When we'd first arrived at the club there was a small stag party there clustered around the edge of the main pole-dancing area. They were all early- to mid-twenties, quite drunk and obviously quite immature. The stag himself was on the 'stage' with his trousers down and the two girls dancing around him. At one point I heard the DJ make a comment that mentioned "...blow job on the stage." but it sounded more like a joke than a commentary on the action. The DJ also had to tell the boys more than once to put their cameras away - everyone wants a record of their stag night but the girls don't like to be photographed! I only looked in their direction twice more; once to see the stag on all fours being ridden around the stage like a horse by one of the girls, and again to see him try to pull up his trousers when one of the girls was still on his back, which dumped her unceremoniously on the floor and clearly wasn't her high point of the night.
Later on, after my VIP session, the club was filling up quite rapidly and was beginning to be almost as busy as a 'normal' nightclub would be on a quiet night. I had a very brief chat to the lovely brunette who'd danced for me earlier and asked her what she thought of stag parties. Her answer wasn't a surprise: "They're a nightmare! Sometimes you get them chipping in a pound each so the stag can have a dance and they all want to watch." With that she disappeared off to the outdoor terrace which I hadn't even noticed and then Lee and I left. As we wandered back towards his place I asked if we were going to the other place too as that had been the original plan but he pointed out that we were both skint. I said I'd be happy to get some more cash with my credit card so we did that and went back to Union Street and to the second club, which is the one he'd been taken to before.
The second club was smaller and less plush than the first and their security was much more obvious. The head bouncer (who at one point when I was trying to txt a friend politely asked me to keep my phone in my pocket whilst in the club) had a physique, demeanour and facial expression that said "I'm a nice guy who enjoys weight-training, snorting coke and hurting people." which, let's face it, is what you want for security in a lap-dancing club. Actually, you want polite well-spoken gentlemen who're more than happy to crack skulls if the need arises working as security no matter what the venue! This place had two poles at the back and one on the bar, which was faced by a giant mirror. There were nearly always two girls dancing on the poles and when we first walked in the one on the bar pole easily had the best physique of any of the women we'd seen that night. She was one of the very few without any visible tattoos or piercings and she also had nothing in the way of unnecessary wobbly bits, which all the rest had. That's not to say the others weren't in good shape: let's face it their job is to look sexy so although they're not all to everyone's taste (There was one in the first club with an ok body but a face like a boxer) they're all obviously good at looking good.
Despite having been to the other, larger, club and therefore having seen more than a dozen attractive, scantily-clad women (and had 2 lap-dances and a VIP), I was transfixed by this girl's body. She had the smooth, firm look of a swimwear model, which is an awful cliché but is also accurate in this case. Here's where it gets funny. She climbed down off the bar about a metre from where I was stood nursing a bottle of lager and then she hung around there chatting disinterestedly with the barman for a few minutes. If there ever was a stranger's body I wanted to see naked, it was hers. But.... I had an unexplainable attack of shyness, probably my true nature asserting itself, and I couldn't even muster up the courage to talk to her. My internal dialogue at the time pretty much sums it up: "This is ridiculous: she's paid to dance for people, you won't need to chat her up or impress her in any way at all, you just need to ask her to dance for you. She even has her large purse right next to her so all you have to do is get a £20 note out and it'll go from there!" But no, I stood there dumbfounded and could barely look at her. What a sad case.
Then something rather ironic happened. Another one of the dancers had caught my eye because she was not only the oldest one I'd seen (early 40's I reckon) but also because she reminded me of one of the women who worked in the same building as me in my last job. She came over and chatted to me for a bit, pointing out a group of about a dozen men who she said were Polish and were a pain because they wouldn't pay for a dance and kept asking for sex. They obviously weren't being rowdy or obnoxious with it or security would have had them out the door in double-quick time but even so the girls weren't making any money out of them. Anyway, this older lady, who said she was a qualified pole-dancing teacher trying to set up her own studio, took me for a dance. It was quite good but rather spoiled by the fact that none of the private cubicles had any doors on them and the view from ours appeared to look out on the cubby hole where the cleaners kept all their equipment. Add to that the fact that a bouncer was patrolling the area and walked into view at least 3 times during the dance and the atmosphere just wasn't there. During the dance, the lovely lady spent enough time sat on my lap and bent over that I got to read the tattoo on her lower back. There were three large letters: DJM and smaller letters in between which, when the dim light caught them right so I could see them, spelled out the words "Don't Judge Me".
Anyway, after one dance each and a brief chat over a drink we wandered through town towards Lee's place. We popped into a bar on the way as Sarah and one of her friends were in there so we met up with them, had one final drink and shared a cab home. There I got to witness the girls making 'mega-bed', which is all the cushions from both of the sofas spread onto the floor and covered with two duvets. There were only two of them sharing but apparently they've managed to get three in there very comfortably. It basically means they can have the post-clubbing tea and toast in 'bed' while watching some late-night trash on the huge TV. Naturally it's a girls-only affair but Lee and I were happy enough to have a real bed each upstairs, even though mine was designed for a small child and therefore prohibited certain activity as perfectly expressed by Lee at the end of my previous post.
Now, of course, I'm going to have to visit the lap-dancing club in Exeter to see if there's any difference. I'm also going to have to pop back to Plymouth - the next time I see little Miss Fit-Body she'll be dancing for me. And I may well have to see Candy again, just for that ear-lobe nibble.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Sunday, 20 July 2008
Dirty Dancing. No, not the film...
It all began on a muggy summer evening in Exeter. I met Lee at St Davids station and we strolled languidly through town to Wagamama for a pleasant pseudo-Japanese dinner to begin the planned 2 nights of partying for his pre-birthday celebrations. One boot-filling plate of food and giant Tiger beer each and we hopped over to Exe Shed for a couple of drinks before wandering down to Hotel Barcelona for a quick cocktail. After that it was straight to Timepiece where we had a very quick chat to Viet, who was in there with some friends after having seen Wall-E, and then up to the club proper to partake of the Indie music. We continued in our alcoholic theme which meant I had bottles of beer and an occasional diet coke, whilst Lee knocked back JD & coke like it was water. At one point Lee decided to add a couple of sambuca shots to the round, which was a nice interlude, and I think he had another just for himself later on. Meanwhile, there was plenty of dancing going on. Well, Lee was dancing, as he can, and I was doing the sad Indie-boy 'bouncing up an down in time to the music' dance with an occasional bout of head-banging when something heavier came on.
My spaz-boy dancing, however bad, was eclipsed by my general social ineptitude. Lee pointed out a girl who'd apparently been eyeing me up (BUT before I carry on I ought to mention that she seemed to look in my direction ONLY WHEN I WAS LOOKING ELSEWHERE - VERY HELPFUL!) and who at one point danced past me in a way that was, so Lee said, designed to attract my attention. As I hadn't noticed her looking at me at all I thought her 'parade' was merely drunken antics and paid no attention to it. At that point, Lee'd had enough of my obvious oblivion and slapped me in the face, so I was pleased I had 4 days of stubble to cushion the blow. He slapped me again at another point too but I forget what that was for - I suspect after the first one he just got a taste for slapping me. As I said later on during our walk home: had she simply got within 3 feet of me and made eye contact for a second or two I'd have said hello and things would have progressed, but if someone's not even willing to look you in the eye how can you tell if they're interested in you? Answers on a postcard please... Anyway, 2:00 rolled around relatively quickly and we wandered home for a cup of tea and some water before crashing into a drunken stupor which lasted almost until lunchtime on Saturday. That is my current favoured method of avoiding a hangover: if you feel rough when you wake up, just go back to sleep - repeat until you feel ok.
After a relatively pleasant fry-up at the Living Room we lazed about for another couple of hours then strolled very slowly through town to St Davids to catch the next train to Plymouth. That was a slow one and we both wanted to sleep but couldn't. Never mind; on arrival at Plymouth we met Sarah at the station and shared a taxi back to their place where more tea was drunk and more lazing about was done - this is much easier at Lee's place as he has two comfy sofas in his living room and I only have a bed. (Not in the living room - I'm living in a shared house and there's no lounge so I only have a bedroom). After a nice bbq dinner and having watched a pointlessly violent Chinese gangster flick we left the house at 21:30 for part 2 of Lee's pre-birthday celebration. This one was also done as a reconnaissance mission to check out Plymouth's lap-dancing clubs as a favour to one of Lee's self-employed friends. Long story short - we had a good excuse to check the clubs out rather than just actually wanting to go.
Background: Lee's been taken to one of the clubs a couple of times by his boss, who's a bit of a Jack-the-lad sort and therefore does enjoy his lewd entertainment. Lee had mentioned these outings to me and, very cagily as I soon discovered, had not fully described the goings-on. During one webchat I said "I don't see the attraction of having some woman waving her naked vagina 3 inches from your face if you're not allowed to touch anything!" and Lee said "They get closer than that!" which is actually the case and made complete sense at my first dance when I realised I'd misconstrued the rules. I'll get to that later.
A deliberately slow stroll down to the Barbican and into a pub immediately displayed the difference between the Exeter and Plymouth party-goers. In Plymouth, everything was louder and more raucous and the people were more drunk. They were also less physically attractive (on average) and behaved more crassly. It seemed like a chicken and egg situation: did they get more drunk because they were generally so unattractive you had to be pissed to fancy anyone or were they unattractive because they got so drunk? Either way, however much fun some of the people were having, there were plenty who seemed to be bored, depressed or just annoyed for no apparent reason and despite the fact it was relatively quiet in terms of the number of people it was an awful lot louder than Exeter. In the first pub there was a bloke so drunk he could barely stand and when he did he bumped into everything like a human pinball, in the second we stood outside and marvelled at the sullen, drunken hordes ambling past, in the third, which was the Blues Bar (£2 entry as there was a live singer who did more country & western than blues) the average age made us both feel young and prompted Lee to make a joke about us having discovered the elephant's graveyard... After that we popped straight down to the first of the two lapdancing clubs where Lee had promised to pay for my first ever dance.
We went into the first place (£5 to get in £3.50 for a bottle of Becks), which was new to Lee as he'd only been to the other one, and I marvelled at the immediate experience: a very plushly decorated club with a 'dance floor' that was really a performance area for the girls so two poles and a floor that lit up as well as plenty of mirrors. We were there early (before midnight) so it was very quiet and when I returned from a pit-stop an artfully tattooed and pierced blonde girl in the standard costume of shoes, knickers and bra had cornered Lee before he'd even managed to buy a drink. During the brief chat she suggested we came into the VIP area together and she'd do a lesbian show with one of the other girls. All that for the bargain price of £80 each. I very nearly said "EIGHTY FUCKING QUID - EACH?!?!" but managed to keep my trap shut. We declined that offer but we carried on chatting and when she asked what we did for a living Lee kindly jumped in and told her I was a journalist - good thing too as I was going to be honest and say 'unemployed'. The following day Lee suggested I always say I'm a freelance journalist who's 'between articles' and I like that idea so I think I'll use it! He then handed 'Candy' (for 'twas her assumed name) a £20 note and told her to take me for my first dance, which she did. Oh My God, in that few minutes my eyes were opened. I also discovered exactly how calculating Lee had been in the amount of information he'd given me.
In the private booth there was a comfy upholstered bench seat where I initially sat on my hands to ensure I adhered to the 'no touching' rule but then just put my hands flat on the seat by my legs instead. After she'd danced for a little while and removed her bra, I got a serious shock. I thought the 'no touching' rule meant no physical contact. No it doesn't: YOU are not allowed to put your hands on the girl, SHE can do whatever the hell she wants to you. Did I say Oh My God? I meant: Oh. My. GOD! With her bra off she started by putting her head between my thighs and just 'nudging' me and then raised herself straight up, pressing her naked torso all along mine from hips to shoulders, pausing just briefly to nibble one of my ears. I was so shocked by this that when she straddled me, naked apart from very brief knickers and a pair of high-heels, I instinctively put my hands on her backside. She very nicely grabbed my wrists and put my hands back on the seat, saying "No, if you want to touch you'll have to do a VIP", so I apologised and sat still for the rest of the dance. The remainder included her removing her knickers and alternating between sitting briefly on my lap, bumping and grinding on the floor so I could see absolutely everything in its well-trimmed glory, and rubbing her clitoris quite vigorously. She had such a smouldering stare I was so transfixed by her gaze that a couple of times I had to remind myself she was naked and rubbing her vagina for my viewing pleasure - even so I barely gave the eager beaver more than a quick (and hopefully admiring) glance before looking up at her face again. A few minutes later when it was over I was actually trembling and had a dazed 'rabbit in the headlights' look about me.
When we got back to the bar, where Lee was looking suspiciously pleased with himself (almost as though the sneaky sod had planned it all out...) he went off with her for what I thought was just a lapdance and I sat in a comfy seat and finished off the drinks while trying to control my trembling. Within a few minutes an utterly gorgeous brunette had wandered over and was talking to me. There was a little chit-chat where we introduced ourselves and I explained I was waiting for my friend to emerge from a lapdance. She then said "Would you like to see me naked?" and, still being in shock from my first dance and having absolutely no clue how to answer a question like that, I just replied "Well that's a silly question, of course I would." and off we went. She asked if I wanted to do a VIP and I said no, then she said that as it's a quiet night I could tip her if I wanted. I handed over the obligatory £20 and she said "That's not a tip!" to which I shrugged. Then began the few minutes of naked writhing during which I managed to keep my hands to myself and which, although thoroughly enjoyable, wasn't quite as good as the first one. However, as I was still in shock and she had such an adorable face I did give her another £10 for which Lee later scolded me but hey ho - us lapdance virgins are allowed to be silly!
