You don't say

According to research it is proven that no such thing as a cure for a hangover exists. After many years of extensive research into this area I have also reached the same conclusion. Although the conditions under which I have trialled my experiment have not exactly been..........errr.........scientific, they are probably more accurate becaue they are based in real drinking situations under real pressures. So here are some of Jack's findings and observations surrounding the noble action of social drinking, supporting the notion that no matter what anyone says there is no cure for The Hangover other than time itself.

1.) Sticking to one drink - this makes no difference whatsoever, unless of course it's water.

2.) Mixing the "grain and the grape" makes your hangover worse - Nope, one glass of wine followed by a decent single malt will not give you a hangover. 2 bottles of wine followed by half a bottle of single malt however will make you cop a bad one.

3.) Giving up smoking makes the hangovers less painful - intially this seemed to be true as I'd often woken up after a session which included a packet and a half of lung torpedo's and thrown up at the thought of 3000 chemicals being inhaled into my lungs. Having been clean of smoking for 4 years now I can honestly report that although I don't cough multi-coloured gelationous gooey stuff up after drinking, The Hangover is still there.

4.) If you wake up without The Hangover then you've got away with it - wrong, wrong, wrong. You are still pissed from the night before and The Hangover is lurking away covertly in the body, like an invisible Crack crazed, hoodie wearing, body mugger waiting for the right time to hit you hard. Thus 12 hours after waking you will feel worse than you thought imaginable.

5. Ejecting the main body of semi-processed food and bile with a good throwing up session heals The Hangover - dream on! All this does is make you feel like jumping from a 7 storey building whilst slicing out your throat with a rusty bread knife because it hurts less.

6.) A full English breakfast sorts everything out - of course it does. No, what this does is accelerate the speed at which the worst bit of The Hangover kicks in. Similar to having pregnancy labour induced, this is the bodily equivalent of shouting "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough" at The Hangover. The hangover is hard enough, you are not. I've seen some of the roughest horriblest peeople become snivelling wrecks at the hands of The Hangover.

7.) Staying in bed and sleeping it off - the world is split into two other groups than men and women. Those who can sleep The Hangover off, and those who can't. The lucky ones are those who can fully sleep it off, even if they lose a whole day. I, however, belong to the other group, the unlucky ones. This group tries to go back to bed, but no matter how they try the body prevents them from sleeping. The Hangover has its vile fingers in all areas of the body and has full control over this group. Here are some reasons to stop you sleeping it off
a.) Temperature fluctuations of the wildest kind from massive sweats to an arctic like chill.
b.) The huge twitch is another control mechanism, just as you enter the blissful doze phase The Hangover flicks a switch which gives the body a jolt like having 5000 volts of pure electricity rammed through you.
c.) The "horrors" - a combination of all the above, along with doomladen thoughts of death,
excessive pulse checking, reflux, heartburn, inability to even sip water and mad mad
mini-dreams at the start of the doze phase

8.) Drinking water before you go to bed - bollocks, utter bollocks. All this does is increase the chances of a mid-sleep toilet dream and subsequent sheet changing exercise.

9.) Hair of the dog - this does not cure the hangover but merely delays its onset by allowing you to top up the alcohol level - The Hangover knows it is never going to be effective if you're freshly drunk.

10.) Vitamin tablets, Ibuprofen (the king of all drugs!), Resolve, Andrews Liver Salts, smoothies, fruit juice, fruit, oats, sex, tea, coffee and whatever else anyone recommends. No, no, no. All crap, all failures.

11.) A round of golf - hmm this works whilst on the course but only by masking the doscimfort of The hangover with the discomfort of being shit at a game you love. After the game, the sense of being cured disappears within seconds and then the shivers and sweats start. Last week I played after a Guinness induced hangover. The temperature on the course was -2.5C, and yet because of The Hangover played the whole round in a polo shirt! After the game, not even the worlds most efficient golf jumper and The Kings super heated Volvo estate could warm me up.

And so my friends the best thing to do is avoid The Hangover by not drinking, but who is going to take any notice of that? No, the advice from Jack is this - drink water and only water. If you must have anything else then try Orange Juice. The reason?

Simple, they both taste the same when coming up as when they went down.

Cheers, Happy Christmas Your Arse, GrocerJack

Xmas greetings and Felicitations

Following my recent spat with Blue Witch (which is finished with I think a mutual agreement to accept we have different views on this) someone very kindly sent me a link to this video (thanks Dee). It is apparently of someone's house in a place called Mason in Ohio in the U.S (where else). Now this really is a Christmas Lights Show! Not one for Blue Witch to appreciate I fear, but if you’re a gadget oriented techie minded sort then you’ll appreciate the amount of work required to set something like this up. Apparently, it’s all done by computers, and although the music (which is a bit naff – a sort of cocktail in the style of an ELP/Rick Wakeman/Bobby Crush mix) is broadcast outside the house, it’s not at high volume, whereas inside it is. He also coincidentally broadcasts the music on a local FM frequency so that passers by in cars can tune in whilst they watch. He broadcasts and displays between 18:00 and 22:00 every night.

As much as I admire this I’m not sure how happy I would be if it was in my street (yeah, so no hypocrisy there then Jack).

