When I left school in the summer of 1985 aged 16, with virtually no qualifications, I did not think for one minute, that I would be returning there exactly half of my life later. However, faced with the awkward decision of which direction my life should take, in my early thirties, I decided that education by the conventional definition, was an area which I needed to do some work on.
Sixteen years of meaningful travel, interspersed by meaningless employment was all good and well but how employable was I? I was posed with the age old question of, what do I actually want to do with my life? I mused over this for some time before deciding to apply to universities, in a bid to escape from this question for another three years.
Not realising, what a joke the university system had become, I assumed that I did not have a cat in hells chance of gaining entry. However, it turns out that the entry requirement for me, was to write an essay on how my life experiences, travel and living abroad would qualify me for academic study. I wrote this lying on a beach in Dahab, Egypt and then typed up and emailed it from a beach side Internet cafe. I had just spent the previous five years living in Holland and was returning to England's fair shores via the Middle East. It all seemed rather fitting that I should be returning to Israel, as this was the first country that I properly travelled to, back in 1989. By the time I returned to England via, Egypt, Jordan, Israel and Turkey, I had gained entry into John Moores University, Liverpool, aged 32.
For the next three years, I studied hard and for the first time in my life I had confidence and more importantly interest, in what I was doing. It took me only a few weeks to realise that the level of education in the UK had dropped tremendously. I was not expecting Cambridge or Oxford but by the same token I was not expecting the lectures to resemble a chimps tea party, with students throwing stuff at each other across the classroom. Despite my thoughts over this issue, I was still happy to leave university with a first class honours degree in Geography. An achievement that I would not have dreamt possible upon leaving school, all those years ago.
In May 2004, the following events happen. I leave university, I start in the world of employment, I split up with my girlfriend and I have to leave my house. In the confusion that is my life at this time, I take the first job that I am offered. This is not what I want but it is my introduction into the world of office work. It is my intention to find another, better job as soon as possible.Of course, this does not happen and I end up staying at the company for 2 years. The job is in logistics, although my only qualifiable skill, is the fact that I speak Dutch. Who would have thought that my linguistic efforts would have reaped a reward, all those years later? I go to university for three years to learn Geography and then get a job based on the fact that I speak Dutch.
Now, I am not a material man in any sense of the word. I lack nothing in my life and am very content with what I have. These are values that my family taught me and for which I am very grateful. I also attribute my non-materialistic ideals to years of travelling. If there is one thing that travelling has taught me (and there are lots), it is that there are very few things that a person actually needs in this life. In current times, most people seem to have lost sight of what is actually important. We fill our lives with possessions in an attempt to make ourselves happy, when in actual fact they only pose to make our life's more cumbersome. When you travel a lot to other countries, it becomes blatantly obvious, that the happiest people that you meet are generally those that have the least. With this in mind, it's a mystery to me why I would ever decide to get a job within a multi-national petroleum company but this I do and the consequences of my misguided actions will be forever documented in this story, least I am ever that foolish again.
I leave the logistics company in July 2006 and after a nice little trip to Athens, followed by some island hopping around the Greek Isles (travel is my indulgence), I start a job for Esso in Manchester. Once again, the job is based on the fact that I speak Dutch. The moment I walk into the office I know that I am going to hate this job and I am not wrong. The fact that I am to pray for the traffic lights to be on red, whilst driving to work for the next six months is testament to this fact.
The demographic of the Esso staff is, young, upwardly mobile, stand on your toes to get where they want nobhead. Combine this with the fact that I have no clue what I am doing and the person training me seems to have even less of a clue than me, and you have an idea why I feel like a fish out of water. My role within the company is that of dry stock management for all of the Esso petrol stations in Belgium. This may sound a lot but actually amounts to around 60.
Dry stock, refers to all the stuff that the Esso supermarket sells that is not wet, stuff like chocolate, drinks, maps etc. It is my job to look at the weekly inventory reports and use a computer program called SAP to enable me to work out what has happened to any missing stock. It is a job that involves thousands upon thousands of numbers, hundreds upon hundreds of spreadsheets, and far to many acronyms. In effect, this means that I have to look at thousands of meaningless (to me) numbers and try to work out why 500 cans of Red Bull went missing in a Brussels petrol station on a Tuesday afternoon in July. In that particular case, it turned out that a bunch of gypsies stole the lot when the guy behind the counter went to the toilet and did not follow procedures i.e. lock the door. I puzzled myself over this one for days before the manager of the petrol station rang me up and told me what he had just witnessed on CCTV. I had already run my report by this time and put the loss down to waste (as if 500 cans of Red Bull are going to be wasted). This is a little insight into why I was not suited to this job.
I last at the job for almost 6 months, although it feels like I am there for a lifetime. I am so totally inept at my job that I end up burning the midnight oil on almost a daily basis in an attempt to cover up my own futility. It also interfered with my viewing of the world cup (Germany 2006), which to me is sacrilege. I have avidly watched every world cup since Argentina 78, when Archie Gemmill scored his wonder goal against the Argentines (forever immortalised in the film Trainspotting).
I am even flown to Belgium to check out my petrol stations and generally have a jolly on the company expenses. On my first night, whilst drinking quality beers in a Brown cafe (traditional Belgium drinking establishment), I manage to alienate myself against the whole accountancy department by asking them "is accountancy not incredibly boring"?. I mean, what? - I was only asking!
My demise is finally sealed when I am summoned to a meeting and asked why I have got an 8010 on two of my Belgium sites. Erm, hold on a minute, I think -tell me what one is and I may get back to you. It turns out that I am only the second person to achieve an 8010 in the five year existence of dry stock management. Until, it is fully explained to me, I am not sure whether I am up for an Oscar or the boot. An 8010, for those that are interested (certainly not me), is the code for a site which has had a severe loss of stock for three consecutive months. I have managed this, with not one but two of my Belgium motorway sites. They eventually get a crack team in to help me investigate the sites and we find out that mass theft as been going on since long before I arrived. I am sort of used as a scapegoat I guess. Anyway, this is the straw that breaks the camels back and I am fortunately given my P45 (fired).
