Festive Rants and Rambles

Why I'm brilliant

Or rather, why I don't work anymore. In a word: Customer relations. 

(I can't count either.)

These are actual WhatsApp conversations I had with prospective clients.

Frontotemporal Dementia (or FTD to friends): the gift that keeps on giving!

I love the 'olden ones'. Perhaps a prog-rock or space-rock supergroup? And the last guy I did actually message him back explaining I was mad and that I couldn't help it, and told him why the arch was rubbish.

I'm nice really.

Middle-classed parents

The child who breaks all of your child's toys when he/she/they come round. 

When pointed out to the owner of said child, owner replies:

"You're stifling Ptolomy’s id! They are merely expressing themself."

Said child allowed to run amok with zero boundaries, while the parents order another bottle of Prosecco so they can have one up each arsehole and continue to ignore horror offspring.

This laissez-faire parenting policy is repeated in restaurants and pub gardens up and down the country.

Shite Authors who are considered good

Paulo Coelho - the orange squash of philosophy and spirituality. Homeopathic philosopher - diluted 10 to the 23rd time. Zero efficaciousness but it does come in a ludicrous glass with umbrellas to look the part, and a ton of saccharin.

Alex Garland - That bloody 💩 novel in Thailand - no plot until the last 30 pages where everyone gets gunned down.

Good.

Nick effing Hornby. Everything he ever did. Anodyne writing for the masses - like every Richard cocking Curtis film.

The dribblings from one's anus during one's worst experience of Christmas norovirus, made movie.

Tsundoku

I really must stop doing this: buying books. 

I find it harder to knuckle down and read when I have YouTube and Mortal Kombat 11 at my fingertips. A bargain at £3.99 on Steam.

Proper literature this.

I hear Alan Bennett has the same problem, although he's more of a Tekken man.

I'm getting through them, but I often go to the pub to read them away from any distractions. That's too much booze though. See, I have always had an indulgent personality, whether it's chocolate, Lego, D&D, sweets, Trump, booze, fitness, anal, you name it.

I was addicted to the gym in my 20s. Worked as a mason in the daytimes and did 3 sessions in the gym (mainly circuits) and swam twice. 

I looked particularly magnificent in my socks and pants. 

I would parade around and everyone would shout 'Hooray!'

Swimming's probably my favourite exercise but I don't like most pools. I'm totally the wrong shape for swimming despite having the silhouette of a tadpole.

So back to the books. I'm getting through them, but reading is more of an uphill battle than ever. First of all it's knuckling down to do it.

Retaining the information is also tougher. 

But, it's a challenge, and I need challenges.

The Assisted Dying Bill

I think you should be able to die if you're just fed up with it all. People who are suffering, miserable, hate each day they wake up, hate the world, their friends have all died, that kind of thing.

I mean if there's no enjoyment at all what's the bloody point?

If you were doing a job you absolutely hated that made you depressed, estranged your wife, pissed off your kids, the dog hates you, the goldfish looks at you funny, you'd quit wouldn't you? 

Be mad not to.

If someone's fed up with life shouldn't they be able to do the same? 

That's my argument. Right there.

Imagine going through life with that name. Poor bloke.

Mr Yesssss...

Ollie and I were installing some York Stone steps many years ago. It was right by Wormwood Scrubs (what a Dickensian name for a prison!) and we always said hello to people passing by. It made the day a bit jollier.

A second hand golf parked a few doors up and a couple in their late 50s got out. 

"Hello."I said, cheerfully.

You may not believe I can be cheerful but I can, honest guv.

The wife went indoors, and the bloke just looked at us and said.

"Yesssss..." in a nasally Brian Sewell voice.

That was it.

He was henceforth referred to as Mr Yesssss. His wife looked very long-suffering. Any joy had long since been etched out of her face.

I left the job and Ollie finished it. Mr Yesssss... approached him to do some work. 

"I go sailing with Norman at the weekend."

Oh yeah? I'll bet you do.

"Do you sail? Are you a member of the Croooozzzzing Azzociation?" 

"Are you a punter...or a shunter?"

I'm not really au fait with nautical terminology.

So I imagined these conversations said in that ridiculous voice. Keeps me amused to this day.

I went to Glastonbury...and liked it.

This time was better. There are fewer tat shops - crystals and shit. More of a variery, including a rather ragtag comic and games shop.

I went to Star Child where Gothic Image had been for 40 years. Beautiful incense wafting around, reminding me of really nice times from decades ago, so I bought an incense burner and some 'erbz to go innit. 

Smell is the most evocative of the senses. Ask Wilbur: last time I went there with him he weed on a cardboard box in the shop. 

Promptly scarpered, we did.

I looked in bookshops. I had a coffee. I looked at the murals painted on the sides of the buildings, and went inside the lovely St John's Church.

In the afternoon I went with Nerys to The Bishop's Palace in Wells for the Xmas lights. They lit the Gothic architecture and the trees really nicely, then there was the tacky stuff - where you could walk through heart archways of lights. 

A bit Vegas for the Anglicans, in my book, but hey.

They opened the interior too. Some lovely stuff.

Bishop's Palace with moat and drawbridge.

"She's got Marty Feldman eyes..."

Hand-printed wallpaper

Cathedral with bin

I'm great, me.