Oh, well..

I’ve miscounted, and misplanned, and now my number of blog entries for November will be the same as the number for August. So I won’t match last years achievement of a different number of blog entries posted each month. That’s disappointing, but my main aim for this year was 200 postings during the year, and I’m still on target to beat that. Especially if I keep my postings short and sweet and substance-less, like this one…..

RC 30-11-11

People are strange (and stupid)

We have a special offer on at work at the moment, that people are going nuts for. Brandy sauce, luxury mince pies and novelty Christmas puddings, all three for the price of two. Old couples and middle-aged housewives are buying them by the basket load thinking their getting a Yuletide bargain. Trouble is, when they get home and check more closely, the Use By dates are all next Friday, so they won’t be any good for Christmas anyway.
In the battle of Supermarket vs. Suckers there will only ever be one winner…

RC 29-11-11

The Joyful Results Of Ear-wigging

I overheard a wonderful story today. It was being told confidentially, but as I was eavesdropping, and therefore it wasn’t being told to me directly, I don’t feel bound by the contract of secrecy, and it’s fine for me to pass it on to you... right???
The story involves a couple that I will call Jack and Sandra. It was their tenth wedding anniversary last month, and they decided to have a big celebration at home. Sandra, a good old homely Norfolk gal, said that her parents always used to have indoor fireworks on her birthday, and she hadn’t seen them for years, and wouldn’t it be nice to have them on their special day?
“Say no more,” said Jack, “leave it to me. You take care of the food and drink, and I’ll take care of the fireworks.” And so, on the day before Hallowe’en, they sat down to a sumptuous meal and a bottle of champagne, and then moved on to the entertainment. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t realise ‘indoor fireworks’ isn’t the same thing as ‘using fireworks indoors…’ He set off a Catherine Wheel in the kitchen, and burnt the house down. Now, as a result, they’re living with her sister. Well, she is - he’s now living on his workmates sofa….

RC 28-11-11

List written after an evening of cider..

Some totally untrue facts about buildings:

The Taj Mahal is made of toothpicks.
Every public toilet in Western Australia is the property of Queen Elizabeth.
The interior shots in the series ‘Holby City’ are filmed in David Jason’s bathroom.
There’s a tunnel under Buckingham Palace that leads directly to Hell.
Bob Dylan Tower is the tallest building in Bedfordshire.
By law, every third door in a hospital has to open outwards.
Christopher Wren had a morbid fear of windows.
The cellar below Norwich Cathedral is ten times bigger than the building itself.
If you fart in the office of the White House Press Secretary an alarm goes off on the President’s desk.

RC 26-11-11

'Swollen Pigs' live at the Riverside Bar

We’re going out to a gig tonight. Some ‘hot new band’ I’ve never heard of. Should be fun, though. I like live music. There’s something inspiring about watching sweaty twenty-somethings bouncing around full of cheap drugs while terrible guitar music wails in the background. Maybe it makes me realise that my life isn’t as bad as it could be. Or maybe it makes me realise what I missed out on in my dark mid-twenties while cowering behind the curtains at home, and makes me glad that I turned my life around before it was too late to enjoy it.

RC 25-11-11

Offspringwatch

If you need another reason to join me in my hatred of Jamie Oliver, just look up the names he has given his children…

RC 24-11-11

Backwards, and forwards

I seem to be writing less and less in my postings. Maybe I should go back to the good old days of exactly 250 words per blog. Or maybe not. There’s enough insanity in the world without me going back to those habits.

Sorry to mention the ‘C’ word, but we’ve been talking about Christmas this evening. It’s going to be a lot more complicated this year, with visits to Philippa’s folks to fit in, and my work situation being different. One thing’s certain though - we’ll be at Ted and Beryl’s for Christmas evening. We’ve been invited already, and I wouldn’t miss it for all the cake in Cambridge. I did say to Ted “are you sure Beryl doesn’t fancy a year off?”
He said “don’t ever say that; especially to her. Beryl not cooking on Christmas Day would be like the Sun not rising in the morning. If I ever told her she couldn’t be the big hostess on the big day, it would kill her.”
We’re round there again on Sunday, so she can try out a new way of roasting potatoes. I don’t know where she keeps getting these ideas from, but I love being one of her guinea pigs. We’ll turn up with a cheesecake and an offer to wash up, and of course she’ll refuse both. What a woman.

RC 23-11-11

a recommendation

We have a wonderful new product at work.
A lattice-topped mince pie with custard in.
I’m having one now on my tea-break.
It’s like God has shot his load in my mouth….