At least this means that I will never have to endure another Esso Oscars ceremony (they seriously do that shit). The big boss, whose name I probably should not write, dresses up like a pilot and conducts the whole evening as though we are all sat on a fucking aeroplane. I mean, for Christ's sake, no wonder the latest financial crash happened if all the companies are acting like imbeciles on company expenses. Watching the applauding masses, as those passengers that excelled in making Esso millions of pounds, approach the stage, was akin to watching a bunch of seals as the zoo keeper throws them another fish.
During my time at Esso, incidents that are worthy of a story are few and far between. I mean what can you expect in an environment where they have an annual Oscars ceremony and a weekly gathering on the 11th floor, where everybody can blow smoke up each others arses with little shame? However, during my first week at the company, I am subjected to something, which to me is so incredibly cringe worthy that I feel I need to share it.
Despite studying Information Technology for a year upon leaving school, in the infancy of this profession, as it happens. I am by no stretch of the imagination competent with computers. There was a time when I thought that reaching level 10 on Chuckie Egg, qualified me for the title of computer expert. However, technology passed me by in the 90s and I became something of a Luddite. Which is probably the reason why I missed an important email from the big boss "this is your captain speaking", summoning me to an introductory meeting. I am in the kitchen getting everybody coffee's (something I seemed to do a lot of during my time there (to try and hide my inadequacies in other areas), when my team leader says "What are you doing here?, you were supposed to be in a meeting on the 5th floor 10 minutes ago". Hastily I descend one floor with a gusto that I am never to rival again during my time at Esso, except when I am leaving the car park at night.
I walk into a packed room which is laid out in a horseshoe formation. At one end there is a big screen, in front of which, the big man is giving a speech. My entrance into the room, temporarily arrests his conversation as he turns and casts me a frightful glare, "Excuse me", he interjects, "this meeting, has been in progress for over 10 minutes, can you please take a seat". If I thought I was going to sneak into the meeting unnoticed, I was sadly mistaken. At least 20 heads turn around to investigate, who this idiot is, who dares to turn up late for such an important meeting. I nervously wave at my audience and take the only available seat. It does not take me too long to wish that I never bothered.
The meeting lasts for around 40 minutes in total, although thankfully I only manage to catch the last 30. The subject of the meeting is, how fantastic Esso petrol stations are and how we, the general populous could not survive without their amazing services to humanity. The presentation, is full of forecasts, predictions, mind boggling figures and other such totally inane subject matter. I am so flabbergasted at the blatant self absorption of the speech, that I spend the majority of the time with my head spinning around in a meerkat like fashion, to try and read the other peoples expressions. This only confuses me more because everybody else seems to be, either seriously taken in by the figures or better at hiding their disgust than me. In actual fact I should have had the foresight to get up and walk out of the company there and then. It would have saved me a lot of frustration, a considerable amount of grey hairs and in the long run, my dignity, as I am rejected by the corporate monster for shaming them with an 8010. Nothing that I witnessed in that first painful 25 minutes of the meeting could have prepared me for the grand finale of the last five minutes though.
Suddenly, the big screen comes alive, as we the tortured (me anyway), are subjected to a five minute outburst of smiling happy faces. Happy faces of the Esso staff as they sell their wares to the unbelievably grateful customers. The happy faces of the customers as they fill the gaps in their life's with Esso products. The happy faces of diners in the Esso cafe as they fill their faces with delicious Esso sandwiches and wash them down with Esso coffee, from Esso emblazoned cups. But it's worse than that, as if it could get any worse! These images of total corporate ecstasy are played out to a backdrop of, wait for it -U2 (It's a beautiful day). It's a mixture of culture and commerce that leaves me both baffled and bemused. Surely, I think, I must have some allies in this sickening display of corporate horse shit. But no, my thoughts are drowned out by the rapturous applause of my colleagues. Assuming that this is the end of my own personal hell, I bolt for the door.
"Where the hell do you think you are going?", booms the big man's voice. I spin around and upon noticing that it's me, he raises the tempo, "Oh it's you again, you turn up here late and now you're leaving early -SIT DOWN, (he bellows) we have a question and answer session". For the second time in 30 minutes, I become the object of everyone's attention. Coyly, I take my seat. I am secretly convinced that given the content of the presentation, nobody will have any questions. Obviously I underestimate the sycophantic nature of my colleagues because I could not have been more wrong. A rather tall, over elaborately dressed Norwegian young man stands up and starts his sentence off as follows: "Stuart, may I congratulate you on a most informative, perfectly executed presentation which was extremely interesting and an excellent way to give a new starter an insight into the way this company operates". This is followed by an equally sickly question and met with considerable applause. The next 20 minutes are filled with much praise and questions of a similar nature, which leave me with a deep sense of loathing for the environment that I am working in.
Eventually my nightmare ends and I am liberated from my corporate chains. I sidle out of the door along with my colleagues, whilst trying to measure their mood. I am convinced that I will find some allies in group somewhere. I mean at least 20 people have just suffered the same shite as me. I follow the herd down the corridor, my mind working overtime. I'm biding my time, to make my opinions known. Perfect, they all congregate around the lift area, as they await it's arrival. In an extremely miscalculated verbal assault, I shout out the following sentence "What a total and utter Esso wankfest". My outburst is met by total silence. One of those tumble weed moments when you want to ground to open up and swallow you up. My comments are about as wanted as a leper at an orgy. The lift arrives and as they all pile in, I head for the stairs, where I loiter for five minutes until the coast is clear.
