It's Fate. Part II.

I knew it couldn't possibly last. Sod's law has counteracted fate in the form of me dropping my phone on the floor last night and breaking the screen. Apparently I'm not allowed to have more than one nice thing at any one time.

Looks like I'm going to have to make one of those gay 'I've lost my phone' Facebook groups. Watch this space.

Balance has been restored.

It’s Fate.

Tomorrow, I will take delivery of a Macbook. It’s a second hand black one. Remember the one I mean? It’s awesome. It is about 5 years old so it’s hardly cutting edge, but I don’t mind – for finally I will achieve closure on one of the most harrowing experiences of my life.

Some of you might remember that I used to have the exact same Macbook. I spent almost my entire overdraft on it right at the start of uni and it was fantastic. People laughed at me for spending with such reckless abandon but I didn’t care, for I had a thing of beauty – while they had a thing of poo.

I cherished it and cleaned it meticulously – right up until the day I accidentally smashed it to pieces.

It was Christmas 2009 and I was back home from uni. I had just started my dissertation and was doing the standard procrastinating. Whenever I had a deadline or exam it would always seem like a really good idea to move all the furniture around in my room. It would take a really long time (which was good) and be vaguely satisfying – even if it actually looked better before. And this day was no different.

I decided to move my bed first of all. I started to heave the mattress off the frame (not particularly gracefully) and then it happened. I still remember the crunch. I had managed to knock my TV – which was on a bracket – off the bracket and directly onto my open laptop on the desk below. I couldn’t see exactly what had happened because the stupid fucking mattress was in the way, but I knew. As I pushed the mattress away a feeling of sheer dread hit me. Had I seriously just done that? Why the fuck did I think it was a good idea to move my bed? 

WHY ISN'T THERE ANYONE ELSE WHO I CAN BLAME?!

The Macbook was in bits. The TV had landed directly on the hard-drive so I lost everything. My music. My photos. And a couple of thousand words of my dissertation. I guess it was a bit retarded that I didn’t have an external hard-drive but I just didn’t think about it. And now it was too late. I didn’t cry, but it was touch and go.

I attempted to get it fixed at an approved Mac shop but it started getting too expensive and I gave up. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It was completely useless but I was too attached.

HOWEVER.

Now, fate has reunited us. A friend from work advertised on Facebook that he was selling his old, black Macbook. However, the battery could do with being replaced and it needs a new charger cable. This is why it must be fate for the only two things that survived my destruction were the battery and the charger cable!

So very soon I will have my new (old) Macbook up and running and I will be a happy man.

Time to shift some furniture perhaps?

If I knew you better, I’d tell you to shut the fuck up.

For those of you who don’t know, my new thing is rowing – or sculling to be precise. Yeh that’s right, I know the lingo. I joined a club a few months ago and consequently added a second barrel to my surname – I’m now called Alexander Huntington – Cuff. Sounds good doesn’t it? I’m also considering buying a peerage. Sir Alexander Huntington – Cuff. I should be on Downton Abbey. Wooo the new series started last night!

 I don’t get it…

Anyway, my dreams of period drama acting aside, I actually really enjoy rowing and would thoroughly recommend it to anyone who hates the gym as much as I do. Basically anyone who would rather watch Deal Or No Deal on repeat than get on a cross-trainer. Noel Edmonds is such a weirdo, but preferable to spinning… just.

On Saturday, I faced my biggest challenge yet. I took part in the Great Thames River Race. (No I hadn’t heard of it either.) You start in Canary Wharf and row all the way through central London to Ham near Richmond. It works out at about 22 miles so it’s pretty hardcore. I think about 350 crews took part ranging from brick shit-house Norwegian Vikings to thoroughly unimpressed 14 year old girls. You won’t be surprised to hear our ability erred more on the 14 year old girl side. But it was still really good fun and satisfying to finish – without sinking.

We only had one pile up but we did manage to involve 3 other boats! After all, if you’re going to fuck up, you might as well do it properly. And this is where the theme of this week's blog stems from – believe it or not I do have a point.

Stressful situations with strangers.

It’s a minefield. I only knew one person in my crew and the others were all colleagues so knew each other relatively well. But as the weather turned and the novelty began to wear off, tempers inevitably frayed. I was at the front so it was my responsibility to set the rhythm for the people behind me. I can do this. It’s not difficult. I do it twice a week. But unfortunately some of the people behind me seemed to find copying a bit too complicated. However, rather than just sort it out, I would get cries of;

‘Alex, you’re not in rhythm!’

‘Erm, I’m setting the rhythm. If we’re not going at the same rate then that’s because you’re not in fucking rhythm!’

…was what I wanted to say. But these people were strangers. I don’t know the etiquette. They were perfectly nice when we were on dry land but became aggravated bastards on the water. So I had to suck it up. It was galling but what could I do? I was the outsider. As much as they clearly didn’t share the view, I didn’t want them to hate me immediately. I'm used to it normally taking a couple of days at least.

So be warned. If you ever agree to take part in an event with a bunch of strangers that could prove stressful, mentally prepare yourself beforehand.

