So it was time to take to the streets and start visiting new flats...
No. 33 22: Kitchen with a view...
First up, I had to meet Carvalho, the estate agent who was to show me around the first of our shortlisted properties. I like the word properties as I think it makes me sound like a real grown up, as opposed to my actual gangly, overgrown-12-year-old self. After being stood outside number 33 rue Jevais pasdire for some time, I was beginning to wonder if he'd even show up. To pass the time I enjoyed a bit of people watching where, over a period of only 20 minutes or so, I saw the following:
A 50-something year old bloke dribbling profusely as he walked, leaving a spattering of spittle on both his coat and the pavement;
A young guy walking with that bizarre gangster bounce that saw him hop/skip with every second step as though a metronome was knocking on the door of his prostate. Might also explain his aggressive rapping at a volume just short of shouting. I felt it was unfair the way his behaviour sent the messages, "Everybody look at me" and "Don't you dare fucking look at me" at the same time. It made me uncomfortable;
A family laden with what looked to be their year's worth of food shopping. The mother and daughter seemed to be mercilessly taking the piss out of the teenage son as he carried what looked like twice his weight in groceries. I witnessed him burst into tears and strop off in a bid to escape their taunts. As the devil women passed me, they casually stopped to laugh about it like I was in on the joke. Of course, I nodded and smiled to maintain the pretense that I both understood them, and wholly agreed with the way they'd laid the foundations for the boy's inevitable emotional breakdown in the future.
The only person I saw that looked remotely normal was a bloke that was mincing up and down the street as he muttered into his phone. He came complete with baby shit brown brogues, a purple file-o-fax (who knew they were still in use?) and an overly fussy scarf that flailed in the wind as he went about his business. I wasn't sure if my short time people watching had exposed me to a fair sample of the local population, so remembering where it is I come from, I kept an open mind [Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C. On the up side, Corby's facilities have actually been compared to those of Paris in the national news].
Burly French man chucking a baby in the bin.
As I pondered the circus I found myself in, a burly French bloke (they do exist) emerged from the lobby of number 33. He approached in that lumbering manner that all needlessly muscular people seem to, scowling and eyeing me suspiciously as he did so. There was no 'Bonjour, ça va?' Instead, some quiet but ferocious sounding words seethed from the chiseled piece of granite that was his face. I couldn't make them out and so decided to gamble by responding to his opening gambit with a cheery shout of "Carvalho!" as though we were all friends that hadn't seen each other in a while. I offered my hand to cement the greeting, but he looked at me like I'd just come in his mouth. When, after a painfully long awkward pause, he still didn't shake my hand, I guessed this probably wasn't Carvalho (turns out he was the gardien of the building). I tried to explain in the minutes that followed just what on Earth I was doing there, but the size of his forearms and his immovable frame rendered my French even more hopeless than usual. He didn't even bother trying to make sense of my rambling, choosing to return to his lair without so much as another grunt! The shrug of his shoulders as he turned away suggested that all I'd manage to communicate was that I was a useless English wimp that couldn't cause any trouble even if I wanted to. A couple of hundred years ago, I'd definitely be the sort of child they put in the bin for having no possible use in battle.
Minutes later the real Carvalho called me on my mobile wondering where I was (by this time I was severely late); turns out I should have been at number 22 and not number 33 (The Real Girlfriend isn't perfect after all!). So I hurriedly made my way down to 22, and was delighted to see who was waiting for me; it was only the guy with the puppy-shit brown brogues, the purple file-o-fax and the rather fussy looking scarf. Up close, he had a 14 year old girl's moustache and an appearance akin to an underfed, bronzed Tim Henman drowning in wet look gel. And so, feeling some masculine pride return, I shot him a cheery "Carvalho!" like we were old friends, shook his hand and followed him in to the flat. It wasn't awful but it wasn't a particularly nice place either; there was a building site view, horrendous mirrored kitchen cupboards and a uselessly small lift - Carvalho practically had his head up my arse on the way back down to street level. Even though I wasn't bowled over by the place, I was a beggar not a chooser, so I left him our file, shook his moisturised hand again and said my Saluts. All in all, I was glad to be leaving number 22. I hoped the next viewing would be more up my street with a few less nutters.