As punishment for my two 8010's, I am fired less than 6 months later. I wonder to this day, how much stock actually went missing in those months that I worked for Esso. At least the petrol station assistant in Belgium had a chance of preventing the gypsies from stealing his red bull booty - he could have locked the door when he was having a shit. My only method of gypsy protection, was to watch screens full of fluctuating numbers. Which may have been all good and well, if I understood what they meant in the first place. One thing I know for sure, is that there was a hell of a lot of waste created during my time there.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Fancy "f*****g" Fillings
When I arrived in Sydney on Friday 13Th November 1992, my sister had not long since left. Fortunately for me, this meant that I had people to welcome me, show me around and provide me with free accommodation. Within 2 hours of arriving in Sydney, my friend Ian and I had booked into a grubby Kings Cross hostel, found my sisters best friend, had a few beers on the harbour side, moved into a pub in Surrey Hills and booked out of the aforementioned grubby hostel. What a start to a country! Things could only get worse.
So, the first few weeks go well. We both have enough money to tide us by for a short while and we are we are living in a pub for free (does life get any better than this?). I routinely get up very late, have a bacon sandwich and a can of coke for brunch, chill out all afternoon and then drink in the bar in the evening. What better place to drink alcohol than directly under the place where you are staying. When you are suitably inebriated and fed up with the live jazz, you stagger up the stairs and fall into your pit -fantastic.
But as the old saying goes, money does indeed not grow on trees. By December, it was very apparent that we would need to find work. To be honest, this procedure was alien to me at this point in my life. All the other jobs that I had done were by word of mouth, government schemes or the Kibbutz. The thought of walking around shops, cafes, bars and the likes was a very uncomfortable one for me and therefore this method did not prove fruitful. I was basically making myself redundant before the person had a chance to respond.
"Hi, my name is er Andy, you don't have any er jobs do you"?, I would mutter, whilst already trying to exit the establishment.
To which the prospective employer would say either "No er I don't - now stop wasting my time". Obviously he did not say the last part but that's what was going on in my head. Needless to say, it was a while before I got my first job. During which time I received good advice, coffee machine training and bar pump practice. This came from my sisters best friend Andrea and her boyfriend Carlo, who was also the manager of the pub that we were staying in "The Strawberry Hills Hotel".
Ian on the other hand got a job fairly early on in a fried chicken restaurant, where he lasted all of one day. He then got a second job working for an office removal company, which lasted him for about a month. He quit, after he called his boss a prick to one of his colleagues, only to be asked the following morning by his boss, "So you think I'm a prick do you"? Awkward.
Eventually, the word of mouth method of getting a job comes up trumps and I gain employment as a kitchen hand in a gay restaurant. The restaurants name is JBF which it turns out, is short for Just Been Fucked. It is located right in the heart of Sydney's very gay area, where transvestites, trans genders and out and out gays, parade the streets in their legions. This completely distorts my impression of the Aussie male, who until this point I have regarded as the beer swilling, crocodile hunting, uncouth, real man type. I am the only straight person working at the restaurant and as a young, blond, skinny, relatively attractive (although I never thought it at the time) boy/man I am constantly teased. My arse is incessantly pinched as I bend over the sink to wash mountains of dishes. This, in combination with the fact that I have to work until 5 am, 5 nights a week and I have an irritable bowel, leads me to quit the job after a month.
I pick up my second job on the strength of my sisters impeccable reputation as a worker. I am offered a job in a coffee shop named Fancy Fillings, where my sister Janet was employed the previous year. Andrea is also working there and I suspect that she has put in a very good word. I have a very short interview during which time the lady seems much More interested in my sisters well being than my own skills. At the end of the interview she even says "Well, if you're half as good as your sister, you'll be very good"! At this stage in my life I am far from domesticated and I am already doubting that last statement before I exit the shop.
Fancy fillings is located right on Circular Quay within spitting distance of the glorious Sydney Opera House. The setting could not be any more perfect. I don't have to work until 10 am, so I take a leisurely breakfast on the water front, whilst looking out over the magnificent harbour and letting tranquility enter my soul. This is to be my first table waiting experience (and my last), and I am not totally certain that my overactive/non concentrating brain is up to the job. I have been told that lunch time on Circular Quay is a busy time and I am not convinced that the next 4 hours are going to be my finest. I'm not wrong.
Donned in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I enter the shop and am immediately given an apron with the Fancy Fillings logo emblazoned on it. I then receive the basic instructions to my role. The tools of my trade are minimal and amount to a pen and a pad. I should walk to the tables, exchange pleasantries, take their order, write the order down, ensuring that the carbon paper is between the next 2 pages on the pad. I then keep, one of the papers for my own reference, whilst delivering the second paper to the kitchen so that they can make the food. Couldn't be more simple right?
All is going good and well until 11 am, mainly because we only have 3 customers until this point. Even with no customers, I am struggling with the carbon copy bit I must admit and have had to write out the order twice on 2 of the 3 orders. I use my forte as a talker to try and disguise my ineptitude in other areas. Unfortunately I use my talking skills a little too well and by the time it starts to get busy I am a little too chirpy.
By 11.45, Fancy Fillings is in full swing. The main clientele are office workers, eager for a quick feed before heading back off to their offices. These are mixed with tourists, who stroll along the Sydney water front and then relax for a drawn out lunch. There lies my problem, I am trying to please 2 sets of people at once, from 2 totally different demographics. A typical conversation with a tourist would go as follows.
Me: Good morning sir.
Customer: Good morning. Oh, you're English. Where in England are you from? I have an aunt in Chester.