I got back to the comfy seats and had been chatting to another blonde for a minute or two when Lee finally returned from his suspiciously long lapdance which, I soon discovered, had been a VIP. The 'new' blonde suggested I did a VIP with her but the original one said I ought to go with her as I'd said I would. Lee said I had promised (I think it was more of a polite 'perhaps later' rebuffal than an actual promise but I was in no condition to argue) and gave me the additional £20 needed to bolster my funds so off I went with Candy to one of the VIP rooms. That £80 bought me 15 minutes of more of the same with a few bonus features. First of all, even though I had to stay sat down I was allowed to touch her whenever she came within reach. At one point, when she was naked and straddling me but facing away, her back arched so I could see her rubbing herself, I asked "How much am I allowed to join in?" and got a very succinct reply: "Anywhere except 'down there'". So everything from neck to thighs was gently caressed apart from the no-go zone. I got her lovely boobs pressed into my face, her nails gently scratched down my torso, that wonderfully practised earlobe nibble and, right at the end, a very brief kiss. She also spent a good couple of minutes sat on my lap writhing away in a way that was very obviously meant to cause a minor trouser explosion but that didn't actually happen. I was still somewhat overawed with the whole experience and my body was having real trouble trying to keep up. At one point, when she was naked apart from her shoes, she straddled me, lifted up the front of my shirt and pressed herself in her bare and slightly bristly glory against my stomach. That got my heart pounding and also highlighted one very obvious fact: despite all the incredibly lascivious positions she got herself into and the amount of time she spent rubbing her clit and vagina, she wasn't actually wet. She did a great job of looking like she was enjoying herself but she wasn't excited at all, it really was just a job she did. When the time was up she put on her knickers and then sat next to me with her legs across my lap so I could put a hand on her thigh while she put her bra on. We had a brief chat during which I learned a bit about her nice back tattoo and the fact that in her 'day job' she's a teacher. (A teacher! Imagine!) As before, the dim lighting and her utterly absorbing gaze meant I spent most of the time she was facing me looking at her eyes. One of the songs that was played was Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" and when that started I was floating on an unexpected cloud of bliss for almost a minute. From now on when I hear that song I'll think of a dimly lit room and a smouldering look from a naked lapdancer...
There are more details about the club and their clientèle, the brief half-hour we spent at the other lapdancing club and popping into another place before going back to Lee's for tea and toast, but those can all wait. The important details are in this entry and I just want to finish with the quote of the weekend. I was sleeping in Lee's 3-year-old son's room (Harry was at his Mum's of course so I was on my own) and just as I went to bed Lee made me giggle so much I think I laughed myself to sleep. He said "If you're going to pull your pud, don't get it all over the dinosaur duvet!"
My spaz-boy dancing, however bad, was eclipsed by my general social ineptitude. Lee pointed out a girl who'd apparently been eyeing me up (BUT before I carry on I ought to mention that she seemed to look in my direction ONLY WHEN I WAS LOOKING ELSEWHERE - VERY HELPFUL!) and who at one point danced past me in a way that was, so Lee said, designed to attract my attention. As I hadn't noticed her looking at me at all I thought her 'parade' was merely drunken antics and paid no attention to it. At that point, Lee'd had enough of my obvious oblivion and slapped me in the face, so I was pleased I had 4 days of stubble to cushion the blow. He slapped me again at another point too but I forget what that was for - I suspect after the first one he just got a taste for slapping me. As I said later on during our walk home: had she simply got within 3 feet of me and made eye contact for a second or two I'd have said hello and things would have progressed, but if someone's not even willing to look you in the eye how can you tell if they're interested in you? Answers on a postcard please... Anyway, 2:00 rolled around relatively quickly and we wandered home for a cup of tea and some water before crashing into a drunken stupor which lasted almost until lunchtime on Saturday. That is my current favoured method of avoiding a hangover: if you feel rough when you wake up, just go back to sleep - repeat until you feel ok.
After a relatively pleasant fry-up at the Living Room we lazed about for another couple of hours then strolled very slowly through town to St Davids to catch the next train to Plymouth. That was a slow one and we both wanted to sleep but couldn't. Never mind; on arrival at Plymouth we met Sarah at the station and shared a taxi back to their place where more tea was drunk and more lazing about was done - this is much easier at Lee's place as he has two comfy sofas in his living room and I only have a bed. (Not in the living room - I'm living in a shared house and there's no lounge so I only have a bedroom). After a nice bbq dinner and having watched a pointlessly violent Chinese gangster flick we left the house at 21:30 for part 2 of Lee's pre-birthday celebration. This one was also done as a reconnaissance mission to check out Plymouth's lap-dancing clubs as a favour to one of Lee's self-employed friends. Long story short - we had a good excuse to check the clubs out rather than just actually wanting to go.
Background: Lee's been taken to one of the clubs a couple of times by his boss, who's a bit of a Jack-the-lad sort and therefore does enjoy his lewd entertainment. Lee had mentioned these outings to me and, very cagily as I soon discovered, had not fully described the goings-on. During one webchat I said "I don't see the attraction of having some woman waving her naked vagina 3 inches from your face if you're not allowed to touch anything!" and Lee said "They get closer than that!" which is actually the case and made complete sense at my first dance when I realised I'd misconstrued the rules. I'll get to that later.
A deliberately slow stroll down to the Barbican and into a pub immediately displayed the difference between the Exeter and Plymouth party-goers. In Plymouth, everything was louder and more raucous and the people were more drunk. They were also less physically attractive (on average) and behaved more crassly. It seemed like a chicken and egg situation: did they get more drunk because they were generally so unattractive you had to be pissed to fancy anyone or were they unattractive because they got so drunk? Either way, however much fun some of the people were having, there were plenty who seemed to be bored, depressed or just annoyed for no apparent reason and despite the fact it was relatively quiet in terms of the number of people it was an awful lot louder than Exeter. In the first pub there was a bloke so drunk he could barely stand and when he did he bumped into everything like a human pinball, in the second we stood outside and marvelled at the sullen, drunken hordes ambling past, in the third, which was the Blues Bar (£2 entry as there was a live singer who did more country & western than blues) the average age made us both feel young and prompted Lee to make a joke about us having discovered the elephant's graveyard... After that we popped straight down to the first of the two lapdancing clubs where Lee had promised to pay for my first ever dance.
We went into the first place (£5 to get in £3.50 for a bottle of Becks), which was new to Lee as he'd only been to the other one, and I marvelled at the immediate experience: a very plushly decorated club with a 'dance floor' that was really a performance area for the girls so two poles and a floor that lit up as well as plenty of mirrors. We were there early (before midnight) so it was very quiet and when I returned from a pit-stop an artfully tattooed and pierced blonde girl in the standard costume of shoes, knickers and bra had cornered Lee before he'd even managed to buy a drink. During the brief chat she suggested we came into the VIP area together and she'd do a lesbian show with one of the other girls. All that for the bargain price of £80 each. I very nearly said "EIGHTY FUCKING QUID - EACH?!?!" but managed to keep my trap shut. We declined that offer but we carried on chatting and when she asked what we did for a living Lee kindly jumped in and told her I was a journalist - good thing too as I was going to be honest and say 'unemployed'. The following day Lee suggested I always say I'm a freelance journalist who's 'between articles' and I like that idea so I think I'll use it! He then handed 'Candy' (for 'twas her assumed name) a £20 note and told her to take me for my first dance, which she did. Oh My God, in that few minutes my eyes were opened. I also discovered exactly how calculating Lee had been in the amount of information he'd given me.
In the private booth there was a comfy upholstered bench seat where I initially sat on my hands to ensure I adhered to the 'no touching' rule but then just put my hands flat on the seat by my legs instead. After she'd danced for a little while and removed her bra, I got a serious shock. I thought the 'no touching' rule meant no physical contact. No it doesn't: YOU are not allowed to put your hands on the girl, SHE can do whatever the hell she wants to you. Did I say Oh My God? I meant: Oh. My. GOD! With her bra off she started by putting her head between my thighs and just 'nudging' me and then raised herself straight up, pressing her naked torso all along mine from hips to shoulders, pausing just briefly to nibble one of my ears. I was so shocked by this that when she straddled me, naked apart from very brief knickers and a pair of high-heels, I instinctively put my hands on her backside. She very nicely grabbed my wrists and put my hands back on the seat, saying "No, if you want to touch you'll have to do a VIP", so I apologised and sat still for the rest of the dance. The remainder included her removing her knickers and alternating between sitting briefly on my lap, bumping and grinding on the floor so I could see absolutely everything in its well-trimmed glory, and rubbing her clitoris quite vigorously. She had such a smouldering stare I was so transfixed by her gaze that a couple of times I had to remind myself she was naked and rubbing her vagina for my viewing pleasure - even so I barely gave the eager beaver more than a quick (and hopefully admiring) glance before looking up at her face again. A few minutes later when it was over I was actually trembling and had a dazed 'rabbit in the headlights' look about me.
When we got back to the bar, where Lee was looking suspiciously pleased with himself (almost as though the sneaky sod had planned it all out...) he went off with her for what I thought was just a lapdance and I sat in a comfy seat and finished off the drinks while trying to control my trembling. Within a few minutes an utterly gorgeous brunette had wandered over and was talking to me. There was a little chit-chat where we introduced ourselves and I explained I was waiting for my friend to emerge from a lapdance. She then said "Would you like to see me naked?" and, still being in shock from my first dance and having absolutely no clue how to answer a question like that, I just replied "Well that's a silly question, of course I would." and off we went. She asked if I wanted to do a VIP and I said no, then she said that as it's a quiet night I could tip her if I wanted. I handed over the obligatory £20 and she said "That's not a tip!" to which I shrugged. Then began the few minutes of naked writhing during which I managed to keep my hands to myself and which, although thoroughly enjoyable, wasn't quite as good as the first one. However, as I was still in shock and she had such an adorable face I did give her another £10 for which Lee later scolded me but hey ho - us lapdance virgins are allowed to be silly!
I got back to the comfy seats and had been chatting to another blonde for a minute or two when Lee finally returned from his suspiciously long lapdance which, I soon discovered, had been a VIP. The 'new' blonde suggested I did a VIP with her but the original one said I ought to go with her as I'd said I would. Lee said I had promised (I think it was more of a polite 'perhaps later' rebuffal than an actual promise but I was in no condition to argue) and gave me the additional £20 needed to bolster my funds so off I went with Candy to one of the VIP rooms. That £80 bought me 15 minutes of more of the same with a few bonus features. First of all, even though I had to stay sat down I was allowed to touch her whenever she came within reach. At one point, when she was naked and straddling me but facing away, her back arched so I could see her rubbing herself, I asked "How much am I allowed to join in?" and got a very succinct reply: "Anywhere except 'down there'". So everything from neck to thighs was gently caressed apart from the no-go zone. I got her lovely boobs pressed into my face, her nails gently scratched down my torso, that wonderfully practised earlobe nibble and, right at the end, a very brief kiss. She also spent a good couple of minutes sat on my lap writhing away in a way that was very obviously meant to cause a minor trouser explosion but that didn't actually happen. I was still somewhat overawed with the whole experience and my body was having real trouble trying to keep up. At one point, when she was naked apart from her shoes, she straddled me, lifted up the front of my shirt and pressed herself in her bare and slightly bristly glory against my stomach. That got my heart pounding and also highlighted one very obvious fact: despite all the incredibly lascivious positions she got herself into and the amount of time she spent rubbing her clit and vagina, she wasn't actually wet. She did a great job of looking like she was enjoying herself but she wasn't excited at all, it really was just a job she did. When the time was up she put on her knickers and then sat next to me with her legs across my lap so I could put a hand on her thigh while she put her bra on. We had a brief chat during which I learned a bit about her nice back tattoo and the fact that in her 'day job' she's a teacher. (A teacher! Imagine!) As before, the dim lighting and her utterly absorbing gaze meant I spent most of the time she was facing me looking at her eyes. One of the songs that was played was Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" and when that started I was floating on an unexpected cloud of bliss for almost a minute. From now on when I hear that song I'll think of a dimly lit room and a smouldering look from a naked lapdancer...
There are more details about the club and their clientèle, the brief half-hour we spent at the other lapdancing club and popping into another place before going back to Lee's for tea and toast, but those can all wait. The important details are in this entry and I just want to finish with the quote of the weekend. I was sleeping in Lee's 3-year-old son's room (Harry was at his Mum's of course so I was on my own) and just as I went to bed Lee made me giggle so much I think I laughed myself to sleep. He said "If you're going to pull your pud, don't get it all over the dinosaur duvet!"