RC 22-11-11

Monday haiku

November morning.
The fog lingers in Norfolk
like a widow’s veil

Robin in the hedge
His breast glowing with cold pride
Winter’s red symbol

Some songs lose impact
But “Driving Home For Christmas”
is shit all year round

My drumming lessons
Have expensively taught me
I’m shit at music

Fried egg sandwiches
Make me feel strangely sexy
I’m a food pervert

‘Strictly Come Dancing’
when it’s Googled, leads you to
a dirty website

I cycle a lot
I have thighs like a sportsman
and nuts like melons

It is my day off
I have been drinking since ten
Hence these shit poems

RC 21-11-11

I should have posted this at 8.11pm

It’s been a weird Autumn.
Normally by now I’m sliding into winter depression, but the weather has been so nice recently that it’s feeling like March already. All very confusing really. Daffodils are starting to spring up, birds that should have been in Africa weeks ago are still sitting happily in our hedges, and Old Bill (the perv from around the corner) is still hanging around the bus stop with his filthy summer shorts on.
It must be global warming.
My experiments on rainfall and temperature this year have shown unexpected results. Well, I say unexpected… in truth it’s the first year I’ve done them so I don’t have any other records to compare them to, but I’ve checked with other people online and they all agree it’s been a WEIRD year. The wettest ever August, the warmest ever October; a split-shift Summer that occurred in April/May and then September, and less November rainfall than we’ve seen in decades.
Taking my inspiration from Oscar-winning former-Vice-President Al Gore, I’ve put together a slideshow powerpoint presentation showing how I think Norfolk might look in the future if the weather continues changing as it has this year. Armed with enthusiasm, and my laptop, I showed my findings to Philippa and Ted this afternoon. I don’t think they took my concerns seriously. At one point, I was discussing how increased precipitation and warmth might affect the growth rates of our natural local vegetation. I concluded by saying “In 25 years, grass height in our back garden could reach as much as fifteen feet…”
“Buy a fricking lawn mower then” said Ted.
They can laugh if they wish (and believe me, they did) but they’ll soon come running to me when the water is above their ears and they haven’t got enough tinned food to survive on…
Heathens.

RC 20-11-2011 (cool date)

one of those weaks

It’s been an eventful, although uneventful, week. Lots of little things have happened, without really amounting to much. I thought I’d update you using a few verses of haiku:

Yet another cold
has invaded my body
and made me feel shite

Warm, spring-like weather
holds off the onset of SAD
and keeps me chirpy

I spoke to Sophie.
She is still looking for work
back here in Norfolk

In mid-November
It’s warm enough to cycle.
I love climate change!

Here’s a scary though:
Thirty-six days til Christmas!
(I hope we have snow)

More tomorrow…

RC 19-11-11

reflections on remembrance

We stand silently
To remember past lives lost
and to hope for peace.

We observed the 11am silence at work.
After about 87 seconds, some stupid old deaf bitch shuffled up to me and loudly said “Scuse me love - where do you keep the unsalted butter?”
Never have I so much wanted to grab a poppy - the symbol of commemoration and peace - and stab somebody in the eye with it.

RC 11-11-11

17 syllables; 57 varieties

Bored at work today - and with my mood lifted by last nights chat with Philippa - I turned my hand to some soup-inspired haiku:

Mulligatawny
Is a bloody stupid word,
but a lovely soup.

Creamy tomato
Does not occur in nature
But exists in tins

Cans of Heinz Big Soup
Are as important to me
as water and air

Leek and potato
Mixed with some stock and pepper
Is winter heaven

I love solid food
But nothing warms my cold heart
Like a bowl of broth.
　
RC 10-11-11

A wait is agreed; a weight is lifted

Philippa and I discussed ‘the proposal’ this evening. Well, to be honest, she decided we should talk about it, and I fought against my ‘run and hide’ mentality just enough to be able to listen to her.
She said it had been a lovely moment and had made her ‘feel all gooey’ but she hadn’t taken me seriously as I was ‘a bit pissed.’ I instantly felt better than I had done since Saturday night. It was wonderful to break the tension and share a joke, but also wonderful to be talking about our potential future marriage without feeling scared or embarrassed.
We both agreed it’s inevitable, but that neither of us are ready yet. We agreed that we don’t want to rush everything into our first few years together, that we’d like to enjoy things as they are before the stress of organising a wedding, and that it’s hard enough saving up for a house together without blowing several grand on one day of celebration. Philippa also said “I want to leave it as long as possible before I saddle myself with the surname Chesworth” Cheeky cow.
Later, as we sat in the kitchen and I cooked us some pasta, I said “But if I asked you seriously, you would say yes?”
She replied “Of course I would - it’s cheaper than getting the tattoo removed!”