Me: Oh really, I love Chester. Lovely shopping area there called the rows, it's the only split level Tudor style shopping mall in the world (I don't know this for sure but it sounds good).
Customer: Really. Do you know Amy Hatherthwaite, she works in the bakery there.
Me: No sorry (fucking numbnuts).
and so on and so on.
This would be all good and well in a tea room in a remote part of Scotland. However, I am to find out, that in a sandwich shop in the busiest office and tourist district of Sydney, idle banter is not so practical.
Conversely, a typical conversation with one of the office workers would go as follows:
Office worker: Excuse me, I have been sat here for 20 minutes and you have not been anywhere near my table. That lady has been here for 5 minutes and you are serving her. If you would stop talking so much and pay attention to who came first, you might be able to clear this place out a bit.
Me: Sorry sir, I did not notice.
What I have also failed to notice, is the fact that there are people queuing outside the door, the other staff have left their positions to try and help me out and there is an air of general discontent permeating Fancy Fillings. In fact this little sandwich shop on the Sydney quayside now resembles a disaster relief operation. In the commotion that ensues I manage to lose the order pad and pen more times than I find it and when I do eventually locate it, I succeed with perfect inevitability in forgetting to use the carbon copy paper. I am so flummoxed by the whole debacle that I give the one copy to the chef anyway and then have absolutely no idea, who to give the food to when it arrives at the chef's hatch. I am hoping that this will go unnoticed but when the other staff jump in to help, they demand to know what I have done with the carbon copies. There are 2 answers to this question, 1. I have no idea and 2. There never was one in the first place.
Throughout the whole pallava, my mantra goes as follows, "It will all be over soon, it will all be over soon", and it is. By 2pm Fancy Fillings has returned to an oasis of calm. Oh, it's a mess alright, slightly messier than normal I assume and there are a lot of full plates of food left over. These are the meals that I have lost the dockets for. The manager approaches me with my wages in her hand and a scowl upon her countenance. I rather embarrassingly take the money and make my way out of the door.
From circular quay, I take the subway back to Central Station. As I sit back to relax, I feel a rustling in my pockets, I stick my hands in and pull out a handful of dockets. So that's where they were I think. Once again I sit back and hear another rustling around my shorts area. I check my pockets. Nothing there. I sit back once more but once again hear a rustling. I stick my hand into my shorts and then into my underpants. Once more I pull out a handful of dockets. I vow never to wait tables again in my life.
So, the first few weeks go well. We both have enough money to tide us by for a short while and we are we are living in a pub for free (does life get any better than this?). I routinely get up very late, have a bacon sandwich and a can of coke for brunch, chill out all afternoon and then drink in the bar in the evening. What better place to drink alcohol than directly under the place where you are staying. When you are suitably inebriated and fed up with the live jazz, you stagger up the stairs and fall into your pit -fantastic.
But as the old saying goes, money does indeed not grow on trees. By December, it was very apparent that we would need to find work. To be honest, this procedure was alien to me at this point in my life. All the other jobs that I had done were by word of mouth, government schemes or the Kibbutz. The thought of walking around shops, cafes, bars and the likes was a very uncomfortable one for me and therefore this method did not prove fruitful. I was basically making myself redundant before the person had a chance to respond.
"Hi, my name is er Andy, you don't have any er jobs do you"?, I would mutter, whilst already trying to exit the establishment.
To which the prospective employer would say either "No er I don't - now stop wasting my time". Obviously he did not say the last part but that's what was going on in my head. Needless to say, it was a while before I got my first job. During which time I received good advice, coffee machine training and bar pump practice. This came from my sisters best friend Andrea and her boyfriend Carlo, who was also the manager of the pub that we were staying in "The Strawberry Hills Hotel".
Ian on the other hand got a job fairly early on in a fried chicken restaurant, where he lasted all of one day. He then got a second job working for an office removal company, which lasted him for about a month. He quit, after he called his boss a prick to one of his colleagues, only to be asked the following morning by his boss, "So you think I'm a prick do you"? Awkward.
Eventually, the word of mouth method of getting a job comes up trumps and I gain employment as a kitchen hand in a gay restaurant. The restaurants name is JBF which it turns out, is short for Just Been Fucked. It is located right in the heart of Sydney's very gay area, where transvestites, trans genders and out and out gays, parade the streets in their legions. This completely distorts my impression of the Aussie male, who until this point I have regarded as the beer swilling, crocodile hunting, uncouth, real man type. I am the only straight person working at the restaurant and as a young, blond, skinny, relatively attractive (although I never thought it at the time) boy/man I am constantly teased. My arse is incessantly pinched as I bend over the sink to wash mountains of dishes. This, in combination with the fact that I have to work until 5 am, 5 nights a week and I have an irritable bowel, leads me to quit the job after a month.
I pick up my second job on the strength of my sisters impeccable reputation as a worker. I am offered a job in a coffee shop named Fancy Fillings, where my sister Janet was employed the previous year. Andrea is also working there and I suspect that she has put in a very good word. I have a very short interview during which time the lady seems much More interested in my sisters well being than my own skills. At the end of the interview she even says "Well, if you're half as good as your sister, you'll be very good"! At this stage in my life I am far from domesticated and I am already doubting that last statement before I exit the shop.
Fancy fillings is located right on Circular Quay within spitting distance of the glorious Sydney Opera House. The setting could not be any more perfect. I don't have to work until 10 am, so I take a leisurely breakfast on the water front, whilst looking out over the magnificent harbour and letting tranquility enter my soul. This is to be my first table waiting experience (and my last), and I am not totally certain that my overactive/non concentrating brain is up to the job. I have been told that lunch time on Circular Quay is a busy time and I am not convinced that the next 4 hours are going to be my finest. I'm not wrong.
