"You've had a wonderful life" My claims advisor had told me, having gleaned that pearl of wisdom fom my CV. Of course like all CV's it merely accentuated the positive. All those disasters and mistakes over the years never made it to the final draft, never mind the interminable hassles that life forces us to endure. She was of course trying to win my approval for her state sponsored rebuild of my appearance, character, and history, in the vain hope I might actually become employable. Little did she know that my lucky rabbit's foot would strike again and I'd get a job by my own efforts, unemployable or not.
Is my life wonderful? That's an interesting question. It is true I've done things many people never will, but then again, the price was high. I've lost out on many aspects of life that those same people take for granted. Okay, the decade of being an aspiring musician gave me some purpose in life. And the following decade of fast cars and flying aeroplanes was very enjoyable, thank you very much. The following decade of unemployable mediocrity and occaisional disaster hasn't been quite so fun, no matter what Eva believes.
Is my life wionderful right now? Erm, no. I'm doing a job that is the most physically demanding I've ever undertaken, at a relatively unfit and unhealthy fifty plus. Not well paid or secure, either, not to mention being forced to use a bus to get to and from my home, which for me is tantamount to raising a white flag. Truth is I'm just not used to going home barely able to walk. On the bright side, I can of course thumb my nose at Eva, my domineering and ignorant claims advisor. Maybe life ain't that bad after all.
Pallet Man
Having to cope with my persistent cold means I've taken to imbibing some much needed Lemsip during my lunchbreak. I hate the stuff. True, it helps me get through the day, but the taste is foul. They say medecine only works if you can barely swallow it. Hard Hat, my afro-carribean colleague who believs NASA overlooked him in the race to land on the moon, noticed I was getting abit drowsy. He generously offered me a can of some energy drink or other. I don't usually have much time for the stories of how these drinks affect people, but ye gods, that on top of Lemsip did the trick. I feel myself changing... Growing stronger...
Stand back mortals. I am now Pallet Man, superhero and defender of the oppressed warehouseman. Up up and stack 'em!
Wonderful Life Of The Week
Right now I'm sat at a computer cubicle at my local library. Next to me is the same guy I always seem to be sat next to, irrespective of when I actually sit down for a couple of hours. He looks sort of like Bilbo Baggins evil twin brother. I wouldn't ordinarily take any notice but he talks to himself all the time. I get a running commentary of his internet activity.
Almost as annoying as BFL, and the last time she sat down beside me (obviously losing a struggle with Gibbering Baggins for that accolade), she very loudly proclaimed what she was doing and moaned when she couldn't. It's been several years and she still hasn't got the message that I'm not interested in being her best friend.
That lady who moans about my presence at the library moaned at me again today. And last night, a lady on the bus demanded to know where I got my travel pass from. Why, the bus fairy, of course. All I have to do is lay down a large sum of cash on a particular desk and it magically appears in my hand. Easy.
Woo hoo! 2015! Yeah. 2015. Who would have thought we'd make it this far? What with the Nostrodamus prophecies of global apocalyptic disaster, global warming, outbreaks of Ebola, christians preaching the return of Jesus and mysterious disappearances, the relentless advance of the electric car, my unemployment benefit payments cancelled, no heating in my home, and finally discovering that being more than fifty years of age really does mean you have to resort to a bus pass.
The other day I had a phone call from somebody. Not sure who it was, but they enquired about my involvement in a road accident two and half years ago. Hang on... That would mean the summer of 2012... I haven't driven a car since 2008, which means the only auy I could have gotten involved was if I had driven through a time-space anomaly, the sort of thing my claims advisor stops a claimants money for. Wow. Some accident.
New years Resolution
I faithfully undertake not to have so many car accidents.
Bird In The Hand
"Look!" Said the slovakian forklift driver, pointing toward the edge of the racking. Yes. I can see it. What's the big deal? I mean, it's just another piece of rubbish on the floor. I'll pick it up as I go by...
"No, look!" He insisted. Then I saw what the big deal was. Not a piece of rubbish, but an actual little brown bird, sat there on the squeaky pale blue dusty floor, trapped in a strange rectilinear forest of cardboard, wood, and steel that we know as a warehouse. I know how it feels.
A Pop Song Too Far
I happened to catch a television documentary the other day. All about those Swedish superstars, Abba. You know, they may not be exactly the coolest artists to remember from the seventies, but face it, without them, where would Brotherhood of Man be?
Truth is I found listening to all those familiar hits from long ago difficult to deal with. So synonomous with my formative years that all those uncomfortably embarrasing memories of being an awkward teenager came flooding back. It wasn't that I had any particular fantasy about the two lovely ladies (and none about their male partners), it's just that Abba were everywhere in those days. Television, radio, music stores... Inescapable.
Of course these days I'm a bit older and now I've reached the age where being embarrasing is fun. Such as my guitar playing, military surplus trousers, and a complete inability to balance when the bus is in motion.
Mystery Of The Week
So now if you'll excuse me, I have another episode of Star Trek related entertainment to wait for. In the meantime I sit there watching the Father Dowling Mysteries. Not that the program entertains me you see, it's just that I live in hope I'll catch the episode where Father Dowling finally succumbs to temptation and seduces Sister Stephanie on one of their late night stakeouts of the villains HQ. I know this sort of thing goes on... I've listened to Abba lyrics.
Three weeks of winter mayhem they promised us. We do tend to get wintery weather second hand from the States, albeit weakened by its long journey across the Atlantic, and the news reports of deep snowdrifts over there certainly seemed to confirm our impending doom. So what happened? We've barely had a cold day and it's end of December. No white Christmas then. And now the weather warnings are telling us to expect more winter mayhem. In fairness it does seem that some of us are being stopped by snow. Is there any other country in the world so completely unable to cope with a few flakes and icy conditions?
License To Kringe
Someone at work said you can always tell it's Christmas when a James Bond movie gets aired on television. That might have been the case ten years ago, but high definition digital tv has pretty much destroyed the significance of MI5 and their loveable assassins in our xmas celebrtations. I'm suprised there isn't a James Bond channel by now. Or perhaps there is. I've got so many channels on freeview now that finding something I want to see is turning into anything between a desperate search for the lost entertainment and a nail biting agonising decision over which program is the one to watch. I never knew being a couch potato was so stressfull.
Now I come to think about it, Christmas seemed to be a bit muted this year. Even my local supermarket didn't start their annual assault on the nerves with Christmas Hits Of The Last Century until they had two weeks to go. Just enough time to fit them in on a never ending loop interminably then. Not that I'm complaining mind you - one of their shop assistants said hello to me for the first time since I started shopping there twelve years ago. Just another step on my ladder to fame and fortune I guess.
I don't know about James Bond movies any more, but certainly at Christmas there's a sudden outbreak of singing and busking. Sure enough this hapened just recently. A smiling rastafarian making the worst racket you've ever heard on some badly tuned tin drums, a small choir in the town centre who hadn't realised that singing in tune sounds better, and a down and out guitar player who repeats the same song over and over just to pass the time of day. It wasn't all bad. There was an amusing puppet mandolin player (the actual player was in an oversized backpack).
Funnily enough there were none of these people around when a police car idled by along the pedestrian way.
No Deal Of The Week
According to the letter from the Department of Work and Pensions, they can't pay me the benefits I claimed from November. Cute. So I exceeded the terms of my Jobseekers Agreement by an order of magnitude, conducted a consistent jobsearch record even when I wasn't being paid for it, and accepted an offer of paid employment way below my level of skill, education, and experience. Worse, I suffered accusations of fraud, defamation of character, and found myself financially coerced into a deal that pretty much amounted to enslavement.
Sorryy Eva, but you should have been honest. You reneged on the deal, not me. Lord Rail is back.
Happy New 2015!
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.
It’s traditional at this time of year to have a sort of review of the past year, outlining key events and so on. Since I did bugger-all of any worth whatsoever in 2014, I won’t waste your time. Instead, I’ll tell you what I’d like to achieve in 2015.
As ever, for those that don’t really know me (which is all of you – this blog is kept strictly a secret from anyone I actually interact with, just in case they laugh at me), some context will be required before I tell you my dreams and goals for this year.
When Young OfClayton (That’s me. Pay attention!) hadn’t had the joy and ambition ground away out of him by life, he went to college, full of dreams and aspirations for a bright future (what a gullible and naive git he was). His first year at college was utterly wasted because most of the time he should have spent learning stuff was actually spent playing snooker. Anyway, through what must’ve been divine intervention, he actually passed his exams and his coursework and was accepted for a second year on the course. The course was a sandwich course, and the second year was spent working. This was good for Young OfClayton, because your evenings and weekends are your own, and nobody gives a shit if you waste them on non-productive pursuits. The third year saw Young OfClayton back at college, with a very different attitude to the waste-of-space that barely scraped through his first year. Things would change this year; no more would I waste my time playing snooker. And true to my word, I didn’t. Instead, I wasted my time playing ‘Elite’.
I feel I must explain what Elite is, though I’m sure 90% of my audience are familiar with it. It was a video game played on the BBC Micro. It was the original and seminal space trading game, in which you played the pilot of a spaceship. The aim (unsurprisingly) was to fly around and shoot things. It was a really, really playable game that you could easily become totally immersed in. The graphics were ground-breaking, the universe it existed in was believable, the action was thick and fast. It was . . . just . . . totally . . . frickin . . . awesome. And I played it a LOT.
