid hearing them, with the prediction that the next time I worked in a studio where they played the radio I would be inevitably hearing it on heavy rotation.
This prophecy proved true, as the studio I was in had Radio One on constantly. I'd forgotten just how much the inane twittering of daytime radio jocks annoyed me, and this week was an unwelcome reminder. Flashbacks keep coming back to me: Jo Whiley talking to the Sugababes and complimenting them on how 'raw' their new tune is. Really Jo? which bit were you listening to? More needling yet is Roy Walker's guest spot on lardarse Chris Moyles show, but the most irritating of the lot have got to be JK and Joel, who used to terrorise Manchester with their spot on Key 103, have now been given the keys to the gun cabinet with their vastly annoying stint in the afternoon. They're basically the Chuckle Brothers of daytime radio, except less funny - a fact amply demonstrated by their tedious 'remix' sketch where they take an old tune and create a hi-energy dance version of it. It's infinitely worse than it sounds too, and serves as evidence of how music can actually function as a torture device.
Anyway. Other than that work was OK. There was too much of it on Friday for my liking however, and being the type of guy who's only recently graduated to chewing gum and walking, was less well managed than I'd ideally hope for. I prefer to know where I'm up to with everything, and have a manageable workload, or else nothing gets done very well - which I hate.
Saturday went for a curry at Clapham Tandoori, and then a 'polite' party afterwards in Clapham South. This meant music - (but not too loud) drinks (but no drunks) and a general absence of hotel trashing antics. Fun enough though I suppose.
Sunday was Round 2 of our interviews for a new flatmate, with two guys who were both really nice. I got outvoted over the one I prefered, but It doesn't really matter. In the end it was getting slightly irritating the amount people were vascillating about it. Just make a decision for fucks sake..
It was also St Patricks Day, so me and Ade's evening consisted of finding an Irish theme pub in the West End, drinking stout til we couldn't see, then passing out in the fountains at Trafalgar Square while wearing those krazy Guiness hats people wear on such ocassions.
Actually no, we just went to the Sun and Doves, where some girl group calleed Inside 65 were performing. They were pretty good too.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Interviews
As Gridrunner carves up virgin snow like the new media playboy that he is, and DJ Phaze repopulates forest in Honduras, the Eye has somewhat more tedious things to get to grips with, such as repopulating his own flat; d-don't worry though, it's not because I've carved up virgins here.. or anything.
The beginning of the day was thus spent emailing people and placing ads online about the room, which is actually a bargain, and a very decent size. Being at the front of the house however, it also acts as something of a sounding board for rudebuoy's bass-bins as they thunder up Camberwell Church Street, or the quaking of buses at the stop outside, so I think I'm going to stick in my little broom cupboard in the attic.
It's elicited some response, but so far four of the five people who've expressed an interest have decided against it, two of them before even stepping inside. One let me know by text in the following shorthand: "Hey tom sorry2mess u around bvt i will have2postpone our meeting until i have a dEf moving dte.Sorry2have messed ubowt" *FINE* I don't think I'd want to live with such a sloppy texter anyway.
The girl we did meet tonight was really nice though.. and despite it being early days yet looking for people is starting to do my head in, so if she's interested, she can have it as far as I'm concerned.
Today was another example of just how brass-necked recruitment people can be. Someone from one of the agencies I signed up with late 2004 rang me up, a full seven or eight months after I last spoke to him, offering me some freelance out in - wait for it - Hertfordshire. It's a hike, but I might as well take it with nothing else on. Still, mission.
Anyway, I'm meeting up with a friend from Manchester who's down in London for training tomorrow, so that should be a larf if nothing else.
The beginning of the day was thus spent emailing people and placing ads online about the room, which is actually a bargain, and a very decent size. Being at the front of the house however, it also acts as something of a sounding board for rudebuoy's bass-bins as they thunder up Camberwell Church Street, or the quaking of buses at the stop outside, so I think I'm going to stick in my little broom cupboard in the attic.
It's elicited some response, but so far four of the five people who've expressed an interest have decided against it, two of them before even stepping inside. One let me know by text in the following shorthand: "Hey tom sorry2mess u around bvt i will have2postpone our meeting until i have a dEf moving dte.Sorry2have messed ubowt" *FINE* I don't think I'd want to live with such a sloppy texter anyway.
