Big Black Cloud

And so with a great amount of personal effort I finally dragged my sorry, sulky arse along to the “workshop” organised by The Company to help me learn how to deliver “difficult messages” to people. In other words how to destroy their lives, de-motivate and demoralise them, whilst helping them through the “transition curve”.

What a crock of shit.

As expected, I was patronised from the moment I went in. First we had the obligatory introduction of ourselves, including the obligatory “unusual fact” about you. I find this bit incredibly patronising. Everyone is unique I grant, but some of us have led such dull lives it’s hard to find some unique fact that others might even find remotely interesting. I thought I’d list some unique facts about me of which only one is true (and although other interesting things have happened in my life, none are fit for public consumption, least of all by the automatons I work with)…see if you can work out which is true, and which I actually quoted………

My cousin played Benny’s girlfriend in Crossroads (the one that got killed on her pushbike)

Mark Lamarr used to empty my bins

I went out with Lorraine Kelly just before dating Kate Garraway

I am allergic to water

I have 5 children by 5 different women in 3 different countries

I play the spoons in a Lonnie Donegan tribute band

I once smacked Mark Lamarr in the face after a nightclub drink spilling incident

I survived being hit by lightning when camping with Mark Lamarr on Bodmin

I impersonate Shirley Bassey at weekends for money

I once hit Mark Lamarr with a golf ball from a mis-hit drive

Anyway, it was three hours of “being sensitive”, of “not clobbering nor pussyfooting” of being “supportive yet honest” ….blah blah blah. I mean I’m 44 years old and apparently too much of a fuckwit to realise concepts such as compassion or sensitivity or humility. The course was full of silly little role play sections where to be honest most people sat around and chatted about the football or whatever. Of course, who do I get to role play with all morning? The Babe…..the Director of Pipes, Tubes and Strings, and she chose me!. To be fair she looked as if she wanted to be there as much as I did so maybe she thought I looked like a laugh, which of course I duly was. . So did I let her have both of Jack’s barrels at any point. Did I let her know of my deep dissatisfaction with my job? Did I let her know I write a blog during work time because that’s HOW exciting and fulfilling work is?

What do you think? Remember I suffer from Hypocrititis!

I did leave a warm impression I think as I cracked jokes and acted like a clown during parts of our chats. But did she see the tears of The Clown or did I mask my career unhappiness sufficiently to allow her to think I like what I do? Who knows, like I have said my woes are trivial in comparison to most, and although the slide in my morale has apparently halted I still cannot say the recovery has started, and that’s worrying because by now I’ve normally snapped out of it and decided to continue making a good fist of such a dull role.

At least I know what to expect when someone has to deliver me a a “difficult message”.

Later, Grocerjack

Time for a Change?

As a fading socialist fed up of being mugged by New Labour's hoodie clad tax regime I'm now ripe for being picked off by another party. I actually voted for the Lib Dems at the last election because that was the only tactical hope for preventing Michael “ Pssst….wanna buy a watch” Mates being re-elected.

Some hope of that in Blue-Rinse county.

However, the Lib Dems seem to have lost a bit of momentum lately. So am I about to become a Tory?

The very phrase and idea sticks in my throat like a cyanide coated rusty razor blade, but with the election of David Cameron, the taste of the cyanide/rust cocktail seems to becoming more palatable. I actually applaud this bloke's apparent willingness and desire to move away from the "traditional" yah boo sucks playground politics that diseases the alleged Mother of Parliaments. Tradition it might be, but the catcalling, insult lobbing, finger-pointing, cheap point-scoring bollocks that masquerades as democratic political debate is patronising and insults the large number of people in this country who really care about the society we live in, and the manner of how governments behave.

When we see our politicians acting in such a puerile and childish manner is it any wonder the country is awash with apathy and cynicism? Can you imagine how such behaviour would go down at your place of work? Not much of a career development strategy is it?