Donned in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I enter the shop and am immediately given an apron with the Fancy Fillings logo emblazoned on it. I then receive the basic instructions to my role. The tools of my trade are minimal and amount to a pen and a pad. I should walk to the tables, exchange pleasantries, take their order, write the order down, ensuring that the carbon paper is between the next 2 pages on the pad. I then keep, one of the papers for my own reference, whilst delivering the second paper to the kitchen so that they can make the food. Couldn't be more simple right?
All is going good and well until 11 am, mainly because we only have 3 customers until this point. Even with no customers, I am struggling with the carbon copy bit I must admit and have had to write out the order twice on 2 of the 3 orders. I use my forte as a talker to try and disguise my ineptitude in other areas. Unfortunately I use my talking skills a little too well and by the time it starts to get busy I am a little too chirpy.
By 11.45, Fancy Fillings is in full swing. The main clientele are office workers, eager for a quick feed before heading back off to their offices. These are mixed with tourists, who stroll along the Sydney water front and then relax for a drawn out lunch. There lies my problem, I am trying to please 2 sets of people at once, from 2 totally different demographics. A typical conversation with a tourist would go as follows.
Me: Good morning sir.
Customer: Good morning. Oh, you're English. Where in England are you from? I have an aunt in Chester.
Me: Oh really, I love Chester. Lovely shopping area there called the rows, it's the only split level Tudor style shopping mall in the world (I don't know this for sure but it sounds good).
Customer: Really. Do you know Amy Hatherthwaite, she works in the bakery there.
Me: No sorry (fucking numbnuts).
and so on and so on.
This would be all good and well in a tea room in a remote part of Scotland. However, I am to find out, that in a sandwich shop in the busiest office and tourist district of Sydney, idle banter is not so practical.
Conversely, a typical conversation with one of the office workers would go as follows:
Office worker: Excuse me, I have been sat here for 20 minutes and you have not been anywhere near my table. That lady has been here for 5 minutes and you are serving her. If you would stop talking so much and pay attention to who came first, you might be able to clear this place out a bit.
Me: Sorry sir, I did not notice.
What I have also failed to notice, is the fact that there are people queuing outside the door, the other staff have left their positions to try and help me out and there is an air of general discontent permeating Fancy Fillings. In fact this little sandwich shop on the Sydney quayside now resembles a disaster relief operation. In the commotion that ensues I manage to lose the order pad and pen more times than I find it and when I do eventually locate it, I succeed with perfect inevitability in forgetting to use the carbon copy paper. I am so flummoxed by the whole debacle that I give the one copy to the chef anyway and then have absolutely no idea, who to give the food to when it arrives at the chef's hatch. I am hoping that this will go unnoticed but when the other staff jump in to help, they demand to know what I have done with the carbon copies. There are 2 answers to this question, 1. I have no idea and 2. There never was one in the first place.
Throughout the whole pallava, my mantra goes as follows, "It will all be over soon, it will all be over soon", and it is. By 2pm Fancy Fillings has returned to an oasis of calm. Oh, it's a mess alright, slightly messier than normal I assume and there are a lot of full plates of food left over. These are the meals that I have lost the dockets for. The manager approaches me with my wages in her hand and a scowl upon her countenance. I rather embarrassingly take the money and make my way out of the door.
From circular quay, I take the subway back to Central Station. As I sit back to relax, I feel a rustling in my pockets, I stick my hands in and pull out a handful of dockets. So that's where they were I think. Once again I sit back and hear another rustling around my shorts area. I check my pockets. Nothing there. I sit back once more but once again hear a rustling. I stick my hand into my shorts and then into my underpants. Once more I pull out a handful of dockets. I vow never to wait tables again in my life.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
How I lost my virginity (to a sofa)
Although puberty came fairly early to me, my adult mind took a lot longer to develop. I swear that was still playing marbles and climbing trees when my mates were getting into pubs. Needless to say, it was a long time before I got my first girlfriend. Technically my first girlfriend was Wendy Beard who I met one drunken night at the Cat's Whiskers in Burnley. The event in question was the Accrington and Rossendale college disco, where I spent the whole evening with Wendy the vampire, sucking on my neck. The next morning I awoke with my head stuck to the pillow. Upon taking more experienced (not hard) peoples advice, I smeared my neck in toothpaste before going to sleep, in an attempt to try and hide my love trophies from my mum. Somehow, I got the toothpaste everywhere and ended up having to cut my hair, to free myself from my bed. This was the start of my first relationship, which lasted all of 4 weeks. I think I only saw Wendy twice before she dumped me for Red van Bob, who was rumoured to be her cousin. My lack of experience and his red van probably had a lot to do with my demise.
My first proper relationship started a year later, aged 17. I met Linda on the CB radio (I know, I'm a disgrace), when she was 15. She may have been 2 years younger than me but she was about 5 years more experienced, although unfortunately she was still a virgin. During my 3 years with Linda, I cut my wings in the sex world. We even bought one of those books that you always used to see for sale in the supplements of magazines. You know the ones, the joy of sex or something similarly titled, with a bearded man perfoming cunnilingus on a woman with a big hairy muff. From certain angles it resembled 2 cats fighting. We would read a chapter on foreplay and then spend the following week practising what we had read. Foreplay was as far as it got though, Linda was resolute on saving her cherry until she had 16 candles on the birthday cake.
I had to wait for 6 months until her 16th birthday, during which time I became an expert in the following activities, foreplay, finding places to perform foreplay and listening out for my mum's car. The relationship very nearly ended the first time that I groped her breasts. Her bra had some sort of furry attachment, which I mistook for body hair. Seriously, for a week after this event, until I tried again I thought that I had found myself a hairy chested freak. Fortunately I persisted and was able to progress from base to base until I was ready to score my first home run.