As an aside, there is now a new game called ‘Elite: Dangerous’. This is effectively the same game, by the same people, but brought up to date. If the ‘white-lines-plotted-on-black’ of Elite was awesome, can you imagine how awesome it is when displayed using 21st century computer graphics? Mere words just cannot do it justice. It is the Mona Lisa, The Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Beethoven’s Vth, Grand Unified Field Theory. It is a thing of unrivalled joy and beauty to behold.
So, what are my hopes and dreams for 2015? Basically, I aspire to spend every hour not spent sleeping or pissing, playing that game. However, I know deep down in my soul that this ambition is never meant to be. Mrs OfClayton won’t let me. I haven’t asked her, but I know she would never allow it; what sane woman would? Instead I shall have to squander my time fulfilling my responsibilities to my wife and household, earning the respect of my community, and being a productive member of society. What a waste!
Today is Christmas Day, so I've obviously planned my twice fortnightly blog really badly. It's traditional for those addressing a group at this time of year to offer up an appropriately festive greeting, and so I offer the following to you, dear readers.
1. Christians. “Merry Christmas.” (I bet you’re mortified at what your solemn religious date has become)
2. Observers of non-Christian religions. Sometime around now, I’m sure you guys have your own particular it's-past-the-mid-winter-solstice-so-things-can-only-get-better celebration (do let me know if your particular religion doesn’t. I’m interested in that stuff). So, “Happy it's-past-the-mid-winter-solstice-so-things-can-only-get-better celebration!”
3. Non-religious folk (northern hemisphere only – antipodeans have sunshine already). Keep your head down and think of Spring – we’ll get through this thing together.
Anyway, it’s also traditional to give gifts, and I have a gift for you all. Seriously. You doubt me? Here we go.
I am the following three things:
A fairly frequent flier
Tall
Owner of a weasel-like mindset
Numbers one and two cause me misery when the [obscenity deleted] in front reclines their seat. Number three has provided me with an easy and free solution that I will now share with you. Please pass this round to all your friends, tweet it, put it on Facebook, etc. I would be delighted if it went viral.
Before the aircraft starts moving, familiarise yourself with, and practice the actions that follow.
As soon as the aircraft is off the ground, take out the In Flight magazine. Read it if you will, but the main reason for taking it out is as a time saver for number three. Don’t let reading it distract you, because number three must be done very quickly.
AS SOON AS the seat belt light goes off, drop your tray table. You will see it is supported by an armature at either side.
Place the In Flight Magazine on the tray table with the spine away from you, overhanging the left or right of the table by about 5cm
Slide the magazine firmly forwards, allowing it to drop off the far end of the tray table and downwards.
Apply downward pressure on the spine to ensure it is firmly wedged between the armature and the seat in front. It is now physically impossible for the passenger in front to recline their seat.
Put headphones on, and pretend to be asleep if they get up.
DO NOT recline your own seat – it would make you a hypocrite.
I expect to be trolled by lots of people saying, “I paid for a reclining seat, and it would be wrong of you to deny me of that.” (Except they would liberally sprinkle those words with Fs, and Cs, and probably call me Hitler – and the spelling and grammar would be appalling). Some may even threaten to rape/kill myself/my family.
That’s fine – the internet is a free medium, and free speech is paramount. But trolls should consider this before posting: Imagine aircraft seats were designed with a little switch in the back (operated by the passenger in the seat behind), to lock/unlock the reclining mechanism. In what position would you place that switch, for the seat in front of YOU?
Enjoy your gift. It will last you a lifetime.
Although I've already mentioned I'm currently a dustman inside a warehouse, the company did briefly try me on unliading containers. That's where I got the bruises from, both physical and ego related. It turns out that my age and physical fitness have somewhat reduced my ability to handle boxes in excess of twenty five kilos in weight. There's quite a few of them packed into a typical container. Some are more a hundred kilos. Help.
Of course I'm not working alone. I joined a bunch of cheery youths engaged in the task of unloading. One lad vanished deep into a gap between boxes to help push them out. Obviously a former housebreaker, he was quickly nicknamed 'Gerbil'. I on the other hand inevitably got called 'Grandad'. Cheers guys.
Another chap happened to be in the wrong plae at the wrong time as a box corner buried itself into his groin. "Mind the penis!" He said, somewhat concerned for the continued safe operation of his anatomy. "Nah, you don't need it." I quipped, clearly stung by references to my advancing age.
Later on he noted my wheezing helplessness. "I'm not young any more" was my excuse. With some artistic license he replied that he was twice my age and hence my excuse was invalid. "Twice my age?" I answered, "That's why you don't need your penis". Warehousing is such fun.
Houston We Have A Challenge
One of my colleagues is a very laid back afro-carribean chap. So laid back that the word horizontal loses all meaning. Imagine my suprise then when he told me he liked a challenge. Pardon me? Face it, you're not NASA material. He insisted he could be.
Houston - "Ahh, Apollo Thirteen, we have some strange readings back here. Is everything okay up there?"
Astronaut - "Housten, we have no problem at all.
Houston - "Right. We're showing oxygen leakages. Please confirm."
Astronaut - "Oh yeah. Sorry 'bout dat. Heh heh..."
I have to work with this guy. Not that any work gets done.
On A Mission
One of the team leaders called me over. For a moment I thought I was about to get told off for some obscure misdemeanour, but no, the warehouse needed two boxes from the overflow warehouse across the road. So me and a company veteran popped over to the deserted building to risk life and limb in a vain search for two boxes among thousands stashed in tall rows in utter darkness. He found them because he had a torch. I just bumped into a lot of cardbiard and got lost in the darkness.
So once I'd been rescued we girded our loins and heaved the boxes out into the damp dark night. Talk about ridiculous. We would have been fine but with strong blustery winds our simple task turned into a sort of kamikaze mission. Once the wind caught the box staying on the pavement was all but impossible, you either wandered helplessly into the road or fall over a herbaceous border.
Fear not. Mission accomplished. Eventually.
Criticism Of The Week
Thee I was minding my own television when some udiot outside the house shouted "Your blog is rubbish!"
What? Again? Oh well. At least he read it.
Warning: You might nod off while reading this blog, so make sure you’re positioned safely, and that the area around you is free from hazards. In order to protect your safety, I’d better make it just a little bit steamy, just in case. Ah! Now you’re interested . . . .
Anyway, are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.
Welcome to GhostOfClayton’s Twice Fortnightly blog. Allow me to introduce myself to new bloggees. I am what I am, and what I am needs no excuses. I deal my own deck, sometimes the ace, sometimes the deuces. Yes, that is another song lyric. It would take more of an effort of will than I can currently muster, to summon up the motivation to look up who sang this. I was always curious about the lyric ‘I deal my own deck’. Is that maybe a little euphemistic? Probably not. It was penned quite a while ago, long before we started to live in such cynical times.
50 Shades
Are we living in more cynical times? Certainly the times are more sexually open than they once were. A sex shop opened up near us a couple of years back. Sorry . . . an ‘adult store’. That’s nothing new, I know. A sex shop opened up in our town when I was about 12, much to the great delight and amusement of my schoolboy chums and me. The windows were obscured, and middle-aged men in raincoats with their hands in their pockets were regularly seen walking furtively in and out. That last bit’s not true. I never saw anyone going in or out. Which is probably why it closed down soon after.
But this new adult store seems all very overt, and aimed at the young, experimental couples market, keen to find new ways to pleasure and enjoy one-another. Far from the boarded-window shame of the 1970s sex shop, this adult store even goes as far as to stand an advertising board on the verge of the A road, opposite. I first noticed it when it said ’50 Shades toys now in stock’, together with a picture of a collection of sex toys (some of which I really couldn’t identify, or imagine how they were used). This was clearly an attempt to jump squarely onto the ‘50 Shades of Grey’ bandwagon.
Have you read ‘50 Shades of Grey’? I haven’t. Here’s what I know about it: it’s about a rich guy called Mr Grey. We know he’s rich, because he owns a dungeon, just for sex. Now I don’t own a dungeon, but even if I were to allocate one of the rooms at OfClayton Towers just to be used for sex, it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Within a couple of weeks, I would be putting other things in there. Christmas presents is a good example at this time of year. Mrs OfClayton would start hanging washing in there to dry when the weather outside wasn’t suitable. It’d be a great place to keep all the things I’m getting ready for my next tour . . . . and wouldn’t it be easier in January to dump the Christmas decorations in there, ready to be put up in the loft the next time I go up (but you can bet they’d still be in the sex dungeon next December). That’s how we know he’s rich – there are no socks on the radiators in his sex dungeon.
Then there’s the female protagonist, Anastasia Steele. Now, that name wasn’t just plucked out of thin air. A lot of thought, even maths, has gone into that name. It is calculated to the nth decimal place to be just sexy enough, without being a pornstar name. Imagine, if you will, someone called Anastasia Steele. Conjure a picture of her in your head. You are imagining someone attractive, confident, not to be messed with, but with an underlying vulnerability ripe for exploitation by someone rich enough to have a recreational sex dungeon. I am hugely attracted to Anastasia Steele, but deep down I know that my attraction is to be forever unrequited, because my BDSM dungeon has got Boxes, Decorating Stuff, and a Mower in it.