...and 'original' features.
One thing that did occur to me as I handed over our however, was that it really did contain all manner of personal and financial information. All the sensitive stuff was in there; copies of passports; bank details; wage slips - pretty much everything but a stool sample! Should I, or anyone else for that matter, hand such things over so willingly? Carvalho seemed nice enough but was a suit and a set of flimsy business cards really enough to warrant total trust and confidence in him not being a crook? Shouldn't there at least be more admin to go through? Sure, it's a nuisance, but there is some comfort to be had when dealing with paperwork, terms & conditions and the like. I would like to see an office, some filing cabinets, maybe a potted plant, cheap company biros, a computer, a desk tidy and the mandatory jobsworth that looks like boredom personified sitting behind the desk. But no no, here in Paris there is none of that: no record of them taking your information; no receipts; no data protection disclaimers; no identification. Not a sausage. And I've since been told I won't even get the file back whether my application is successful or not. If I had any money for them to pilfer, I'd be slightly concerned about it. With my level of student debt, you'd be better off breaking into the five year olds of this world's piggy banks if you want to make a quick buck. Honestly though, if you want to run an identity theft racket or be a professional con artist, forget silly emails from Nigeria, just come to Paris and say you're an estate agent. Desperate mugs like me will be more than happy to give over all the information you need so long as I get a 5 minute viewing of a poor-to-mediocre flat. Madness.
Anyway - one down and God knows how many to go. Hopefully the second viewing will be better...
My moving to Paris a little over 6 months ago was quite sudden and spontaneous. Very little thought went into the logistics and planning of the move and I think I grossly underestimated just how big a change it would be. But having found a job and a basic, but not insignificant grasp of the language, things are a little easier; I haven't exactly steadied the ship, but at least the seasickness has subsided... for now. Things could be better however, and that is why myself and The Real Girlfriend* have decided it's time to look for a new flat that will improve our general day to day lives (I wanted to say 'time to jump ship and look for a new flat', but I didn't want this to become an entry laden with nautical analogies). You see, unfortunately for m'lady, she was burdened with my arrival and was practically forced to take me in. Come to think of it, I'm not sure we ever actually discussed where I would live if I decided to move to France; it was more a case of me assuming that was the plan as I turned up on day one with a case full of my crap clothes and a stupid look on my face. I wonder if she ever regrets that...? Either way, I have been living in her flat ever since it's been lovely...
All in a day's work for Mezza**.
... Except for the fact it's not really a flat. Strictly speaking, it's a studio apartment for one, but what that really means is it's a glorified cupboard that happens to have a 'shower' fit for a contortionist's act and a kitchen that could pack away into your average rucksack (Which reminds me - bloody marvellous). It's barely big enough for one person, so it's lucky all I arrived with was a guitar and some clothes - the majority of which have to live in a box under the bed (in filthy piles in the corner). My dignity is intact however, as a carrier bag has been kindly reserved for all my delicates (skid-stained ball rags), to be shoved lovingly to the bottom of a wardrobe. The toilet squeezes itself in next to the shower, but despite the bathroom door's best efforts to make it seem like an entirely separate space, it is still only a mere 6 or 7 feet from the bed we sleep in. One can well imagine that the phrase, "You might want to open the patio door dear" is heard quite frequently. In fact, if there's a hell, I may well be on my way for subjecting another human being to the sounds and smells of my body ridding itself of the digested remains of 8 pints of weak, pissy lager and a cheap kebab. The stench can make the living quarters less than pleasant (As a side note, since when has hair around the arse been a valuable evolutionary trait?). That said it's probably going to take a whole lot more than an extra 15 or so square metres to spare the nostrils of anyone unlucky enough to share a place with a bloke - after all James 'Mezza' Meyrick has been known to poison the air of whole houses before. Maybe The Real Girlfriend will have to get used to that side of things...