The girl we did meet tonight was really nice though.. and despite it being early days yet looking for people is starting to do my head in, so if she's interested, she can have it as far as I'm concerned.
Today was another example of just how brass-necked recruitment people can be. Someone from one of the agencies I signed up with late 2004 rang me up, a full seven or eight months after I last spoke to him, offering me some freelance out in - wait for it - Hertfordshire. It's a hike, but I might as well take it with nothing else on. Still, mission.
Anyway, I'm meeting up with a friend from Manchester who's down in London for training tomorrow, so that should be a larf if nothing else.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
And thou shalt know them by their iTunes playlist
Thursday and Friday I was in for my week overdue booking at an ad agency at the top of Dean street in Soho. It was with some good old boys who'd broken away from their old agency to form their own. Consequently it was quite a small operation, though very friendly, and quite old school. No huge framed glasses a la Morris Saatchi though.
They had music playing too, but it was almost 100% uncut 'dad rock' - think Fleetwood Mac, Eurythmics etc. Actually no bad thing, and I did feel a bit like I was in my dad's car on holiday in France circa the late eighties. There was also a bit of Frank Sinatra later on.. Three Coins in a Fountain anyone?
One of my jobs was to go trawling stock image libraries on t'internet for a picture to go on the front of a mailer, and the brief was to find a young 'fun' looking mum and kids on a beach. I found many pictures, mostly slightly rubbish, including various cheesed out american shots that looked dated to say the least, to lesbian couples and families that were, I suspect, too 'ethnic' for the middle-england-courting client. Ones featuring nude kids were also quite clearly off the agenda, unless I fancied jackbooted Sun sponsored stormtroopers kicking in my door in the dead of night and stringing me up from the nearest flagpole.
Which reminds me.. did anyone see this headline from my favourite tabloid. Very much in the vein of 'Brass Eye' I thought, only without the satire. I think personally the 'art direction' should have featured an artists impression of a paedo, in a spring heeled jack vein, photoshopped into a classroom (possibly with cross hairs over him).
Anyway. Caught up with some mates in Clapham for a couple o' beers in the evening, then totally failed to get a 35 home -instead walking all the way through Brixton to Camberwell in the freezing cold after I gave up hope of one ever coming.
Checked out the charity shops on the Walworth Road today, where I bought a book and a the SWV single 'right here' from 1993, which features Pharrel Williams rapping on the UK mix for about thirty seconds, and a remix by Lord Finesse, complete with trademark horns.
For some insanely annoying reason, my Last fm chart refuses to update on my mac at home, even when I refresh the page.. it doesn't do it on other computers though. Wierd.
Well, off to It's Bigger Than tonight. By myself though as my half my mates are on holiday at the minute.
They had music playing too, but it was almost 100% uncut 'dad rock' - think Fleetwood Mac, Eurythmics etc. Actually no bad thing, and I did feel a bit like I was in my dad's car on holiday in France circa the late eighties. There was also a bit of Frank Sinatra later on.. Three Coins in a Fountain anyone?
One of my jobs was to go trawling stock image libraries on t'internet for a picture to go on the front of a mailer, and the brief was to find a young 'fun' looking mum and kids on a beach. I found many pictures, mostly slightly rubbish, including various cheesed out american shots that looked dated to say the least, to lesbian couples and families that were, I suspect, too 'ethnic' for the middle-england-courting client. Ones featuring nude kids were also quite clearly off the agenda, unless I fancied jackbooted Sun sponsored stormtroopers kicking in my door in the dead of night and stringing me up from the nearest flagpole.
Which reminds me.. did anyone see this headline from my favourite tabloid. Very much in the vein of 'Brass Eye' I thought, only without the satire. I think personally the 'art direction' should have featured an artists impression of a paedo, in a spring heeled jack vein, photoshopped into a classroom (possibly with cross hairs over him).
Anyway. Caught up with some mates in Clapham for a couple o' beers in the evening, then totally failed to get a 35 home -instead walking all the way through Brixton to Camberwell in the freezing cold after I gave up hope of one ever coming.