Last night I wearily wound my way home from work. That's right, I'm working. Or at least I'm trying to. I've discovered that being over fifty years old isn't what I thought it would be. Blisters on my feet, a long bruise on my leg when a sixty eight kilo carton fell on it, stiff legs from constant walking, and worst of all, a well and truly bruised ego. Being a dustman in a warehouse isn't exactly what I 'd planned for.
Across the street were two doormen outside a gentlemans club. I've always called them the 'Bruise Briothers', identikit bruisers with overcoats and bald heads, looking like refugees from a Bond movie audition. They don't think much of me. I'm not bothered about that, but making it known at the top of their jocular voices wasn't welcome. So I'm living in dreamworld, eh? Feels more like a nightmare right now. But maybe you're right. Maybe I should stop believing the world is about possibilities, that I should be arrested for conspiring to be success, or that a migistrate should punish me most severely for several counts of gross assistance to others? Perhaps I should take their example, and stand in a doorway all night haranguing passers by? Then it occurs to me. These two idiots have nothing in their lives other than the right to obstruct whoever they don't like from entering a premises. So they feel powerful. Big fish in a very tiny pond. You know what? They're welcome to it. Okay. Back to the dreamworld.
Well And Truly Mistered
There is also a rumour that I've had my title taken away. Not true. I can squish that rumour with one sentence. What did happen was that instead of an interrogation, my claims advisor then decided to try and become a sort of mother figure. Why is it that middle aged women from northern England have to be so odious? Or is that people in the north push these harridans elsewhere because they can't stand them either?
In an impossibly condescending tone, she informed me that my title was 'just a bit of paper' and that it was a serious impediment to getting a job? Pardon me? I've had more interest from employers in the last six months than I did in the last six years. Well. She's devalued all my efforts to find a job, reduced me to plebian status in the eyes of the Job Centre, accused me of acting illegally, virtually blackmailed me by witholding dole payments, and then had the gall to think I would in some way begin to respect her. No wonder I'm feeling a bit woebegone.
The irony of this is that barely minutes before I was obliged to change my CV on the internet to a politically correct and colourless mini-me version, my somewhat more colourful CV with title and heradlry finally got me a job. As a dustman in a warehouse.
Unfair Life Of The Week
It so happens that one of my colleagues at work is a caucasian immgrant from Bradford. He sympathised with my description of my claims advisor - maybe I was right about northern women after all - but what amzes me is how this twenty one year old is getting interesting things to do. Technicaly he's supposed to be doing the same sorts of things as me, but on one day he was asked to go upstairs into the IT department to help out, then the other day, got a message that he would spend the next day in the offices doing photography for their marketing department.
Yeah. See you at work mate. At least I've still got the weekend to feel sorry for myself and find the will to do the dishes.
Warning: In this blog, I do use the word ‘Bitch’ more than once. I’m not a misogynist.
Welcome to GhostOfClayton’s Twice Fortnightly blog. Allow me to introduce myself to new bloggees. I’m a bitch, I’m a mother, I’m a child, I’m a lover, I’m a sinner, I’m a saint. Yes, I stole that. It’s a lyric from Meredith Brooks’ very catchy track, ‘Bitch’. She goes on to say, “I’m your hell, I’m your dream, I’m nothing in-between. You know you wouldn’t want it any other way.” I always feel that the long-suffering Mr Brooks probably would want it another way. Especially after the first 10 years of marriage. She sounds quite high-maintenance to me.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.
Bah, Humbug!
Well here we are once again, that annual midwinter dog and pony show they call Christmas . . . hang on a minute . . . I’m getting déjà vu here . . . that’s right, I already did a blog all about Christmas. I shall just refer you to it. You can find it here. That’s saved me a good few minutes of my life. For those interested, I used it to go and get a cup of coffee.
I love the Java jive, and it loves me
Mrs OfClayton has started to make me tea, if ever she puts the kettle on (reading that back, it sounded a little snide. It wasn’t meant to be. We don’t have any fixed system, or keep records, but I reckon we are about fair and equitable when it comes to making a hot beverage). The reason for that is that she has recently got it into her head that I drink too much coffee when I’m not tour-guiding. Little does she know, but I probably drink too much coffee when I am tour-guiding. I don’t smoke, don’t take any non-prescription drugs, drink alcohol only very occasionally, and am on an almost permanent diet, so coffee is my only vice. Surely it’s OK to indulge one chemical addiction, isn’t it?
I’ve already mentioned in a previous blog that I need to have paid work to keep the wolf from the door during the off-season. I’m reminded of the winter when I was given a job with a project team that were helping to implement a computer system for a large pharmaceutical manufacturing site. The team had been relocated into a portakabin some way outside the main office block, and thus isolated from the drinks dispenser. The portakabin was ordered by a guy called Ken, and so became referred to as The Kendyhouse. Anyway, it was a particularly bleak and gusty winter that year. The winds did their best to ensure that what little coffee was left in your cup after carrying it to the Kendyhouse, was tepid at best. Not a happy situation for caffeine addicts like myself and the contract programmers on the team (contract programmers need it to stimulate creativity, I think). The project manager relented, and bought in a filter machine for us, which sat on a filing cabinet right next to my desk. This meant that I barely had to lift one arse-cheek off my chair in order to refill my coffee mug. Happy situation for me, if not my body.
My body was to get more bad news when a new contract programmer arrived about a week or so after the filter machine; you see, he had come to us from Taylors of Harrogate. For those not aware of this company, they are one of the leading suppliers of teas and coffees in the UK, and are positioned quite ‘up’ market. Now, whilst working at Taylors of Harrogate, this contract programmer had acquired (by fair means or foul, I don’t know, but I do know he didn’t pay for them) a large amount of their premium after dinner filter coffee ‘Hot Lava Java’, a dark, rich, aromatic, and highly caffeinated coffee, which he gladly donated to the cause.
So there I was, drinking mug after mug of very strong coffee. I didn’t feel any medical detriment at all, if I’m honest. The only real detriment was to my conscience. I felt guilty that I was probably chemically abusing my body in ways that I daren’t look up on the internet. I wasn’t on my own either. I sat opposite a bright young lad with a prestigious honours degree in geology, who’d been brought in to do low-level paper-pushing at some obscenely low pay grade. He too was feeling the twinges of guilt, and so (after a particularly heavy coffee session one Friday) we decided that we would give up coffee.
Ooooh!
Bad move.
I will now describe the symptoms that plagued me following the withdrawal of my drug of choice:
Headache. A persistent, gripping pain like a tightening band all around my head, just above the eyes. If you’ve ever seen a Vincent Price film called ‘The Abominable Dr. Phibes’?
? That’s how it felt. Co-codamol wouldn’t touch it.
Violent mood swings.
Sleeplessness.
Twitches.
Shooting pains up the arms.
Unable to concentrate.
It was the worst 15 minutes of my life.
I jest, of course. I lasted until Saturday afternoon, when I had a cup of tea (people say there’s more caffeine in tea than coffee. Look them square in the eye and make sure they know that they’re talking bullshit.) By Saturday evening, I’d had a cup of Nescafe, just to ease the symptoms, you understand. More on Sunday. By Monday I was back to square one.
I have vowed never to give up coffee again. It was a bitch!
"I'm cold" mentioned a young lady to her friends outside the library this morning. She's right. It is. That usually happens around the start of December so quite why she's dressed in the bare minimum of clothing I don't know. Dogs don't have this problem because they come with fur coats attached. I spotted a little keeshond puppy last night and couldn't resist the temptation to approach the owner and find some excuse to pet the little bundle of furry fun. We used to have a keeshond many years ago. Wonderful dogs, full of character, full of spirit, and this little one was no exception. They break your heart but every tear is worth it. Not sure about the half naked girl outside the library though.
Who's Kidding Who?
Our chancellor, some guy called George Osbourne who seems to have popped out of thin air, has just released his Autumn Statement, the last chance the government have to impress us with their economic policies and results before Cameron starts his campaign to justify another five years of the media catwalk.
So has George Osbourne impressed us? I have no idea. I changed channels. I did notice that they claimed unemployment was down. Yes, George, I know. You shameless fakers pushed me off benefits along with everyone else to claim that. With a bit of luck they'll catch a few of you on illegal earnings. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?
Dealing With Dole Documents
Talking about benefits, my self imposed exile is up and my new claim is under way. The bad news is that I'm back with Eva Braun as my claims advisor. She doesn't like me. Or my jobsearching. Or my evidence. Or my military surplus trousers. She's northern. They don't have fashion in the north of England.
In order to claim nil earnings payments from the Council to compensate for my self imposed exile I must complete my submission of documentary evidence before the deadline because I voluntarily exiled myself from benefits and if I don't meet the deadline I get no cash. With me so far? Okay, keep up. I have submitted all the documentary evidence I have so far and now I'm only awaiting the letter that tells me I'm back on benefits at the specified rate. You may now breathe once to maintain conciousness. That would have arrived within the specified deadline except that the Department of Work and Pensions have decided that I must submit my bank statements that I failed to submit to the claims handler who took photocopies of them at the Job Centre. Still here? I'm impressed. So now that I'm unable to submit that final letter confirming my new benefits payments because submitting my bank statements again will delay confirming my new claim, and so in order to inform the Council of my inability to meet their deadline for nil earnings submissions, I had to submit my letter from the Job Centre telling me to submit my bank statements that I already submitted. Not only that, I had to explain all this to a lady from the Council who probably woke up this morning expecting a dull boring afternoon.
