Friday, January 7, 2011

I'm a say what I wanna say, I call myself what I wanna call myself

Friday, January 7, 2011 9
There's this guy in the gym. He's got one of those names that are initials, this guy, and Gimme is suspicious of people thus nomanclated. He also looks alarmingly like a certain cartoonish tv character. You know the one. Again, suspicious. Oh and it turns out he's a racist. I think. Is it racist to hate the English? Because if it is then there are a lot of racists about. There are a lot of enablers too, enabling all over the shop. Turns out I count myself among them.

But is it racism, really? Cause you know, the famine and shit. And we shouldn't vote Sinn Féin because of all those innocents that they murdered and shit. It works both ways, this historical atrocity bender.

I know lots of English people. And I can stand to be around most of them about as much as I can stand to be around anyone else. A couple of them I even kind of like. So when, as we discussed the horrorshow that is the upkeep and management of my place of work, this guy in the gym leant in and sweatily said 'What do you expect? Run by a nigger.' I found myself saying nothing but 'Yeah well, that nigger anyway.' Except he didn't say 'nigger' of course because you can't say 'nigger' and I didn't say 'nigger' because it wouldn't have made sense because he didn't say 'nigger' and anyway the running in question is being done by a man who might reasonably described as many things but 'nigger' is not the first that springs to mind. He said 'Englishman'. And I said 'Englishman'. Not as bad, right? Barely in the same ballpark. As disparate, one might say, as male and female circumcision. And yet.

Wow, check me out, I just did my very own blog version of Joel Schumacher's 'A Time to Kill' starring Mathew McConaughey and Samuel L. Jackson. I'm fucking welling up.

Result.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

If only I'd thought of the right words

Thursday, January 6, 2011 0
Day 5

Skippy.


I'm going to get over this endless morosity and give you a whole load of the old school 'There's this guy in the gym...' shit. Hey, I may even dredge through my past for some of that good misery of childhood material. But not today. Not on the day I got offered psychotherapy as payment in kind. It's only been five days lady. Wait till you see me on February 9th.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

So you sail across the ocean, away across the foam

Wednesday, January 5, 2011 3
Day Four

Morningtown Positives.

I don't have to be quiet for fear of waking the late working Common Law. Though it's not like I usually start the day with an acapella rendition of Apocalyptico's version of 'In the Hall of the Mountain King'.

I get to drink my coffee of choice, none of this Fairtrade piss for the Gimme, not no more. But my body is unused to this once merely caressing caffeine kick, and I am sent running to the bathroom at the first sip with the day long headache and shakes in place before my ass hits the throne.

Lyric FM. I no longer to have to reach awkwardly from my Illy induced seated position to spin the dial from Common Law's bizarre Radio One preference to the sultry and calming tones of the radiophic genius that is Marty Whelan. And yet this overworked talent will insist on playing the occasional Michael Bubbly track. The prick.

I've gone longer in many a tech week, in multiple Frances. But this feels harder, already. I'm trying, though. Trying hard to find the positives and so that I might immediately and romantically find the negatives.

Wait till I tell you about the wondrous horribleness of Skippy.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

But suddenly a scream smashes through my dream

Tuesday, January 4, 2011 3
Day Three

Stop winding her up.

I'm not!

Yes, you are.

I'm not!

It's not like it's much of a challenge at the moment.

Yeah well, she winds me up.

You've have to be the bigger woman.

Uh huh.

And how does she wind you up?

She called me an idiot.

When?

Today.

She called you an idiot?

Actually she called me an idiom.

Really?

Yup. I'm pretty sure she meant idiot though.

Chances are.

It's your fault.

How is it my fault?

When you're driving, you call people idiots.

It's better than calling them cocksucking motherfuckers.

You know, you shouldn't say that to me, even in pretend blogland.

That's true. I take it back.

Thank you.

You're welcome. Anyway, I won't do it anymore. I promise. No more idiot shrieking. From now on I will refer to the road morons as idioms.

Okay.

Okay. Stop winding your sister up.

Okay.

Okay.

Monday, January 3, 2011

How can I, when you won't take it from me?

Monday, January 3, 2011 2
Day Two

There's little to fear really, on this Day Two which is really Day One, being the first full day and a much more realistic representation of the 37 or 38 to come. Yesterday the Bridge Crew were taken by Long-Suffering Childless Units One and Three to the hideous and chilly land of Funder. And so I sat around pre-writing posts.

Nothing to fear then, outside of physical and mental collapse. I've decided to use this as a valuable or, depending on who wins the big race, completely pointless technical rehearsal of Common Law's eventual demise. And despite this being merely a technical rehearsal, and not one which requires me to employ any of my peerless powers of emoting, I'm still giving it my all. The wandering listlessly from room to room, the metronomically regular crying jag, the being strong for the children. All in the bag. It's a stinking shame that the New York Times are missing this one, I'd be straight to Broadway. Now if I could just put the chairs in the right place and get my entrances and exits right, I'd be punfully set. And hey, can someone talk to the lighting guy? It's a little dark in here. Lonely and dark. How about a revolving gobo? A revolving gobo of an exploding helicopter for preference.

Back to work tomorrow. That oughta spice things up.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Lena gets her son ready for school

Sunday, January 2, 2011 2
Day One.

Of 39. I thought it was 41. So I had this whole 'Kneeling over his body in the vestibule'' bit ready to go. But it's not 41. It's 39. I could do a whole 'Steps' scat, I have always fancied Huh, but I think it might even be 38, depending on how you count it, and so, much as I'd like to get all Max Cohen on your asses, I probably should just let the whole Numerology crap drop.

And so Day One begins and ends with the most pretentiously cultural reference laden opening paragraph of my illustrious pretentious cultural reference laden blogging career.

Tomorrow, you'll be unsurprised to hear, is Day Two.
 
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