Checked out the charity shops on the Walworth Road today, where I bought a book and a the SWV single 'right here' from 1993, which features Pharrel Williams rapping on the UK mix for about thirty seconds, and a remix by Lord Finesse, complete with trademark horns.
For some insanely annoying reason, my Last fm chart refuses to update on my mac at home, even when I refresh the page.. it doesn't do it on other computers though. Wierd.
Well, off to It's Bigger Than tonight. By myself though as my half my mates are on holiday at the minute.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Long day
Today was long. It mostly involved me working on some stuff for the AA – a prompt card and a 12 page booklet thingy that list the stuff you can get if you're part of the AA. As a consequence the days official colourways were yellow and black, and I feel a bit like I've been staring at wasps for the last 12 hours.
None of the Macs were working properly for the first two hours, and initially I was perched on the edge of a small drawer unit in lieu of an actual seat. Wizard!
Glad I got out with my sanity, but possibly more bothersome was leaving my phone at my friend Wills house, which gave me a nervous tic which is only just subsiding now. Indeed the fun was just beginning when I left work as I had to enact an obscure dog-leg to Camberwell via Angel in order to get the decrepit thing.
Inevitably, perhaps, there were various missed calls from people chasing time-sheets and offering me work, which I've no doubt missed the boat on. There was also a folorn sounding message from me twelve hours previously, which I recorded because it kept going straight to answering machine - I put this down to it running out of batteries or some fagin type character disenabling it, but actually, Will just switched it off 'cause my incessant ringing was getting on his tits.
Anyway Gridrunner goes Snowboarding on Saturday, so that's one less person for me to bother in the Evenings.. The next two weeks might involve me heading North of the river more as a consequence, but perhaps that's being a little hasty.
None of the Macs were working properly for the first two hours, and initially I was perched on the edge of a small drawer unit in lieu of an actual seat. Wizard!
Glad I got out with my sanity, but possibly more bothersome was leaving my phone at my friend Wills house, which gave me a nervous tic which is only just subsiding now. Indeed the fun was just beginning when I left work as I had to enact an obscure dog-leg to Camberwell via Angel in order to get the decrepit thing.
Inevitably, perhaps, there were various missed calls from people chasing time-sheets and offering me work, which I've no doubt missed the boat on. There was also a folorn sounding message from me twelve hours previously, which I recorded because it kept going straight to answering machine - I put this down to it running out of batteries or some fagin type character disenabling it, but actually, Will just switched it off 'cause my incessant ringing was getting on his tits.
Anyway Gridrunner goes Snowboarding on Saturday, so that's one less person for me to bother in the Evenings.. The next two weeks might involve me heading North of the river more as a consequence, but perhaps that's being a little hasty.
Phone loss
Ahhh fucccck.
Sunday was so nice, all really nice food and friends, and now I've got in and can't find my phone.
I don't know whether it's been swallowed by Will's armchair, or is languishing somewhere on the Underground, or has been cast into some shrubbery by a disgusted pickpocket (unlikely in London I know. The shrubbery that is).
All I know is, it's going straight to its answering machine when I ring it, where a telegraphic female voice intonates at me in a really irritating fashion. As we all know, this is never a good sign.
I can't even ring Will as his number's in my phone.
Please let it still be mine, somewhere. I feel like someone's hacked off a secret ear I took too much for granted.
Sunday was so nice, all really nice food and friends, and now I've got in and can't find my phone.
I don't know whether it's been swallowed by Will's armchair, or is languishing somewhere on the Underground, or has been cast into some shrubbery by a disgusted pickpocket (unlikely in London I know. The shrubbery that is).
All I know is, it's going straight to its answering machine when I ring it, where a telegraphic female voice intonates at me in a really irritating fashion. As we all know, this is never a good sign.
I can't even ring Will as his number's in my phone.
Please let it still be mine, somewhere. I feel like someone's hacked off a secret ear I took too much for granted.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Work
I'm working at an ad agency in Covent Garden. Quite enjoying it. Might be more tomorrow and next week, but it's all contingent on them finding a spare Mac, as my laptop doesn't have Quark 6 on it.
Ah well, wait and see. Could really use the cash, that's all.