I vowed once never to vote Tory again (I lapsed in 1979 because someone convinced me that as a flat-owner Labour would leave me with fuck all), but as the New Labour crowbar of taxation diminishes my hard earned savings and earnings more and more each day, and the Nanny State tendencies creep in more and more (don't smoke, don't drink, don't sunbathe, don't fly, don't drive, don’t watch TV, don’t eat red meat, don’t shop at supermarkets, etc etc) the more I feel this government is on borrowed time. Cameron may be a flash in the pan, but then again maybe, uniquely, he really means it. His evident love for his wife, his apparent normal family domestic life, his regular visits to his local for a pint or two, his alleged use of drugs in previous times, his doting on his children, including a severely disabled son, his apparent willingness to introduce a new era of inclusiveness to the Tories, his anti-Thatcher acceptance of the concept of “society” and his willingness to hold back on policies rather than make promises that can’t be fulfilled are all attributes that I find interesting. Perhaps he is more in touch with life in modern Britain than the Ivory Towered hierarchy of New Labour.

I am not yet willing to commit to a swap on “red” principles of my life (fairer society, limited re-distribution of wealth, equality for all irrespective of race, sex, age, creed, size, colour, free healthcare etc) for the “blue” but maybe I’ve reached a time where my goodwill to tax dodging self employed people, along with benefit fraudsters, illegal immigrants here to screw the system and all the other ne’er do-wells of society has been drained. I hope he succeeds because this country needs a new kind of opposition and a new attitude to leadership.

Gordon Brown is NOT the future, and if he succeeds Tony Bliar (sic) then it seems to me that New Labour/Nanny State will be subject to a period of reflection on how robbing honest hard-working people blind via tax, in order to support the fucking wasters, whilst small businesses hire devious accountants to minimize their tax contribution, is NOT the way to remain in power.

Later, TaxedJack

Worth Every Penny

Tonights Shakespeare Retold was A Midsummers Night Dream. Frankly I was laughing my arse off. Yet another quality production from the Beeb and a re-telling of a tale that has convinced me even more that old Billy Boy certainly knew how to knock out a good story. Fuck the traditionalists, this is the way to spread the gospel of how iconic this bloke is in English literary history (yes, English, all the rest of the UK can fuck off on this one). Great performances as well, notably Johnny Vegas as Bottom, the ever excellent Sharon Small as Tatania, Bill Paterson as Theo...in fact they were all good.

But hats off to Dean Lennox Kelly who played Puck.

He played Puck in the style of Shaun Ryder when he was still comprehensible. And boy did he make me laugh with his narration to the viewer. Especially after administering the antidote to his "love juice" with the line "Me, I'm gonna go and pick me a big bag of mushrooms, put me feet up and get a bit of a wobble on". Magic

Later, GrocerJack

So farewell then.....George Best

Anyone who thinks that George Best deserved all he got clearly has no idea of the nature of alcoholism and the fact that its a disease. Generally people who end up as alcoholics don't choose to be that way. They drink to cope with different issues and stresses, be it fame, work presuure, bereavement or mental fragility. What's the cynics answer for people with depression or who are having a nervous breakdown? Let me guess, something like "pull yourself together, snap out of it, get a life?". If only things were that easy.

The people criticising George Best should look up the word Compassion in the dictionary along with Humility and towards the end even Dignity. And yes I know I criticised him here a few weeks ago. But I've got the bollocks to do a re-think and take a more compassionate view having watched the decline with morbid fascination over the last few weeks.

Georgie Best (as we always knew him as kids) was news, whether you liked him or not he was an icon of the 60's in the same way as Lennon, Hendrix, Charlton, Moore etc etc. For people of my age (44) he was the footballer we all wanted to be. He was the role model for us as children. he showed the way out to fame, riches and glory we so desperately wanted as young football mad boys at my school. We grew up idolising him and his journey through life was made available to us all, both as spectators and as a piece of modern iconic history documented in our glorious (sic) press. Unlike today's pampered protected stars he had NO-ONE. No agent, no minder, no-one to completely trust, no protection from the leeches of sport, from the seduction of vice, from kiss 'n' tell women and the hangers on attached to celebrities. Women wanted to be able to say he'd shagged them. Men wanted to buy him a drink in the hope of becoming his mate. He was mobbed wherever he went in his heyday, as if a little of his magical talent would rub off on those who hung around him. He was subject to vicious tackling from players not fit to lace his boots hoping to become a name for getting the better of the 60's own "Special One".

