My youthful days are numbered…

Don’t panic!

I’m not terminal. Actually I suppose a part of me is. The young part. I haven’t consulted my GP but I would probably give my youth about a year before it packs up and all I’m left with is a hollow, bitter carcass. These blogs alone prove that I’m headed in that direction. I’m destined to live a life festering in my own disdain for all that surrounds me. It does seem that my tolerance for people gets a little lower everyday. Maybe one day I’ll bring an automatic rifle to work…

Anyway. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. I’ve spent a fair amount of the morning reading about Fred West on Wikipedia and my brain is a buzz with treachery.

But, I do have an actual point that doesn’t involve killing. Aside from my ever-decreasing tolerance for morons (of which there seem to be so many!) I do feel that I am not the man I once was. My attitude towards going on a night out seems to have taken a particularly big hit, as well as my resilience to alcohol.

Take this weekend for example. I went out on both Friday and Saturday night which is quite unusual for me these days. I already don’t go to clubs that often anymore. Mainly because I find the music too loud (I’m actually not joking) and everyone around me far too young.  The thought of people who were born in 1993 being legally allowed into the club just makes me feel like a bit of a paedophile for some reason.

It didn’t help on Saturday night when I was queuing up with some friends to get into Infernos in Clapham (the shame) and I realised I had forgotten my ID. I needn’t have worried. I got to the front and quickly explained my mistake, to which I got the response;

“Don’t worry mate, you look about 35”.

I felt it as well…

Of course, I’m not blind. Some of you may be surprised to hear that I do have a mirror in my room and no it’s not cracked. I’ve always looked old for my age and for a time it was a bonus. I would always get served in bars when I was under age and was moderately popular in the 6^th form with those who couldn’t get served themselves. Even if they were using me it still made me feel special. But now, looking old isn’t a good thing. It simply perpetuates the belief that I shouldn’t be in ‘young people’s’ clubs anymore.

I’m not looking for sympathy, which I imagine is fortunate. In fact I don’t even know what I’m particularly complaining about. Young people can have their sticky-carpeted clubs.

With X Factor back in my life, my Saturdays are booked out from here till Christmas anyway!

No good deed goes unpunished

Helping people is rubbish.

It’s just a hassle. And most of the time, particularly if it’s a stranger, the recipient isn’t even grateful! And yet we continue to do it because the thought of not helping fills us with fear that Karma will catch up with us, and we’ll get hit by a bus. It’s all lies. Guilt riddled lies.

The other night I performed two acts of selfless kindness and resented both of them. Like you, I don’t help people purely to bask in their praise afterwards, but some recognition is expected. It’s just polite. But both my pointless attempts at assuaging the path of Karma resulted in nothing but bitterness.

The first occurred as I got on the train at Balham late on Wednesday evening. Believe it or not, I was completely sober and just wanted to get home as quickly as possible. As I manoeuvred my way through the carriage to an empty seat, I was swiftly barged out of the way by the previous inhabitant as she got off. Clearly shitfaced. I went to sit down and spotted an abandoned purse on the seat. Her purse. My immediate thought was ‘oh great, all you fuckers definitely saw the purse sitting there but now it’s my responsibility’. And as I picked it up I got helpful suggestions like;

‘Oh no. You could take it to the police station?’

Erm, how about you take it to the police station? I don’t have time to go to the police station. It’s 11pm. I just want to go home. Fuck off.

So now I was lumbered with this stupid purse and the responsibility of at least attempting to get it back to its owner. Which I resented anyway because she’d already barged me. Bitch. I hoped that Cheam station might still be open and I could just give it in there. It was quite late but the guy that usually works there is a bit ‘care in the community’ and probably wouldn’t have realised the time.

And it was!

I gave it to the man and passed on the problem. He told me he was going to cut up the credit cards anyway which I thought was weird. Did he not trust himself not to use them? But I didn’t dwell on it. I just wanted to go home.

I headed for the underpass and the 5 minute walk home when I heard a cry of ‘Can you help me?’ in what I thought was quite an unnecessarily sharp tone. I turned around and there was an old lady carrying a million plastic bags. In my head I was thinking, enough now. I’ve done my bit this evening. Let me go home. But then the fear of Karma kicked in and I dutifully obliged. As I took the bags off her I of course looked at what was in them. At first glance she didn’t look like a tramp, but she certainly smelled like one. The bags just contained old newspapers which confirmed this.

So there I was, walking through Cheam underpass at 12pm, completely sober and carrying a tramps plastic bags full of newspapers. I got to the other side of the underpass and the hobo said ‘Are you going to Cheam Village?’ to which I said I wasn’t. Because I wasn't. She tutted and looked at me like I was lying. Like I was going to hide and wait for her to struggle away with her bags of crap while I sat on the platform laughing at the thought. Of course she didn’t say thank you.