So, the big day arrived and after opening presents and exchanging pleasantries with Linda's family, we retired to Linda's budoir. The adrenalin pumping, we positively collapse onto Linda's bed and lunge into our well rehearsed foreplay routine. A lot of licking and flicking later and the moment arrives. By this time, my penis resembles and exocet missile, ready to be launched. I thrust forward, my target well and truly in the sights, but I come to a sudden and abrupt halt. Undeterred, I reverse the exocet and prepare for the second launch. Once more my thrust is blocked by it's target. Bloody hell I think, I was not expecting this, there appears to be something impeding my progress. I persist, and by the tenth relaunch I have managed to penetrate my target by at least 2 cm. By this time, Linda is in lots of pain and I am not feeling too great myself. We agree to try again later in the week.
Well, I havn't got the biggest missile in the armoury by any stretch of the imagination (or labias) but for once in my life, I am wishing to lose a few inches, instead of gaining a few. Oh, we try again alright, and try and try and try. It must be the longest virginity losing experience of all time. Look it up in the Guinness book of world records, Andy Mitton and Linda Knight July 1987. It takes us 3 bleeding (and I literally mean bleeding) weeks. The temperature outside is soaring and the tension inside is rising. By the 3rd week, I am determined to claim my prize. I inform Linda that stop is no longer part of our vocabulary and the next attempt will be a successful attempt. She acquiesces.
We choose a time when my parents are going to be out (which are few and far between) and decide that we are going to do our love making (if you can call it that)in the living room. We have worked out that the sofa is at a perfect height to enable me to get a good angle, whilst on my knees. Armed with the determination and missile as it happens, that wins wars, we take up out positions. I aim, I thrust and I am thwarted. Undeterred, once again I aim, I thrust and I am thwarted. The charade goes on and on until my patience has been saturated and Linda is about to cry.
"Right, that's it",I shout.
"This bastard is going in", and with that I throw on the turbo drive.
As I thrust forward, I feel a parting of the waves, oh my god, I'm in and it feels wonderful. I thrust and I thrust again and again and again - I have never experienced such feelings of pure ecstasy.
"I'm in , I'm in", is my battle cry, as I writhe around in pleasure. Unfortunately, my penis is not prepared for such feelngs of joy and by the 5th thrust, I have shed my load into what I believe to be an unsuspecting Linda (this was not in the script by the way).
I collapse forward, draped over the sofa, breathless and apologetic for my premature ending. It's only now that I realise that Linda's exclamations of excitement, sound suspiciously like fits of laughter, uncontrollable laughter. I ask her why she is laughing but she is so engrossed that she fails to answer. Each time she tries to tell me, she has to give up because she is laughing too hard.
"What's up"?, I bellow.
"You've, you've , you've -you've", she yells.
"I've what, tell me", I demand.
"You've , just shot your load all over your mums sofa", she shouts before bursting into more spurts of laughter.
I look down and see that penis is wedged between the cushions and the base of the sofa.
"Fuck", I cry out, "I've just lost my virginity to my mum's sofa".
My first proper relationship started a year later, aged 17. I met Linda on the CB radio (I know, I'm a disgrace), when she was 15. She may have been 2 years younger than me but she was about 5 years more experienced, although unfortunately she was still a virgin. During my 3 years with Linda, I cut my wings in the sex world. We even bought one of those books that you always used to see for sale in the supplements of magazines. You know the ones, the joy of sex or something similarly titled, with a bearded man perfoming cunnilingus on a woman with a big hairy muff. From certain angles it resembled 2 cats fighting. We would read a chapter on foreplay and then spend the following week practising what we had read. Foreplay was as far as it got though, Linda was resolute on saving her cherry until she had 16 candles on the birthday cake.
I had to wait for 6 months until her 16th birthday, during which time I became an expert in the following activities, foreplay, finding places to perform foreplay and listening out for my mum's car. The relationship very nearly ended the first time that I groped her breasts. Her bra had some sort of furry attachment, which I mistook for body hair. Seriously, for a week after this event, until I tried again I thought that I had found myself a hairy chested freak. Fortunately I persisted and was able to progress from base to base until I was ready to score my first home run.
So, the big day arrived and after opening presents and exchanging pleasantries with Linda's family, we retired to Linda's budoir. The adrenalin pumping, we positively collapse onto Linda's bed and lunge into our well rehearsed foreplay routine. A lot of licking and flicking later and the moment arrives. By this time, my penis resembles and exocet missile, ready to be launched. I thrust forward, my target well and truly in the sights, but I come to a sudden and abrupt halt. Undeterred, I reverse the exocet and prepare for the second launch. Once more my thrust is blocked by it's target. Bloody hell I think, I was not expecting this, there appears to be something impeding my progress. I persist, and by the tenth relaunch I have managed to penetrate my target by at least 2 cm. By this time, Linda is in lots of pain and I am not feeling too great myself. We agree to try again later in the week.
Well, I havn't got the biggest missile in the armoury by any stretch of the imagination (or labias) but for once in my life, I am wishing to lose a few inches, instead of gaining a few. Oh, we try again alright, and try and try and try. It must be the longest virginity losing experience of all time. Look it up in the Guinness book of world records, Andy Mitton and Linda Knight July 1987. It takes us 3 bleeding (and I literally mean bleeding) weeks. The temperature outside is soaring and the tension inside is rising. By the 3rd week, I am determined to claim my prize. I inform Linda that stop is no longer part of our vocabulary and the next attempt will be a successful attempt. She acquiesces.
We choose a time when my parents are going to be out (which are few and far between) and decide that we are going to do our love making (if you can call it that)in the living room. We have worked out that the sofa is at a perfect height to enable me to get a good angle, whilst on my knees. Armed with the determination and missile as it happens, that wins wars, we take up out positions. I aim, I thrust and I am thwarted. Undeterred, once again I aim, I thrust and I am thwarted. The charade goes on and on until my patience has been saturated and Linda is about to cry.
