Friday Damnation

Friday was a good day for me. I did my first placement in my new job, made some commision, and got to leave at 4pm. This pleased me twofold as not only did it mean leaving the thankless task of Friday afternoon recruitment behind but allowed me to get into Manchester earlier where I was due to meet some of my old crowd from Progressive and First People Solutions.

I arrived in Manchester around 5:30pm and busted into Room for a couple of fine Aztec Lagers, I'm not into product placement, but hey I like Cusquena. It's no Red Stripe, but then what is? I met with my ex-colleauges Alec, Jaime and Andrew and fully enjoyed the catch up. Clearly the cock five had been forgotten.

I was due to meet a certain Mr J.Howard of Timperley next, and this is where it got silly. Now I like Jamie, he looks like Mr Burns at 25, calls me "Warrington", enjoys talking about Tampax, AIDS and VD, and is a great chap and pure hilarity, but he is quite an involved partner for a night out.

We did the usual Manchester things. Drink in Room and Panacea, swan around in Chaophyra and get shouted at by some Albanian men, clearly selling illicit substances. It was like being in Grand Theft Auto or Scarface but with me dressed as Danny Zuko in tight black t-shirt and jeans. A really fucked up dream but real! We also met Howard's mate Eddie - who invited us back to his Pub. I really have no recollection from here on in, but apparently I tried to get the Grease Megamix on in Prohibition and told some girl that she looked like an icon forged from sexual Granite. This is clearly a weird chat-up line but I've never been one to honour convention. It didn't work to be fair, as she was with some dude who I can only describe as athletique, romantique and fantastique. But the comedy was well recieved and I got told I looked like Superman thus recieving a temporary ego boost.

So we ended up at Eddie's pub on Oldham road. Free red wine (?), fags from the vending machine, and bridge. Playing Bridge at gone 2am. Drinking red wine and smoking Lamberts. It was excellent. I woke at 3pm this morning confused as to how I'd got there. I was like a prisoner in the upstairs bed and breakfast portion of this place. Hungover and on a massive comedown, with no phone battery I was sure I'd be Josef Ftrizled here forever. Howard had fucked off and this Eddie cat was nowhere to be seen. It was quite the experience rocking downstairs to the locals enjoying a Saturday afternoon pint. Quite the adventure.

James if you wish for another evening out, I'm more than ready.

Me, Gaz and Daz

Here's a little something about me that I hope most would agree with: I take pride in my appearance. Agreed? Good. This leads me onto my experiences today at the local gymnasium. In my mind any chap who wishes to look the part, impress the ladies and feel less like Jabba and more like Shabba probably should visit the gym. I do at least four times a week, with varying degrees of success.

I also like to listen to the various conversations around me while I perform dips, enjoy the Swiss ball and generally swan around in a vest. This being Warrington these conversations vary in quality, but never in humour content. Warrington is many things; parochial, middling, Northern, and unsophisticated but I was sure I'd never come across such brilliance.

More to the point, I enjoy the freeweights. Make no excuses for it. The freeweight section is normally crammed with monstrous chaps who dominate it with testosterone and neckless fashions. Two characters in particular constantly rule this particular roost. A reasonably short chap with no hair and loads of tatoos - built like Fred Flinstone on protein shakes. This is Gaz. Or "steds" or "steddo" as I understand. The other is slimmer and pastier but still fairly mighty. This is my new gym pal Daz. Nice.

So one day there I was - dressed like Billy Elliot - bench pressing some weight when in walks Daz, high fives Gaz and begins to talk:

D: "Alright Steds lad, you out last Friday?"

G: "Sound Dazza yeah I fucking was right. You wouldn't believe it mate. All the fucking shit happens to me."

D: (excitedly) "Was it that bird mate?"

G: "Fucking right Dazza, see what happened right"

D: "Yeah mate....what happened right?"

G: "Fucking you'll never guess what happened right!"

D: "Fucking what happened Gaz, what happened right?"

G: "Well this bird right?"

D: (spits) " Yeah right?"

G: "This fucking bird, I'd smashed her all round me living room with me cock and the silly slag wouldn't suck me off! I'd left her walking like John Wayne, John fucking Wayne, and she wouldn't suck me fucking prick!"

D: (shocked at such an affront) "I hope you told her mate - this was the same one who said get off the steds - you can't do that you're fucking name is Steds!!"

G: (Nods sagely) "Yeah mate - just got some more blood in it and told her to fuck off or suck me prick"

Class. Needless to say Gaz got his cock sucked and was content with his lot in life.

Let's flash forward to today now. 8:15pm. I'm doing situps. I'm wearing a vest and jogging bottoms. I look camp. Daz swans over to me and says:

D: "Alright big lad, do you live here or something? Fucking got some good guns going there! How much do you lift?............."

Great stuff. Daz and me. Me and Daz. The massive powerhouse payroll clerk who can chest press 140kg. Maybe if I keep this up I can be their new mate. I've clearly passed some sort of test. Maybe in time they can call me "Brains". I can but cross my fingers and pray.

The Quill of The Chase

Now. As I've mentioned previously I do indeed work in recruitment. In the IT sector. There's a recession on and jobs are at a premium. 15 minutes ago I came back from a meeting with Sony Ericsson who're letting 135 staff go, and I'm assisting the outplacements project. As part of the process I interview the candidates and advise them on what we can do to help. All fine, right?

Yes, in theory. However candidate number three did something today that blew my tiny little brainbox. Allow me to set the scene.

C++ Architect walks in stage left. Hunched, balding and face like a clumsy beekeeper. Sits down. Opens pad.

Me: Adam, good afternoon my name's Andy Smith, I'm from Amiqus, I understand you're looking for a new solutions architect role in London working within UML?