RC 9-11-11

One little comment; no more career

Simon the Racist Manager has been sacked by the company. Head Office thanked my fellow managers and I for bringing the matter to their attention and apologised for ‘allowing someone with a wholly repulsive attitude not condusive to company beliefs to infiltrate our management structure and undermine our otherwise unblemished record with relation to multicultural diversity issues.’ Is there any situation they can’t turn into a corporate bullshit waffle-a-thon?
Apparently he was already on his final warning due to ‘inappropriate comments’ but he had thought that, being here ‘in the sticks’ for the day, his views might be more welcome. I find that very insulting.
Norfolk may be behind-the-times in many ways, but we’re not retarded bigots with attitudes that belong two centuries ago.
Well not all of us, anyway.

RC 8-11-11

Distracted by dinner; delighted by drink

No-one dared mention ‘the proposal’ yesterday. Philippa went jogging then spent longer in the shower than usual, and we got to Ted and Beryl’s an hour early for lunch.
Beryl, yet again, surpassed herself. She’s already warming up for Christmas, and was trying out a new way of roasting parsnips, with butter and rosemary I think. They were DELICIOUS!
Ted’s son Simon has brewed his own wine, so we had to do a taste-test after lunch.
Beryl stuck to the sherry, but the rest of us piled in like alcoholics at a beer festival. There was apple and ginger, blackberry and nettle, and something that tasted like peaches.
It was repulsive, but got me pissed quicker than an ethanol enema, so I think I’ll order a bottle for Christmas.

RC 7-11-11

Fractures and fireworks

Man I’ve been up a long time. A slightly troubled mind has led to a return of insomnia. Sleep deserted me at 3am, and doesn’t seem keen to come back again, so I thought I might as well blog!
It’s a rare weekend off for me so yesterday we took full advantage. The morning was spent in bed, then we went for a pub lunch and some lager. On the walk home, we passed a park where a football match was in progress, so we stood in the rain and spectated. Some poor sod fell awkwardly and broke his leg, and when the ambulance arrived to collect him, it got bogged down in the mud and just sat there. They had to wait half-an-hour for a farmer to tow it out with a tractor. The groundsman in charge of the playing field was there, and when he saw the mess they’d made of the pitch, he cried. I felt sorry for the patient but it was all very, very funny.
After a takeaway tea we got picked up by one of Philippa’s badminton mates, and went to a Bonfire Night display near the coast. This was a PROPER Bonfire Night do, by the way, where tradition, fun and extravagance have not given way to health and safety and silliness. There were hot dogs, and soup, and potatoes, and - most impressively - mugs full of tea with whiskey in!
The fireworks were amazing. One of the best displays I’ve ever seen. Later on, standing with my arms around my sweetheart, with the heat from the bonfire warming my cheeks, and the heat from the whiskey warming my belly, I looked around me at the happy families and the beaming children and I swear I could see our future. It was stretching out before us like a 60-year journey and it all felt so imminent and wonderful. I just knew that, whatever I may face in the decades to come, I would be facing it with someone special, and I would always have her strength and support.
I got lost in the romanticism of it all, and I think I asked Philippa to marry me.

Racist? Or just f***ing stupid?

We had a ‘relief manager’ working with us today. Ginger Graham was at Head Office, and the other senior manager is off sick, so they sent this bald tit over from another store to be in charge for the day. He had that look in his eyes that people get when they’ve had too many sleeping tablets; wandering around like a zombie and taking an extra second for their eyes to focus when they look at you. He had a tattoo of a hornet on his wrist and breath like a horse that’s been eating cowshit.
Considering he was only going to be here for a day, he seemed determined to make an impression. In our weekly lunchtime managers meeting he criticised the advent calendar display in the entrance, then tried to tell us all we should re-arrange the workforce.
He said “I like having black guys work in my warehouse, as they tend to be a lot stronger.” I didn’t know if he was just joking, or trying to get a reaction, so I decided to ignore him and carried on doodling boobs on my notepad. Sarah from the Customer Café picked up on it and started trying to question him and he said “This ain’t prejudice, it’s fact. Their DNA is different. That’s why white guys can never win at sprinting. Using blacks in the warehouse isn’t being prejudiced, it’s being efficient. It’s utilising the best tools at your disposal for the benefit of the whole store.”
By now I was the only person in the room not to have turned bright red with anger or got up and walked out, so I coughed loudly and said “I think this meeting is over.”
We didn’t see him much this afternoon.
And, on a management level, we didn’t get much store-work done either.
We were too busy composing our complaints to Head Office.

RC 4-11-11