Don’t intentionally steer your boat into 3 other boats in the hope that some of your crew might fall overboard…

I know you’re just doing your job but…

What are the chances?

I’m not the most sensible person in the world when it comes to money, but I’ve never been hounded by debt collectors before. And yet, I currently have two debt collection companies hounding me for entirely separate claims. That’s right – two!

One of them is for some lapsed AOL payments (I didn’t know they were still in existence either) since March 2011 for an address that I haven’t lived at for over 5 years. I’ve so far received some lovely threatening letters and had some delightful conversations with Dave in the Woking office. Now Dave is either just having a laugh or he is actually a certified retard. My gut instinct says retard. No matter what I say or how much I simplify my language he doesn’t understand. So far, the highlight has been when he asked;

“Do you know a Harvey Cuff?”

To which I replied;

“Yes, that was my dog's name. He’s dead.”

Now, at this point, you would expect there to be some sort of muffled laughter at the ridiculousness of the error or maybe an apology, but no – I was met with this response;

“Why did you open an AOL account in your dead dog's name?”

Are you fucking kidding me…?

I was so baffled by this question that I genuinely didn’t know what to say and put the phone down.

The other claim I’m currently battling is from the gym in Cheam that I used to be a member of. We're in dispute over the final months payment but I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just get upset again.

However, the claims company did put something on one of their equally threatening letters that made me smile. They’re called S.R.J Debt Recoveries Ltd and at the bottom of their lovely letters, they sign them off with the company name.

See below;

How can a company have a signature? Are they like Skynet? Should I expect some sort of Terminator to come over to my house demanding payment under the orders of its evil computer overlord – SRJ?

Idiots.

So now I have to deal with the hassle of two separate moronic debt collection companies. The novelty of patronising idiots on the phone has long since worn off and now all I’m left with is this hollow sense disdain for anyone who works in the industry.

I know they’re only doing their job but….. FUCK OFF!

The merits of doing nothing

Ok, ok. So I’m writing another blog within two days of the last one. But I did go to Rome last week so you were deprived of one of my pearls in all fairness.

It was lovely by the way. Thanks for asking…

It gave me a wonderful opportunity to do absolutely nothing. Which was awesome. Seriously awesome. I think some stupid people confuse doing nothing with boredom.

They’re not the same.

Boredom is imposed upon you by forces beyond your control. Boredom is not a choice that you can opt-out of. Boredom is why I write these blogs.

On the other hand, doing nothing can be magnificent. It’s a decision, not an imposition. Think of the endless possibilities that doing nothing enables. Think of the bountiful array of cat videos on Youtube waiting to be watched (they’re my new thing). The freedom to catch up on whatever crap programmes you’ve missed over the week while you’ve been forced to do ‘something’. The infinite opportunities to talk absolute shit without consequence. It’s beautiful. I love talking shit so much.

On Sunday, I watched 6 hours of 30 Rock. That was it. Nothing else happened and it was great. I laughed. I cried. I didn’t have to speak to anyone annoying. I worked out that by the time it gets to 7pm it’s just like a normal weekday – that was a mistake. But overall I loved it. I’m not the kind of person who feels the need to jam-pack my weekend with activities. I don’t travel across the country to catch up with old friends and I make a point of not going to London unless it's absolutely essential.

I sit.

Doing nothing is so underrated.

………….bored now.

Must try harder

I hate meeting new people.

It’s so stressful. And I’m crap at it as many of my prior blogs will attest. I find it hard to remember the names of people I’ve known for years, let alone the name of some weirdo who I’ve no intention of seeing again. I don’t like people who are overly friendly either. It makes me uncomfortable and always leads me to the conclusion that they’re planning on murdering me – in my sleep.

Apparently meeting new people is supposed to be an enriching life experience. You can learn from them and develop as a human being. You can broaden your cultural awareness and revitalise your attitude towards life. Bollocks. Most people I meet are entirely incompatible with me due to a combination of personality disorders (theirs and mine), speech impediments, stupidity and weird mouths. They have dull names and dull interests – like the weather and their favourite type of bean (I’ve actually had that conversation). Unfortunately it can take some time do discover this incompatibility and quash the stillborn relationship which makes the whole trauma even more depressing.

I would love to be more honest with new people and for it to be acceptable. If I could skip the false pleasantries and move directly to witty repartee (or not) then I would be a happy man. But no - ‘society’ says that’s rude. How is not wanting to waste yours and someone else’s time rude? I’m not suggesting you tell them to fuck off but surely your time is better spent cultivating existing relationships that you know to be worthwhile rather than flogging a dead horse?

However, sometimes I think that maybe I should make more of an effort. Occasionally I wonder if I've deprived myself of some wonderful relationships simply by killing them off too soon. But then I go on Youtube and watch a cat video and forget about it.

I’m sure that there are some great people out there who, due to my intolerance, I am destined to drop too soon. I must try harder. Meeting new people will improve my social skills and general attitude towards humanity as well I’m sure. But I wont enjoy it. It will be a struggle that I will have to endure.

And anyway, I don’t want too many friends. I may have to drop some of you if I meet anyone new who I like.

I wouldn’t fret about it too much though...