Ah well, wait and see. Could really use the cash, that's all.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Normal Service Resumed
Anyone tuning in this morning might have discovered that this blog had reverted to its original and extremely green guise (That's green as in colour as opposed to environmentally friendly BTW) All three of the people who actually read it may have actually noticed, before returning to work and other more profitable distractions. Anyone unduly traumatised might want to call Claims Direct or something.
All in all it's been a f**king wasteful day. Woke up nice and early, saw the state of my blog, and set about trying to sort it out, whilst simultaneously preparing for the day ahead - which involved work; at least, I thought so.
For no sooner had I arrived at the location of my booking (an ad agency at the top of Dean street) when my contact there informed me "Erm, I'm sorry, I wanted you next week mate"
"Well at least I'm keen eh?" I ad-libbed furiously.
It was the agency's fault anyway.. the girl hadn't read her email properly and consequently I wasted most of a day traipsing in and out of London on a dismal rainy Thursday for nothing. Apart from a copy of Design Week and Batman Year 100.
Fuck I could've used that work.
Anyway. Applied to another agency in the meanwhile and fixed my blog. Ish. Last FM charts still haven't updated.
Other breaking news.
I remembered how to get italics in HTML, and have been enjoying them and bold tags. I suspect I might be getting carried away.
I saw someone getting 'busted' for drinking alcohol on the streets of Camberwell yesterday, in accordance with the new movement to get Camberwell looking less like Gin Lane and more like Pigeon Street. Nice and multicultural in a 'let's not shoot each other too much kind of way'.
The bust was executed by two of those Street Wardens, dressed in those terrible scarlet uniforms which alone seem to rob their role of any gravitas whatsoever. Suprisingly, the dude seemed to be cooperating (if looking a bit peeved) rather than swatting them out of the way and continuing his swaggering drinking gait up Camberwell Church Street.
A poster outside a newsagents also caused me to do a double-take. I initially saw:
"GRIEF AS CILLA DIES AGED 35"
Cilla? Cilla Black? Aged 35? nooo!? I thought, until I looked closer and realised 'CILLA' was actually 'CLLR', and hence an abbreviation of 'councillor'. Hmm.
Anyway. I fancy a pint now as I've been good this week, and, it transpires, for jack all. Strange things are afoot in my flat, with new, oestrogen fuelled tensions bubbling below the surface. Sigh.
I bought some joss sticks from the chinese superstore on Denmark hill, which I mentioned in my second post I think. They were really cheap (about two quid for two hundred or something) and I can see why as the one I've just lit has given me a headache. Til next time.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Myspace
Or Myspazz, whatever you want to call it, now currently occupies the block of my time who's last previous tenant was Faceparty (evicted mid 2005). It's something I return to with a faint feeling of distaste - for a variety of reasons but principally because it's one big popularity contest, and I was always the kid at school trying too hard to avoid getting spat on to worry about such things (that or drawing pictures of elves; laughably I didn't see the two as interlinked).
Who do I want to be friends with on Myspace? Well Deven Miles was an easy touch, and The Rub have graciously added me, but I've yet to hear back from Kwite Def of New York's 'Monster Island Czars'. Instead I'm Inevitably being propositioned by all sorts of other chancers.. the best one yet has to be Miki, who might be the campest thing ever, but also wins genius points for having himself in his own top eight, twice.. despite having 300 'friends'. I might simply approve him as judging by his makeup he's invented some kind of time machine and I always wondered what it was like to go out in Stockport in the 80s. Plus he also seems to have red electrical tape wound round his left upper arm, which I can't quite as yet grasp the semiotics of but I'm sure is tremendously important. Anyway. I can't pretend I haven't added people like this previously, but I got laughed at in the pub for it the other day, so might not bother anymore.
But there are other reasons too why Myspace is gash. First off, the dark emperor of Myspace (who also happens to share my 'real' name) Tom. I'll sometimes get all excited when my Gmail account informs me I've a new Myspace message, only for me to rock up and discover his stupid goon face leering out at me accompanied by a message supplying some ragged bit of HTML he wants me to use to patch up whatever errors him and his hired Myspace chimps made programming the site in the first place. Piss off. I wouldn't mind but I suspect he's probably richer off the back of this than I'll ever be, and he could at least do his job without delegating to users.
