I'm moving. Shit, I bet you're excited.

Ok, I'm moving to a different address, because I'm shit at computers and understand the other website better.

It looks better on phones, and I think I've also made it look 'more professional'. Which is good. Also means after a week of this being inactive I can recycle a shit tonne of this material.

MY NEW BLOG.

The written address is 'robperryetc.tumblr.com' but the link above will take you straight there.



Xx

Thanks, Jim. (Shane).

Today is Boxing Day. I hope you didn’t go shopping, for the sake of your own soul. Watching the news was like bearing witness to the first few hours of a global pandemic, or the coming of the apocalypse. Or the savage sacrifice of a baby animal.

I was a little bit sick in my mouth when I saw hordes of humans bursting through the front doors of Next (on TV, I didn’t go there), because a) the things they received yesterday were not the right things or b) they were the right things but they needed a shitload more of them.

At least the TV was good tonight. One of the highlights for me was the bizarre reimagining of ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ hosted tonight, by Shane Ritchie. The concept was both uplifting and exciting for TV viewers in the seventies, eighties and nineties but tonight’s perverted doppelgänger culminated in a macabre sing along where kids stood around a semi famous opera singer, not really singing, while a six year old girl hung suspended in a harness above, dressed like an angel, but looking more like a cumulus cloud motionless and ignored.

I’m not sure Shane fixed anything, but at least he gave a six year old girl an attention deficit complex.

Merry fucking christmas you bastards.

Twat

I had designs for my blog to be a regularly updated insight into the mundane but just cynical enough to be funny observations I frequently happen to come across in my day to day goings on. I left the house this morning in the usual fashion. Timed to perfection, allowing thirty to forty seconds less time per task than is comfortable. Eating my cornflakes so quickly I coughed flecks of them onto my bathroom mirror and left without cleaning them off. Anyway what I'm getting at is that I rushed, forgot my charger and therefore couldn't use my laptop to write this lunchtime. So I'm going to do it tonight.  Xx

iBorrow an iFad

I’m back once again (not this time like the renegade master), at my place of full time employment. This means that I have an hour to vent my frustrations and to get jacked up on coffee. (I know it’s not a proper addiction, but I care about my grandmothers feelings).

I spent a while deluding myself this week that I might be able to acquire an iPad on Apples  Fiona finance option, because I need one, I need one, or I’ll die. I need one because it’s exactly like my iPhone, so does all the things my iPhone does, but it’s a bit bigger. So my emails will be a bit bigger, and so will the boobies.

I quickly realised though, that in this time of financial crisis they only lend money to people that could easily buy it outright in the first place anyway. Gone are the glorious days of irresponsible lending to the poor. My monthly paper bills are testament to this and apparently they expect it back at some point. Unfortunately I have recently and selectively decided to refute the actual worth of currency and since I charge for receiving correspondence, per phone call, email, letter, bailiff visit etc., I now estimate that they owe me £20.

Anyway, here are some more realistic strategies for acquiring an iFad.

Stage one: Make all of your Christmas gifts this year. It’s free and more ‘personal’. I heard mum’s like pressed flowers on paper, framed and with a poem underneath. Where I live, there are no flowers, they all died when the atmosphere collapsed, so instead I pressed a dead bird that I kept in the freezer from ‘before’. Birds are pretty too.

Stage two: Eat out of bins. As long as no-one you know sees you, it’s not demeaning. Just think about how people will view you when you have an iFad, it’s a success indicator and worth risking your health for.

Stage Three: Mug someone physically weaker than you. Pick your target well. The person should not be able to resist you forcefully taking their iFad from them. If they do and you are unable to acquire a real iPad the other option is to buy a digital photo frame. Below is a conversation you might have and strategies for making the façade realistic:

Mug friend: Is that an iPad? You must be really successful.

You: Yeah it fucking is. Keep your hands off it or I’ll brain you.

Mug: why is it plugged in?

You: It’s fucking charging. I’ve been watching a shitload of porn. Drains the battery.

Mug: What you doing on it now?

You: Looking at pictures. On iPhoto.

So there it is, you’ve got an Ipad. And it’s all down to me.