Friday, 2 May 2008
The Quillan Chainsaw Massacre
There's nothing like spending a couple of hours cutting logs with a chainsaw to make you feel like a real man. Specifically, a real tired man. Obviously a chainsaw is much easier to use than an axe but it's still tiring. Mum's chainsaw is electric, which means two things: it's not very powerful (so you do have to put quite a bit of pressure on the wood to cut through it) and the motor is on one side so it's also off-balance and it's therefore difficult to cut a properly vertical line. Still, a lot of logs were shortened today as a result of my toil so when the cold weather creeps in to this region again some time in December the dry logs will fit in the wood burner...
Apart from one or two oddments that's all I did today, workwise. Yesterday I retrieved a dog toy from the roof (don't ask), got both pushbikes working, took dozens of photos (some by request as Mum's nearest neighbours have two pet sheep and a couple of trees they're quite proud of), helped tidy up the garage, swapped the swimming pool covers (winter for summer) and shifted around 5 tonnes of gravel. I got sunburnt and knackered in the process but I've had worse. Of both.
Last night Mum had a Swedish couple staying who were very nice - they were passing through and saw the sign so they stopped off for the night. Tonight there's a French couple who are walkers (this is a good walking area) who had booked and a Dutch couple who are totally cool and who stopped off as they saw the signs and fancied it. They're on their way to Perpignan to collect their 16-year-old son from a canoeing trip and over dinner we discovered that house prices in Holland are about the same as the UK, as is the proliferation of cooking shows on TV.
Tomorrow I aim to get up very early to catch the sunrise from the top of the hill which is about 30 minutes' walk away. I may manage it. If not, I'll get up there for the sunset and do sunrise on Sunday morning...
I'm thoroughly enjoying The Seville Communion by Arturo Perez-Reverte and I also have a book about photography and a book about the French philosopher Michel Foucault. Naturally, I don't expect to understand much of the last one...
I thought I had some interesting things to add today. Doesn't look like it though...
Apart from one or two oddments that's all I did today, workwise. Yesterday I retrieved a dog toy from the roof (don't ask), got both pushbikes working, took dozens of photos (some by request as Mum's nearest neighbours have two pet sheep and a couple of trees they're quite proud of), helped tidy up the garage, swapped the swimming pool covers (winter for summer) and shifted around 5 tonnes of gravel. I got sunburnt and knackered in the process but I've had worse. Of both.
Last night Mum had a Swedish couple staying who were very nice - they were passing through and saw the sign so they stopped off for the night. Tonight there's a French couple who are walkers (this is a good walking area) who had booked and a Dutch couple who are totally cool and who stopped off as they saw the signs and fancied it. They're on their way to Perpignan to collect their 16-year-old son from a canoeing trip and over dinner we discovered that house prices in Holland are about the same as the UK, as is the proliferation of cooking shows on TV.
Tomorrow I aim to get up very early to catch the sunrise from the top of the hill which is about 30 minutes' walk away. I may manage it. If not, I'll get up there for the sunset and do sunrise on Sunday morning...
I'm thoroughly enjoying The Seville Communion by Arturo Perez-Reverte and I also have a book about photography and a book about the French philosopher Michel Foucault. Naturally, I don't expect to understand much of the last one...
I thought I had some interesting things to add today. Doesn't look like it though...
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
EXD to CCF
The rail companies love to bend commuters over a table and lube up for rear entry into their wallets. I caught the 6:39 from Exeter St Davids to London Paddington which got me there just after 9:20 with no hitches whatsoever. Had I wanted to take the 6:55, which gets in at 9:05, the ticket would have cost an extra £50. Lucky for me this was a trip to France to visit my Mum and therefore not a daily occurrence or my wallet would be bereft of banknotes, if slightly greasy to the touch.
At the point of booking the flight and discovering that Ryanair's impressive list of destinations is matched only by the ways in which they can charge you cash (£6 per item of luggage? £3 to check in at the airport? £6 to book using a credit card EVEN THOUGH THERE'S NO OTHER OPTION?) I had decided this was to be my last Stansted to Carcassonne flight. After this it'll be Exeter to Avignon and I'll learn enough French to use their trains to get me from Avignon to Carcassonne.
Anyway, this journey was train, tube, train, plane and then Mum would collect me from the airport. Not wanting to be panicked and having suffered the turgid display of ineptitude that is 'security' at Stansted airport I gave myself plenty of time. As it turned out, the whole journey was so good it was almost suspiciously enjoyable. The trip up to Paddington was smooth and quiet and the only time anyone disturbed me was when someone asked which way the buffet car was. The tube arrived at Paddington less than a minute after I got to the platform and I was at Liverpool Street in plenty of time for the Stansted Express. Whilst on that they kindly announced over the PA that there's engineering work planned over the bank holiday so Liverpool Street is shut and everyone has to get the tube from Tottenham Hale instead. That explains why the electronic timetable told me it'd take an hour longer than usual on the return leg of the trip. Apart from that and a non-English speaking tourist asking me by waving their ticket at me if they were on the right train (they were) there was nothing unusual about that part of the journey. At the airport the check-in queue was just long enough for it to take 15 minutes to clear and the notoriously huge security queue was the shortest I'd ever seen it: less than 10 minutes to get through and the bloke who frisked me (metal eyelets in my trainers, wait for the beep) liked my Disney t-shirt showing the seagulls from Finding Nemo.
Before I harp on about sitting in the Wetherspoons, drinking a beer and enjoying the groups of fellow holidaymakers around me creating that classic 'airport as a microcosm of life' environment, there was a minor incident which had me beaming with joy at the good nature of my fellow man. I popped into Boots to get some bits & bobs for Mum and completely failed to notice that when I fished my wallet out of my bag I inadvertently dropped the plastic bag containing my Euros. A bloke spotted it, tapped me on the shoulder and returned my £100 worth of sponds with a smile. I was that pleased I could have kissed him but he didn't look like he'd appreciate that so I just said thanks instead. While enjoying my pre-takeoff beer (this was the first time I'd got to the airport early enough to get one in) I also enjoyed the various groups of people around me, especially the group of 30- and 40-something 'lads' who were talking about the 'facking football, innit'. I could go on but we've all been through airports and who really give a shit?
The flight left late, as it always does from Stansted, but was smooth and hassle-free all the way and the prevailing winds meant we arrived basically on time as usual. After we'd cleared the cloud layer it was as bright and tranquil as you'd expect. The breaks in the cloud began to appear as we were traversing the channel and gave wonderful views of white horses dancing across the sea. After a minute or so of that we crossed the French coast and the seascape gave way to the irregular patchwork of French fields and grey arterial roads. On the approach to Carcassonne the clouds were sporadic enough to cast individual shadows on the ground which looked as though someone had spilt a glass of water on an expensive carpet. As usual we flew right over the medieval city and marvelled at the aerial view for which the original inhabitants would have praised the Lord. On landing, the senior flight attendant got everyone laughing by inadvertently welcoming us all to Krakow before correcting himself rather shamefacedly. When he gave the usual warning "Be careful when opening the overhead lockers as some items may have moved" I immediately thought "Yeah, they've gone to Poland!" Thankfully, I'm aware I'm not all that funny so I didn't actually say that out loud.
A pleasant 40-minute drive got us to Mum's place in Quillan where I got to play with the dogs, clock the list of 'jobs' I'm doing over the next couple of days (Which includes chainsaw time. Nice.) and eat dinner before we went out to see the opening night of the Chemin des Artistes en Haute Vallee De L'Aude. That is, as the name suggests, an art 'exhibition' where the artists display their works in various locations (presumably near their homes/studios) in the Aude High Valley area, of which Quillan is basically the centre. There were a dozen or so canvases by an artist who looked like he copied photographs but did a relatively good job on most, plus a free gig which is what we really went for. The local Rock group 'G63' did a decent set of their own material and then went straight into the covers section by performing a French-language rendition of Queen's "We will rock you", an experience not to be missed. After 90 minutes of enjoying the performance and bemoaning the bad lighting (the venue's more like a theatre so no decent spotlights and the front row of the band were in semi-darkness most of the time) which meant none of my photos were coming out well we gave up and came home.
Now I'm off to Bedfordshire and looking forward to tomorrow's hard labour.
At the point of booking the flight and discovering that Ryanair's impressive list of destinations is matched only by the ways in which they can charge you cash (£6 per item of luggage? £3 to check in at the airport? £6 to book using a credit card EVEN THOUGH THERE'S NO OTHER OPTION?) I had decided this was to be my last Stansted to Carcassonne flight. After this it'll be Exeter to Avignon and I'll learn enough French to use their trains to get me from Avignon to Carcassonne.
Anyway, this journey was train, tube, train, plane and then Mum would collect me from the airport. Not wanting to be panicked and having suffered the turgid display of ineptitude that is 'security' at Stansted airport I gave myself plenty of time. As it turned out, the whole journey was so good it was almost suspiciously enjoyable. The trip up to Paddington was smooth and quiet and the only time anyone disturbed me was when someone asked which way the buffet car was. The tube arrived at Paddington less than a minute after I got to the platform and I was at Liverpool Street in plenty of time for the Stansted Express. Whilst on that they kindly announced over the PA that there's engineering work planned over the bank holiday so Liverpool Street is shut and everyone has to get the tube from Tottenham Hale instead. That explains why the electronic timetable told me it'd take an hour longer than usual on the return leg of the trip. Apart from that and a non-English speaking tourist asking me by waving their ticket at me if they were on the right train (they were) there was nothing unusual about that part of the journey. At the airport the check-in queue was just long enough for it to take 15 minutes to clear and the notoriously huge security queue was the shortest I'd ever seen it: less than 10 minutes to get through and the bloke who frisked me (metal eyelets in my trainers, wait for the beep) liked my Disney t-shirt showing the seagulls from Finding Nemo.
Before I harp on about sitting in the Wetherspoons, drinking a beer and enjoying the groups of fellow holidaymakers around me creating that classic 'airport as a microcosm of life' environment, there was a minor incident which had me beaming with joy at the good nature of my fellow man. I popped into Boots to get some bits & bobs for Mum and completely failed to notice that when I fished my wallet out of my bag I inadvertently dropped the plastic bag containing my Euros. A bloke spotted it, tapped me on the shoulder and returned my £100 worth of sponds with a smile. I was that pleased I could have kissed him but he didn't look like he'd appreciate that so I just said thanks instead. While enjoying my pre-takeoff beer (this was the first time I'd got to the airport early enough to get one in) I also enjoyed the various groups of people around me, especially the group of 30- and 40-something 'lads' who were talking about the 'facking football, innit'. I could go on but we've all been through airports and who really give a shit?
The flight left late, as it always does from Stansted, but was smooth and hassle-free all the way and the prevailing winds meant we arrived basically on time as usual. After we'd cleared the cloud layer it was as bright and tranquil as you'd expect. The breaks in the cloud began to appear as we were traversing the channel and gave wonderful views of white horses dancing across the sea. After a minute or so of that we crossed the French coast and the seascape gave way to the irregular patchwork of French fields and grey arterial roads. On the approach to Carcassonne the clouds were sporadic enough to cast individual shadows on the ground which looked as though someone had spilt a glass of water on an expensive carpet. As usual we flew right over the medieval city and marvelled at the aerial view for which the original inhabitants would have praised the Lord. On landing, the senior flight attendant got everyone laughing by inadvertently welcoming us all to Krakow before correcting himself rather shamefacedly. When he gave the usual warning "Be careful when opening the overhead lockers as some items may have moved" I immediately thought "Yeah, they've gone to Poland!" Thankfully, I'm aware I'm not all that funny so I didn't actually say that out loud.
A pleasant 40-minute drive got us to Mum's place in Quillan where I got to play with the dogs, clock the list of 'jobs' I'm doing over the next couple of days (Which includes chainsaw time. Nice.) and eat dinner before we went out to see the opening night of the Chemin des Artistes en Haute Vallee De L'Aude. That is, as the name suggests, an art 'exhibition' where the artists display their works in various locations (presumably near their homes/studios) in the Aude High Valley area, of which Quillan is basically the centre. There were a dozen or so canvases by an artist who looked like he copied photographs but did a relatively good job on most, plus a free gig which is what we really went for. The local Rock group 'G63' did a decent set of their own material and then went straight into the covers section by performing a French-language rendition of Queen's "We will rock you", an experience not to be missed. After 90 minutes of enjoying the performance and bemoaning the bad lighting (the venue's more like a theatre so no decent spotlights and the front row of the band were in semi-darkness most of the time) which meant none of my photos were coming out well we gave up and came home.
Now I'm off to Bedfordshire and looking forward to tomorrow's hard labour.
Monday, 21 April 2008
A prime example of why I'm leaving
First, the background: an MA/MSc/PhD application will come in on paper or online. Paper versions are entered onto the database manually, online versions are transferred from the web system to the database using a background process. Fields from the web system don't always exactly match the database so some things, notably the address, generally need tidying up. There are two addresses: home and correspondence. If only a home address has been entered it's simply copied across to fill the correspondence address too. As the addresses are known to be a problem area the first person to look at the application will check to ensure both addresses are complete. Then the application is processed, a decision is made and an offer letter is printed. When the letter has been checked and stamped it's posted and an email is sent. So, when you look at the database you can generally tell when a letter's been sent as the corresponding email's been sent too.