Just another day on the dole queue - as soon as the letter confirming it arrives.
Sorry
Apologies to Ghost for trumping his b-fortnightly blog entry yet again. It isn't deliberate - I'm just losing track of which year it is. I noticed this morning a letter from the Job Centre telling me a payment had been made for "going into full time work". What the...? So I made a phone call and the DWP contact centre didn't know what I was talking about. Then I made a visit to the Council to register the evidence when the kind lady behind the desk pointed out the letter was two years old. DOH !!!!
Salute of the Week
It seems my neighbours are beginning to get the hint about late night noise. Just this week one of them warned me he was having a birthday celebration. That he was expecting guests wouldn't bother me, I was only concerned at what would happen after they came back from the clubs. No problem he assurred me.
So I'd like to thank Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, the Who, Deep Purple, and any other pioneer of very loud music for providing me with the tools to achieve peace and quiet in the wee small hours.
Warning: This blog contains a word that I’m not sure about, but may be a swear word. I don’t even know how to spell it, so you’re probably on safe ground.
Welcome to GhostOfClayton’s Twice Fortnightly blog. Allow me to introduce myself to new bloggees (yeah, right!). I am a tour guide specialising in hiking tours of Hadrian’s Wall, and am widely regarded as the thinking woman’s man-totty. 50% of the previous statement is true, which should be a guide to how much of the following you should believe.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.
How to reach the moon in 200 very easy steps
Is getting your hair to the moon the same as ‘you’ reaching the moon? If not, how much of ‘you’ would have to reach the moon to say ‘you’ had reached the moon? Is a strawberry dead? These are the sort of philosophical questions that I won’t be touching with a barge pole this week. What they do do, is give me the opportunity to tell those of you who haven’t already heard about it, all about a really exciting endeavour that’s doing the news rounds at the moment. You see, a blog is a very powerful tool for good. I can use it to reach out to all of you (alright, both of you), and spread the word about how you can make the world a better place (arguably).
I am referring to a little enterprise called Lunar Mission One. You can read all about it on their website (www.lunarmissionone.com), or you can hear it from my inexpert and opinionated self. The decision is yours. Ah . . . you’re still here . . . . good choice.
You see, some boffins have taken it upon themselves to put a probe on the moon, and are funding this gargantuan project using kickstarter money. This is the on-line equivalent of sitting outside Marks & Spencers with a begging bowl and a bored dog, although the ends are considerably more worthy than four cans of super strength lager. So, what is my incentive to dedicate part of the OfClayton Fortunes to this very worthy venture? Well, at the cheaper end (three British pounds) you get “Our eternal thanks”. Nice, but as OfClayton Senior used to say, put eternal thanks in a bucket, and you’ve got an empty bucket. Part with more wonga, and the benefits steadily increase, through a subscription to the newsletter, membership of the ‘Missions Club’, and so on, until (at £60, you can ‘Reserve your place in space’). Yes, honestly. No doubt, you are now dreaming of the moment you place your boot print in the dusty Lunar regolith and say something hugely profound about the size of your step, before a bunny hopping tour of a cratered landscape, under the patient gaze of the blue marble that is Mother Earth.
No. Put that right out of your head.
‘Reserving your place in space’ bags a few kilobytes on a USB stick (or similar) for you to write your digitised photo/message/symphony, etc., and that USB stick will live out eternity on the moon. At least until some far-future astronaut tries to plug it into his iPhone 42 and a ‘501 error’ is returned due to compatibility issues (even after he switches it off and back on again.)
No, you will need to have to start shelling out much more before ‘Your place in space’ is realised. £200 will put you on the moon. Not all of you, granted. You will have to leave a small part of you behind. That small part will consist of everything that isn’t a single strand of your hair. But you will be on the moon for eternity.
Do I sound cynical? I am not. This is fricking awesome stuff. I wish it well, and really hope it comes off. That’s why I’m blogging about it, to try and spread the word. Look, I’ve even put sensible tags at the top of this blog. My track record isn’t good for taking tags seriously, so that should tell you something. So, will I be investing? I’m still torn. My ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude to money is apparent to anyone who has followed my adventures so far. So, yes, it would be quite plausible if a few quid did ‘easy go’ towards this laudable enterprise. Trouble is, when you have an ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude to money, and you need some money to fulfil your duty to the second half of that attitude, you find that the money you gained from the former half already ‘easy went’ somewhere else.
Sod it . . I can always sell a kidney. It’s not as if I’ll be taking it with me on my trip to the moon.
The Moon on a Stick
Looking at the above, it’s apparent that Mohamed won’t be going to the Mountain, figuratively speaking, anytime soon. So you know what you want? You want the Moon on a Stick. Ha Ha. A large group of people will recognise that catchphrase, albeit a Venn Diagrammatically discrete group from the group of people who read this (i.e. you). Hold onto that thought, though. Clarity will come later.
As most (both) of you know, I spend an awful lot of time in planes, trains and automobiles. I used to listen to a huge amount of music to while away the hours, but fan that I am of good music, I did start to yearn for something a little more intellectually stimulating after Regina Spektor’s ‘The Calculation’ came round for the 6th time. It was then I started listening to Podcasts. Now, there are prolific podcasters, and high quality podcasters, but very few who manage to pull off both tricks at the same time. One podcaster who seems to achieve this with a reasonable degree of ease is a comedian called Richard Herring. He, along with his comedy partner of the time (a guy called Stewart Lee) were very big in the UK in the late 80s and early nineties, but then disappeared from the schedules to a degree. Stewart Lee is now back on the small screen now and again, but Richard Herring has eschewed the strict requirements of language/behaviour/taste imposed by big broadcasters, in favour of the more experimental (and un-censored) comedy vehicle that is the internet.
Now for that moment of clarity I promised you earlier. A sort of catchphrase of Richard Herring’s when he and Stewart Lee were on the telly was, “You want the Moon on a stick.”
You might think that the above two articles aren’t too closely related over and above the inclusion of the word ‘Moon’. Not so. You see Richard Herring is also using crowd funding to raise cash for comedy projects delivered over the internet, and I’d also like to use the power of the blog to spread the good word. www.richardherring.com is where to go to donate, or to find routes to all his free comedy material. It has my personal recommendation. It will make you laugh, and therefore make you happy.
So which should you invest in? Furthering the knowledge of the human race, or furthering the happiness of the human race? That’s another one of those philosophical questions I won’t be touching with a barge pole.
It's no good. After several evenings of cheap ready meals and the leftovers of my fridge, I felt there was no choice but to succumb to temptation. So I took the oportunity to blow some of my savings on a takeaway meal to stave off dietary diseases and boredom. At the local fired chicken store, one I frequent now and then when I have money to spend, I selected my favourite peri-peri meal. It'll blow my head off but for the english, this culinary torture is a masochistic pleasure, and for me, a welome relief.
As a patient and indullgent father proceeded to order the deaths of several more hapless chickens, his daughter and a friend were turning the fast food establishment into an impromptu dance floor. I wonder if they're students at the performing arts school up the road? Not quite the colleges we get in England for that purpose (there's one in Swindon too), and far away from the psuedo-professional arts education parents throw thousands of dollars at every year to try and get their kids into a child-actor role in their summer break, but the result is the same.
These two kids clearly believed utterly they were going places. "When we're famous..." One started, listing her favourite and desirable lifestyle accesories to achieve before her career implodes in a haze of drugs and divorces, the other simply giggling at the prospect.
At this point I have to be honest. I have after all some experience of the performing arts, even professionally for a few years, and at a glance I noticed something. Despite these two girls confidence, their movements were less than elegant, their voices unpleasant to listen to at giggling volume, and whilst I'm sure their fathers think the world of their little angels, they aren't going to grow up to be lookers. It's a tough world. Especially when you want to be famous.
Was I like that at their age? Dreaming of fame and fortune? Yep. I was. The difference is that I had parents who refused point blank to tolerate my adventures in music and so I did them anyway, pushing at the inertia of world ignorance with every ounce of my feeble efforts. These two young ladies are going to learn sooner or later that fame costs. And this is where you start... Well, you know what I mean.... I shook my head at the foolish ambition before me then hurriedly explained to the fast food assistant that I did want my meal with fries.
Lacking Balance
The sun has come out this morning. That's pretty much the good news today as I wade through the formalities of keeping the authorities notified of changes in my circumstances and benefits claims.
My first gripe is my sense of balance. I'm reaching the age when falling over is no longer funny, and tends to get a bit painful. Caught in one of those 'banana skin' moments with wet leaves this morning... Woah!.. No, I've recovered, no I haven't... Uo-oh, this is embrarrasing....AAARGH! Thud. Ouch... I discover I've thumped my hand on the ground leaving very uncomfortable bruises and skin abrasions.What is happening to my life?
Forty Things To Do
Last week I saw one of those news items on my email service, the sort where someone lists all the things you should before you're forty. Most of them are faintly ridiculous, impossible, or self contradictory, written by some moron who thinks that visiting Paris is romantic, or jumping from an aeroplane an achievement, or that eating at a michelin rated resteraunt says something about you. One of the things to do was having children , which the commentator corectly pointed made the others more or less unachievable.
But there's something more important here. It's the idea that we can claim a measure of esteem from our peers if we conform to their ideas of achievement. It's nothing more than keeping up with the Joneses. Do you really want to measure your life to a list of social requirements made by someone else? Or would you prefer to strive for something you decide is worthwhile?