"Right, that's it",I shout.
"This bastard is going in", and with that I throw on the turbo drive.
As I thrust forward, I feel a parting of the waves, oh my god, I'm in and it feels wonderful. I thrust and I thrust again and again and again - I have never experienced such feelings of pure ecstasy.
"I'm in , I'm in", is my battle cry, as I writhe around in pleasure. Unfortunately, my penis is not prepared for such feelngs of joy and by the 5th thrust, I have shed my load into what I believe to be an unsuspecting Linda (this was not in the script by the way).
I collapse forward, draped over the sofa, breathless and apologetic for my premature ending. It's only now that I realise that Linda's exclamations of excitement, sound suspiciously like fits of laughter, uncontrollable laughter. I ask her why she is laughing but she is so engrossed that she fails to answer. Each time she tries to tell me, she has to give up because she is laughing too hard.
"What's up"?, I bellow.
"You've, you've , you've -you've", she yells.
"I've what, tell me", I demand.
"You've , just shot your load all over your mums sofa", she shouts before bursting into more spurts of laughter.
I look down and see that penis is wedged between the cushions and the base of the sofa.
"Fuck", I cry out, "I've just lost my virginity to my mum's sofa".
Thursday, 7 October 2010
Bonfire of the profanities
I got my first car in the October of 1987 after passing my test on the 3rd attempt. To most people it did not seem like much but to me it was like a dream mobile. I remember picking up the car from Blackburn as if it was yesterday. My life savings of £325, bought me a P reg Ford Escort Mark 2, white with a black vinyl roof. A few weeks later during the first jet wash, I was to discover that it was actually red not white. But not to worry, apart from a leak (easily cured by drilling a hole in the floor) and a damaged big end (nobody told me that you needed to put oil in a car), it was a perfectly good runner. The advent of my first car also coincided with the advent of my first real girlfriend who I will refer to only as Linda in case she files a lawsuit. I very much doubt this will happen because for want of a better phrase, she was not the sharpest tool in the shed. I will never forget when one of the daily tabloids ran a front cover story entitled "Monkey's have their brains removed and are turned into cabbages", to which she replied "No way, I am never eating cabbages again". Anyway, intelligence played no part in the reasons why I thought that I loved her at the time, whilst an 18 year old libido which was being regularly serviced, did.
So, you see the Ford Escort Mark 2 was more than just a means of transport, it was my passport to unhindered sexual intercourse of an 18 year old kind. Living on a modern estate with houses made of paper and parents that never went out, this rusty white and red machine, doubled up as a mobile love motel which could be parked up anywhere within reason and possessed 2 seats that reclined right back. Perfect for any young lovers needs.
I have the car for approximately a month and everything has been going just sweet. Linda and I have found a spot down by Irwell Vale on a road that terminates by a bunch of old houses and a big old iron gate. We go there every night for 2 weeks and perform our sexual shenanigans in a variety of contorted positions before an angry house owner finally shoo's us away. I can only assume that Irwell Vale could not take such excitement. We are forced to look for a new home.
There were many rumours circulating at the time that Grane Road resevoirs were being used as a lovers lane, so that's precisely where I headed. I can't remember which of the 3 resevoirs we headed for but, whichever it was we found a secluded spot and commenced our teenage kicks. Very soon, I was all consumed with passion and although it was Winter, I was soon totally naked, as was Linda. All was going great, as we serviced each others parts, until a car full of young guys drove past and upon noticing us turned around. Linda, picked up on this immediately and demanded that we get dressed. I chose to ignore it and tried to drag her back down to my pleasure zone. The car turned around and came back, flashing it's main beam through our windows, it's windows wound down and boys hanging out shouting "dirty bastards". By now, Linda was frantic and had scrambled her clothes on. I, on the other hand was furious, my only concession to Linda's demands to get dressed was to place a sock on my inflated member. Quickly unreclining my seat I fasten my seatbelt and with sock on cock, I started the engine and exited the car park at a furious pace.
All consumed with passion and rage, I drove my dream mobile, flat out for around 4 miles across the wintery, dark moorland road. Like a maniac at the wheel, my erection maintained by the excitement and liberation of driving naked. Next to me, Linda half laughing, a third scared and slighly bewildered at the situation. I am convinced that we are going to continue our carnal delights when I have found a new place, I think Linda is running on a different agenda.
Eventually, we see a road that looks like it could offer us the perfect loving spot and I swing the car to the left to pursue this train of thought. One major point which i have neglected to point out until this point is the fact that this evening is November 5th or bonfire night to British people and others sporadically scattered around the world. On bonfire night the whole of the UK is alive with blazing piles of wood and fireworks illuminating the Winter skies. This fact aids us in the short term, providing a beacon for me to follow along the dark and windy country roads, but is my downfall in the long term because I am lured by the inviting glares of a thousand fires and fireworks. Against Linda's strong requests, I opt to drive down what can only be descibed as a tractor path, which is, I estimate at a 70 percent gradient. Of course, I have realised that this is a really silly idea but stubborness and passion are my driving forces. By now Linda is crying, the sock has fallen off my dick and I am having serious doubts as to whether or not I am going to be getting any loving tonight. Any hope that I may have reserved is well and truly extinguished within the next few moments as my beloved car nose dives into a 6 ft ditch.