And the design.. well lets not even go there. 'Counterintuitive' sounds like a vague compliment when actually confronted by the plurality of buttons, tabs and other doohickeys that assault your senses upon opening a Myspace page. It's like someone sneezed Alphabetti-Spaghetti onto the screen: where the fuck is everything? What does this do? Actually sod that, I don't care.
A far better 'thing' I've discovered recently is Last FM, though for some reason it's not updated my chart this week on the right. I feel like my online self is out of sync with the flesh and blood me who has to do boring stuff like eat and clean the bathroom. Any ideas why? Answers to the usual address.
Who do I want to be friends with on Myspace? Well Deven Miles was an easy touch, and The Rub have graciously added me, but I've yet to hear back from Kwite Def of New York's 'Monster Island Czars'. Instead I'm Inevitably being propositioned by all sorts of other chancers.. the best one yet has to be Miki, who might be the campest thing ever, but also wins genius points for having himself in his own top eight, twice.. despite having 300 'friends'. I might simply approve him as judging by his makeup he's invented some kind of time machine and I always wondered what it was like to go out in Stockport in the 80s. Plus he also seems to have red electrical tape wound round his left upper arm, which I can't quite as yet grasp the semiotics of but I'm sure is tremendously important. Anyway. I can't pretend I haven't added people like this previously, but I got laughed at in the pub for it the other day, so might not bother anymore.
But there are other reasons too why Myspace is gash. First off, the dark emperor of Myspace (who also happens to share my 'real' name) Tom. I'll sometimes get all excited when my Gmail account informs me I've a new Myspace message, only for me to rock up and discover his stupid goon face leering out at me accompanied by a message supplying some ragged bit of HTML he wants me to use to patch up whatever errors him and his hired Myspace chimps made programming the site in the first place. Piss off. I wouldn't mind but I suspect he's probably richer off the back of this than I'll ever be, and he could at least do his job without delegating to users.
And the design.. well lets not even go there. 'Counterintuitive' sounds like a vague compliment when actually confronted by the plurality of buttons, tabs and other doohickeys that assault your senses upon opening a Myspace page. It's like someone sneezed Alphabetti-Spaghetti onto the screen: where the fuck is everything? What does this do? Actually sod that, I don't care.
A far better 'thing' I've discovered recently is Last FM, though for some reason it's not updated my chart this week on the right. I feel like my online self is out of sync with the flesh and blood me who has to do boring stuff like eat and clean the bathroom. Any ideas why? Answers to the usual address.
Monday, February 20, 2006
The patty spot
I don't pretend to know a great deal about West Indian food, but I am partial to the odd patty. Now, as far as these were concerned my destination of choice for said fluorescent orange snacks has hithertoo been Patty Island on Camberwell Church Street; and with a name like that, it makes sense. One of the dudes who works there also gave me and DJ Phaze some Irish Moss on the house one time, and for the unititiated, it's very sweet, has the consistency of Tixylix (remember that) and looks like the slime you used to get with 'The Real Ghostbusters' action figures. Tastes ok though.
But anyway. As of last weekend, I'm heading over to Peckham to score my patties, specifically from Gabbys, on Camberwell Church Street. They're chunkier (the saltfish ones actually had nodes of identifiable fish in them) tasty as hell, and they only cost a quid, wheras Patty Island have bumped their prices up to £1.20, or £1.50 for the lobster and shrimp flavour.!
Just beware of getting too enthusiastic with the pepper sauce.. it's toasty.
But anyway. As of last weekend, I'm heading over to Peckham to score my patties, specifically from Gabbys, on Camberwell Church Street. They're chunkier (the saltfish ones actually had nodes of identifiable fish in them) tasty as hell, and they only cost a quid, wheras Patty Island have bumped their prices up to £1.20, or £1.50 for the lobster and shrimp flavour.!
Just beware of getting too enthusiastic with the pepper sauce.. it's toasty.
Weekend
The weekend was ok. Worked at Ogilvy in Canary Wharf on Friday, which was alright. Once again it was in the depths of the studio, which wasn't as dungeon-like as some I've been interred in, and actually had a pretty amazing view of London from its position on the 10th floor.
