Gonna Be Some Sweet Sounds Comin Down...

...on the night-shift.

Yup, just when I thought things couldn't get any worse at work, I'm on the night shift. It is not actually true to say that things couldn't get any worse because they could. 'Things' are actually not that bad at work at all and I can quite clearly remember the not too distant past when things were much worse but it's a generally accepted sentence pattern and I'm being lazy.

Night shift means that I start at 4.00pm and work through until midnight at the earliest and more probably 2.00am. As my lady-friend finishes work at 4.00pm it should make for an interesting time domestically but I'm not dreading it quite as much as I might.

There are only two of us on the night shift and it involves turning stacks of cheese and cleaning which is an enticing prospect for anyone I think you'll agree. I'm informed that it's quite a breeze but as I'm told that most of it is pretty easy and I seem to sweat profusely throughout then I'll take that advice with a pinch of salt.

As my time on night shidft will be punctuated by a trip to Melbourne and a couple of days on a school camp I'm not going to bitch and moan about it too much (yet).

The main downside at present is that I was looking forward to taking advantage of being up all night by watching some live football from the UK but there is none for two weeks which is unbloody-believeable. Still, mustn't grumble.

This should be my 96th post, I'm planning a bit of a celebration for the 100th, if you're interested in attending please let me know in advance so I can do some nibbles etc with the right numbers in mind.

Fat Handed Twat

I can't remember the programme, possibly Big Train but it was a comedy in which someone was referred to as a fat handed twat. I used the term to refer to my friend Peter for a while, not strictly because his hands are fat but to demean him when he was being clumsy.

I know find myself being a genuinely fat handed twat as I fell over yesterday while taking the air and tried, unsuccessfully, to stp my rapid descent down a hill with the use of my little finger. Frankly, it wasn't up to the task, I'd have been better of using my whole hand or even my elbow but it's too late now, I'll know for next time. Regardless, I have a fat right hand, I am a twat and therefore feel that I have all the qualities required to earn such a title.

Did I mention that it hurts?

I am unable to do many things, some of them are things I was able to do previously such as writing, washing my hands and wiping my arse ambidextrously. Other things such as playing the cello, handballing an Aussie rules football and knocking people out with a singe punch are still beyond me.

I believe I've passed on the most crucial piece of information which is that it is very painful but as I am a man I will hardly mention it and will probably even forget about it as my pain threshold is so high.

Anyway, I wasn't prevented from cutting cheese or using the hand trolley (both of which are also euphemistic expressions for farting and masturbating respectively) so I was able to manfully do a full days work.

But it is very, very painful.

Go Team Cheese!

Not on a par with yesterday's charming turn of phrase but it was a comment which made me smileand for which I must offer thanks. Smiles are few and far between at present. Nothing as dreadful as I have previously experienced but definitley a lull in my good temper of late.

Tomorrow I'm going for a wlak down a gorge in lieu of salting cheese so despite the fact that I will be accompanied by a dozen or more children I feel it will be a welcome change. Maybe I'll take a camera and share some pictures.

I liked an article in The Age about evil but I can't find it on their insubstantial website. If it turns up I'll share it. (Oh goody).

Relax, I've found it. Phew!

Fucking A Bucket Of Water

Just thought I'd share another charming turn of phrase from one of my colleagues at work (not to mention making a shameless attempt to increase my visitor stats with a vulgar yet popular title).

It may be a phrase you're already familiar with, it is of course a variation on a theme. My peers preferred what I believe to be a less crude version, "like chucking a sausage down an alley".

I suppose this is the difference between my peers of yesteryear and my peers of today although neither are the best examples of English usage one could hope to find.

For those of you less familiar with the parlance of our time I should point out that both phrases refer to having penetrative sex with a woman who's vaginal walls are slack, either by reason of assumed overuse or presumably obesity.

Of course an element of exaggeration is involved as the relative size of a sausage and alley (being an entryway between two buildings) bears no comparison to the relative size of a male penis or a female vagina. That, I suppose, is the nature of such humour as may or may not exist in such a statement.

Personally I enjoy the hopeless futility engendered by the thought of intercourse with a bucket of water but that may be a private pleasure not commonly shared. I would welcome your opinion but as I only had one returning visitor last week then I would have to assume that if you are reading this you were only attracted by the use of the word 'fucking' in the tile. Maybe you were searching for a picture of someone enjoying such an act, either way I think your opinion is somewhat devalued so I'll not patronise you with such a hollow promise.

I was going to moan about my partner but I've enjoyed this far more and can now go to bed with a lighter heart.

Tired and irritable

Trying to write a letter of application for a job as a School Community Liaison Officer but I'm to tired to make a good fist of it. I suppose one may say that I should have tried to complete the application before the closing day but one could stick their smart arse comments up their arse.

I asked my partner to read it and she constructively helped out by saying, "If I was reading this I wouldn't have a fucking clue what you're talking about."

Thank you dear.

Can I go to bed now please.