Candidate stares at me, says nothing and nods. Hand reaches into inside pocket and produces pen.

Me: (incredulously) Is that a fucking quill?

A quill. A motherfucking, flamingo feathered, Dickensian, dipped in ink quill. What's more it was pink. Pink like the underside of a flamingo. Pink like Scottish Salmon drizzled with balsamic. Pink as a newborn. Pink like Julian Clary. P.i.n.k.

I tried to get a picture on my mobile when he had to pop out, but the bastard was too quick. Heedless I've highlighted a similar product. Outrageous.

Super Jonny Woodgate

More Spurs I'm afraid. Bryne, when and if you read this you'll have to admit that Hull are starting to look mildly doomed. I mean Manucho? I did however enjoy seeing Anthony Gardner being put on his arse by a Palacios rocket shot. I've loved the guy since he limply shook my hand at a Spurs/Leicester reserve game and made a strange gurning noise that should've been a hello. I think maybe he just enjoyed touching my fairy liquid soft hands. Brilliant.

However back to the point. I'm all for seeing a Spurs win, particularly when it drags us 5 pts clear of the drop. But seriously. Woody. What the fuck. With that goal celebration I reckon he's paying tribute to me, my glasses and this blog. Alternatively we've got the hand beast of Pan's Labyrinth anchoring our defence. That my friends is a scary prospect, and certaintly not one I'd like to see in the street outside Majestyk Nightclub. Kate Lawler must've shat her pants each and every morning.

Cockfiving the credit crunch

Now. I've been guilty of some things in my time. Drinking too much. Eating cheese before bedtime. Soiling myself in public. Stealing flowers from gardens for dates. Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor and suchlike. But I seriously feel the power of positive thinking in this current economic climate is the only way to deal with it.

"Yes we can" says Barack, and fuck yes I agree with him. This is why I've decided to tell the world to drop a cockfive on the credit crunch.

Cockfive - Nb - "The act of slapping ones cock into anothers hand, usually accompanied by the phrase - cockfive!!" See also - highfive, titfive, lowfive.

I invented the cockfive when I got made redundant before Christmas. I work in recruitment so the irony wasn't lost on me at all. But essentially booze and illicits take their hold and I rocked the cockfive out on my last boss. It was as popular as High School musical and an instant cultural phenomenon.

So my message is - when this whole world starts getting you down, fuck getting up on the roof, and just cockfive it all.

In another world I am still working in recruitment - and have established 4 interviews this week for guys who have been made redundant! There is a market out there. Positive thinking plus genital slaps prove it.

Cup Final Fever.

Now, I'm english, male, reasonably red blooded. But I'm completely underwhelmed by the fact that Tottenham are appearing in a cup final for the second year running. As defending champions in fact.

Simple and obvious: Manchester United will hand us our backsides on a platter.

For a club that swings between the ridiculous and not so ridiculous supporting Spurs is a task in itself. To see them play like they have this season with patently one of the best squads they've had in years is nothing short of a crime.

I've canvassed Harry offering my services but he ain't listening. I'm 6'3 with size 12 feet and the gait of a scout walker, but would still show more verve than those bunch of spiders.

Let's see what Sunday holds.

The Return to The Beginning

I thought to begin this electronic journal as a way to highlight my thoughts and processes, create an indelible record of my world and the random happenings that seem to pervade it. I had many titles - random, rogue and ill-considered one and all. But in the end it became a toss up between what you see above and the George Lucas copyrighted ""Yoda's toenails".

Now I love Yoda, and the various Star Wars related works of Lucasfilm, but the slightly obnoxious thought of having to log onto something titled after an 800 year old swamp dwellers foot fungus put me off. More's the pity.

I think what sparked the real desire to blog my thoughts was the cyclical nature of the world. I'm 27 years old and have recently broken up with my wife of just over 3 years. One to do things on emotional factors, I may be but hey, it didn't work out. People don't change, they just come to the realisation that they're different despite best efforts to the contrary - but she's a great, funny, pretty girl and I wish her well in life.

But I digress. To me this meant change and possibly some small measure of loneliness. The only change is the way my life at 27 appears to be my life at 16 lathered, rinsed and repeated again.

Credit crunches talk and I've left the ex with the house, while continuing to pay the mortgage until we can sell and evade negative equity. Hence I've found myself back at my parent's until I can scrape the cash for a houseshare, a flat, heck even a padded dustbin would do right now. I haven't been here since I upped sticks at 18 for Uni. It's fucked. I'm convinced my old man must have a shampoo dipstick, a copy of any DVD or CD I buy him for a present, and a pathological bitterness towards life. The fact that he's cockney makes it hilarious, but seriously those three things are just the tip of the iceberg.

I'm lucky enough to have some great friends come back out of the woodwork. Again, last Saturday on an all day session in Manchester - sitting there with 3 guys I'd known since I was 11, pissed, listening to Sepultura, Slayer and Metallica. I'd forgotten just how little we'd all changed in our attitudes to each other. I guess some things are for Christmas. Good buddies are for life.

My hair also appears to be doing a passable 16 year me impression. Heartbreak high was big in 1996. Maybe that sort of cut isn't so cool now. I'll shave it and rock the Jimmy Somerville look. Cap sleeved T's are my boys.

Weight as well appears to be mirroring the young Smith - 13.5 stone. Dead. If I was Scott Bakula and I've Quantum leaped back into myself and I'm the only one who's noticed then shit happens I guess. At least I'm not 18 stone as per 2005 anymore. But the gym, Marlboro Lights and green tea stops that.

"The more things change the more they stay the same". Indeed.