Mistletoe and Bastards

It’s fucking Baltic outside, I’ve spent all my money on thermo set plastic mince pies and Christmas day looms like a wave of syphilitic prostitutes down a water slide.

I’m personally looking forward to the mounting pressure, the potential for driving myself into further financial ruin and the festering smell of the humans in all the great churches of modern day consumerism. (Bluewater, Norwich mall etc, etc.)

Thing is, I love Christmas; the Christmas I have at home is by far my most treasured day in a year. It’s just that I fucking despise the fact that everyone else insists on having Christmas too, because I end up on the business end of a cock slap of unreasonable desires.

Once upon a time, a shop sold some of the things you wanted, but not all of the things and if they didn’t have the size or the colour you’d just get over it, or pick the lice out of your hair. Maybe wash in a stream. The shop reserved the right to tell you to fuck off, shoot at you and to call you bad words.

Now, because I can decide which programs I want to watch on telly at the very moment I want to, can pause them for a pot noodle or a wank, rewind to the bit with the boobies, pause that and take a screen shot and make it my background, I walk around thinking everything works like that.

I can understand when stupid people expect this level of indulgence in every part of their mundane existence, they’re used to it. They don’t understand that there are still some areas of life where you can’t get exactly what you want and in a fit of tiny brain misunderstanding, they are rude. I also understand that while in my Reich I’d drown them in sack bags for their insolence, its fairly unacceptable to kill a rude person just for being rude.

So like a tiny primate, fettered by its desire to throw shit, I must continue to make myself feel better by dribbling cynicism into the void that is the internets.

Unfortunate really.                                                                                                             

Tomorrow, I’ll be talking about the issue of ‘the bills’ and winter survival for those that can’t afford heating or Christmas presents.

I've realised that I don't have a lunch break on my day off, so I might not write on here to avoid getting confusd about what day it is. There are also so short story deadlines coming up so I'll spend the time writing those and maybe post a little bit on here when I'm done. Safe.

Dragons taking some time out.

Fuck the 7%

Yesterday’s slow loris of optimism has today been mutilated by the raging lawn mower of hatred, fuelled by the blood of the innocents.

OK, so yesterday I had time to enjoy the little things, but a looming regional manager visit has turned the little things into nothing more than a distant memory. They’ve become the tiny shard of light that creeps through the shattered windscreen of a broken down car in a tunnel, amid the anarchy of a zombie apocalypse. Only, this shard of light turns out to be nothing more than a globule of undead saliva sliding it’s way down the last plate of glass you’ll ever see. And by the time it reaches the bottom your arms will have been torn from your body and your face eaten off.

It’s important to realise how these things work. Like everything else, if you understand the mechanisms- the fundamentals, it usually makes it easier to stomach the realities.

If you are an employee, and you’re boss wants more from you, the following ‘fundamentals’ come into play.

Adam works at 84% efficiency. (You are Adam) 84% efficiency does not cause Adam/ you discomfort. Adam does not think about work while he watches match of the day or cooks chicken goujons or scratches his balls.

If we then ask Adam for 100%, and let us assume 100% results in Adams death, then in the pursuit of 100% Adam will reach 91%. This is an increase of 7%.

7% more efficiency means Adam thinks about work while he watches the days goals, he stops appreciating them. 7% more efficiency means Adam burns his chicken goujons and burns his hand as he removes them from the oven. 7% more efficiency means Adam accidentally twists his testicle, causing him agonising pain and a temporary limp.

The understanding is that a boss will always ask for 100%. Thing is, they ask it knowing they won’t get 100%, but that breaking your balls for not working at 100%, will always yield the 7%.

It’s what the world has decided to obsess over, because it makes us forget about the other things. The things we really don’t want to acknowledge.

My boss wants 7%, because their boss wants 7%, because their boss wants a bigger boat. And that’s the fundamental.

Fuck the 7%. Fuck the boat and fuck Duncan and his den.

(Apologies for allowing Duncan Bannatyne to become a figure head for capitalism, especially to Duncan. Above is a photo of Duncan having fun, in a relaxed social environment.)

Peace motherfuckers. x

My bitch.

Duncan Bannatyne is my bitch.