Fast forward to last week's example of brown stuff meets whirly thing. An email came in saying a particular email hadn't been received (standard emails to applicants are copied to the relevant support staff) which usually means the letter hasn't been sent. I replied saying the letter should have gone out and I would make sure it definitely did later that day as I was about to go into a meeting. The contact (with whom I developed a very good working rapport as I was responsible for her 'area' for an entire academic year when I first started the job over 2.5 years ago) then replied with a complaint and copied in not only my operations manager but also her head of school and two other bigwigs. That meant my department was possibly in line for a ton of shit because it looked like we weren't doing our jobs properly. In turn, that meant I was hauled into the boss's office and given a roasting for sending an 'unprofessional and factually incorrect' email. In fact, my email was forwarded to the entire department as an example of how not to send emails. Nice.
Unprofessional? Quite possibly - I was very casual about the whole thing. I usually am with people who are casual with me, it's what happens when you develop a rapport: there's not so much need for formality.
Factually incorrect? Not really. My email implied that the letter hadn't been sent as the usual email hadn't been sent. On further investigation it transpired that the email address in the correspondence address details wasn't working so the letter may well have been sent but whoever sent it didn't make a note that the email address was invalid. Not many people would as it happens regularly enough not to be a big deal. The letter was reprinted and sent. I then copied the 'home' email address into the 'correspondence' email address and the email went just fine.
Then I did some more checking and realised that the old email address being incorrect meant the old postal address was also incorrect so the poor applicant still wouldn't receive his offer letter as it had been posted (possibly twice) to an address that was nearly 2 years out of date. Yes, this was someone who'd taken their BA at the Uni, gone back to their parent's home and 18 months later decided to apply for the MA. They'd applied online and only supplied a home address so when their application was transferred to the database the home address was overwritten with the new information but the correspondence address was untouched. It's obvious that whoever checked the addresses just gave them a cursory skim to make sure there were two addresses and didn't pay much attention to the details. From that point onwards there were going to be problems and I happen to be the one who tripped over them. As soon as I spotted the source of the error I corrected the correspondence postal address and sent a new letter so the applicant is none the wiser.
Now, the contact in the school could just have addressed the email to me and the situation would have been resolved just as quickly. By escalating it the way they did they upset all the people on the email CC list and my head of department, caused at least half an hour's unnecessary work for a handful of people and managed to maintain the unpleasant status quo very nicely.
Status quo? Yes, the department I'm about to leave is shat on from all directions and all heights. I could whine like a stuck record about the internal politics and questionable decisions that come from within but nothing compares to the crap that's thrown at us from outside. The above example says it all: I had to try to resolve a problem not of my doing and because I sent an interim email to someone I've had a good working relationship with for over 2.5 years our whole department has once again been made to feel like the world is coming to an end. It makes working life unbearable when you can't communicate with 'colleagues' without painstaking care. It makes you feel as though you have to watch every tiny detail and it makes you afraid to say anything at all. Which is why I'm leaving.
Fast forward to last week's example of brown stuff meets whirly thing. An email came in saying a particular email hadn't been received (standard emails to applicants are copied to the relevant support staff) which usually means the letter hasn't been sent. I replied saying the letter should have gone out and I would make sure it definitely did later that day as I was about to go into a meeting. The contact (with whom I developed a very good working rapport as I was responsible for her 'area' for an entire academic year when I first started the job over 2.5 years ago) then replied with a complaint and copied in not only my operations manager but also her head of school and two other bigwigs. That meant my department was possibly in line for a ton of shit because it looked like we weren't doing our jobs properly. In turn, that meant I was hauled into the boss's office and given a roasting for sending an 'unprofessional and factually incorrect' email. In fact, my email was forwarded to the entire department as an example of how not to send emails. Nice.
Unprofessional? Quite possibly - I was very casual about the whole thing. I usually am with people who are casual with me, it's what happens when you develop a rapport: there's not so much need for formality.
Factually incorrect? Not really. My email implied that the letter hadn't been sent as the usual email hadn't been sent. On further investigation it transpired that the email address in the correspondence address details wasn't working so the letter may well have been sent but whoever sent it didn't make a note that the email address was invalid. Not many people would as it happens regularly enough not to be a big deal. The letter was reprinted and sent. I then copied the 'home' email address into the 'correspondence' email address and the email went just fine.
Then I did some more checking and realised that the old email address being incorrect meant the old postal address was also incorrect so the poor applicant still wouldn't receive his offer letter as it had been posted (possibly twice) to an address that was nearly 2 years out of date. Yes, this was someone who'd taken their BA at the Uni, gone back to their parent's home and 18 months later decided to apply for the MA. They'd applied online and only supplied a home address so when their application was transferred to the database the home address was overwritten with the new information but the correspondence address was untouched. It's obvious that whoever checked the addresses just gave them a cursory skim to make sure there were two addresses and didn't pay much attention to the details. From that point onwards there were going to be problems and I happen to be the one who tripped over them. As soon as I spotted the source of the error I corrected the correspondence postal address and sent a new letter so the applicant is none the wiser.
Now, the contact in the school could just have addressed the email to me and the situation would have been resolved just as quickly. By escalating it the way they did they upset all the people on the email CC list and my head of department, caused at least half an hour's unnecessary work for a handful of people and managed to maintain the unpleasant status quo very nicely.
Status quo? Yes, the department I'm about to leave is shat on from all directions and all heights. I could whine like a stuck record about the internal politics and questionable decisions that come from within but nothing compares to the crap that's thrown at us from outside. The above example says it all: I had to try to resolve a problem not of my doing and because I sent an interim email to someone I've had a good working relationship with for over 2.5 years our whole department has once again been made to feel like the world is coming to an end. It makes working life unbearable when you can't communicate with 'colleagues' without painstaking care. It makes you feel as though you have to watch every tiny detail and it makes you afraid to say anything at all. Which is why I'm leaving.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
The good, the bland and the potentially interesting
I haven't posted anything for a while and one or two developments have occurred so here's an update.
1. I had a follow-up food intolerance test and my candida score has improved from 57% to 83% so although that's a lot better I missed my goal of clearing it completely by March 23rd. Another one bites the dust, but at least there is no wheat, yeast or sugar in dust. (Dust. Anybody? No? Dust.)
2. I bought a digital SLR and am gradually learning how to use it. I've had a few more photos accepted onto the same stock photography website as before so I'm not counting that as anything new but I do now have around 15 photos 'out there'.
3. I followed up an 'ad' I saw on the writers website I subscribe to and after some to-ing and fro-ing I'm just about to submit an article about Japan as a precursor to the article I was originally asked to write about France. The Japan one came about because I said I could do it based on my previous trips there and the editor didn't have any other information about Japan. He liked the first section enough that he wants the rest and I'm sending it to him today. In theory that should mean he'll take my France article and may even pay me for it. I'm not too fussed about the cash: the website itself will be a very popular one as it's linked with a TV show that'll get lots of viewers and a lot of people will get to read the article. That may mean I get some paid work as a result. Still, I'll report back on that one if and when it happens.
4. And finally, I have just over a week to go before my job finishes and I'm officially unemployed. I've applied for quite a few jobs but no sign of any potential employment as yet. I can always do some temp work to fill in the gap and something will definitely come up but at the moment it does feel as though I'm in free-fall and heading rapidly towards a crash landing. We'll see. Even if I am just temping for the rest of the summer I'll still have met one of my 'resolutions' which was to get a new job by July 31st. There's just been another incident at work which highlights perfectly the reason I wanted to leave in the first place but it'll take some explaining so that'll be in a separate post.
TTFN
1. I had a follow-up food intolerance test and my candida score has improved from 57% to 83% so although that's a lot better I missed my goal of clearing it completely by March 23rd. Another one bites the dust, but at least there is no wheat, yeast or sugar in dust. (Dust. Anybody? No? Dust.)
2. I bought a digital SLR and am gradually learning how to use it. I've had a few more photos accepted onto the same stock photography website as before so I'm not counting that as anything new but I do now have around 15 photos 'out there'.
3. I followed up an 'ad' I saw on the writers website I subscribe to and after some to-ing and fro-ing I'm just about to submit an article about Japan as a precursor to the article I was originally asked to write about France. The Japan one came about because I said I could do it based on my previous trips there and the editor didn't have any other information about Japan. He liked the first section enough that he wants the rest and I'm sending it to him today. In theory that should mean he'll take my France article and may even pay me for it. I'm not too fussed about the cash: the website itself will be a very popular one as it's linked with a TV show that'll get lots of viewers and a lot of people will get to read the article. That may mean I get some paid work as a result. Still, I'll report back on that one if and when it happens.
4. And finally, I have just over a week to go before my job finishes and I'm officially unemployed. I've applied for quite a few jobs but no sign of any potential employment as yet. I can always do some temp work to fill in the gap and something will definitely come up but at the moment it does feel as though I'm in free-fall and heading rapidly towards a crash landing. We'll see. Even if I am just temping for the rest of the summer I'll still have met one of my 'resolutions' which was to get a new job by July 31st. There's just been another incident at work which highlights perfectly the reason I wanted to leave in the first place but it'll take some explaining so that'll be in a separate post.
TTFN
Friday, 28 March 2008
Gardens and Fathers
The following snippets were both written during long train journeys, which are great for reading, writing and musing, as well as spending hours just staring blissfully out of the window. On one journey I saw from the window a few gardens on the outskirts of a small town and the owners seemed to have all bought the same garden furniture, which evoked the following:
Look across the rooftops of a Mediterranean town at the monotony of the buildings - that's similarity born of necessity. Then look at the towns of England and see how each little enclave looks identical - that's similarity born of unimaginative consumerism. People pay stupid amounts of money to express their individuality and end up looking the same. It's a shame to see such precious resources wasted on something so immediately pointless. Everything is ultimately pointless as life is only short, but some things are worth the effort. A lot of it isn't.
The second one just presented itself during a moment of daydreaming:
Us 'Fatherless' sons spend a lot of our time looking for male role-models, father-figures whose lives we can ape so that we can become 'men'. We also spend a lot of time bemoaning the damage our fathers caused us by their absence, even if we do all the complaining entirely in our own minds and never mention it to anyone else. But do boys from 'complete' families really have it any better? Some do, but not all. Sometimes there's no guidance, sometimes it's fundamentally flawed. A lot of the time our fathers didn't receive any help from their fathers so how can they guide us? They were making it up as they went along. That's what we need to do, but in a more focussed fashion: picture our ideal world and then turn ourselves into people who deserve to live in it.
That's it. Neither of those was exactly earth-shattering, just a couple of pages from an old notebook that I didn't want to lose.
Look across the rooftops of a Mediterranean town at the monotony of the buildings - that's similarity born of necessity. Then look at the towns of England and see how each little enclave looks identical - that's similarity born of unimaginative consumerism. People pay stupid amounts of money to express their individuality and end up looking the same. It's a shame to see such precious resources wasted on something so immediately pointless. Everything is ultimately pointless as life is only short, but some things are worth the effort. A lot of it isn't.
The second one just presented itself during a moment of daydreaming:
Us 'Fatherless' sons spend a lot of our time looking for male role-models, father-figures whose lives we can ape so that we can become 'men'. We also spend a lot of time bemoaning the damage our fathers caused us by their absence, even if we do all the complaining entirely in our own minds and never mention it to anyone else. But do boys from 'complete' families really have it any better? Some do, but not all. Sometimes there's no guidance, sometimes it's fundamentally flawed. A lot of the time our fathers didn't receive any help from their fathers so how can they guide us? They were making it up as they went along. That's what we need to do, but in a more focussed fashion: picture our ideal world and then turn ourselves into people who deserve to live in it.
That's it. Neither of those was exactly earth-shattering, just a couple of pages from an old notebook that I didn't want to lose.
Friday, 29 February 2008
Princess Dead
I know that Lady Diana Spencer, Princess of Wales, was affectionately known as Princess Di while she was alive but we really shouldn't use that moniker now. Referring to her as "Princess Di" is too close to saying "Princess, Die", which is incredibly poor grammar. "Princess, Die" is future imperative; we should be using the simple past adjective: "Princess Dead".
But seriously, I just read an 'idea catcher' that mentioned writing about an historical event that occurred during my own lifetime and the death of Diana was the first one to spring to mind. It certainly had the most impact. I remember turning on the TV that Sunday morning and flipping in mild confusion between channels until it became obvious what had happened. Then the awful thought "Well the telly's gonna be rubbish all day" sprang to mind so I turned the TV off, put on some music and read a book.
About the same time I was a big fan of the drama 'Ballykissangel' which was in (I think) its second or third series. I hadn't seen the first one but I still got very drawn in to the lives of all the characters, especially the intensely frustrating unrequited love between Assumpta Fitzgerald and Father Peter Clifford. I was so absorbed by that little love story that I got very excited when Peter called Assumpta from the telephone box to confess his love for her and promise to renounce the priesthood to spend the rest of his life with her. Then, of course, I cried as though a relative had been run over when Assumpta died. It struck me immediately how ridiculous it was to be upset that a fictional character had died - after all, Dervla Kirwan is alive and well and earning good money providing the voice for the M&S 'food porn' adverts - but that's the effect good art can have on weaklings like me.