No doubt partly the architect of his own downfall, we all could be there without the support or guidance networks we build or have from birth, something which was patently missing from his life. Yes, he was a drunk, yes he was a womaniser, yes he was a bankrupt and yes he was a wife beater. But he never ever blamed anyone else for his faults. He only blamed himself. But of course none of these attributes are the features of a normal person, but are clearly indicative of a troubled soul with a different perspective on their own reality and their place in life.

He was a great footballer whose full talent was never released, an interesting and articulate man and a great pundit on Soccer Saturday, but ultimately also a tortured soul in search of something he couldn't find and probably couldn't define. I hope he has found the peace that was so obviously missing from his life and that his family are spared the normal catalogue of George Best horror stories likely to be uncovered by the gutter journo's working on the red tops.

***UPDATE***

Thanks to Inspector Sands for putting this link up - download this video. It's 18Mb and might take 10-15 minutes even on Broadband. I believe it might have been put together by some Manchester Utd fans, so full credit to them because if this doesn't convince you, or even put a lump in your throat, then you're dead from the brain down..

Later, GrocerJack

I've met some useless cunts.......

I've come across the odd fuckwit numpty in my time. Usually I just ignore them, or try and cater for them if they decide they must converse with me. Some of them run their own business and it amazes me that these morons make a living. Today I met a ....whats the collective term....ah yes...a pair of cunts. In the form of Sky TV (non)installer and Sky TV Customer Service. I can only further describe the (non) installer as an Amoebic Brain Celled Wanker who I doubt would qualify for a single MacDonalds star.

"Hello mate, your mobile's unavailable " were the first words he said. I may be wrong but how about "Good Morning, I'm here to install Sky" wouldn't that be more normal and acceptable. I asked him to try again as I've already taken several calls this morning. He tries, number unavailable and hands me his phone. "there you go ...told you" he says. I then point out that if he actually dials the right number instead of transposing the last 2 digits to end in 67 as opposed to 76 he might be more successful. "Oh right he says, they must have written it down wrong" .....I look at the order and no they haven't. They are right and this festering useless piece of human detritus is just wrong. So very wrong in every way.

"Oh, you're a Chelsea fan are you" was the next conversational gem to tumble from his brain disengaged mouth. ...."I'm an Arsenal fan meself...we didn't have to buy the title...." he tittered. At this point I'm thinking "Just install it you cunt and fuck off".

But it got worse.

You see there was a problem. I have a cladded house. Not cladding as in multi-coloured stone tat so stunningly trendy in the 70's. No merely cladded with discreet grey tiles front and back. To be honest it's not something I've ever noticed before. We just liked the look of the place and bought it as seen. Apparently because I wanted the "multi-room" install it would have meant siting the dish and then running individual cables around the outside of the house and through the tiles. So Gumby Fuckwit says " Can't do this install coz I'm not insured for tile drilling...I'll ring Sky and they will have to get an "independent" to do the job". Not unreasonably I ask him why he can't put the dish on the side of the house (still clear view to satellite) and run all the cables through the brick work and run the cables to each room internally. The answer "nah needs a specialist to do that and we just install dishes"

Craftsmanship huh?> You just can't beat it. He rings his boss "Jamie" who apparently says "don't touch the job". So, he says he'll ring Sky and let them know and they can contact me to make an alternative arrangement. "It's not going to happen today though is it?" I say..."I've taken the day off for this" i stress. "Yeah well,, niuffink I can do about it he says" At this point the red mist has descended and something along the lines of this comes from my fury-infested brain.......

"So, you're telling me that you can't seek an alternative way of connecting even though I've pointed this out to you?"
"What do Sky do...employ the thickest people on the planet to come out and piss people off"
"Are you just a waste of space?"
" You might as well just fuck off then and stop breathing my air"

etc etc

And off he trundles, no doubt thinking "That'll teach him to support Chelsea".