I suppose you could argue that wanting to be a rock star as I did in my younger days was nothing more than attempting to conform to some ideal. Perhaps. It didn't feel that way for me - that was far more of a personal struggle to free myself of family restraint and become my own man, forge my own future, and not have the fixed plan laid out before me that my mother and father clearly were striving to foist upon my shoulders. My mother always manipulating me, my father always making arrangements behind my back. I was so angry in those days - no wonder I became a rock drummer. Die, audience. Feel the power of my percussive wrath.
Well I had my few moments of fame. Not so fortunate, as it turned out, but life throws those banana skins at us.
Performer of the Week
I came home a couple of days ago and ionce I'd thrown off footwear, jackets, shopping, and had the chance to sit and catch some breath, there was some weird music coming from somewhere. Sort of like Gary Numan's Tubeway Army when they're feeling sad and lonely. It was my downstairs neighbour, whose attempts to be deep and meaningful in the medium of song was seriously mournful. I turned the television on, raised the volume, but she didn't get the hint, the music was still audible. So there was nothing for it but to raise my morale and lift the mood with a blast of death metal. Ahhhh....... So peaceful.....
Welcome to GhostOfClayton’s Twice Fortnightly blog. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.
An investigative report into dating websites
Before I give you my in-depth expose on dating websites, let me tell you how my interest was initially sparked. In order to do that, I will have to transport you way, way back in time to meet the young OfClayton just as he took his first fresh-faced steps into that biggest of all Mug’s Games, working for a living. The boy you are to meet had found that a regular pay packet had delivered a previously unaccustomed degree of wealth. That boy also lived in a village where there were few places to spend it, other than the pub.
At about this time another young chap moved in next door but one, who soon joined a little circle of Young OfClayton’s drinking buddies. This man’s name was not ‘Jimmy’, but we all called him Jimmy, because he called everyone else Jimmy. That logic seemed to make perfect sense at the time, so we’ll move on. Jimmy was a whizz with anything mechanical, and scratched a living by fixing tractors and other agricultural machinery. He rented a couple of bays of a workshop from another, though quite elderly, tractor-fixer call Th’od Norm. For those unfamiliar with the dialect, this translates as ‘The Old Norm’.
One day, The-Yet-To-Be-Mrs-Jimmy phoned Th’od Norm in her capacity as someone who worked for his insurance broker. Once the business had been transacted, Th’od Norm asked The-Yet-To-Be-Mrs-Jimmy if she had a boyfriend. She answered in the negative, and Th’od Norm said something like “Hang on a minute, I’ll get you one”, handed the phone to Jimmy, and to cut a long story short, within a few short years The-Yet-To-Be-Mrs-Jimmy became The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy. That’s pretty much how dating worked in those days. No need for websites like yourmatesgotagirlfriendsoyoushouldhaveone.com, when there were people like Th’od Norm in the world.
Anyway, it so happened that The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy had a friend who was single at the time, a relationship status shared by the boy that was OfClayton, so they invited us both along to that most romantic of venues, the Birmingham Motor Show, and to cut a long story short, the young lady in question became Mrs OfClayton a few short years later.
Let’s now wind the clock forward to a mere couple of years ago. Jimmy and The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy had enjoyed many years of happy marriage, when out of the blue something very unexpected happened. Jimmy walked out. Left for good. Why? I really don’t want to air his dirty washing in public, but suffice it to say there was no third party involved, I had a small degree of sympathy for his reasons (but only a small one), and Mrs OfClayton thought he was being a selfish bastard (her language can get fruity when roused).
Obviously, The-Can-No-Longer-Realistically-Be-Called-Mrs-Jimmy was distraught at first, but (as most people do) she did eventually get used to her new single life. To a reasonable degree, she got over what must have been a very traumatic episode, and started to move on. The problem was, times had changed in the intervening 30 years. You see, when people from Th’od Norm’s generation played Cupid, it was all very direct. When people from The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy’s generation played Cupid, it was a little more subtle. Nowadays, Cupid has moved so far away from the direct approach, that people need to take matters in to their own hands much more than in the past. It wasn’t too long ago that people needing to find a partner might place a little ad in a dedicated column in the local newspaper, but society tended to judge those people as being just a little desperate. Technology moved on, and the same system moved to the internet, but still there was just a hint of desperation about it. Now, however, internet dating is not only widely accepted, it has become a fairly standard way to hook-up with a mate. The-Can-No-Longer-Realistically-Be-Called-Mrs-Jimmy took to it like a duck to water. She lost a few pounds, smartened herself up, bought some clothes that showed off her new figure to alluring effect, and now pretty much uses Match.com like a lending library. Good luck to her.
So there’s been an interesting social change going on over the last 30 years, which deserves some thorough investigation. Here’s what I know (in actual fact, this is my current perception, not based on any actual facts or research):
Match.com was one of the first dating websites. It seems to be the most popular, with a pretty much all-encompassing demographic.
There’s also eHarmony, which seems to be for a slightly ‘better-class’ of love-seeker. I put that in quotes so as not to seem a bit like a snob – I’m aware it didn’t work.
Recently advertised on late-ish night TV has been a website known as UniformDating.com, which is for “people who work in uniform, or fancy those that do”. The first bit of that sentence, I’m fine with. Firefighters, Police, etc. work unsociable hours, and so maybe need a bit of help to find the right ‘one’. The second part of that sentence seems to lend it a slightly seedy undertone that I can’t quite put my finger on. And yes, this is a little hypocritical when my views on the nurses who work for the Blood Transfusion Service are already a matter of record.
If you’re ‘same-sex’, then there’s a well-known app called Grindr (pronounced 'Grinder') you can bung on your smartphone.
The equivalent for none-same-sex people (I think) is called Tinder (or is it Tindr?). I once saw a newspaper article about it where the headline contained the words “. . . gets you more ass than . . ”, so my assumption is that this is for those seeking a more casual hookup.
There was another one whose name I can’t remember, but it was advertised on late night TV for a while. It unashamedly positioned itself as the website for people who pretty much wanted to cut straight to the nooky, without all that tedious mucking about with single red roses and meeting the parents/kids.
That concludes my in-depth analysis of dating websites. OK, it wasn’t all that ‘in-depth’. You see, I really daren’t do any further research in case Mrs OfClayton looks at my browser history and jumps to the wrong conclusion. Especially given her reaction to Jimmy’s departure from the marital home.
Hello all. Welcome to the GhostOfClayton Twice Fortnightly blog. You OK? Let’s do this thing.
WARNING: There is no bad language in this blog entry whatsoever. So if you were looking for some, then tough sh*t.
Poltergeist?
Prepare yourselves, dear readers, for a strange and terrible tale of spine-tingling supernatural events, that will chill your blood to the very bone.
There have been some mysterious goings-on at OfClayton Towers these past few years. An unquiet spirit walks its dusty hallways. I’ve never actually witnessed this ghostly spectre, but I know it must be there because of the unnerving evidence it leaves behind it. What is this evidence? It leaves a used tea bag in the spoon rest on the kitchen top, by the kettle. Now I know that a sceptic will be saying that these could easily have been left by Mrs OfClayton or myself, but I have proof to the contrary: You see, the kitchen bin is only three paces away (I’ve counted them), and which mortal is so lazy as to be unwilling to walk three paces to the bin with a used tea bag? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever’s left (no matter how improbable) must be the truth. . . So it can only be a ghost.
Unsettling as this spectral presence is to me, I still smile when I think of it. You see, every time the phantom goes back to leave its next tea bag, it must be taken aback to find that the previous tea bag has mysteriously vanished from the spoon rest. It must think that the tea-bag has been spirited away to the bin by the Little Magic Tea Bag Pixie.
. . . from which I can segue neatly to . . .
Another bucket list item well and truly ticked off. For my 50th Birthday, Mrs OfClayton bought me a voucher for a ‘Forest Segway Experience’. I cashed the voucher in on Saturday and spent a very exciting hour whizzing around in Dalby Forest on a Segway. Statistically, you’re not likely to have been on a Segway before, and so I have one piece of advice for you. DO IT. I really enjoyed it. A great feeling, and very easy to pick up how the controls work. Are you still here?
I'm turning into a couch potato, and it's all the fault of Star Trek. Now that the original series and Next Generation are back on the screen, I spend my afternoons and evenings staring dull eyed at the antics of sex crazed Starfleet officers hell bent on being nice people.
I need help.
Worse still I've started watching that awful Ultimate Force series, the one starring Ross Kemp as a Seriously Argumentative Soldier. The strange thing is, although I've never gone out of my way to watch the program before, every episode seems to be the one I saw the first time around.
I need more help.
{i]Red Dwarf[/i], Farscape, Stargate, Stargate Atlantis, and finally at last the original Doctor Who series has started showing on sundays. Great to see all the old doctors back on television again, Patrick Troughton, Jon Pertwee, Tom Baker....
Okay. I surrender. You can stop helping me now. I've begun to realise that all this science fiction is distracting me from the reality of my difficult financial situation, rather like the cold war players of the space race fifty years ago. All I need to do now to achieve victory and assume my place in society as a successful jobseeker is walk on the moon. I mean, all I need is a television studio, right?
Cometary Landing
In case you haven't heard, scientists have landed a small space vehicle on a comet way out there in the dim depths of our solar system. At last the Dinosaurs get revenge. You are going to blow it up, aren't you?