A minutes silence follows, as we try to assimilate exactly what has just happened which is pretty difficult when you propped at a 90 degree angle with a seatbelt holding you in position. Once this mental equation has been calculated, I unclip my seat belt and like the 18 year old spoilt brat that I was, I leap out of the car, in all my nakedness screeching "my car, my beautiful car". The headlights of the car illuminating my naked torso, I frantically try to dig my car out of the ditch in which it is embedded. Linda, is still strapped in her seat, screaming in both fear and anger. I hear her screams in the background but these are overridden by my manic vocal gesticulations and the crascendo of the fireworks. I can only imagine how this scene would have looked to a passerby.
Linda, eventually liberates herself from the seatbelt and in a mixture of anger and pure panic, gets me to stop digging like a lunatic. She even manages to get me to recognise the sense of putting my clothes on before heading to the farm house in the far distance. At the farm house, I tentatively knock on the door and tell the farm that my girlfriend and I have been taking a leisurely Winters evening drive and have mistakingkly nose dived my car into a ditch. Fortunately the farmer and his wife do not shine a spot light on the elephant in the room and let us use their phone to ring my parents. It is obvious to all around, exactly what has happened but nobody passes comment, at least not that night.
The next day the farmer, being a typical farmer, charges me £30 to pull my car out of the ditch with his tractor. My mum, dad and uncle go to pick up the car whilst I go to work. Later my uncle breaks the silence as he passes comment abut the proliferation of condoms that littered the floor of my passion wagon. My car never drives the same again
So, you see the Ford Escort Mark 2 was more than just a means of transport, it was my passport to unhindered sexual intercourse of an 18 year old kind. Living on a modern estate with houses made of paper and parents that never went out, this rusty white and red machine, doubled up as a mobile love motel which could be parked up anywhere within reason and possessed 2 seats that reclined right back. Perfect for any young lovers needs.
I have the car for approximately a month and everything has been going just sweet. Linda and I have found a spot down by Irwell Vale on a road that terminates by a bunch of old houses and a big old iron gate. We go there every night for 2 weeks and perform our sexual shenanigans in a variety of contorted positions before an angry house owner finally shoo's us away. I can only assume that Irwell Vale could not take such excitement. We are forced to look for a new home.
There were many rumours circulating at the time that Grane Road resevoirs were being used as a lovers lane, so that's precisely where I headed. I can't remember which of the 3 resevoirs we headed for but, whichever it was we found a secluded spot and commenced our teenage kicks. Very soon, I was all consumed with passion and although it was Winter, I was soon totally naked, as was Linda. All was going great, as we serviced each others parts, until a car full of young guys drove past and upon noticing us turned around. Linda, picked up on this immediately and demanded that we get dressed. I chose to ignore it and tried to drag her back down to my pleasure zone. The car turned around and came back, flashing it's main beam through our windows, it's windows wound down and boys hanging out shouting "dirty bastards". By now, Linda was frantic and had scrambled her clothes on. I, on the other hand was furious, my only concession to Linda's demands to get dressed was to place a sock on my inflated member. Quickly unreclining my seat I fasten my seatbelt and with sock on cock, I started the engine and exited the car park at a furious pace.
All consumed with passion and rage, I drove my dream mobile, flat out for around 4 miles across the wintery, dark moorland road. Like a maniac at the wheel, my erection maintained by the excitement and liberation of driving naked. Next to me, Linda half laughing, a third scared and slighly bewildered at the situation. I am convinced that we are going to continue our carnal delights when I have found a new place, I think Linda is running on a different agenda.
Eventually, we see a road that looks like it could offer us the perfect loving spot and I swing the car to the left to pursue this train of thought. One major point which i have neglected to point out until this point is the fact that this evening is November 5th or bonfire night to British people and others sporadically scattered around the world. On bonfire night the whole of the UK is alive with blazing piles of wood and fireworks illuminating the Winter skies. This fact aids us in the short term, providing a beacon for me to follow along the dark and windy country roads, but is my downfall in the long term because I am lured by the inviting glares of a thousand fires and fireworks. Against Linda's strong requests, I opt to drive down what can only be descibed as a tractor path, which is, I estimate at a 70 percent gradient. Of course, I have realised that this is a really silly idea but stubborness and passion are my driving forces. By now Linda is crying, the sock has fallen off my dick and I am having serious doubts as to whether or not I am going to be getting any loving tonight. Any hope that I may have reserved is well and truly extinguished within the next few moments as my beloved car nose dives into a 6 ft ditch.
A minutes silence follows, as we try to assimilate exactly what has just happened which is pretty difficult when you propped at a 90 degree angle with a seatbelt holding you in position. Once this mental equation has been calculated, I unclip my seat belt and like the 18 year old spoilt brat that I was, I leap out of the car, in all my nakedness screeching "my car, my beautiful car". The headlights of the car illuminating my naked torso, I frantically try to dig my car out of the ditch in which it is embedded. Linda, is still strapped in her seat, screaming in both fear and anger. I hear her screams in the background but these are overridden by my manic vocal gesticulations and the crascendo of the fireworks. I can only imagine how this scene would have looked to a passerby.
Linda, eventually liberates herself from the seatbelt and in a mixture of anger and pure panic, gets me to stop digging like a lunatic. She even manages to get me to recognise the sense of putting my clothes on before heading to the farm house in the far distance. At the farm house, I tentatively knock on the door and tell the farm that my girlfriend and I have been taking a leisurely Winters evening drive and have mistakingkly nose dived my car into a ditch. Fortunately the farmer and his wife do not shine a spot light on the elephant in the room and let us use their phone to ring my parents. It is obvious to all around, exactly what has happened but nobody passes comment, at least not that night.
The next day the farmer, being a typical farmer, charges me £30 to pull my car out of the ditch with his tractor. My mum, dad and uncle go to pick up the car whilst I go to work. Later my uncle breaks the silence as he passes comment abut the proliferation of condoms that littered the floor of my passion wagon. My car never drives the same again
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