Sjy then ring and tell me that as they can't install cladded properties they'll refund the money and cancel the order. I ask them if they can arrange for an "independent" to come and do the work instead of the plankton minded fool they sent this morning

"No, we don't offer that service. We may do in the future, but you have to shop around and pay them to do the work. Of course that means we can't do the same deal on the boxes and the package"

"What no alternative at all, no contingency. Thats it! Tough Shit Jack"

All I heard from that point was ...."Blah blah blah". So for the ultimate in fist class shitty customer experience then I heartily recommend Sky TV. They now join the ranks of The Fucking Bastards...organisations who seem to be adept in screwing peoples lives up. If they turned up here now, giving free blow jobs with each install I would still send them packing with the business end of a garden hoe shoved up their arse so far they'd have trouble swallowing.

And so I have had to jump into my humble pie lorry and drive up to the door of my former partner, the mistress NTL, apologise for being seduced into temptation and plead with them to not cancel my TV, and could they please re-instate the phone from BT that was transferred just 3 days ago. And within 5 minutes the soothing scottish lilt of the NTL lady, forgave me and welcomed me back to warm enbracing bosom of Cable TV and phone, all for the same monthly outlay as before.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

Including me.

Later, GrocerJack

Regressing? Moi?

OK, Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now....well maybe just a bit, but it's not often that something makes me feel like jumping onto the strobe and flashing light bedecked dance floor, strutting my stuff and getting into a groove thang.

However the fab new album by Madge herself has transported me back to the days of a hawaiin shirted, wedge haircut Jack, lighter in frame, crooked pearlies a little whiter, but becoming stained by Rothmans King Size, dancing at Disco's and drinking vast quantities of a cocktail called a Traffic Light. Fuck me I'm considering getting a glitter ball installed in the living room and buying me a John Travolta white suit. And as for the single "Hung Up" with it's sampled Abba strapline (she's the only person they've allowed to sample their music such is the respect they have for her...high praise indeed. ) well thats just a complete smile inducing piece of perfect disco pop. Fantastic.

Later, BoogieJack.

A Sunny Dawn

Well, I've taken the plunge. I've hit the vanity phase of the mid-life crisis and decided to undergo a course of mildly painful self-mutilation in the form of cosmetic surgery. Well of a kind I suppose. You see when I was a kid circa 11 years of age my upper canine teeth popped through one day, a little early you might say as the previous incumbent milk canines hadn't quite fucked off at the time.

So I ended up with a dual set of upper canines for a while. Unfortunately because of this unscheduled appearance the new canines sat proudly atop the milk ones thus actually existing at the top of the gum rather than the bottom. Unknownt to me at the time, the teeth on the bottom jaw were conspiring to recreate Tombstone Cemetery and ended up at an interesting mathematical set of different angles. My parents packed me off to the dentist where at the tender age of 12, life stretching out in front of me, a time of discovery and teenage angst as mates entered puberty before me, proudly displaying their newly honed bodies and hairy bits in the showers at school, I was given the choice - Removable "quick win" braces to pull the upper canines down, or "train track" cast iron appliances to fix them long term and give me a lovely set of pearly whites. Faced with the 70's school culture of being mercilessly ripped to shreds, called Jaws or MetalMouth and probably never having a girlfriend.....ever... meant that the cowards choice of the quick win braces won through. At that time we didn't know what "EnglishTooth" was as the yanks so graciously refer to this sceptred isles indigenous populace's crooked yellowing and generally ropy teeth. We were happy in our tobacco and beer stained apathy around dental hygiene. And so fo 32 years I have lived with crooked teeth. Not hideous, but not straight either. And after all this time my vanity and current mental fragility has pushed me into the world of adult orthodontics. And it is like cosmetic surgery because it is pure vanity that is driving me. My confidence through work has dipped. Of course this means that the writing increases because I have more time to think and more issues to mull over. But ostensibly this is just like someone having a nip or a tuck, or a boob job, or liposuction. I have started to wonder when meeting new people whether or not they are looking at my avant garde dental layout, and what decisions about me they then make because of it. To be honest I've been looking at this for a while now, but only recently decided to go for it.

So, for 2 years I'll be wearing some rather fetching half stainless steel, half clear ceramic weights on my teeth clamped by fine gauge steel wire. A year for the top row, a year for the lower row and some follow up work to prevent the "muscle memory" snapping them back to their comfort position of the last 32 years.

A snip at £3450 wouldn't you say?

Later, GrocerJack