Scatological issues aside, the fact that we have only one room in our current place throws up a few additional 'difficulties'. For example, if The Real Girlfriend wishes to watch one of 'her shows' (I refuse to name them as I don't want fans of these shows stumbling across my blog with a keyword search and potentially littering the place with their defence of such tripe. I know that would require a little more notoriety on my part, but I'm taking no chances). You see, like any other human being I would rather not partake in something that is likely to make me claw my own face off in an attempt to mush the insides of my head to deactivate my brain. And sometimes this is how 'her shows make me feel' so I have limited options. I either: leave; sit on the balcony; sit on the toilet; or have something blaring through some earphones for the duration of the nonsense. In today's society, cosmopolitan though it may be, leaving the flat generally requires putting some clothes on so I'm not a fan of that option. Sitting on the balcony in winter is mental, and as much as I like going to the toilet, it's a difficult place to be if I've made a recent deposit to the Banque de la Jobby. But then the earphones aren't a perfect solution either: there is always going to be a quiet moment in whatever I'm listening to that allows the odd punch line/morsel of canned laughter/interminable singing to weasel their way in through my sonic barrier and subsequently defile my ears. Of course, there are always two sides to these things, and I'm quite sure listening to me watch numerous football matches at the weekend (where the only thing more brain dead than the 60,000 thugs banging and hooting incessantly, is the deranged pair of monkey spastics they've let loose in the commentary box) isn't her favourite thing in the world either. Trying to resolve the issues seems futile as we'll never see eye to eye on the matters; and besides we don't even have the space to let any passionate and explosive (aka French) argument culminate in one of those dramatic door slamming finale it deserves. Instead we'd have to get up, stomp the feet and sigh a hell of a lot before taking our place at the end of the very same bed with the maximum amount of disruption caused to the other. Doesn't really give the desired effect and makes it hardly worth fighting in the first place. If you think
So I'm sure you agree the need for a bigger flat is obvious - just for the bath alone (watch above video now if you haven't already, and do things in the correct order next time - it's there for a reason). Unfortunately, that means flat hunting in Paris, which I'm told is more than just your average pain in the arse; seems this is a proper sphincter-stretching-with-sharp-edges type pain in the arse. The demand for accommodation here is so high, the landlords can be as choosy as they like when it comes to their future tenants, which leaves desperate clowns like myself jumping through hoops to meet their approval (or rather The Real Girlfriend being forced to do the hoop jumping for two people as I am an idiot). I don't wish to be quoted on it, but I was told that there are up to 60,000 empty flats in Paris just because the landlords can wait for prices to rise that little bit more before selecting the tenants they will be fleecing for the foreseeable future. Even then it's ridiculously judgmental; having the wrong name, nationality, sexuality or even job can be held against you - whether you can afford the place or not. It would make colouring in your own scrotum with a tattooist's needle seem like a quick and easy procedure. It almost feels like you're seen as shit throwing, fire starting maniacs until you prove otherwise, so we're left to scrape together every last piece of evidence to show that we're worthwhile citizens. Thankfully The Real Girlfriend has meticulously prepared a file containing all manner of items in order to make us seem like the perfect tenants and not the aforementioned defecating pyros. We also managed to shortlist some flats that matched both our criteria: For me, a balcony so that I can sit out in the sun in the summer months wearing nothing but a guitar and some sunscreen for my tattooed ball bag; for The Real Girlfriend, enough space to be able to accommodate friends and host parties - which I guess we would be nice. And so last week, armed with our file and my infallible English charm, I was sent to view them a couple of places.
I don't want to drag on too much, so you'll have to wait to find out how I got on.
Cheery bye.
