In short? A fucking LOT…
So guys, my job no longer consists of me listening to loads of amazing music all day long, rating it, talking to the artist and generally loving life. No, those days are long gone.
For a while now, my job has mainly been a variation of hoovering, sofa-cushion poofing (that’s plumping to some of you), dog walking through a field of fuck-off huge bulls, porn and of course, posting up tons of content for you lot on here. Which, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy, but in all honesty, all this free time is not what it’s cracked up to be. It doesn’t allow me to get out much and the pay is pretty bad… well the pay is nothing actually so yeah. You get the idea. I’m currently a bum with a blog. Yeah, a bum with a blog, that sums it up nicely…
So praise be to me when, last week, I finally got a response to one of my job applications!!
No more hoovering!! No more dog walking!! No more bulls!! No more porn… less porn? Probably the same amount of porn… In fact no more everything to do with being sat around the house on my arse staring blankly at a computer screen!! The only thing that I won’t be downsizing on is this here sweet old bloggins. I couldn’t be stopping that now could I!!!??
Now I’ll be a big working man with a blog!! WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
02. Garden Centres
So I was tipped off by a family member that Garden Centres might be a good place to hit up, in turns of spaces becoming available for the Christmas period. What with all the Christmas Trees that will need selling and all. They’ll be needing extra hands! Y’know? Because I’m so good with trees and all that…
So I went about my business googling up all the Garden Centres in the area. Which turned out to be one of the funniest things I’ve done in a while. Why? Reviews!!
So you use Google Maps as your Garden Centre search engine. You get all those little drop pins showing you all the places around whilst at the same time conveniently showing you how far away they all are. Hover over a drop pin and you get the business title, a short summary of the show, perhaps a pic and if you’re really lucky, a review!!
Stanway Garden Centre (Stanway) –
“This garden centre has a coffee shop and the waitress in the coffee shop suffers from Tourette’s syndrome and randomly shouts out offensive words ie (f**king c**k sucker) which does not make for a very relaxing atmosphere”
“Awful souless place. A shed at it’s worst.”
Gnome Magic (Colchester) –
“£4 to see a few statues in someone’s garden. An absolute waste of time”
Bay Tree Garden Centre (Stisted) –
“Garden centre is great – that’s where it gets its stars. The area with animals is charged at £2 per adult There is a price for children but we did not have to pay for our child as he is under 2. For £2 you get to see a couple of budgie’s, some chipmonks, loads chickens, a few pig’s and sheep. Oh and a turkey! There are some picnic tables and a nature walk but we did not do that so can not comment. We felt it would be better to make the farm area donation to visit, then I would not of felt so conned giving over £4”
What is it with all these cheapskates pissing over 4 freakin’ quid? You paid two pounds each to go into an animal zone… in a garden centre… in Stisted… the fuck did you expect? A few walrus and a camel? It’s two pound mate and you got what you deserved, you’re going to spend £20+ going to see Madagascar 3 with that child of yours and that’s hardly going to be any better now is it?And finally, here’s the start of but sadly un-viewable comment for…
Barnplants Garden Centre (Stanway) –
“popped in for coffee with a friend only to find a lower class family …”
Nice to see the divide of social classes within the UK still going strong…
Anyway, I digress.
So I find out that none of these places are actually taking on any extra Christmas Tree staff. My tip-off was faulty! In fact they’re not taking on any extra staff, period.
“Yeah of course, I’m always smelling fresh!” I say, I’m a big working man, what the fuck does she expect!?
“Well you don’t smell too fresh. Are you sure they’re not gone off or something?” She says making a wince face.
“What!? Yeah of course not!!” Oh shit man, that spray’s been in my room for a good year, this was my first time using it, I like to go through my sprays one-by-one. And ahh snap! Most of that year it spent living on the windowsill. It was only recently I found out that windowsills are not a good place for sprays. The sun makes them go bad fast or some shit. It’s been residing in a safe place on my draws for a while now but… but maybe it did go bad in the sun or maybe time has just taken its stinky toll… or both!?
“Well no, we only came from the house. Have you not trod in pigeon shit or something?” Above our driveway loom the branches of a huge great oak and pigeons are forever bombing my mums precious, shiny, shiny Merc. It’s pretty funny. The damned things a convertible too and come to think of it, the amount of times I’ve seen it parked up on the drive with the soft top down. She’s just asking for a trip around Waitrose with a big ol’ patch of pigeon poo on her arse.