Childhood Lost
With Professor Brian Cox holding a season ticket on science related programs on television, it's pretty well inescapable that I will at some point encounter his master class physics and intellectual whimsy. Hasn't anybody else noticed he smiles whistfully every time he tells us that the Earth is doomed and the Universe will enter a an eternal deep freeze?
But there he was, holding a copy of Spacecraft 2000-2100AD, a book with pages of science fiction paintings of exotic futuristic craft and bogus histories surrounding them. He told us how he especially liked the pages about the Martian Queen, a fast luxury liner that plied the spacelanes. Yes. I remember that too. I was also a convert to the Book Of Speculative Starships, the very same volume. So like him I was thrilled by the shape of things to come, only he gets to be a television celebrity and I get to argue with claims advisors. I had the same start as him. Where did it all go wrong?
Maybe I was too positive. So, having learned Proferssors Cox's lesson - Hey - We're all doomed, especially me.
Blaming Something Else
This is one of those 'a friend of a friend' stories you sometimes hear, but worth repeating. There's this guy who goes out clubbing one saturday night and as chance would have it, gets off with a young lady, so it's back to her place for coffeee and whatever else he hoped to persuade her into cooperating with.
Once there she went off to slip into something more comfortable, which was a problem because he wasn't comnfortable at all. Desperate for a pooh, and not wanting to spoil his chances of a fun night in (and maybe more), he opted to exploit a cat litter tray.She won't notice, right?
Wrong. She spotted it immediately, and from that point forward she was never able to understand how her six week old kitten had left a pooh bigger than it was.
Conclusion of the Week
It dawned on me last night. Was the reason I had been savaged at the Job Centre for no apparent reason and forced to close my benefit claim because David Cameron wants good statistics about uneplyment to present to the public when he goes to polls in the near future?
If Cameron wants to pound his fist at media briefings and ponse around the world stage as if he's someone important, I'd rather he did that at his own expense, not mine. That's one lost vote Cameron. How many more do you want?
I have to send quite regualry maps to various customers around the world and luckily till about a few months ago the delivery rate was really good. I think one in 100 maps arrived damaged in some form or shape, so nothing to worry about. However...
About a month ago my post office informed me that round tubes are no longer served, i cannot use them anymore, reason beeing they cannot be stacked, they roll, so they are a logistical nightmare. Ok, whats the alternative? I was told that there is a very good alternative that cost the same and is basically a tube with corners , so they can stack..
well i show you how sturdy those bastards are below... (image thanks to a not so happy customer)
As you can see that thing is quite flat, so i learned two things; dont trust anyone, and those parcels are not handled with care...
Conclusion, i invested in better tubes, in fact if they manage to break them than i give up, see below the monther of all tubes... cost three times as much as a normal one but apparently a Boing 747 can roll over it (not really)...
I am officially at war. Never wanted it to come to this but my Claims Advisor has gone too far. After inspiring me to apoplexy the week before, she made sure there were no independent witnesses in the office and attempted to provoke an incident, one which presumably would have me escorted off the premises and quite probably to a waiting police car outside. Sorry, I'm not falling for that one.
As I look for work, I record each step I make, and I mean fairly exhaustively. That list has satisfied claims advisors since I started it in 2010. For some time now I've been copying that information onto a government website to record my jobsearching activity for all to see. Last week I mentioned this to my Claims Advisor, telling her that the records were available. She dismissed it. No use to her at all. Okay. I won't bother posting it then. Less work for me, although I still keep the list up to date.
The next week she asked why the government website hadn't been updated. I reminded her we'd discussed that point previously., but she insisted she needed the information to know what I had been up to. Okay. Would she like a printed copy of the latest information? No, she tells me, it might just be typed up, an argument I found odd because I was only going to copy and paste the same information anyway. So she was demanded information she had already dismissed and then dismissed it again.
And so on.
Finally I gave up after a barrage of demands to account for some discrepancy in her investigation of my activity. I told her I'd had enough of this circus, threw my signing book on the desk, and told her to close my Jobseekers Benefit claim. Which she obviously hasn't, in order to portray me as reneging on my Jobseekers Agreement, which I haven't.
So a little advice to all those unfortunate souls who have by chance found themselves in the dustbin of the employment marketplace. It makes no difference how diligent you are. It makes no difference how honest you are. It makes no difference how much jobsearching you do. When a Claims Advisor wants her bonus for christmas, she is going to find a reason to justify it, at your expense of course. Kiss your reputation goodbye, because as of now you're a dole cheat. Gulty until proven innocent.
Of course if you're sitting on your backside because you don't want to work, that's your problem. I really don't care what happens to you.
Pouring Cold Water On It
The weather lately has been fairly wet. Hey, this is Britain you know. Yesterday I had to walk across town to attend a course at the local college (intended to improve my marketability in employment). With all the rain, there was a lot of standing water by the roadside. So I got splashed by a passing car. Then a line of three or four cars splashed me one after the other.
Needless to say I vented my frustration loudly. Wasn't much else I could do. But you know, it has changed my mind. All those police video programs you see on television are blatant propaganda, however well intentioned. When do you actually come across a police officer so gentlemanly and fair minded? I'm no longer botjhered by this. Car dribers - or drivers of any other vehicle on the road - if you get caught, it's your own fault. I couldn't care less what hapens to you.
Pilot Of The Week
There I was this morning, diligently searching for work and making job applications at the Support Centre, when I heard one of their administrators mention to his boss "Hey, you've got a pilot on your case load".
You've got one in the room too, I added. I mean me, if anyone hasn't come across my flying escapades on this blog. Not that it actually mattered as such, but I got to chat up a pretty young lady as a result. Oh yes. Those magnificent men...
Warning: This blog contains the word 'shit', and possibly other words like 'shit'. If you're not comfortable with reading the word 'shit (or other words similar to 'shit'), then I advise you not to read on, just in case you encounter the word 'shit'. You have been warned! (About the word 'shit').
Hello everybody. Welcome to the GhostOfClayton Twice Fortnightly blog. Comfy? Off we go.
Disco's here, dat goes der
I genuinely doubt that anyone has followed this blog from its early incarnations, and who could blame them? After my long hiatus, I read a few back to help me get into the swing, and was quite disappointed by how amateurish ‘Past OfClayton’ sounded as he penned them (we shouldn’t expect too much from him. As I established in an earlier blog, that boy’s an idiot!) However, if by some strange quirk of fate, you have followed it from its early beginnings, you’ll know that I often spend New Year’s Eve in the club in the sleepy little village of Aquis of the Romans (at least ever since Mrs OfClayton put a stop to me working in sunnier climes over the festive period). This year will be no exception, but I will have a job to do.
The Aquis of the Romans Residents’ Association have members who are always regaling the others with tales of the glory days of New Year’s Eves in the Club. How a disco would be held, and huge numbers of village residents would come along to party the dregs of the old year away, and celebrate the coming of the New Year. How so many people turned up, you could barely squeeze in the door. Halcyon days!
So a few of the guys (mainly aging rockers such as yours truly) hatched a plan. We could beg, steal or borrow some disco equipment, each make up a playlist of suitably rockin’ tracks on our phones, plug the latter into the former, and “Hey, Presto!” a cheap disco. All washed down with cheap beer, and the Landlady’s Pie ‘n’ Peas (you can’t beat foods that are combined by use of an ‘n’ . . . . bangers ‘n’ mash, fish ‘n’ chips, etc.) The perfect evening.
Task list:
Beg/Steal/Borrow disco equipment. Done.
Arrange food. Done.
Print tickets and posters. Done.
Get a list of popular disco tracks. Hmm. Problem.
Any member of the zero-sized group of people who have followed this blog right from its humble beginnings will know that my taste in music isn’t all that suitable for use in a disco. Any of you care to help me out with requests?
Forking Hell
The trouble with being a tour guide is that no-one’s going to get rich off it. That means that alternative employment must be sought to bridge the gap when not doing it, and this year I have been lucky enough to secure a new position (albeit only up until January). It’s covering a health and safety position in a Warehouse during a busy period, and I have to say, I’m enjoying it very much. There are all sorts of very blokey things like huge articulated (unlike some of the drivers) lorries coming and going, forklifts buzzing about, and some really, really high racking (with associated really, really high trucks to reach those dizzy heights.) I have to wear hard hat, safety glasses, steel toe capped shoes, and a high viz jacket, because of all that danger. I love it. That’s why I hope no-one I work with ever reads this blog.
You see, I am a fairly typical second child. OfClayton Major (my elder sister) has a very sensible, responsible, safety-minded personality, whereas OfClayton Minor (me) is much more of a risk-taker; not quite ‘Death or Glory’, but very much ‘Shit or Bust’. In short, not the sort of individual you’d want to keep you safe from, say, being impaled on the forks of a passing stacker truck. “It’ll be right”, is always my response whenever Mrs OfClayton relates her latest worry to me (telling me I shouldn’t be using chainsaws whilst up trees, and the like) . . . And yet here I am, still alive. So I must’ve been right all these years. Anyway, just to show what a day in my life is like, please have a look at this (surprisingly good) forklift training video – it’s in German with English subtitles.