*I wanted to abbreviate this to TRG, but read aloud, it could sound too much like the word 'trog'. ** This is a genuine photograph from the man's toilet, and this was on a relatively clean day. A real man's man one could say.
Every day, I'm faced with what are surely two of the most awful things man can be faced with; a diabolic pair of events whose daily inevitability fill me with dread and misery.The first of course, is hearing the chilling sound of my alarm and having to tear myself from my filthily delightful pit. It seems to get harder every day, with no amount of extra dozing time ever enough to ease the pain of waking up. The sole consolation is knowing that I have a cosily small shower to squeeze into afterwards where I can enjoy the forgiving caress of warm streams of pH neutral magic and the associated steamy goodness it rustles up. But like everything in life, the pleasure can only ever be temporary. Whilst the shower is a wonderful comfort to me after the ordeal of getting out of bed, it can't last forever. In fact it's usually just as I'm finishing up rinsing (the bobbies and the leg hair are hotspots for soapy congregations) that the fact I'm due to encounter the second most difficult thing of the day dawns on me. That of course is drumming up the will power to leave my humid paradise and face the bitterness of cold air meeting sodden skin. There is no consolation waiting for me on the other side of the plastic door. No shower for after the shower. Al I have to look forward to is a fit of shivers, goosebumps, and a shrivelled little worm for a penis. That said, the first two have been allayed slightly by the recent acquisition of a towelling robe - not since Milli Vanilli has something been so bent yet so tremendous at the same time. I should point out that it's white. But I didn't source the robe myself of course - it was kindly offered by 'the girlfriend' (probably sick of me moaning about the shower situation) and fetched and delivered by two of our lovely neighbours. So if anything my wearing it is a sign of gratitude, and my bentness should be excused. Although it'll take a lot more than a €22 Ikea bath robe to help me with old wormy! Either way, the thought of having to get out of bed and the idea of having to leave a warm shower a bit later on, haunt me every day whether I have slept well or not. They are made infinitely worse in the winter.
Should bring in the readers eh?
I hate the winter. It's colder, darker and wetter than the rest of the year which makes the thought of going outside seem plain stupid. Rolling over in the morning to see that uniquely grey, Parisian sky sucks the very life out of me. If I believed that this world was "designed" by a higher power, I'd feel pretty short changed at these moments. Let's imagine Maurice De Sully, who basically oversaw the construction of Notre Dame Cathedral, talking to God. We'll call him Mo.
Mo: Alright God mate? Cheers for making me and giving me life and that. The world's pretty good as well actually, cheers.
God: No worries Mo. I had nothing else on anyway.
Mo: Yeah sound, sound. You're a good bloke. Say thanks to your wee boy as well. I want to make it up to the pair of you. Can I take you out for a beer and that yeah?
God: Nah nah, sorry mate. Sounds like a good ol' night out but the missus has been on at me for going out too much lately. No can do.
Mo: Ahh really? Gutted pal. Well let me know if there's anything I can do. Still need that sofa shifting?
God: Nah did that last week. Got the boy to do it. About time he got off his arse and did something! There is one thing you could help me with though...
Mo: Yeah? What you after mate? I aint got any more of the Golden Virginia left if that's what you're after pal. Sold it to old Pope Alex didn't I?
God: Pope Alex? Pipe Alex more like!
Mo: Or Dope Alex!
God: What?
Mo: Nothing. Yeeaaaah Pipe Alex though. Ha ha. That’s a good one boss!
God: Ha yeeeah. He's always getting the last of the baccy though isn’t he?! But nah it wasn't that anyway - I'm trying to cut down on the fags - the missus, you know like.
Mo: Well you know what they say, you only live forever! Ha ha
God: Yeah I know mate! Try telling her that! Jesus, women eh?
Mo: Yeah yeah say no more pal. Under the thumb!! What can I do for you then?
God: Nothing major mate. Just wondering if you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of your life building me a nice cathedral on the river bank eh?