The disparity between the two events also became very clear - not really caring about a real wife/Mother/icon dying but blubbing like an eejit because someone I'd never met got paid to pretend to be dead for a minute or two. There's nothing truly surprising about it of course: it's a simple indication that I had a stronger emotional bond with the fictional character than with the real person. It's easy to see why so many of Arthur Canon Doyle's readers got so upset when he originally killed off Sherlock Holmes. It's even easy to see why people get addicted to watching soap operas, although I have little time for them myself. By the way, I do mean both the soap operas and the poor saps who watch them.
Now here lies the problem with trying to write something based on an 'idea-catcher': ordinarily I have a point to make, some information to disseminate or at least a minor personal story to tell. With this post I have nothing of the sort and therefore no useful way to conclude this. The end.
PS The great writer Ray Bradbury, giving advice to budding writers at a workshop, said the following: "The key is to write. A lot. If you write 52 articles a year I dare you to write 52 bad ones." I'm rather hoping I don't meet his challenge...
But seriously, I just read an 'idea catcher' that mentioned writing about an historical event that occurred during my own lifetime and the death of Diana was the first one to spring to mind. It certainly had the most impact. I remember turning on the TV that Sunday morning and flipping in mild confusion between channels until it became obvious what had happened. Then the awful thought "Well the telly's gonna be rubbish all day" sprang to mind so I turned the TV off, put on some music and read a book.
About the same time I was a big fan of the drama 'Ballykissangel' which was in (I think) its second or third series. I hadn't seen the first one but I still got very drawn in to the lives of all the characters, especially the intensely frustrating unrequited love between Assumpta Fitzgerald and Father Peter Clifford. I was so absorbed by that little love story that I got very excited when Peter called Assumpta from the telephone box to confess his love for her and promise to renounce the priesthood to spend the rest of his life with her. Then, of course, I cried as though a relative had been run over when Assumpta died. It struck me immediately how ridiculous it was to be upset that a fictional character had died - after all, Dervla Kirwan is alive and well and earning good money providing the voice for the M&S 'food porn' adverts - but that's the effect good art can have on weaklings like me.
The disparity between the two events also became very clear - not really caring about a real wife/Mother/icon dying but blubbing like an eejit because someone I'd never met got paid to pretend to be dead for a minute or two. There's nothing truly surprising about it of course: it's a simple indication that I had a stronger emotional bond with the fictional character than with the real person. It's easy to see why so many of Arthur Canon Doyle's readers got so upset when he originally killed off Sherlock Holmes. It's even easy to see why people get addicted to watching soap operas, although I have little time for them myself. By the way, I do mean both the soap operas and the poor saps who watch them.
Now here lies the problem with trying to write something based on an 'idea-catcher': ordinarily I have a point to make, some information to disseminate or at least a minor personal story to tell. With this post I have nothing of the sort and therefore no useful way to conclude this. The end.
PS The great writer Ray Bradbury, giving advice to budding writers at a workshop, said the following: "The key is to write. A lot. If you write 52 articles a year I dare you to write 52 bad ones." I'm rather hoping I don't meet his challenge...
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
The necessity of necessity
Most entrepreneurs, when making yet more money selling their autobiographies, mention the jumps or growth spurts they make when expanding the boundaries of their business or themselves. These are the moments when they're catapulted into a newer, larger arena. A place where they're the new kid, the small fish in a bigger pond. We all know that a goldfish will live quite happily in a goldfish bowl for years but it won't get much longer than about three inches. If that same fish survives being moved into a larger tank it'll grow bigger. That goldfish could even grow into a 20-inch carp-sized monster if it successfully adapts to life in a large pond. It's that move from the small and familiar into the big and strange that encourages and stimulates growth.
Geoff Thompson has said in many of his books that he draws inspiration from notable success stories like Sir Richard Branson. Richard's method of growing into something takes an amazing mixture of charisma and courage. A great example that Geoff quoted was the time when Branson bought his own island. At the time the Virgin King certainly didn't have enough money of his own to buy a whole island, he just persuaded a group of financiers to lend him the money and when he had the island he then figured out what he had to do to afford the repayments. Geoff himself used the same method (on a much smaller scale) to expand his book sales: he rented more space than he needed in order to store all the books he had to sell and then said to himself "My God, I'd better get out there and sell as many books as I can to be able to pay for this." What they both did was to deliberately put themselves in a situation where they had no choice but to grow.
Ordinarily this would be yet another post where I regurgitate a few muddled concepts gleaned from various books I've read over the years and cobble together a pseudo-intellectual take on some over-worked subject matter. However, a couple of things have come together and made a difference. Last week I was called into a 1-1 with my line manager and given a minor roasting about the decline in the quantity and quality of my work over the last few weeks. Over the weekend I thought about the situation and before lunchtime on Sunday I was already depressed about the idea of going into work on Monday. Then my girlfriend reminded me that I said way back in October 2007 that I wanted to get a new job by Christmas and I've quite obviously failed to do anything about it other than complain about my current job. (She just reminded me about my statement of intent, not the ineffective bleating I've been doing since then) Add the castigation to the procrastination and what emerged was a glimmer of inspiration.
Today I handed in my notice at work. I gave them 2 months instead of 1, partly because it always takes ages to recruit new staff and they're struggling with their workload already, partly because it gives me a little extra time to find a new job. I'll need the time because I haven't even applied for a new job yet, let alone been offered one. There's a good chance I'll end up doing yet another tedious admin job for a while, maybe even for the same employer, but at least it'll be in a different environment and I'm looking forward to something new. Anyway, the basic idea was to inject some necessity into the situation and force a change. Now we'll see what happens.
Geoff Thompson has said in many of his books that he draws inspiration from notable success stories like Sir Richard Branson. Richard's method of growing into something takes an amazing mixture of charisma and courage. A great example that Geoff quoted was the time when Branson bought his own island. At the time the Virgin King certainly didn't have enough money of his own to buy a whole island, he just persuaded a group of financiers to lend him the money and when he had the island he then figured out what he had to do to afford the repayments. Geoff himself used the same method (on a much smaller scale) to expand his book sales: he rented more space than he needed in order to store all the books he had to sell and then said to himself "My God, I'd better get out there and sell as many books as I can to be able to pay for this." What they both did was to deliberately put themselves in a situation where they had no choice but to grow.
Ordinarily this would be yet another post where I regurgitate a few muddled concepts gleaned from various books I've read over the years and cobble together a pseudo-intellectual take on some over-worked subject matter. However, a couple of things have come together and made a difference. Last week I was called into a 1-1 with my line manager and given a minor roasting about the decline in the quantity and quality of my work over the last few weeks. Over the weekend I thought about the situation and before lunchtime on Sunday I was already depressed about the idea of going into work on Monday. Then my girlfriend reminded me that I said way back in October 2007 that I wanted to get a new job by Christmas and I've quite obviously failed to do anything about it other than complain about my current job. (She just reminded me about my statement of intent, not the ineffective bleating I've been doing since then) Add the castigation to the procrastination and what emerged was a glimmer of inspiration.
Today I handed in my notice at work. I gave them 2 months instead of 1, partly because it always takes ages to recruit new staff and they're struggling with their workload already, partly because it gives me a little extra time to find a new job. I'll need the time because I haven't even applied for a new job yet, let alone been offered one. There's a good chance I'll end up doing yet another tedious admin job for a while, maybe even for the same employer, but at least it'll be in a different environment and I'm looking forward to something new. Anyway, the basic idea was to inject some necessity into the situation and force a change. Now we'll see what happens.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
One bad, one good
While sitting at home this week trying to shift the awful cold/flu/whatever I realised that due to the interruptions that have spoiled my training regime over the last month there's almost no chance of my meeting the first of my New Year 'resolutions' and I'm going to have to scrap it. When I'm well enough to resume training the cycling will have to change and I'm thinking about extending the distances to improve my endurance rather than trying to do the same short routes faster. I'll have to wing it as I don't really have a point of reference to work from. So, strike one.
Also this week I received an email from a stock photography website confirming that the three photographs I submitted have been approved for use. That means some of my work is now in the public domain and available to buy so even though it's quite unlikely to make me much money it does count as having something published. Given that another of my stated goals at the start of the year was to have three things published, I'm counting those pictures and any subsequent photos that get accepted to the same site(http://www.britishimages.co.uk/fotoweb/) as one published item. One down, two to go - then I've met one of my resolutions.
Also this week I received an email from a stock photography website confirming that the three photographs I submitted have been approved for use. That means some of my work is now in the public domain and available to buy so even though it's quite unlikely to make me much money it does count as having something published. Given that another of my stated goals at the start of the year was to have three things published, I'm counting those pictures and any subsequent photos that get accepted to the same site(http://www.britishimages.co.uk/fotoweb/) as one published item. One down, two to go - then I've met one of my resolutions.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
On having low energy (2) My take on Chinese medical theory
In Chinese medical theory, martial arts, philosophy, etc. each person has two basic types of energy: pre-birth and post-birth.
Pre-birth energy is literally that which you were born with - it's the energy levels inherited from your parents, grandparents and the rest of your ancestral line, much in the same way that you inherit some of their physical features and psychological characteristics. The amount of pre-birth energy you have is pretty much set: you can't do much to change it.
Post-birth energy is that which you take on from external sources and generate yourself during the course of your life. This energy is derived from the air you breathe, the food & drink you ingest and the exercise (both physical and psychological) that you do. This is the energy that you can add to and improve.
I won't labour the point about exercise as we all know how it works: you put the body under slightly more stress than it's used to and the stress causes some minor damage. In the recovery period after the exercise your body repairs the damage and reinforces the affected areas to withstand future stress. That's how muscles get bigger, heart and lungs get stronger, circulation improves, etc. It's also how your energy levels rise: as your body gets accustomed to the greater levels of stress and improves its overall function, 'normal' activities become so much easier in comparison that you feel more energetic.
Air is by far and away the most important one (anyone who disagrees is welcome to stop breathing for 10 minutes and get back to me later) and is usually the one that gets ignored. It's very difficult to get into the habit of breathing properly - only a few well-trained people actually manage it. Singers and people who play wind instruments do it very well as the ability to use their lungs & diaphragm properly is the foundation of their performing ability. Most of the rest of us don't even think about improving our breathing we just get on with it. However, using the whole of the lung while breathing keeps it in good working order (use it or lose it!) and even if you only do it for a few minutes a day it makes a difference. [To digress for a second: deep breathing improves your circulation, especially if you're a desk-worker. When you're moving around the heart pumps blood through the arteries and the contract/release motion of your muscles pumps blood back to the heart. When you're sitting still the muscle pump isn't working so it's the pressure of the 'fresh' blood that forces the 'old' blood back to the heart. If, however, you breathe deeply into your abdomen, the whole of your torso becomes a pump and helps move the blood around. Stretching the diaphragm like that also helps release tension in the upper body which, as the solar plexus is the emotional centre of the body, helps you to relax. On the flipside: deliberately relaxing your upper body improves your breathing as well as your posture.] If you need any more convincing about the importance of the air you breathe, try taking a walk in the countryside on a warm sunny day and whenever you get to the top of a hill just take a minute or two to deeply breathe in the pure clean air and see how that makes you feel.
Now for the one we have the most control over and the greatest obsession with: food. Think about the old adage that 'you are what you eat', well that is literally true. You eat an apple (or whatever), it's dissolved into liquid and the constituent parts separated out - some of those parts are used to create new cells in your body. That should demonstrate how vitally important food is to your general health. As to your energy levels; because of the sheer complexity of turning apples into muscle, the digestive process actually uses up an awful lot of energy. The purer the food you eat is, the easier it is digested and therefore the less energy it uses up in the process. If you ate nothing but lean meat, vegetables and brown rice you'd have a digestive system running at warp speed and maximum efficiency at all times. The minute you eat or drink anything impure your body has to work harder at digestion. That harder work slows everything down and uses up even more energy, which is why you feel sluggish and sleepy after big meals, especially if that meal happened to be junk. One of the best things you can do to improve your energy levels is to eat less junk. Now, what constitutes junk for one person may be Mother's milk for another and it can be very difficult to tell what's what. For example, when I had my first food intolerance test the results showed that I shouldn't eat celery or soya, both of which came as a surprise, as well as the usual admonition about sugar, dairy, wheat, yeast, caffeine and alcohol, which were basically to be expected. When your digestive system is working efficiently it uses up less energy while processing and because your toilet visits are more regular you're using up less energy generally because you are literally carrying less crap around with you. If you're using less energy for one thing, more energy is available for everything else - it really is that simple.
[The caveat about improving your diet is the bit they usually don't tell you: during the first 1-2 weeks while your body is adjusting to the change you will feel like hell. Caffeine withdrawal gives you headaches, sugar withdrawal causes mood swings, you'll be hungry most of the time and constantly thinking about your next meal, the food you are allowed to eat will seem bland to the point of revulsion and you'll be incredibly short-tempered.]