“It smells like cat shit!” She scorns. We’re still driving by the way. Poo on my shoe, edging slowly away from my house and a my other Clean pair of Smart (but slightly annoyingly, for the situation, taking dress ethics and the job I’m applying for itself into account, Too Smart!) Black Shoes.
“What!? With these shoes!? Mum no, can’t we just turn around and get another pair!?” It might be cutting it but what else can we do. This is precisely the sort of situation, maybe not one that we’d foreseen but definitely what we’d given the extra driving time for. I am not so much seeing the funny side of it but more the side of being late for my interview and stinking of shit.
“Well not really darling we don’t have time…” WHAT!?!? NO TIME!?!?! BUT I THOUGHT WE’D MADE TIME!?!?! Well if there’s no time for clean shoes there’s no time to argue.
“OK well can you please just stop so that I can get this stuff off!?” All of this has happened as we’ve driven the hundred yards of my road. Luckily, at the end of it lies a triangular green. Perfect for de-shitting my poor un-changeable shoes.We pull over. I jump out. Start rubbing my shoe against the cold, dewy, morning grass. The poo’s coming off. But mud is now coming on, complete with strands of grass that stick to the sides of my shoe like green racing stripes. This is getting ridiculous now. I do the best job I can at avoiding grass and mud whilst un-pooafying my shoe. My best job, in my hurried, panicked and pissed-off state is a far stretch from the best job that could have been done.”Look! Look at what the grass has gone and done!” I say wagging my muddy, grass, shit-foot as I get back into the car. “Well don’t step back all in it!” Comes the very helpful reply from my mum…
“I know! I know! I can see it.” This is not going well at all. At least it’s better than it was.
“So you’ve managed to get it off then?”
“Well most of it, I think, it’s just all muddy and grassy now… fucks’ sake…” I sigh. She’s really starting to giggle now.
“Oh c’mon Josh, you must be able to see the funny side of all this?” She chuckles.
“Well yeah but, I’m more worried about turning up to the interview with shoes that look like this… oh please can we just turn round mum we’re only up the…”
“No darling we’ve got to go…” she says between sniggers. As we pull onto the main road the cackles begin. The classic mum hooting. Loving how funny it all is. She fucking loves toilet humour and this is toilet humour at its very best.
This, with some age, would be almost identical to the face that I had to deal with…
Ahh it still stinks!! We can’t work out if it’s the carpet or my shoes. I can still see what looks like the brown shade of the poo smeared along the side of my shoe. It’s hard to tell if it’s mud or poo but I’m taking no chances. “There should be some tissues in the glove box darling…” She giggles. There’s no tissues in the glove box. “Oh! My bag, have a look in my bag.” She says. “Oh god, you’re going to have to go smelling like… smelling like cat.. cat poo!! Ahahahahahaha!!” She cries! This is the best morning mum’s had in a long time. It’s possibly my worst.There are tissues in the bag. Well, not quite tissues, but wet wipes, a league better than tissues. These bad boys have got cleaning juice stuff in them and smell of cleanliness too. And not only that, there’s three packs of the fuckers! Perfection. Now there’s just the awkward task of maneuvering my foot, whilst in a moving vehicle that’s traveling at speed down winding country roads, from the clean spaces of carpet, around the brown stained spaces, up from under the dash and over my leg into a prime wiping position. All without getting shit & mud on the car or worse, on me.I somehow manage it. My poo foot has manoeuvred the impossible obstacle course and it’s now just a case of cleaning it all up. First wipe comes out. I attack the bastard shoe with everything I’ve got. These wipes, they’re small, it’s a bit of a challenge in itself not to get any filth on my fingers. I have to pace my attack. No good getting the shoe pristine if I’m going to have to shake the womans hand (and she sounded like a young woman on the phone.) with stinky poo fingers, what sort of horrible misguided thoughts could that lead her to think of me!? I wipe gently and I can see I’m making a great bit of difference, but the wipe is starting to create a foamy white lather. With mum becoming increasingly more hysterical and with wipe after wipe slowly cleaning, but very quickly generating a blinding layer of foam, shielding the dirtied areas from sight, my heart is dying. My life seems an endless flurry of disaster. When things go good, when one glimmer of hope is shone my way, something always comes along to quickly smash and destroy whatever good there was and all light of hope rapidly fades to nothing but dark black misery… and it’s always fucking hilariously unfortunate.
A boy, lost and forgotten.
Trapped in the cruel vice of misfortune.
Will I ever be let go?
Will I ever feel sweet release?
I am a big working man.I live only in life.Life is what you make of it. I intend on making my one worthwhile.Peace.