It was at that point when I decided to stop helping people. I returned a drunk girl’s purse and got rewarded with the judgement of a miserable old tramp.

Fuck Karma.

Now, would anyone like a cup of tea?

Enough now.

The resentment is already building up inside me.

Why am I giving this topic an ounce of my time? Seriously. Why? I know I’m the only one who can control it but I feel that this is a painful issue I can’t put off any longer. The mere word sends a shiver down my spine…

Hollyoaks.

I actually shuddered when I wrote that.

First of all, let’s get this straight. I am NOT an avid Hollyoaks fan. I know you’re probably thinking ‘yeh, yeh whatever’, but trust me. I will admit that I have been partial to the odd omnibus on Sunday mornings. But mainly because I’m either hungover or my brain function at that moment of the week is roughly on a par with the intended audience, ie; spastics.

BUT.

Yesterday, despite having a fairly low brain function, it wasn’t low enough for the ridiculousness that is the current storyline. And I’m annoyed with myself for persevering with it. They should use enforced Hollyoaks watching in Guantanamo Bay. I have no doubt that suspected terrorists would cave within minutes.

Basically, there’s a murderer on the loose in Hollyoaks (snore) and the least popular girls from the annual calendar are being picked off one by one. No one has noticed that, purely by coincidence of course, a creepy old man, who seems to have unlimited access to all of the crime scenes, appeared on the scene at the time of the first murder. As I say, it’s just a coincidence though. Of course, it wouldn’t be a true crap murder storyline if there wasn’t another character who knew exactly who the murderer was. But, predictably, as she professes the guilt of the killer to anyone who’ll listen she’s met with; “I’m really worried about you. I think you need to speak to someone”.

How dull.

As I watched this story progress (at a snail’s pace I might add) I actually got exhausted with the sheer laziness of the writing. I found myself shouting at the characters for the stupidity they were each, in turn, employing. Of course, I have no one to blame but myself. I could have turned over. And undoubtedly I will watch the omnibus next Sunday morning and have the exact same experience.

And then I’ll moan about it.

Oh…

…I’ve just worked out why I watch it.

I love moaning.

I love Hollyoaks.

Kitchen Politics

I’ve debated whether or not to write a blog on this topic for a little while now. I’m always very aware that writing anything work related, no matter how tenuous, can be a risky business. However, I shall throw caution to the wind – and just change everyone’s names.

Let’s begin.

If you work in an office, like me, I’m sure you’re also acutely aware of what a hazardous place the kitchen can be. Not because of the boiling water and knives and occasional broken glass. But because of the distinct possibility that you’ll get stuck in there and have to make awkward small-talk with someone you hate.

This happens fairly regularly to me. Although I think it might be because I tend to hate more people than average…

Anyway, the key problem with the whole process is that, usually a trip to the kitchen isn’t a particularly quick affair. You’re either making tea or using the microwave or maybe making some toast. All these things take at least 3 minutes. That means that you could potentially have to spend 3 uncomfortable minutes with someone you don’t want to - literally trapped in a small confined space.

Of course, the problem isn’t just limited to kitchens. Lifts are also perilously risky, although tend to take less time.

But, my absolute nightmare is getting on a bus and accidentally sitting near or, worse case scenario, opposite a colleague I dislike. This happened to me about two months ago. I was getting the bus from Putney and sat at the back on the bottom deck where the seats face each other. I was just quietly enjoying the Bizarre pages of the Metro when this cow from work came and sat opposite me. She worked in the department that I had since moved from but we had nothing to say to each other even when I did work there.

I’ll give you a brief description of her. Must be pushing 40, was probably quite attractive – once. Unfortunately still thinks she is. Wears really inappropriate clothes and talks like a horse. That’s probably as much detail as I dare go into. She sat opposite me and we definitely made eye contact, although obviously we would both deny that if we had to. I buried my head in the paper and she looked at her phone. I imagine checking her account on Cougar.com. The journey took an extra 20 minutes that day because of road works but I daren’t lift my head from the paper. I must have read an article about Cheryl Cole at least 10 times. I am now an expert.

I actually considered putting the paper down and saying:

“Look, you don’t particularly like me, I don’t like you. Let’s acknowledge each other but not speak again.”

But as much as that would have been immensely satisfying, the consequences weren’t really worth it. So we sat there for the entire time pretending not to notice each other. I listened to my voicemail over and over again. She did the same, until we got off and I walked at a snails pace to avoid catching up with her. I was so relieved to get to work. I swear awkward situations seek me out. Maybe I should be more tolerant.

Nah...

Phew. I’m knackered after writing that. I could really do with a coffee.

But is it worth the risk?