The overall point is this: improving your energy levels using physical means is best done in the good old-fashioned twin-pronged diet and exercise approach. I'm gradually improving my diet and when I've shifted this awful cold my workout routine will go from basic to brutal in a very short space of time but will still leave space for my increasingly important Taiji training.
Pre-birth energy is literally that which you were born with - it's the energy levels inherited from your parents, grandparents and the rest of your ancestral line, much in the same way that you inherit some of their physical features and psychological characteristics. The amount of pre-birth energy you have is pretty much set: you can't do much to change it.
Post-birth energy is that which you take on from external sources and generate yourself during the course of your life. This energy is derived from the air you breathe, the food & drink you ingest and the exercise (both physical and psychological) that you do. This is the energy that you can add to and improve.
I won't labour the point about exercise as we all know how it works: you put the body under slightly more stress than it's used to and the stress causes some minor damage. In the recovery period after the exercise your body repairs the damage and reinforces the affected areas to withstand future stress. That's how muscles get bigger, heart and lungs get stronger, circulation improves, etc. It's also how your energy levels rise: as your body gets accustomed to the greater levels of stress and improves its overall function, 'normal' activities become so much easier in comparison that you feel more energetic.
Air is by far and away the most important one (anyone who disagrees is welcome to stop breathing for 10 minutes and get back to me later) and is usually the one that gets ignored. It's very difficult to get into the habit of breathing properly - only a few well-trained people actually manage it. Singers and people who play wind instruments do it very well as the ability to use their lungs & diaphragm properly is the foundation of their performing ability. Most of the rest of us don't even think about improving our breathing we just get on with it. However, using the whole of the lung while breathing keeps it in good working order (use it or lose it!) and even if you only do it for a few minutes a day it makes a difference. [To digress for a second: deep breathing improves your circulation, especially if you're a desk-worker. When you're moving around the heart pumps blood through the arteries and the contract/release motion of your muscles pumps blood back to the heart. When you're sitting still the muscle pump isn't working so it's the pressure of the 'fresh' blood that forces the 'old' blood back to the heart. If, however, you breathe deeply into your abdomen, the whole of your torso becomes a pump and helps move the blood around. Stretching the diaphragm like that also helps release tension in the upper body which, as the solar plexus is the emotional centre of the body, helps you to relax. On the flipside: deliberately relaxing your upper body improves your breathing as well as your posture.] If you need any more convincing about the importance of the air you breathe, try taking a walk in the countryside on a warm sunny day and whenever you get to the top of a hill just take a minute or two to deeply breathe in the pure clean air and see how that makes you feel.
Now for the one we have the most control over and the greatest obsession with: food. Think about the old adage that 'you are what you eat', well that is literally true. You eat an apple (or whatever), it's dissolved into liquid and the constituent parts separated out - some of those parts are used to create new cells in your body. That should demonstrate how vitally important food is to your general health. As to your energy levels; because of the sheer complexity of turning apples into muscle, the digestive process actually uses up an awful lot of energy. The purer the food you eat is, the easier it is digested and therefore the less energy it uses up in the process. If you ate nothing but lean meat, vegetables and brown rice you'd have a digestive system running at warp speed and maximum efficiency at all times. The minute you eat or drink anything impure your body has to work harder at digestion. That harder work slows everything down and uses up even more energy, which is why you feel sluggish and sleepy after big meals, especially if that meal happened to be junk. One of the best things you can do to improve your energy levels is to eat less junk. Now, what constitutes junk for one person may be Mother's milk for another and it can be very difficult to tell what's what. For example, when I had my first food intolerance test the results showed that I shouldn't eat celery or soya, both of which came as a surprise, as well as the usual admonition about sugar, dairy, wheat, yeast, caffeine and alcohol, which were basically to be expected. When your digestive system is working efficiently it uses up less energy while processing and because your toilet visits are more regular you're using up less energy generally because you are literally carrying less crap around with you. If you're using less energy for one thing, more energy is available for everything else - it really is that simple.
[The caveat about improving your diet is the bit they usually don't tell you: during the first 1-2 weeks while your body is adjusting to the change you will feel like hell. Caffeine withdrawal gives you headaches, sugar withdrawal causes mood swings, you'll be hungry most of the time and constantly thinking about your next meal, the food you are allowed to eat will seem bland to the point of revulsion and you'll be incredibly short-tempered.]
The overall point is this: improving your energy levels using physical means is best done in the good old-fashioned twin-pronged diet and exercise approach. I'm gradually improving my diet and when I've shifted this awful cold my workout routine will go from basic to brutal in a very short space of time but will still leave space for my increasingly important Taiji training.
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
My take on Cloverfield
Now that half of the civilised world has seen the movie we're all completely engrossed in the opinionated analytical aftermath. For the three people out there who've been on a long camping trip and wonder what the film itself is like, here's the synopsis described in algebraic terms:
Cloverfield = Blair Witch Project + Godzilla + a huge sfx budget.
That's it. Don't look for anything deeper; it isn't there. Now, you could very well talk about the courage of using a single unwavering viewpoint for the entire film, something that could very easily have spoiled the whole experience, and it did actually work well - to a point. Unfortunately that point was passed very quickly and the tension gave way to boredom.
If you've been asleep for the last few years you won't have heard of JJ Abrams or Paul Greengrass and are blissfully unaware of the havoc the two men have created. The rest of us have ground our teeth through several movies that had the potential to be great but were completely ruined by their addiction to hand-held camera-work. I have a theory about this: either they saw The War Of The Worlds as impressionable children and developed a pathological fear of anything that looked like a tripod, or they're allergic to aluminium. What other reasons could they possibly have for not leaving the camera in a fixed position for more than 3 seconds at a time? Let's be honest: the second and third Bourne films would have been dynamic enough if all the movement had been created by Matt Damon's antics, we didn't need the camera to be operated by a man suffering from Parkinson's disease. The deliberately shaky camera-work of films like Cloverfield and The Blair Witch Project do heighten the sense of tension and panic that power the films along but they have the unfortunate side-effect of evoking motion sickness in anyone who's recently eaten popcorn or chocolate - not great for the cinema-going public.
Seriously though, the real problem with this style of movie is that there's no comfortable middle ground: either it grabs you and you get it, or it doesn't and you don't. I didn't.
Cloverfield = Blair Witch Project + Godzilla + a huge sfx budget.
That's it. Don't look for anything deeper; it isn't there. Now, you could very well talk about the courage of using a single unwavering viewpoint for the entire film, something that could very easily have spoiled the whole experience, and it did actually work well - to a point. Unfortunately that point was passed very quickly and the tension gave way to boredom.
If you've been asleep for the last few years you won't have heard of JJ Abrams or Paul Greengrass and are blissfully unaware of the havoc the two men have created. The rest of us have ground our teeth through several movies that had the potential to be great but were completely ruined by their addiction to hand-held camera-work. I have a theory about this: either they saw The War Of The Worlds as impressionable children and developed a pathological fear of anything that looked like a tripod, or they're allergic to aluminium. What other reasons could they possibly have for not leaving the camera in a fixed position for more than 3 seconds at a time? Let's be honest: the second and third Bourne films would have been dynamic enough if all the movement had been created by Matt Damon's antics, we didn't need the camera to be operated by a man suffering from Parkinson's disease. The deliberately shaky camera-work of films like Cloverfield and The Blair Witch Project do heighten the sense of tension and panic that power the films along but they have the unfortunate side-effect of evoking motion sickness in anyone who's recently eaten popcorn or chocolate - not great for the cinema-going public.
Seriously though, the real problem with this style of movie is that there's no comfortable middle ground: either it grabs you and you get it, or it doesn't and you don't. I didn't.
Friday, 8 February 2008
It's that pesky day job again.
I was going to try my best not to complain about work - I should be putting all my energy into finding a new job rather than bitching about this one - but we had one day this week when the sheer idiocy of the culture left me feeling as disconsolate as days of old.
It all started with a little bit of office politics. We've had something of a backlog of work for about the last 3 months because there's been a huge increase in the number of applications we've had to process (I'm talking in terms of over 30%) so of course we've been struggling. We were told first thing in the morning that we're not allowed to use the word 'backlog' as it has too many negative connotations so instead we're supposed to use terms like 'sudden influx', 'doing our best', 'everything processed in date order', etc. If the person we're talking to decides to say 'backlog' that's fine but we can't say it ourselves. There's one in the nuts for morale.
The most junior member of staff in the office, one I've referred to in previous posts as being less than efficient, takes the day's new applications down to one of the academic schools each morning. On this day she was allegedly questioned by the senior contact in the school who wanted to know more about how our office works, apparently because they're not happy with the service we provide. Now, given our lady's penchant for gossiping and rumour-mongering she could very easily have read too much into the conversation, but it's equally likely that there was some malignant political intent in the interrogation. Either way, it caused a great deal of indignant speculation which of course meant morale's decline got a little steeper.
And finally, the icing on the cake was provided by the marketing department. Apparently they've decided to test each department's customer service skills by adopting a 'mystery shopper' method, telephoning or emailing the poor victims and pretending to be difficult customers. Some of the academic schools have already received the out-of-work-actor-trying-to-get-by treatment and we've been told we may be next. Now that may be true, in which case they're a bunch of c**ts. It could be a rumour started by someone in management (or even in marketing) who thought it'd scare us on to greater heights of administrative efficiency, in which case they're a bunch of idiotic c**ts. It could even be the fabled 'Chinese whispers' created by the ridiculous internal politics of a large organisation. I think you may guess what my opinion is at this point.
It seems to me that the business-oriented management types they've now got running the place have decided that the lazy attitude that has historically existed across most non-academic staff of the university is unacceptable so they're using good old-fashioned Gestapo shock tactics to wake people up and make them work harder. Unfortunately, it also means they're creating a lot of unnecessary subsidiary work and making life difficult for everyone involved. The underlying ideology is obviously the ancient management philosophy that morale is an unnecessary component of working life.
Right, I'm off to update my CV.
It all started with a little bit of office politics. We've had something of a backlog of work for about the last 3 months because there's been a huge increase in the number of applications we've had to process (I'm talking in terms of over 30%) so of course we've been struggling. We were told first thing in the morning that we're not allowed to use the word 'backlog' as it has too many negative connotations so instead we're supposed to use terms like 'sudden influx', 'doing our best', 'everything processed in date order', etc. If the person we're talking to decides to say 'backlog' that's fine but we can't say it ourselves. There's one in the nuts for morale.
The most junior member of staff in the office, one I've referred to in previous posts as being less than efficient, takes the day's new applications down to one of the academic schools each morning. On this day she was allegedly questioned by the senior contact in the school who wanted to know more about how our office works, apparently because they're not happy with the service we provide. Now, given our lady's penchant for gossiping and rumour-mongering she could very easily have read too much into the conversation, but it's equally likely that there was some malignant political intent in the interrogation. Either way, it caused a great deal of indignant speculation which of course meant morale's decline got a little steeper.
And finally, the icing on the cake was provided by the marketing department. Apparently they've decided to test each department's customer service skills by adopting a 'mystery shopper' method, telephoning or emailing the poor victims and pretending to be difficult customers. Some of the academic schools have already received the out-of-work-actor-trying-to-get-by treatment and we've been told we may be next. Now that may be true, in which case they're a bunch of c**ts. It could be a rumour started by someone in management (or even in marketing) who thought it'd scare us on to greater heights of administrative efficiency, in which case they're a bunch of idiotic c**ts. It could even be the fabled 'Chinese whispers' created by the ridiculous internal politics of a large organisation. I think you may guess what my opinion is at this point.
It seems to me that the business-oriented management types they've now got running the place have decided that the lazy attitude that has historically existed across most non-academic staff of the university is unacceptable so they're using good old-fashioned Gestapo shock tactics to wake people up and make them work harder. Unfortunately, it also means they're creating a lot of unnecessary subsidiary work and making life difficult for everyone involved. The underlying ideology is obviously the ancient management philosophy that morale is an unnecessary component of working life.
Right, I'm off to update my CV.
Monday, 28 January 2008
Henry Rollins in Hammersmith
Hank did it again: three hours and ten minutes of high-octane story-telling from a man who matures with age but doesn't mellow. Tales from trips to Syria, Lebanon and Pakistan (which coincided with the tragic death of Benazir Bhutto) were neatly sandwiched between reminiscences of Black Flag days, previous trips to London, his latest film role, attending arena rock shows as a teenager and a recent Van Halen gig. The preparation for and execution of the Ruts gig in Islington last year were detailed, as was the attendance and participation in a Grinderman (Nick Cave) concert in San Francisco. Finally there was the obligatory pop at Dubya followed by a plea to the rest of the world to be patient with the USA - it's a country full of wonderful people with a decidedly poor government and it'll take the work of a few more presidents (i.e. years!) to repair all the damage done by the current administration.
All that with barely a pause for breath.
All that with barely a pause for breath.