The work was easy enough, but for some reason I felt slightly on the back foot most of the day. The experience of walking into any international ad agency, usually with bling decor, then getting to grips with the local knowledge of servers, printers, pdfs, time sheets etc, can be slightly disconcerting, and the end of the day I was feeling quietly hopped having imbibed countless cups of grey flavourless coffee from the dispenser, and was looking forward to getting out of there between twitches.
That evening met up with Dunc for a beer in the Joiner's arms, as he was off to Honduras for three weeks, then went to Fabric, where my friend Sam was DJing.
Saturday was pretty miserable weather-wise, but my friend Marvyn was down for the night, as he's going to move in at the end of March. Yay! Cue beer consumption. This evening in the Hermits Cave and Castle.
So, at the minute I've not got a drinking buddy round here.. which is good. I might try and use it as an excuse to get out of Camberwell more, and/or drink less. Perhaps try and get some more things sorted. I went for an interview with a company on Regent Street today who specialise in helping people set up limited companies. I'm working on a logo as well, so might potentially go the full nine yards and get a business card and letterhead printed.
We'll see.
The work was easy enough, but for some reason I felt slightly on the back foot most of the day. The experience of walking into any international ad agency, usually with bling decor, then getting to grips with the local knowledge of servers, printers, pdfs, time sheets etc, can be slightly disconcerting, and the end of the day I was feeling quietly hopped having imbibed countless cups of grey flavourless coffee from the dispenser, and was looking forward to getting out of there between twitches.
That evening met up with Dunc for a beer in the Joiner's arms, as he was off to Honduras for three weeks, then went to Fabric, where my friend Sam was DJing.
Saturday was pretty miserable weather-wise, but my friend Marvyn was down for the night, as he's going to move in at the end of March. Yay! Cue beer consumption. This evening in the Hermits Cave and Castle.
So, at the minute I've not got a drinking buddy round here.. which is good. I might try and use it as an excuse to get out of Camberwell more, and/or drink less. Perhaps try and get some more things sorted. I went for an interview with a company on Regent Street today who specialise in helping people set up limited companies. I'm working on a logo as well, so might potentially go the full nine yards and get a business card and letterhead printed.
We'll see.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Valentine's Day
You can tell I'm not at work when I'm ressurecting old illustrations for Valentine's day e-cards. I actually received a parcel today which is waiting for me at the post office, but I think that's just something I ordered off ebay, rather than anything Valentine's Day oriented.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Corporate Hell/Weekend rundown
Well, I got some work, which is good. It's working in the graphics department of a huge multinational human resources consultancy, and basically involves adapting print documents for web pdfs, re-flowing text in newsletters and.. well, you get the picture. Slightly better rate than my normal though, which is good.
It is the textbook definition of corporate though, and I had to dress up smart for it. They had a dress down Friday but nobody mentioned this to me so I rocked up wearing button down shirt, and the pair of crap black trousers my housemate gave me that only see the light of day on ventures such as this. I took my unique 'smart' status with good humour, though.
My brother was actually in town on thursday, but I missed him because I was working.
Friday evening went to see Lady Vengeance with Will, at the Curzon. It's directed by the guy who did 'Oldboy', and it's a fucking well wierd beast, to say the least.
The oddest thing about it is the juxtaposition of some very disturbing themes with very black humour, though I must concede that a man who can inject comedy into a scene where parents are watching videotapes of their children being murdered is also a man of vision - just not necessarily one which most middle-englanders would subscribe to. Expect a Sun 'Ban This Evil Film' headline any day now.
Saturday I went for a big walk.. up to Borough market for a tantalising look at the wares on show, before heading up to Tower Bridge, then back down the Old Kent road. I'd intended to cut through to Camberwell, but instead found myself wandering through a large estate in Peckham. I quickened my pace somewhat, and eventually emerged behind the library.
And the evening was to feature Peckham again, as me and some friends met up at Bar Story, an urbane little oasis by Peckham Rye station. Nice food, beer etc. and all round, a nice lttle find (and it did take some finding, believe me).