Mo: Errrr. Well. I guess I do owe you for everything I’ve got. Go on then, as it's you. It's a favour mind, and a pretty big on at that. If I don't get it done before I pop me clogs, can you promise me the best views of it from heaven? I want you to really go to town on the way this thing looks against the sky and all that.
God: Yeeaaah yeah, course pal. No bother.
(Skip forward about 200 years. Old Mo has popped his clogs and it looks like God is off the wagon)
Mo: Alright chief. Couldn't let us in could ya. Bloody freezin' up 'ere.
Pearly Gates Guard: You on the list?
Mo: Yeah yeah should be mate. Name's Sully, Mo Sully. Might be down as Mo 'skull it' sully.
Pearly Gates Guard: Ahh yeah, there you are. Silly Skully Sully, ha ha, I 'eard about you and your drinking ha ha. Man after me own heart! Straight in, up the stairs pal. Happy hour's still on if you know what I mean ha ha ha. No trainers next time though, eh?
(Mo goes on in to The Pearly Gates Inn to see God. Finds him upstairs in his office)
Mo: Woah bloody hell. It's a mess in here pal.
God: (in a drunken squeal) She left me. She bloody left me.
Mo: What?! Woah woah, slow down. What's going on? I thought you quit the drinking...
God: Said I'm boring... and I have self-esteem issues! Said she can’t keep giving me the self-assurance that I need. Said she wanted a tougher guy. Ran off with that Satan fella from down the road. Why do women always go for the bad guy? (sobs)
Mo: Hey hey. It aint so bad. Maybe it's for the best? She was bossing you around, telling you to give up the booze. You remember the nights we used to have in the 1200’s eh? Beer, wine, angels up to our eyeballs. The good ol' days!
God: (sniffling, quietly) Yeah they were good weren’t they...?
Mo: (softly) Yeah, yeah. And look (points around the room) you've got your own pub and everything now. You always wanted that didn't you? And the Cathedral's just about finished. Shall we have a look eh?
God: (suddenly) Oh, yeah right the Cathedral. Err, maybe not now though, you know not as i am?
Mo: Come on, it'll be good for you - finally see the old slag finished eh? ha ha. Let’s have a little loo... WHAT THE F..I can’t beli…Oh for God… Jesuuuus! Fucking Hell mate!! What've you done with this fucking sky? 30 odd year I put into this bloody building, not to mention the poor bastards who rotted whilst doing this up for the following 100 bar years! All I wanted was to see it finished and set against one of those sunsets you said you’ve been working on! You’ve let me down fella!
God: I know I know. It's the drink! I wasn't thinking clearly. It's a mess an...
Mo: Too fucking right it's a mess. What've you done? Sloshed a brush in some drain water and just fucked it all over the place? Jeez... It's... a..I...I don't know what to say mate. You've let us all down! It's the most depressing thing I've ever seen!!
God: (head in hands) I know I know. I'll fix ii, give me some time, I..I..err.. Spring time! I'll have it fixed by Spring I promise!
Yes this may be a little over the top and a fairly long winded way of describing something (might be a little blasphemous as well, but take it with a pinch of salt!), but once I started I struggled to stop. Maybe I'll write a book involving my depiction of God. Seriously though, if the Parisian cityscape in winter was an actual painting, I wouldn't want to look at it! It's as though the artist has spent hours meticulously crafted the beautiful buildings and architecture, then got bored of the piece. And so, lacking the patience to do the sky any justice, he's just sloshed a monotonous dirty white all over the top of the canvas in a "Fuck It" type manner. The lack of depth or variation in colour gives it an unnatural and thoroughly depressing look which does nothing to improve my general feeling of weariness in the mornings. Fallacies have never been so pathetic (I'm sure I've stolen that last 6-word line but I can't remember exactly where from. It's not word for word plagiarism, but it might as well be. Just so you know). I won't bother going into to much detail about how much I hate snow and those who pray for it to fall as I can see I'm already digressing a little. Just be assured that I do hate it and am sure it doesn't look so pretty when you're falling arse over tit on the stuff. Sure, Charlize Theron looks pretty, but would seeing her beauty up close and personal be worth it if it meant she proceeded to bugger you with a duty free sized Toblerone? It's probably best no one answers that - I simply trying to demonstrate how much I hate the weather in winter.