Monday, 21 January 2008
On having low energy (1) Introduction
So, what do I mean by having low energy? Obviously I'm talking about myself so I'm referring to my personal energy levels. To give you an antithetical example, think about those people who are bubbly, energetic and full of life. Think about the sort who can talk enthusiastically for hours and hours about absolutely nothing but still keep you interested in their conversation; the kind of people who, when they're feeling tired, go on about how tired they are. Think about the creative people who always seem to be involved in umpteen projects or go around helping every underprivileged habitant of their local area or are simply so irrepressibly cheerful that they evoke a smile from everyone they meet. Got an idea of the sort of person I mean? Well, I'm the opposite.
I get stuck in a rut so quickly it's like I'm on rails. I've offended many people over the years by falling asleep in pubs and bars, replying to polite conversation in monosyllabic grunts or by simply ignoring people when they talk to me. I've even upset close friends by showing no interest in what's going on in their lives. At no point have I ever really been uninterested - there are few things I have more interest in than the lives of my loved ones - but I run out of oomph incredibly quickly and it all seems like too much effort. You know that saying: only boring people get bored? Well I get bored. I get bored because I don't have the energy to get off my backside and do the things that would enrich my life. My spirit gets beaten down by the mundane so easily that by the end of a tedious, soul-snuffing working day I'm good for absolutely nothing.
Here is a quick Q&A for further elucidation of my point. When was the last time you...
...got so excited you literally jumped up and down? I was 16.
...walked down the street with your best friends and felt so good you were invincible? I was 25ish.
...achieved a short term goal important enough that you punched the air in triumph? About 5 years ago when I beat a PB in the gym.
Not only are those the last examples of each incident that I can remember, they're some of the only ones. In other words there aren't many more instances I could give even if I trawled my memories.
According to my acupuncturist I have weak Heart Qi. A person with strong Heart Qi has what in Martial Arts terms would be called "fighting spirit"; in Western vernacular it would be "lust for life". In later entries I'll explain in detail about the physical and psychological causes and effects of having low energy and what I'm doing to try to combat the problem. I'll also plan the entries so they're a lot more cohesive than this one.
I get stuck in a rut so quickly it's like I'm on rails. I've offended many people over the years by falling asleep in pubs and bars, replying to polite conversation in monosyllabic grunts or by simply ignoring people when they talk to me. I've even upset close friends by showing no interest in what's going on in their lives. At no point have I ever really been uninterested - there are few things I have more interest in than the lives of my loved ones - but I run out of oomph incredibly quickly and it all seems like too much effort. You know that saying: only boring people get bored? Well I get bored. I get bored because I don't have the energy to get off my backside and do the things that would enrich my life. My spirit gets beaten down by the mundane so easily that by the end of a tedious, soul-snuffing working day I'm good for absolutely nothing.
Here is a quick Q&A for further elucidation of my point. When was the last time you...
...got so excited you literally jumped up and down? I was 16.
...walked down the street with your best friends and felt so good you were invincible? I was 25ish.
...achieved a short term goal important enough that you punched the air in triumph? About 5 years ago when I beat a PB in the gym.
Not only are those the last examples of each incident that I can remember, they're some of the only ones. In other words there aren't many more instances I could give even if I trawled my memories.
According to my acupuncturist I have weak Heart Qi. A person with strong Heart Qi has what in Martial Arts terms would be called "fighting spirit"; in Western vernacular it would be "lust for life". In later entries I'll explain in detail about the physical and psychological causes and effects of having low energy and what I'm doing to try to combat the problem. I'll also plan the entries so they're a lot more cohesive than this one.
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
New Year, New You
Yes it's resolution time and although the chances of anyone reading this giving two hoots for my plans are marginal I'm going to write in my goals for the year now and hopefully I'll be able to report back when each of tham have been attained. Certainly some of them will be mentioned regularly as I have an idea for a series of entries relating to a generic personal/medical problem I have and some of the resolutions are intended to improve that situation. As you'll see, some are specific, dated, etc. and others are much more open-ended, so obviously it'll be much easier to say yes or no to the specific ones and the others will just be reported in an 'as I feel it' sense. More than one of these are things I've wanted to do in 2008 since mid-2007 and absoutely none of them are knee-jerk reactions to the Christmas/New Year's Eve overeating and binge-drinking bonanza even if they look suspiciously like it. I'll add explanations later on but for now here's the list:
1. By March 23rd, cycle my favourite 19-mile road route in one hour or less.
2. Also by March 23rd, clear the Candida Albicans overgrowth in my gut.
3. By July 31st, participate in a mountain-bike race.
4. Also by July 31st, find a new job.
5. Have three items published, even if that's just emails/photos sent to the local paper.
6. Improve my French language skills from their sparse current state to conversational level.
7. Improve my Taiji skills by developing a very regular practice pattern (i.e. 20+ minutes a day, for at least 5 days a week).
8. Vastly improve my energy levels (see the upcoming articles about my low energy, causes, effects and what I'm doing to try to sort the problem out).
There it is. This is going to be a year of big changes. See you back here for updates.
1. By March 23rd, cycle my favourite 19-mile road route in one hour or less.
2. Also by March 23rd, clear the Candida Albicans overgrowth in my gut.
3. By July 31st, participate in a mountain-bike race.
4. Also by July 31st, find a new job.
5. Have three items published, even if that's just emails/photos sent to the local paper.
6. Improve my French language skills from their sparse current state to conversational level.
7. Improve my Taiji skills by developing a very regular practice pattern (i.e. 20+ minutes a day, for at least 5 days a week).
8. Vastly improve my energy levels (see the upcoming articles about my low energy, causes, effects and what I'm doing to try to sort the problem out).
There it is. This is going to be a year of big changes. See you back here for updates.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Love life, love live music
What a wonderful weekend of musical entertainment it was. On Saturday I enjoyed the best of English folk music and on Sunday some of the best American Metal.
Show of Hands played the final date of their autumn tour at the local arts centre, supported by an excellent exponent of American folk music, one Mr Slaid Cleaves (google that name) and his friend Michael O'Connor. Cleaves took us through a predictable and slightly samey but highly enjoyable support set that showcased some of his crowd-pleasing tracks and prompted something of a rush for his CDs during the interval. Some of the songs, or at least the stories behind the songs, dated back to the 1860's and gave us a brief glimpse into the underbelly of American life. As with all folk music this was social history told in the musical form and as such it proved to be a highly enjoyable introduction to his work and to the American folk-music experience. Any open-minded music fans who like to kick back with a drink and let the world drift by but still want to hear intelligence and passion will enjoy Cleaves as the soundtrack to their lazy afternoon.
Show of Hands came perilously close to playing the gig of the year and I think the only reason they were relegated to third place was because I knew very few of their songs before I got there and couldn't sing along. Until the gig, their breakthrough classic "Country Life" was the only one of their songs I could recognise and is so good that it counted as my folk favourite even though I'd had the pleasure of seeing Roy Harper (supported by his son Nick) and the great Irishman Christy Moore. However, when they pounded out a storming rendition of their 'patriotic' classic "Roots" the pinnacle of English folk was reached. Never before had I heard a song that stirred such depth of feeling and, as much as I hate to say something so potentially blinkered and pompous, made me feel truly English. As mentioned above, folk music is social history sung to us rather than written in books and this song makes the point: "Without our stories or our songs how will we know where we come from?" Now the reasons for their cult following are blindingly clear and as we left the gig I was skimming the tour dates to find out when I could next see them. Check their website for dates near you and get ready to enjoy a great evening of live music.
Moving up the motorway to Birmingham and the NEC, we have an evening with the incomparable Marilyn Manson. This was my third MM experience and it came close to being the best, easily outstripping the Alexander Palace gig where a poor choice of venue (only 1 entrance!) and even poorer choice of support (even the brief appearance of Iggy Pop couldn't save Peaches's set) and equalling the London Arena gig where support came in the capable hands of Disturbed. In the NEC we were treated to Turbonegro's huge nod towards NWOBHM and the overblown stage posturing that goes so well with that style of music. Having lauded Birmingham for inventing NWOBHM and the devil (yes, they really credited Brum for creating the epitome of evil) they launched into their standout track of the night "City of Satan" and verily the crowd did enjoy themselves.
When MM hit the stage after a relatively short interval and sound check he started with the first track ("If I was your vampire") of the new album ("Eat me, drink me") just to ease us slowly into the set and then got everyone singing along as the band powered through "Disposable Teens" and "Mobscene". A relatively simple stage set-up and light show allowed the band to showcase the music itself and if anyone left disappointed it was only because a full 2-hour blast of Marilyn Manson live is just enough to leave you hungry for yet more. Every studio album was visited at least once, including Portrait of an American Family and even Smells Like Children. There were a couple of 2-3 minute breaks for costume changes and to allow for one or two large props to be added to the stage for particular songs, which ended up meaning the traditional encore didn't happen. That, for me, was a thoroughly pleasant change: no daft charade where the band says goodnight and leaves the stage for 2-5 minutes while the crowd chant and stamp until they reappear for a 'spontaneous' rendition of a few more songs. With a touch of crowd-pleasing brilliance, they finished the set with "The Beautiful People". When the last bar of the song was over, the stage lights went out and within a few seconds the house lights came on. How great is that? Here's a brilliant, stomping song that ends sharply (no fade-out) and then you're done. Wham bam thank you Ma'am, the set's over; go home! If only they could have played for another hour or had a post-gig club set like Prince does that would have rounded off a truly fantastic night.
Show of Hands played the final date of their autumn tour at the local arts centre, supported by an excellent exponent of American folk music, one Mr Slaid Cleaves (google that name) and his friend Michael O'Connor. Cleaves took us through a predictable and slightly samey but highly enjoyable support set that showcased some of his crowd-pleasing tracks and prompted something of a rush for his CDs during the interval. Some of the songs, or at least the stories behind the songs, dated back to the 1860's and gave us a brief glimpse into the underbelly of American life. As with all folk music this was social history told in the musical form and as such it proved to be a highly enjoyable introduction to his work and to the American folk-music experience. Any open-minded music fans who like to kick back with a drink and let the world drift by but still want to hear intelligence and passion will enjoy Cleaves as the soundtrack to their lazy afternoon.
Show of Hands came perilously close to playing the gig of the year and I think the only reason they were relegated to third place was because I knew very few of their songs before I got there and couldn't sing along. Until the gig, their breakthrough classic "Country Life" was the only one of their songs I could recognise and is so good that it counted as my folk favourite even though I'd had the pleasure of seeing Roy Harper (supported by his son Nick) and the great Irishman Christy Moore. However, when they pounded out a storming rendition of their 'patriotic' classic "Roots" the pinnacle of English folk was reached. Never before had I heard a song that stirred such depth of feeling and, as much as I hate to say something so potentially blinkered and pompous, made me feel truly English. As mentioned above, folk music is social history sung to us rather than written in books and this song makes the point: "Without our stories or our songs how will we know where we come from?" Now the reasons for their cult following are blindingly clear and as we left the gig I was skimming the tour dates to find out when I could next see them. Check their website for dates near you and get ready to enjoy a great evening of live music.
Moving up the motorway to Birmingham and the NEC, we have an evening with the incomparable Marilyn Manson. This was my third MM experience and it came close to being the best, easily outstripping the Alexander Palace gig where a poor choice of venue (only 1 entrance!) and even poorer choice of support (even the brief appearance of Iggy Pop couldn't save Peaches's set) and equalling the London Arena gig where support came in the capable hands of Disturbed. In the NEC we were treated to Turbonegro's huge nod towards NWOBHM and the overblown stage posturing that goes so well with that style of music. Having lauded Birmingham for inventing NWOBHM and the devil (yes, they really credited Brum for creating the epitome of evil) they launched into their standout track of the night "City of Satan" and verily the crowd did enjoy themselves.
When MM hit the stage after a relatively short interval and sound check he started with the first track ("If I was your vampire") of the new album ("Eat me, drink me") just to ease us slowly into the set and then got everyone singing along as the band powered through "Disposable Teens" and "Mobscene". A relatively simple stage set-up and light show allowed the band to showcase the music itself and if anyone left disappointed it was only because a full 2-hour blast of Marilyn Manson live is just enough to leave you hungry for yet more. Every studio album was visited at least once, including Portrait of an American Family and even Smells Like Children. There were a couple of 2-3 minute breaks for costume changes and to allow for one or two large props to be added to the stage for particular songs, which ended up meaning the traditional encore didn't happen. That, for me, was a thoroughly pleasant change: no daft charade where the band says goodnight and leaves the stage for 2-5 minutes while the crowd chant and stamp until they reappear for a 'spontaneous' rendition of a few more songs. With a touch of crowd-pleasing brilliance, they finished the set with "The Beautiful People". When the last bar of the song was over, the stage lights went out and within a few seconds the house lights came on. How great is that? Here's a brilliant, stomping song that ends sharply (no fade-out) and then you're done. Wham bam thank you Ma'am, the set's over; go home! If only they could have played for another hour or had a post-gig club set like Prince does that would have rounded off a truly fantastic night.
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
From Leona Lewis to The Pogues without a pause for station identification
That's how the music on the radio has gone today. Thankfully one of my colleagues is out of the office so I've been able to turn her radio off - two of them listen to the same station via their PCs and the sound comes through with a half-second delay on one of them so not only do you hear the same song but it's not even in sync. This really doesn't help when the song itself is dire enough to be inducive to suicide by itself.