Today I walked up to the Imperial War Museum and had a look round. The main hall is a bit like Superman's Fortress of Solitude - stuffed full of engines of destruction that stand as grim testement to both mankind's folly, and enthusiasm for developing exciting new ways of blowing other people to bits. I also checked out the holocaust exhibition, which was depressingly harrowing.
And tonight Matthew... its pizzas at BRB (burb) whic has to have one of the crappest names for a venue ever as it stands, apparently, for 'Bar Room Bar'. Lame. Must've been cooked up by the same guys responsible for that Southwark Cleaning 'Cleaning Southwark' tagline.
Oh and its nearly Valentine's day, which I always find bothersome as getting out my front door is hampered by the drifts of cards and letters I receive, har har etc. I've got a decent bottle of wine waiting for me at the Sun & Doves, just no-one to drink it with (sniff), so I'll probably spend the evening meeping round my flat and playing in webberspace.
It is the textbook definition of corporate though, and I had to dress up smart for it. They had a dress down Friday but nobody mentioned this to me so I rocked up wearing button down shirt, and the pair of crap black trousers my housemate gave me that only see the light of day on ventures such as this. I took my unique 'smart' status with good humour, though.
My brother was actually in town on thursday, but I missed him because I was working.
Friday evening went to see Lady Vengeance with Will, at the Curzon. It's directed by the guy who did 'Oldboy', and it's a fucking well wierd beast, to say the least.
The oddest thing about it is the juxtaposition of some very disturbing themes with very black humour, though I must concede that a man who can inject comedy into a scene where parents are watching videotapes of their children being murdered is also a man of vision - just not necessarily one which most middle-englanders would subscribe to. Expect a Sun 'Ban This Evil Film' headline any day now.
Saturday I went for a big walk.. up to Borough market for a tantalising look at the wares on show, before heading up to Tower Bridge, then back down the Old Kent road. I'd intended to cut through to Camberwell, but instead found myself wandering through a large estate in Peckham. I quickened my pace somewhat, and eventually emerged behind the library.
And the evening was to feature Peckham again, as me and some friends met up at Bar Story, an urbane little oasis by Peckham Rye station. Nice food, beer etc. and all round, a nice lttle find (and it did take some finding, believe me).
Today I walked up to the Imperial War Museum and had a look round. The main hall is a bit like Superman's Fortress of Solitude - stuffed full of engines of destruction that stand as grim testement to both mankind's folly, and enthusiasm for developing exciting new ways of blowing other people to bits. I also checked out the holocaust exhibition, which was depressingly harrowing.
And tonight Matthew... its pizzas at BRB (burb) whic has to have one of the crappest names for a venue ever as it stands, apparently, for 'Bar Room Bar'. Lame. Must've been cooked up by the same guys responsible for that Southwark Cleaning 'Cleaning Southwark' tagline.
Oh and its nearly Valentine's day, which I always find bothersome as getting out my front door is hampered by the drifts of cards and letters I receive, har har etc. I've got a decent bottle of wine waiting for me at the Sun & Doves, just no-one to drink it with (sniff), so I'll probably spend the evening meeping round my flat and playing in webberspace.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Tat
Today involved more recruitment interviews, this time north of Oxford street or, in 'Noho' if you're a sloganeering hipster ('Noho' being an acronym that I'm sure has 'Nohope' of being widely adopted)
It was, well, alright. The girl who interviewed me said she was sure she'd get me work soon. Then again, she would. It also involved a two hour mac test. Two hours. Jesus, what is happening to me? fair enough the interviewer did apologise, conceding: "we probably need to shorten it". No shit. Either that or pioneer life prolonging medical techniques by way of apology for wasting precious minutes of my life.
Just been to post a letter up Church Street, as the post box on Denmark Hill is 'out of order'. Quite how I'm not sure.
I've got this big metal tin box in my room, where I keep lots of random ephemera which I suspect it too important to chuck. This evening I delved into it for purposes of a general organise and spring clean. It was full of assorted tat from the intervening years when my mum bought it me one Christmas. Do you want to know what I found?
You do?
Well hush children, here is a sample of what I unearthed.