Today, while I wondered around at work thinking about what I could write, I had visions of an account that chronicled the working mans grind. The long hours, the callous work hardened hands and the stresses of a real days labour.

Then I realised I fold clothes for a living.

Then I realised that that’s not really the point.

OK, so sometimes my brain hurts from the mundane shop chat that I’m subjected to 50% of the time. The occasional walking OK magazine that sees fit to issue Cheryl Cole’s tweet updates as and when the make the arduous journey from her brain to her Twitter account. But then I remembered that the other 50% of the time, I’m pretty lucky. I get to work with a lot of very funny people.

Yesterday someone got their head stuck in a door (Will Denton if you’re wondering). They’d invented a game during their lunch. One person stands heels to the wall and primed, the other (The technical term for this person is ‘the setter’) holds the door open until the ‘runner’ is ready.

Then it happens.

The door is released, and the runner waits, and waits and waits. The more confident runners may even turn around or close their eyes.

AND THEN BAM. It happens fast- in a frenzied collection of movements the runner throws themselves forward in a moment of daring. The heavy fire door only a foot or so from closing as they slide through the vanishing gap, like flat Stanley on crack.

The record line is then recorded on the floor in shoe streaks of rubber, the place where the door was when the last most daring left their heel poised post.

So yeah, I thought I was going to try and reach out. Say something to the disillusioned slaves of the economy, become a figure head, lead a revolution, make Duncan Bannatyne my bitch. But the more I thought about it, It’s the little things, the stupid games and Karan’s ‘ethnic banter’ that make it liveable.

What I’m trying to say is that we could be doing anything really. Selling clothes, shares, stolen goods, used underwear (we’re not, they have sanitary stickers to defend against this) but as long as you’re still able to fuck about a little bit, it’s OK. In fact, it’s more than OK. It’s hilarious. 

Slow Loris for the Bastards.

Lunch Break Re-take.

So it’s been a while. Let‘s not talk about the intervening period between the last time I wrote on here and now  in which I seem to have left university only to have found, I think, what I always dreaded. Full time occupation, a better understanding of fiscal dynamism and some lovely matching furniture.

Anyway, in many ways what better reason to resurrect a long dead blog than to whinge about the assorted grievances I now have with working full time, over Christmas, in a shop. It seems like an even easier opportunity to vent the cynicism that collects like damp on the walls of my nine to five.

Don’t get me wrong- Given the current climate, I’m lucky to have a job. And I should be happily on my way to a my first down payment on a house and the first of a lifetime of arbitrary promotions, (see earlier blogs for an explanation of these concepts and my views on them ) but the trouble is, much as I love dealing with the humans, they do turn into a proper set of twats during the festive period.

The problem is, there is a tendency (and usually among the stupid) to cater for and to adorn our loved ones with all the affection and sensitivity we are able to muster. Problem is, these same stupid people, in their pursuit of gifts to lavish said loved ones become, for want of a better words, fucking dickheads.

Just because Nathan really wants a t-shirt and the company I work for doesn’t happen to have it in size awful, doesn’t mean you need to treat me like I’ve just dribbled out from under the six day old kebab salad in your fridge. I hate to harp on, but seriously, get a fucking grip.

Anyway, here’s my suggestion for fixing the world. If there’s one sure way of thawing my icy heart, it’s videos of tiny animals doing shit like eating and holding umbrellas on Youtube, as long as the scenario is genuine and not the result of some weirdo’s orchestrated efforts to make their Chihuahua in a hat play stairway to heaven. I’m not prepared to deal with that. (I'll post an example next and you'll totally understand).

Anyway, hopefully from now on my breaks will be a time for thought, and for writing on here, so we’ll see.

Stay tuned.

All credit to Sam for anything you find funny here as it was by his suggestion that I started blogging again. Ever since the fateful day that I threw his book into a lake (See this link for a full recount, described in such beautiful and gripping fashion that summarising would only tarnish the tale). 

http://ordinarythingssmashedandreconstituted.blogspot.com/2011/06/offending-everyone-through-narrative-i.html

Obviously, thanks also to Bagnall for the account.

Peace.

It's alive. Posts to follow.