If I'm not mistaken, the weather is turning seasonal and things generally get a bit chilly. Yep, the trees are turning brown, and that's not because they've spotted the tree surgeons butchering the local vegetation on the annual crusade to defoliate Swindon. I was amused the other week when I encountered a couple of guys sweeping leaves out of the main corridor of the College. How very autumnal. Unfortunately, there's little for me to be amused about now and yes, things are definitely getting chilly.
Showdown At The Job Centre
Boy oh boy was I naive. I walked right into this confrontation without any idea what was coming. I'd been told I was seeing a different advisor this week. As you might expect, I just assumed that my usual advisor was taking a holiday or some other reason to to save her sanity by avoiding my weekly progress report.
Oh no. Nothing so innocent. This lady was from Compliance. They're the equivalent of the Gestapo. I have to say she was a fine actress. her rendition of "I'm in a really really bad mood and what on Earth is this rubbish you're presenting me with?" was fabulous. I know she was faking it - I spotted her amused expression from the corner of my eye when she sent me on a pointless errand to get evidence of my jobsearch. I provide that every week as part of my normal activity, but after she had more or less accused me of being a liar, I no longer provide it. She is after all merely looking for an excuse to stop my payments. Anything will do.
So I could not answer her questions without fingers pointed at me, accusations of bad behaviour, accusations of unrealistic expectations or activity, accusations of this, that or the other....
it's inexcusable. I lost my temper. Somehow I don't think that was part of her game plan. But what a ridiculous situation. I've just spent a week at Swindon College going through an Employability course, taking a Health & Safety examination, and all of a sudden I'm unemployable. The woman is an idiot.
Health Diet Of The Week
You can't go far these days without an expert telling you that whatever you've been eating is going to kill you unless you change to this new diet, available from all good bookstores at low low prices. It was refreshing then to have been present at the Support Centre when one of the young ladies was accused of not eating properly or healthily. Healthy or not, there is nothing more scornful than a woman denied chocolate.
Now there's an idea....
Warning: This blog contains a few mild swear words. They are all used gratuitously, and are by no means required by the context. I just felt like using them.
Hello everybody. Welcome to the GhostOfClayton Twice Fortnightly Blog (twice-fortnightly until I can no longer be arsed). Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.
I had a toothache this week. Not too painful, but sufficient to make chewing on the right side of my mouth an uncomfortable experience. It went away the next day, so I’m obviously going to do the male thing, and forget it ever happened. But it got me thinking about teeth.
The defining characteristic of a Brit, in the eyes of our friends in the US, is that our teeth aren’t up to much. Now, looking at the OfClayton ivory collection during ablutions, I can’t put up too much of a spirited defence, if I’m honest. They’re all there, but they don’t have the kind of uniformity a US Citizen would expect, and they’re certainly well short of that American whiteness you could see by in the dark . . . and anything astern of my canine teeth have a distinctly metallic theme going on, in between the grinding surfaces.
Why? I visit the dentist regularly. I have an electric toothbrush, and use it until it tells me to stop. I use a branded toothpaste.
But will these things help me to get a gleaming set of perfect gnashers? The simple answer is ‘no’. As you get older, dentine builds up in the teeth, and they go yellow. Having them whitened is purely a cosmetic thing. Teeth grow at imperfect angles, and only if the angle becomes quite severe, or if you want them to be perfectly aligned for cosmetic reasons, will you have scaffolding erected around them to push them gradually straight. Mine were always just sufficiently straight that braces were never considered. Also to be factored in is the matter of fillings. When I was a kid, the fillings you had were metallic and contained mercury. By the time white fillings came along, my teeth were already liberally dotted with dark patches, and so one or two white fillings would be an exercise in futility.
Then there’s the cost to consider. Like every right-thinking UK resident, I balk at the need to spend any of my hard-earned cash on healthcare, even the small matter of the tenner it costs for a filling. So if the dentist has the affront to suggest I stump an additional fiver for something merely cosmetic like a white filling (and free of mercury, but let’s not examine that too closely), then obviously I’m going to look back at him with my most withering of sceptical gazes. I mean, if I’d had a bad road accident on my way to the dentist, was helicoptered to the nearest trauma centre, had a series of major operations, spent 6 months recovering in hospital with round the clock nursing care, and the latest medications, I wouldn’t need to trouble my cheque book at all. And yet, if I made it to the dentist with all limbs still intact, “Hey, Presto!”, another ten pounds disappears from the OfClayton family fortune. And aren’t dentists all failed doctors anyway? They should be cheaper! Before I upset too many dentists, I don’t believe that for a second, and very much credit dentists with the respect they deserve. I’m merely opening up a window into the British mentality with regard to actually paying for healthcare (shudder).
That was my first theory about why British teeth are seen as unfit to grace US TV screens. My second is more sinister.
Imagine I was a pharmaceutical magnate, with a vast fortune to invest in a new brand of toothpaste. I have two business models to choose from:
Business Model A
I invest the majority of the money into dental research to make sure that the active ingredients going into my product are the most efficacious in terms of tooth decay prevention, limitation of plaque and tartar build-up, and enamel strengthening. All these ingredients are expensive, and require both technically advanced plant and a skilled workforce, to ensure consistent manufacture of the product, and high quality standards. Because of the cost of raw materials, its unit cost is also going to be high. This puts it at the top end of the market, but any lifelong user of this toothpaste is going to be rewarded with sound dental health for the duration. The modest amount of investment remaining can be used for marketing during the launch campaign to tell people an only slightly exaggerated version of the truth about my toothpaste.
Business Model B – Part 1
I create a toothpaste from very cheap ingredients (which would only be dentally beneficial by coincidence) and add a minty fresh flavouring ingredient, and a bright white paste. Manufacturing predominantly consists of mixing these things together and putting them in a tube, so plant is cheap, as are the unskilled workforce. Just enough is done to satisfy the regulator that I’m not giving everyone mouth cancer. This leaves me with a large chunk of my investment still unspent. Good, because I’ll be using it to blitzkrieg the media with ad campaigns featuring young, attractive people with perfect teeth splashing in sun-soaked waves or skiing in bright-white mountains, with smiles that The Joker would be proud of. Throw in 2.2 perfect kids and a bit of bullshit science, and I’ve positioned my toothpaste as an effective product you can rely on, used by perfect people that real people aspire to be like. Now here’s the clever bit. The pricing. I’m selling what I’ve hoodwinked Jo Public into believing is a high-end, expensive product. I just need to make Jo Public think that it is expensive in the shops they’re not in at the moment. Just this week only, Tesco are doing it on two for one. Next week only, it’ll be 50% off. And so on, until you change the package to an even shinier one, add an extra claim, change the adverts to ones with more convincing science, and add ‘Ultra’ to the name. Same shit – different box.
OK. Of course people will eventually get wise to Business Model B, and switch brands. That’s the power of the free market, if people don’t like it, they’ll vote with their feet. Or will they? This is toothpaste we’re talking about here, remember, not glue. You’re not going to realise the brand of toothpaste you use wasn’t as good as you thought it would be until you’re in your seventies. And then you have no frame of reference for comparison. That last filling you had? Did you blame your toothpaste? Did you go and switch brands? You didn’t. And even if you had . . . . . .
Business Model B – Part 2
Part two is easy. Just set up two or three apparently competing brands working to the same model. There’s only so much room on supermarket shelves for toothpaste.
Question 1: Which business model would give me a bigger return on my investment?
Question 2: Which business model is favoured by the manufacturer of the toothpaste you use?
It's the bad old days all over again. Back when I was a youngster the world was biting its nails as Russia and America stared nose to nose with a nuclear arsenal to smack each other with the moment one or the other said something about their mother. Back then it was common practice for the Russians to send reconnaisance aircraft into our airspce here in Britain to see if we were still paying attention, which of course we did, sending jets to intercept the intruders and wave them off while they gave us cheery waves back.
It looks as if the same sort of thing is starting again. Putin wants his military back from the brink, reversing the decay caused by the decline of communism and the new economic market. So far they've been flying in international airspace which is allowed, and I see one report that a nuclear warefare exercise has 'probably' taken place in the Atlantic. Oh good.
More From The Old College Site
Recently I popped into my local chinese takeaway. The lady there is a nonsense 'can't stop talking' type, which would be irritating if it wasn't for her hilarious accent. Worth the visit just to have a conversation, but trust me on this, you'd better be quick with replies.
Oh hi
"You wan food?"
Umm... Let's see...
"You wan food? Look at menu."
Oh right. Well...
"You wan meal for two?"
Erm, yeah...
"Rice or noodles?"
Noodles.
"Wait I answer phone... You wan food?... You wan food? Look at menu.... You wan meal for two?.... What you wan with noodles?.... Thirty minutes.... Bye. Okay, now what you wan with noodles?"
And so on, until you've finished ordering, she's finished bossing customers about over the telephone, and the cook has retreated back into the kitchen again bruised and beaten. Then she gets quite chatty.
"You wan conversation?"
Erm...
As it happens we did have an interesting chat because that was the same day the supermarket opened at the Old College site. Neither of us had ever shopped in a Morrisons before so we were both curious. It was one of those conversdations where you agree completely with the other non-stop for fifteen minutes.
"Here is meal. You go home now."
Erm...
So what is our new supermarket like? Funnily enough, it felt and looked exactly like every other supermarket in town. There was a strange sense of deja vu as I wandered past the fresh fruit shelves near the entrance, watching all the future cancer patients busy choosing which government warning pack to buy at the cigarette stall, and spied the rows of neatly ordered shelves stuffed full of low low prices and guarantees of money back if you can get it cheaper anywhere else.