Thirteen hours in work yesterday hence tiredness but not depressed yet. In fact I'd be quite jolly were it not for the leteness of the hour, the cold and having to write an application.

Clever, very clever

The good news is that England have qualified for the World Cup in Germany next year. Although I'm endeavouring not to let football ruin my life I fear that my mood would be a little darker were I to be faced with the prospect of a World Cup free summer. Of course, they would probably still go ahead with the tournament without England but it would largely be a waste of time. What sort of world cup would it be without England crashing out in the quarter finals?

Hurrah!

On a less positive note my back hurts.

On a more positive note I managed to find the time to print off my hilarious newspaper. Needless to say, it's hilarious.

I could write about some friends who came to visit this weekend, two of them were very small and one was a lady but that would be boring reportage rather than the usual incisive cut and thrust you've some to expect.

(I'm sure I was more interesting before I started back at work, maybe not).

Sorry, tomorrow I'll come up with a real bobby dazzler, red hot stuff no doubt.

Excoriating

Is that a word? I was thinking of something to write about before I went down the shops and now I can't think what it was. The only clue being the title. Hmmm, isn't old age wonderful, those synapses just don't click like they used to.

Regrettably the definition isn't able to help me at all so perhaps I'll call it a day.

The only thing I can think of concerns a discussion I had with a colleague yesterday. When asked how someone from Vancouver (one of the worlds most liveable cities apparently) managed to end up cutting cheese for a living on a cold and windy outpost of civilisation. She told me that she met a man on the internet, was married and divorced within two months and now finds him to be a deplorable excuse for a human being (although to be fair he sounds like a pretty average Aussie bloke*).

Some time after the conversation I paused to reflect and felt burdened with the degree of pain she must be in, coming all this way, with such high hopes and to end up where she is. Dreadful.

But is it excoriating?


*Not that the two are mutually exclusive.

Bubble Nearly Burst

Phew, that was close.

Another long day in work today and not only did I nearly reach the end of my tether but I also just found out that they've cut my pay. Oooohh, that makes me mad.

Anyway, I didn't reach the end of my tether and I've just had a lovely warm shower, done my stretches, listened to The Magic Numbers whilst doing the washing up and generally improved my mood dramatically.

Hurrah.

Very little else to add I'm afraid. I explained to my bird that her apparent lack of interest with regard to my story was hurtful and she said something about feeling ill and throwing up. She also said it didn't read like a story which is probably a valid criticism.

So, I'll probably leave it there.

Sorry.

Did I mention that I'm trying to stop saying 'fuck'? This followed on entertaining a couple of young men on Friday night. They said 'fuck' an awful lot and it didn't sound teribly attractive. Clearly I was previously aware of the ugliness of the word, especially when overused, but I have noticed my 'fuck' count increasing since my return to the fucking cheese factory so I thought I'd do something about it.

Saturday didn't go very well as several people didn't turn up which put undue pressure on my resolve. Sunday was better, two confirmed and probably another one or two slipped out unnoticed. Today? Bad again, a lot of swearing under my breath as I neared my tethers end but tomorrow will no doubt be fuck free.

Sunday Night

Sunday night, worked today and the clocks went forward. This means I had one hour less in bed so really woke up at 4.00am rather than 5.00. This also means that it is very, very dark on my way to work as opposed to the more recent picturesque breaking of dawn.

Still, none of this pissed me off and I managed to get through pretty much the whole working day with a light heart (which is somewhat surprising as I worked nearly 12 hours yesterday and was very sore. However, as I was saying I went through my working day with such a light heart that I decided to do something with the afternoon. As we only know two people on the island we could go and visit (and one of them had gone out for dinner having won a competition for a fancy meal out in Hobart which is two flights away – no expenses paid). So, we went to the other one and had a very nice time playing in the sand on the beach and admiring some apparently lovely looking calves.

Now, however, I find my blood to be somewhat ‘up’ on account of two things.

(i) I asked my partner whether she was going to phone her Mum tonight (she’s away on a school trip tomorrow) and was given the, “maybe I’ll finish eating the dinner I’ve just cooker first”, treatment.

(ii) I showed the same partner (just the one you see – very old fashioned) my most recent effort at short story writing yesterday. When I say showed I mean I left it on my desktop and asked her to look at it. That was nearly 36 hours ago and as of yet I have yet to receive a positive or negative comment or indeed any recognition of the fact that I asked her to read the first short story I’ve tried to write…ever. That’s not right is it?

So, naturally my anger at the former matter is no doubt increased by my more latent anger at the latter but still, they both make me angry. And that’s about all I have to say on the matter.

Except that, yes, of course I’m tired but (ii) is still unreasonable in my book

The last point I’d like to make is that my stats for this blog go through the roof if I use a subject heading like, “female clitorectomy”. No surprise there but it’s a bit depressing to think that the only people who read this are the sort of people who search for that sort of thing.

I don’t know why I bother, really I don’t.