1. Numerous bank statements from the HSBC bank back when it was called The Midland.
2. Lots of Student loan correspondance.
3. Lots of yawnsome university literature with titles such as 'University Modular Scheme Assesment Regulations 1998' (I told you I only suspected it was important)
4. Notes for a university essay with quotes from trendy french theorists ("Dada and surrealism paradoxically revived objects to show them as irrationally split from modern, functionalist culture" etc.)
5. A typed out sheet of a web interview with DJ Q-bert of the Invisibl Skratch Picklz, where he talks about ducks a lot.
6. A poem I bought from a homeless man at the top of Christmas Steps in Bristol entitled 'SATAN WORKS AT MAC DONALDS' (sic)
7. About a dozen flyers for 'The Roots' at Bristol's Blue Mountain Club, 1997.
8. An invoice from Oasis Sound & Lighting Centre, 46 North Street, Bedminster for a PMX7 vestax mixer. As I recall, they did a crappy job of fixing said mixer when it broke later that year, glueing, rather than replacing a part. Cowboys.
9. A Technics 1200 manual dated 1989.
10. A photocopy of a bill from 1805, proclaiming victory over France and Spain and the death of Nelson, sent by my uncle along with a obtuse press clipping saying "Alcohol and prosac do not mix well". Er..
11. Various letters from a range of people, including: a letter sent by friend Will from India on grainy thin paper, a letter from my friend Dan Sarabji when he lived in Leeds (with roleplaying stats scribbled in corners), and some old letters from my long time ex-girlfriend Rekha.
12. Some Loctite superglue - which is about the most useful thing there.
I'm going to keep the letters and some other bits. The rest I might burn or something. Its annoying me. Unless anyone else wants it (serious bidders only please).
Then I'll have a nice new empty box, ready to fill again with yet more miscellany.
It was, well, alright. The girl who interviewed me said she was sure she'd get me work soon. Then again, she would. It also involved a two hour mac test. Two hours. Jesus, what is happening to me? fair enough the interviewer did apologise, conceding: "we probably need to shorten it". No shit. Either that or pioneer life prolonging medical techniques by way of apology for wasting precious minutes of my life.
Just been to post a letter up Church Street, as the post box on Denmark Hill is 'out of order'. Quite how I'm not sure.
I've got this big metal tin box in my room, where I keep lots of random ephemera which I suspect it too important to chuck. This evening I delved into it for purposes of a general organise and spring clean. It was full of assorted tat from the intervening years when my mum bought it me one Christmas. Do you want to know what I found?
You do?
Well hush children, here is a sample of what I unearthed.
1. Numerous bank statements from the HSBC bank back when it was called The Midland.
2. Lots of Student loan correspondance.
3. Lots of yawnsome university literature with titles such as 'University Modular Scheme Assesment Regulations 1998' (I told you I only suspected it was important)
4. Notes for a university essay with quotes from trendy french theorists ("Dada and surrealism paradoxically revived objects to show them as irrationally split from modern, functionalist culture" etc.)
5. A typed out sheet of a web interview with DJ Q-bert of the Invisibl Skratch Picklz, where he talks about ducks a lot.
6. A poem I bought from a homeless man at the top of Christmas Steps in Bristol entitled 'SATAN WORKS AT MAC DONALDS' (sic)
7. About a dozen flyers for 'The Roots' at Bristol's Blue Mountain Club, 1997.
8. An invoice from Oasis Sound & Lighting Centre, 46 North Street, Bedminster for a PMX7 vestax mixer. As I recall, they did a crappy job of fixing said mixer when it broke later that year, glueing, rather than replacing a part. Cowboys.
9. A Technics 1200 manual dated 1989.
10. A photocopy of a bill from 1805, proclaiming victory over France and Spain and the death of Nelson, sent by my uncle along with a obtuse press clipping saying "Alcohol and prosac do not mix well". Er..
11. Various letters from a range of people, including: a letter sent by friend Will from India on grainy thin paper, a letter from my friend Dan Sarabji when he lived in Leeds (with roleplaying stats scribbled in corners), and some old letters from my long time ex-girlfriend Rekha.
12. Some Loctite superglue - which is about the most useful thing there.
I'm going to keep the letters and some other bits. The rest I might burn or something. Its annoying me. Unless anyone else wants it (serious bidders only please).
Then I'll have a nice new empty box, ready to fill again with yet more miscellany.
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