Actually the prices aren't bad. I've found stuff I can buy cheaper than the usual haunts I'm used to, so I'm happy, only now I have to visit four supermarkets an week instead of three. A bit like complying with my Jobseekers Agreement, only you spend money instead of begging for it.
Jobsearch of the Week
For some reason the Job Centre have put me on the Families Support Programme. Why, I cannot say, seeing as I don't have a family, but at least the Support Centre is full of attractive young lady assistants so my jobsearching efforts have mysteriously gotten more enthusiastic. Must dash. I have a review session with my advisor and don't want to be late.
I am so shallow.
I haven’t blogged for a while, and I’m now back in the UK until February, so I thought I’d give it a go.
In a New York State of Mind
On the 5th October I bade a fond farewell to New York City and returned to these shores. It was an interesting goodbye, because this year I’d seen much more of New York State; it’s always good to see a place in context, rather than just living in the little bubble of the city. The reason is that I’ve been doing a new tour, and I’ll tell you a little about it (this isn’t to try and sell it, but merely because it’s really interesting.) The backbone of this 2-week tour is a rail journey from Toronto to New York City, stopping off for a few days here and there. Toronto itself isn’t too exciting, if I’m honest, though walking on the glass floor at the top of the CN Tower is quite an experience. I don’t have a particular fear of heights, but even I hesitated for just a second before stepping out over the abyss.
The first stop off along the way is Niagara Falls. Have you been? I urge you to do so; the falls are every bit as impressive as everyone says. The other tip I have is not to be scared of the border: walk both the Canadian and the US sides. I took a group down into the Cave of the Winds (US side), and they were very impressed; you get very up-close-and-personal with the falls (that is to say you get wet). Niagara Falls itself, as a place, is less impressive. Extremely tacky. The reality is that once you’ve done everything the falls have to offer, the only thing you can do in that area is man-made entertainment. My advice? Only stay one night – and take a waterproof.
Next stop is Ithaca – a town in the Finger Lakes region. The geography is all gorges and waterfalls, and it’s also home to Cornell University. A lovely, lovely place, especially if you like gorges, waterfalls, and Ivy League universities.
Then we stop off to do some more serious hiking in the Catskills, before continuing to New York City for a long weekend in the Big Apple.
Don't Sleep in the Subway, Darling
Due to my blog-o-pause, one thing I didn’t tell you about was a little incident I had on the New York Subway. This was on a New York City tour, one bright and sunny Tuesday morning. The plan for the day was to take the group all the way downtown to the very southern tip of Manhattan, and then walk up the Esplanade along the Hudson River to a pre-booked appointment at the 9/11 Memorial. People could then visit for as long as they wanted, and go off to enjoy their only free afternoon of the week.
Over breakfast, I hadn’t felt hungry. This will seem odd to those of you who know me; my ample frame is testament to the fact that I’m not a picky eater. I ate some of a bowl of cornflakes, and that was about it. By the time 0900 rolled around and I headed out to the subway, I really was feeling sub-par. The subway was absolutely rammed that morning, with miserable looking commuters on their way to Wall Street. I squeezed myself in against a door and stood, some of the group standing around me. During the journey, I started to feel worse and worse until I realised that I had to sit down (preferably not still in the very crowded carriage). As the train pulled into 14th Street, I decided I would have to get out and sit on the platform. I turned to my nearest group member and said something like, “I feel really ill. I’m getting out for a sit down at the next station. Get out at South Ferry, and I’ll catch up with you in 15 minutes.”
Then, the train pulled to a halt, the doors opened, and suddenly I went to a really happy place. Not sure where, or what went on while I was there, but I just remember it was a really happy place. I smile as I remember back to what a really happy place it was. I was wrenched reluctantly away from my happy place to find a number of concerned people leaning over me and saying “Sir, are you alright?” “Oh God!”, I thought, as reality flooded back, “I’m still on this #*!£*ing train!”
I was helped to my feet, and dropped into a seat that some kind soul had vacated especially for me, and at that point ‘Mike’ turned up. Mike was just the sort of guy you need in a crisis. He was a New York Cop, who was making his way down to his precinct for the final time. It was his last day before retirement, and he was on his way to perform his last official duty, which was to hand in his badge. Whilst I was away in my happy place, he’d achieved the following:
Taken control of the situation
Notified the subway authorities
Held the train
Ensured an ambulance was called
Cleared a space around me
Ensured a nearby seat was free for me
Berated some Wall Street commuters (who were moaning about the inconvenience) by shouting “I’ll hold this train for as long as I need to – it’ll be here an hour if necessary”
I heard the latter as this superman was helping me into the seat. Anyway, moving events a little further forward, I soon regained enough strength to walk out onto the platform, and the train could finally pull out of the station (the Wall Street gang would get to work, the US economy was safe once more). Whilst sitting on the cold concrete of the subway floor, I handed over a map of New York to a responsible group member, told him how to get to the 9/11 Memorial, and what to tell them (they’re a great bunch and I knew they would sort it out). That effectively discharged my official duties for the rest of the day, though I did ask for a volunteer to escort me back to the hotel.
Next, the ambulance arrived. Now I don’t wish to upset any readers in the US, and this is based solely on this one encounter, but your ambulance service leaves a lot to be desired. Allow me to explain. I do have a certain amount of medical training (Occupational First Aid, and Wilderness First Aid), and by that time I had self-diagnosed. A pressure in my bowel had started to build. Not that usual pressure, but that certain type of pressure that says, “whilst there’s no hurry at the moment, things could turn catastrophic very quickly if you don’t plan to be within a few feet of a toilet in the next hour.” This pressure, I knew, was a result of liquid being absorbed into the intestine in a desperate effort to flush through the burgeoning colonies of virulent bacteria that had set up home there. The loss of liquid from the blood stream had resulted in a sudden drop in blood pressure, causing lack of oxygen to the brain, causing “Good Night, OfClayton!”. Given that I had a gastric infection, the ambulance crew didn’t even wear latex gloves before examining me. I’ve dealt with Paramedics in the UK, France and Madeira, and in all cases they put gloves on before touching the patient.
I sent the ambulance crew away (think of the cost!), and SuperMike helped me up the steps to street level, and helped me into a taxi. What a guy! He was taking advantage of the NYPD’s generous (and very well-deserved) retirement package to move to a tropical island and open a scuba diving school. I wish him well. I only hope that I’m that good when I have crises to deal with. What a guy! (Him, not me.)
The grimly gastric details of the rest of that day (spent alone in my hotel room) must be kept from you for reasons of good taste. Suffice it to say that it’s a good job that the toilet and washbasin were close to one another.
Anyway, to summarise the rest of the week: I know a guide who lives in New York who was happy to take my group (and $100) from me on the Wednesday, and by Wednesday evening I was well enough to take them out for dinner (but not really well enough to eat anything significant). On Thursdays I normally take groups upstate on the train for a non-too taxing stroll along a little stretch of the Croton Aqueduct Trail, and Friday breakfast saw me polish off a stack of pancakes in the Diner, so I knew things were back on an even keel.
The other big thing I didn’t tell you was that this year, I turned fifty. I will no doubt start hearing the word ‘prostate’ more often.
That's it for this week as my college course closes because of half term. This is the first time in thrity years that I've been to College. I have to go back next week to finish off my course and again shortly after to finish it off even more.
What course am I studying? Well, it isn't Roman History. It isn't a degree in Dynamic Temporal Physics either., sadly, so I still can't argue with Professor Brian Cox without being put in my place. No, it's Employability Level One, so I'm finally being trained to do all the stuff I've been doing for the last decade. Again. I got that certificate three years ago and no-one noticed so please excuse me if I seem a little underwhelmed by my own scholastic achievement.
Great bunch of people to study with too, some I knew before, some I've gotten to know ion the course. All great fun. Especially now it's practically finished, although the fun bit about breathing life into life size plastic dummies has yet to be held. Ladies, I'm sorrow, but playing dead will no longer work.
Out On The Streets
Swindon's main shopping street is as busy as might be expected this time before the turbo nutter "Oh my God I forgot Aunty Hilda" shopping session as Christmas arrives. However, I have to be honest. part of my Employability course was a team exercise, clearly ripped off from The Apprentice on BBC in an outrageous example of educational plagiarism, to go shopping for interview wear and investigate the best bargains available to us, though thankfully we weren't required to actually purchase anything or the ladies in the team would be still out there, tutting and fussing over small fashion details whilst us blokes lose the will to live. I've got a few more white hairsbut I survived the experience without being fired by Lord Alan Sugar.
Meanwhile the Phantom Pavement Scribbler was at work. Don't know who he is, other than he happens to be unemployed like me but not yet sent on an Employability course, who's been writing poetic dissertations on the reality of Life, The Universe, and the Dole Queue on the pavement in coloured chalk. Well it keeps him off the street, doesn't it?
Apprentices Of The Week
Now that our favourite BBC soap opera is back in its tenth anniversary series with extra contestants for yet more tantrums, petty disasters, and dramatic dismissals, I have to say this is without doubt the worst and least impressive collection of ego's and talentless wannabee's yet collected. So far, on the third week of twelve, each exercise has been won by accident by the least capable team and so the news headlines are now focusing on something more interesting like which Apprentice is bonking another. More tantrums and petty disasters then.
Told you it was a soap opera.