The last few weeks however, have been really rather lovely despite the weather's best attempts at scuppering my holiday plans. As I've fluked my way into a relationship (a real one with a real girl and everything) I was lucky enough to attend two excellent Christmas parties - the contrast between them couldn't have been more severe.
Christmas Party
La Féte de Noël
Location
In the heart of the 17eme just a short walk from Arc de Triomphe.
Good Points: It’s located right next to a bar which kept us ‘warmed up’ until the pary started at around 7:30pm. The 17eme is quite a well to do area which is nice for someone who is from Corby.
Bad Point: Dog shit fucking everywhere – sick of it.
On the other side of the Arc de Triomphe in the 8eme arrondissement.
Good Point: It’s a business district so is pretty swanky. Makes me feel like a slicker which feeds my arrogant side.
Bad Point: It’s a business area so it’s full of genuine arrogant slicker types that have much more money than me.
Venue
The reception area of the language school I teach in.
Good Points: Familiar; laminate flooring so no worries about spillages; good central heating; free champagne.
Bad Points: No waiters so had to get own beer from fridge and pour champagne myself; quite small so got very hot in there.
Some hotel
Good Points: Impressive high ceilings; exquisite décor; large dining area and separate dance floor; waiters topping up your drink whenever necessary.
Bad Points: A bit too posh for me – never felt totally at ease; it was a bit of a bloody maze in there so was worried about getting lost; there was a dance floor which meant I had to stand at the side while everyone had fun. They have the same bollocks disco music in France, and the same ‘uncle-at-wedding’ dance moves. Hideous.
View from the building
One window showing the inner courtyard of the building and the offices opposite. The fag ends are meager bushes were a delight to behold!
Stunning view of the St Augustin church made all the more dramatic by the lighting and the snow (I know, I know – but it was Toblerone up the arse time after that, believe me)
Attendees
Group of Anglo teachers mainly, with the odd French employee dotted round to add a little class to the proceedings.
Good Point: Obviously know how to party and don’t mind cutting loose.
Bad Points: Someone there is sure to have remembered everything that was said and done, so any embarrassing moments will come to light (none so far); I’m the youngest and so the piss is dutifully taken out of me.
Highly skilled engineers and salesmen from a technological start up that looks like it’s about to hit the big time.
Good Point: As they were nerdlingers, nobody was forthcoming or particularly social meaning small talk was almost nonexistent for me.
Bad Point: Nerdlingers they may have been, but they were all shitting money (some of them very, very young) which made me seriously consider my own life choices.
Starter
A good few pints at the bar next to the school. It’s time like that I feel that I am winning at life.
Some fish with some bright bluey/green sauce and vegetables around it. Obviously ate just the fish and then tucked into the bread. Served with a cheeky white wine (I’m sure that’s not how a wine reviewer would describe it, but it’s all the same to my under developed palate)
Main
Champagne, beer and a handsome little piece of homemade quiche. All of which was most welcome and appreciated.
Possibly the finest chicken I’ve had (so fine I didn’t even know it was chicken) with rice and some kind of curry flavouring. Served with some of the red coloured white wine. Tasted like white wine but more differenter.
Dessert
Scoffed about a kilo of homemade cookie bars and washed ‘em down with some more grog. It was one of those “stood in the corner alone with your eyes half open, unashamedly gorging on whatever your pissed up self can find whilst swaying and dropping crumbs everywhere” moments. Definitely winning at life.
A plate of 4 desserts which were all lovely. A few more glasses of champagne and the chocolate from the obligatory coffee that comes at the end of al French meals. Obviously left the coffee. Why anyone likes it is beyond me. I think it tastes like smoke.