Add to that the usual lovely work issues that we're still getting it in the neck from various angles due to problems which we didn't create in the first place and I for one have had enough. I used to think that by applying myself with a high level of dedication and efficiency I could be instrumental in getting everything running properly in here. Experience has now told me that I don't stand a chance where I am and even if the unthinkable did happen and I got a higher-level job it'd just be the same old story but with longer hours and more meetings. I really do think that so much administrative work is completely unnecessary and is done just to keep people in a job. It may not be that it was designed that way, I don't think the work anyone in here does was created just for the sake of giving them something to do (although that is true in some minor cases) it's more that someone higher up, usually in a different department/organisation decided they wanted something done a particular way and that caused enough of a ripple effect that people had to be employed to process additional information just to keep that one person/group happy.
I remember reading some of Jung's travel writing, specifically the part where he visits bits of Africa and is amazed at the difference in the way people live there. According to his observations, most Europeans spend so much of their lives living in their heads (being fussy about detail, doing tedious work that's nevertheless mind-centred rather than physical, over-thinking everything due to being trained that way by the prevailing culture, etc.) that we've lost a lot of our vitality. It's this vitality which he found very evident in the Africans he came into contact with during his travels and here we are nearly 100 years later and the same is as true today as it was then. We can grin smugly about how far we've come with our technological improvements, social welfare and the overall improvement in the material quality of life but we've lost something too. We've lost that part of ourselves that links us to the natural world. Science killed superstition, which sounds all well and good, but superstition was actually created by our own psyche trying to make sense of the suprasensible world through the physical world. You cut off that link and we're floating around in our own heads feeling detached and displaced, looking for meaning. Well, some are looking for meaning, the rest are happy to fill the gap with noise in the form of drugs, alcohol, increasingly elaborate and ever more shallow forms of entertainment (see any reality TV show for an example) and an unnatural attachment to lifestyle (as though the way your house is decorated and/or the food you cook/eat defines you as a person). A lot of those who are searching for meaning shun the traditional organised religions due to their generally dogmatic approach, exclusivity issues and their overall bad press, so there are countless faceless masses defining themselves as 'spiritual' because they bought an over-priced dreamcatcher from the local hippy tat shop and like reading books by Paulo Coelho.
Ugh, here I am wasting more time complaining when all I need to do is muster up the energy to get off my over-analytical arse and do something completely different. That, of course, will have to wait until the silly season is over and I can (possibly) afford to do a job that pays less but is more fulfilling. I've already moved out of London and now it seems my 'downshift' will have to include a double de-clutch in order for something to really start happening. Until then, it's back to the day job.
Keep your eye on the door, a tsunami of tedious paperwork is about to wash our intelligence down the drain.
Add to that the usual lovely work issues that we're still getting it in the neck from various angles due to problems which we didn't create in the first place and I for one have had enough. I used to think that by applying myself with a high level of dedication and efficiency I could be instrumental in getting everything running properly in here. Experience has now told me that I don't stand a chance where I am and even if the unthinkable did happen and I got a higher-level job it'd just be the same old story but with longer hours and more meetings. I really do think that so much administrative work is completely unnecessary and is done just to keep people in a job. It may not be that it was designed that way, I don't think the work anyone in here does was created just for the sake of giving them something to do (although that is true in some minor cases) it's more that someone higher up, usually in a different department/organisation decided they wanted something done a particular way and that caused enough of a ripple effect that people had to be employed to process additional information just to keep that one person/group happy.
I remember reading some of Jung's travel writing, specifically the part where he visits bits of Africa and is amazed at the difference in the way people live there. According to his observations, most Europeans spend so much of their lives living in their heads (being fussy about detail, doing tedious work that's nevertheless mind-centred rather than physical, over-thinking everything due to being trained that way by the prevailing culture, etc.) that we've lost a lot of our vitality. It's this vitality which he found very evident in the Africans he came into contact with during his travels and here we are nearly 100 years later and the same is as true today as it was then. We can grin smugly about how far we've come with our technological improvements, social welfare and the overall improvement in the material quality of life but we've lost something too. We've lost that part of ourselves that links us to the natural world. Science killed superstition, which sounds all well and good, but superstition was actually created by our own psyche trying to make sense of the suprasensible world through the physical world. You cut off that link and we're floating around in our own heads feeling detached and displaced, looking for meaning. Well, some are looking for meaning, the rest are happy to fill the gap with noise in the form of drugs, alcohol, increasingly elaborate and ever more shallow forms of entertainment (see any reality TV show for an example) and an unnatural attachment to lifestyle (as though the way your house is decorated and/or the food you cook/eat defines you as a person). A lot of those who are searching for meaning shun the traditional organised religions due to their generally dogmatic approach, exclusivity issues and their overall bad press, so there are countless faceless masses defining themselves as 'spiritual' because they bought an over-priced dreamcatcher from the local hippy tat shop and like reading books by Paulo Coelho.
Ugh, here I am wasting more time complaining when all I need to do is muster up the energy to get off my over-analytical arse and do something completely different. That, of course, will have to wait until the silly season is over and I can (possibly) afford to do a job that pays less but is more fulfilling. I've already moved out of London and now it seems my 'downshift' will have to include a double de-clutch in order for something to really start happening. Until then, it's back to the day job.
Keep your eye on the door, a tsunami of tedious paperwork is about to wash our intelligence down the drain.
Monday, 19 November 2007
Dross warning
How lazy am I? Surely a blog is meant to be updated on a regular basis and all I've done is whine about work. Once. Well this blog is called whining and opining so there'll be plenty of that. There'll also be a lot of dross and no shortage of repetition as I harp on even more about the blandness and tedium of my working life. There should really be some ranting too but I tend to get that out of my system by emailing my best mate with snippets like the following:
I have to admit I'm getting a little tense at the moment.
It's one thing having to hand-hold someone else who's not sure what they're doing but when they gets so confused they get panicky within themselves it's even harder, especially when all the fucking useless bitch has had to do is label a few filing cabinets and organise the appropriate inserts/dividers AND she's had it explained to her several times. Funnily enough that's not the worst of it. In this case she really does get confused and stressed because she is in fact as thick as two short planks covered in a dense layer of pigshit, which is why she was demoted last year. Of course, if the management here had even half a testicle between them they wouldn't have kept her on after her probationary period was up and we wouldn't be in this situation now. You know I said this isn't the worst of it? Well, there's another woman here who gets in a flap about everything at the drop of a hat and earlier on I had to show her how to get a bit of text to show up in an Excel spreadsheet. Ordinarily that's fine; if someone doesn't know something and they ask for help it's all good, it's how everyone learns and gets by. This fucking aggravating cunt kept harping on about how cross she gets when the computer won't do what she wants and kept interrupting me while I was trying to explain things to her. In the end I just ignored her completely and did the work myself. That one is more annoying because she's a grade above me and although once again I'm happy with the idea of people not knowing something and asking for help it's the fact that she wastes countless hours of time with all the faffing and gets paid more than me for the privilege.
As Billy Connolly once so rightly quoted: "JESUS SUFFERING FUCK"
So, this will mainly be the meek, plaintive bleatings which are all I can manage when a day of sitting at a desk, shuffling paper and trying to be helpful to everyone while hiding my boiling frustration has beaten my spirit down and left me mentally drained. I do occasionally have ideas that could turn into potentially interesting reading but they always vacate the premises by the time I get around to writing things down, the same way a cat will leave the house on the day you finally remember to buy flea spray. Look out for future inane ramblings about being unfocussed (yes I'm serious), more crap about work being crap (oh yes, even more), complaints about my new bike already starting to fall apart, a real bitching about the fact I've lost around 15lb in weight since July but don't feel any better for it, and various excerpts from whichever books I'm bring influenced by (warning: I get drawn into things very quickly and I'm currently reading Jung).
I have to admit I'm getting a little tense at the moment.
It's one thing having to hand-hold someone else who's not sure what they're doing but when they gets so confused they get panicky within themselves it's even harder, especially when all the fucking useless bitch has had to do is label a few filing cabinets and organise the appropriate inserts/dividers AND she's had it explained to her several times. Funnily enough that's not the worst of it. In this case she really does get confused and stressed because she is in fact as thick as two short planks covered in a dense layer of pigshit, which is why she was demoted last year. Of course, if the management here had even half a testicle between them they wouldn't have kept her on after her probationary period was up and we wouldn't be in this situation now. You know I said this isn't the worst of it? Well, there's another woman here who gets in a flap about everything at the drop of a hat and earlier on I had to show her how to get a bit of text to show up in an Excel spreadsheet. Ordinarily that's fine; if someone doesn't know something and they ask for help it's all good, it's how everyone learns and gets by. This fucking aggravating cunt kept harping on about how cross she gets when the computer won't do what she wants and kept interrupting me while I was trying to explain things to her. In the end I just ignored her completely and did the work myself. That one is more annoying because she's a grade above me and although once again I'm happy with the idea of people not knowing something and asking for help it's the fact that she wastes countless hours of time with all the faffing and gets paid more than me for the privilege.
As Billy Connolly once so rightly quoted: "JESUS SUFFERING FUCK"
So, this will mainly be the meek, plaintive bleatings which are all I can manage when a day of sitting at a desk, shuffling paper and trying to be helpful to everyone while hiding my boiling frustration has beaten my spirit down and left me mentally drained. I do occasionally have ideas that could turn into potentially interesting reading but they always vacate the premises by the time I get around to writing things down, the same way a cat will leave the house on the day you finally remember to buy flea spray. Look out for future inane ramblings about being unfocussed (yes I'm serious), more crap about work being crap (oh yes, even more), complaints about my new bike already starting to fall apart, a real bitching about the fact I've lost around 15lb in weight since July but don't feel any better for it, and various excerpts from whichever books I'm bring influenced by (warning: I get drawn into things very quickly and I'm currently reading Jung).
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Boredom as a way of life
The other week my acupuncturist told me I'm not really suited for the sedentary desk job that I have and I need to move around more. It's great when a medical professional confirms something you already know. He also said that at least 50% of the people in this country really don't like their jobs, yet another thing I already had a slight inkling of.
When I was at University I thought the admin/support people were completely useless. Now I am one of those people I know the truth: there are just enough useless people here that those of us who can do a good job have to spend an awful lot of our time clearing up other people's mistakes. It's not a case of institutional incompetence, it's more that it's very difficult to instigate change of any sort. If they hire someome who turns out to be no good, it's such a turgid procedure to get rid of them that they're generally just moved around until they're in the place where they can cause the least damage. Of course that means we all have at least one dead horse attached to the team cart, slowing us down to a crawl.
The thing is, I wouldn't mind having a tedious job quite so much if the management here was significantly better. I've been here for over two years (but hoping to find something else by Christmas) and every time you get a bit settled you're moved into another team in the latest restructuring effort. I've been in my current team for a month and I'm only just getting an idea of what I'm really supposed to be doing. They're supposed to be providing proper training for the new employees we've just taken on but the rest of us are taught/told nothing so you usually feel as though you're having to bumble your way through everything. Job satisfaction is definitely an oxymoron here unless you've got so little going on outside work you have to live through your job no matter what.
The other thing is more to do with environment: thanks to the rampant boredom the rumour mill here is in full flow most of the time. It used to annoy me no end that people would leap on any throwaway comment and twist it into an impending calamity but it's now obvious that people do it because they need something to think about and the job itself isn't enough. This is probably typical of admin jobs: you have to pay attention to lots of small details which are 'important' to the work but completely uninteresting so your brain is not engaged at all.
I think I've just proved how boring the job is: I've written those ridiculous paragraphs of prattle and that was more interesting than doing any work.
When I was at University I thought the admin/support people were completely useless. Now I am one of those people I know the truth: there are just enough useless people here that those of us who can do a good job have to spend an awful lot of our time clearing up other people's mistakes. It's not a case of institutional incompetence, it's more that it's very difficult to instigate change of any sort. If they hire someome who turns out to be no good, it's such a turgid procedure to get rid of them that they're generally just moved around until they're in the place where they can cause the least damage. Of course that means we all have at least one dead horse attached to the team cart, slowing us down to a crawl.
The thing is, I wouldn't mind having a tedious job quite so much if the management here was significantly better. I've been here for over two years (but hoping to find something else by Christmas) and every time you get a bit settled you're moved into another team in the latest restructuring effort. I've been in my current team for a month and I'm only just getting an idea of what I'm really supposed to be doing. They're supposed to be providing proper training for the new employees we've just taken on but the rest of us are taught/told nothing so you usually feel as though you're having to bumble your way through everything. Job satisfaction is definitely an oxymoron here unless you've got so little going on outside work you have to live through your job no matter what.
The other thing is more to do with environment: thanks to the rampant boredom the rumour mill here is in full flow most of the time. It used to annoy me no end that people would leap on any throwaway comment and twist it into an impending calamity but it's now obvious that people do it because they need something to think about and the job itself isn't enough. This is probably typical of admin jobs: you have to pay attention to lots of small details which are 'important' to the work but completely uninteresting so your brain is not engaged at all.
I think I've just proved how boring the job is: I've written those ridiculous paragraphs of prattle and that was more interesting than doing any work.
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