Entertain-ment
None provided (as far as I can remember), but I seem to recall a few teachers having their own little sing song session towards the end. No music, no backing track – in fact no accompaniment at all. It was every bit as good as it sounds.
A cheeky little music quiz (which our table won thanks to my girlfriend and her savant/shazam-esque music knowledge) and a DJ. Quiz was great (bottle of champagne thank you very much). DJ was a DJ.
Après
Carried on the party with those committed to the party cause, butchered some Cult songs on the guitar whilst sipping Cognac… which is disgusting (What was Boycie thinking?) before hailing a cab home and getting in just before 3am. Teaching the following day was brilliant.
In one of the most cosmopolitan capital cities, we failed to hail a taxi and had to trudge in the snow for nearly two hours in order to get to a night bus that was still operating in the ‘adverse’ conditions. Ms Shazam was wearing Christmas Party shoes as she obviously wasn’t anticipating the walk so the atmosphere wasn’t pleasant. Rest assured dear, the pain you felt in your feet was comparable to the pain I felt behind my eye balls as a result of your complaining! (I hope enough time has passed for me to get away with that one)
Verdict
Given the choice between the two, I think the first party is more suited to my persona. As much as I enjoyed the fine dining and swankiness of the 2nd party, for me all you need are some pals and some liqueur in order to have a bloody good time. That is how I know I’m scum. Et fier de l’être.
I also managed to get back to Blighty, albeit 24hrs later than expected thanks to the "snow chaos", for a few more festive drinks. What better way to celebrate little JC's birthday than getting pissed eh? It's what he would've wanted what with his water/wine shenanigans. The ultimate capitalisation, some would say, on the gifts he was given. He inspired me to write a little poem - you have to read it just right to get the syllables to fit the rhythm but hey, I'm no Lewis Carroll;
There was once a man called Jesus,
One of Earth's outstanding geezers,
To have a good time,
He'd turn water to wine,
And from our inhibitions, he'd free us.
Is that blasphemous...?
Whilst at home I enjoyed the annual Boxing Day pilgrammage to Storm Nightclub. It was here I heard the greatest sentence of my whole holiday. The place was crowded with an equal spattering of underage tarts (shouldn't that be an oxymoron?) and knuckle dragging meatheads. Some were dressed in tracksuit bottoms and hoodies, others in the latest Henleys T shirts nicked from TK Maxx. As my frustration at the lack of brain cells in the room just about hit its peak, the DJ asked (presumably to 'gee up' the masses), "are there any unemployed bums in da house?" This was met with such rapturous applause and thuggish screaming, it was both hilarious and frightening. Never has a town been so accurately summed up in such a short space of time; a tragic lack of ambition with no idea what opportunities are there for them if they want them. John Stuart Mill wrote, "it is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied". But as the majority of these people probably think that Socrates is a club or a new weak as piss, fruit flavoured spirit, maybe it would be best to just let them continue to wallow in their own shite, grunting and squealing like the farm animals they are (not sure if I want that to be a metaphor or not). They know no better, and so why not leave them in a state of blissful ignorance? It's like when I see a dog or cat licking its own genitals or eating shit; awful, but it's what they do. As long as it doesn't affect me, I can live with it.
In fact I have decided to try and keep this in mind from now on in a bid to lighten up. It's the new year afterall isn't it? For now at least, the greyness of winter is fading and the skies are starting to brighten (literally - I'm not going all hippy). Also, I don't go back to work for another week and a half and am writing this as I wallow in my own little filth pit. To all those back at work already, I have two words; the first is "Ha". Joking aside, I hope my 9 followers have had a lovely Christmas and would like to wish you all the best for the coming year. If you're a pig/fool and you're satisfied, brilliant. If you're dissatisfied in any way the seek to change it, but I think I'll leave the motivational speeches to the experts...