On a different subject, I have become a member of something called The Witanagemot Club as mentioned previously. Follow the link to see what it’s about. Basically it is a group of Bloggers who believe that England as a country and nation is disadvantaged by the current constitution, especially in light of devolved power to other members of the UK. Scotland has it’s own parliament, Wales and Northern Ireland have their own Assemblies (are they like school assemblies, with a register and hymns I wonder?). Of course those who know me might think this view conflicts with my Champagne Socialist views and aligns even more to the Dark Forces of Tory-fication swirling around me like a spell woven by the charming (but sinister) new Chief Tory Wizard (Mad Vain Credo – anag), and also seems to contradict my very very pro-Europena views. But you’d be wrong. I could argue that my pro-Eurpoe views are as a result of nto feeling I belong to a state called England. A sate where being English is immediately associated with an Imperialist past and a xenophobic, culturally scared society. It isn’t racist to declare your Scots heritage, nor your French, Spanish or whatever. However, being English seems to be associated to neo-nazi, Little Englander, racist thuggery.

Which is of course very, very wrong.

No, I want to be pro-European, but to claim my nationality is English with pride and not be fearful of PC backlash, or be asked to atone for sins of my forefathers. I want a constitution that recognises the State of England as a sovereign entity within both the UK and Europe. I want English MP’s to pass laws specific to England. I want an English Parliament which does not vote on Scottish, Welsh or Northern Irish issues, and has that ideology reciprocated by those states. I want England to welcome other races and creeds whilst firmly retaining it’s own identity. Go to virtually anywhere in Scotland and you know where you are. You cannot doubt what country you’re in. A lot of England has sadly become a homogenous landscape of copycat towns with over zealous PC mad local councils. Hence, when Blue Witch nudged me to the Witanagemot Club site I was astounded to find that I liked what I saw and heard. I will of course try and partake in some of their healthy debates and let you know of anything strikingly interesting or controversial.

It’s the Locals Night down at The Local tonight ( a local pub for local people!). This means I will of course be very drunk and therefore probably not compus mentus tomorrow. For me this is where Christmas really starts…yep, the first real blow-out and consequent full day length regret session fighting the nausea, temperature fluctuations and general grogginess of excessive Guinness and Red Wine. I’ll try to avoid any silly drunken posts tonight.

Later, GrocerJack

Home truths

SARCASM may be the lowest form of wit... but it's still funny.

THERE is no worse feeling than leaving your mobile at home and then returning to no missed calls or messages.

THERE'S nothing you could wish for in life that you couldn't buy from a man in a pub. The trick is to find the RIGHT man in the RIGHT pub.

ATTENTION fat people! Diet Coke is not a magic potion.

NEVER go to Wolverhampton. It's not the end of the world, but you can see it from there.

PEOPLE who say "I'm beside myself" are often liars. With the notable exception of time travellers and Siamese twins.

HAVING "JUICY" written across your bum does not make it any smaller or more desirable.

UNDER no circumstances should two men ever share the same umbrella.

CHIPS should never cost more than a pound

PRACTITIONERS of alternative medicine should be banned from using hospitals. Broken your leg? In unspeakable pain? Have a little faith. Put a
crystal on it - you'll be right as rain in no time.

NEVER channel surf on Sky when there is a break. Every channel will have a break at the same time.

IF you can't believe it's not butter, you're an idiot.

CATS know more than they let on.

LENNY Henry isn't very funny.

MIDDLE-AGED couples! Kissing on public transport is not proving you can find love at any age. You just look like you're having an affair.

BEGINNING a sentence, "Now, don't get angry..." will always have the reverse effect.

NO T-shirt is ever worth more than £20.

NOBODY has ever read the small print of a mobile-phone insurance contract.

YOU can't skip and be unhappy at the same time.

THERE are two theories to arguing with women. Neither works.

KANYE West is not a service station on the M4.

KNOWLEDGE is luggage. Travel light.

YOU can make any lie believable by beginning with the words "In America..."

A BABY On Board sticker on your car's rear window serves no purpose other than to advertise your fertility. Congratulations on being a parent, but the motorists around you weren't planning to plough into the back of your car deliberately.

NEVER pretend you can horse-ride.

NEVER trust a man with a comb-over. If he's lying to himself he's likely to
lie to you too.

TOO many cooks spoil the TV schedules.

DON'T make your voice go up? At the end of every sentence? Please?

DOG owners! Your monstrously large hound is NOT more afraid of me than I am of it.

NEVER "Reply to All". You're not as funny as you think you are.

IT is impossible to sing Copacabana without wiggling your shoulders.

NEVER weigh more than your fridge.

NEVER ever mix sleeping pills and laxatives.

ALWAYS judge a book by its cover. It has been specifically designed to target a certain audience so you can pretty much tell whether you're going to like it or not.

THERE is an inversely proportional relationship between how acceptable a person is and whether or not they have chosen an ringtone with "crazy" in
the title.

ARRIVING anywhere with a pride of lions is guaranteed to draw attention to yourself. Unless you are in Africa.

NOTHING productive can come from just nipping in for a quick pint at two in the afternoon.

YOU can be too rich and too thin.

THE only people you should address as "brother" are your male siblings and monks.

MEN who download Page 3 girl pictures for your mobile! Take a long, hard look at your life.

YOU cannot trust a man whose name is also a verb: Bob; Roger; Russell; Don; Grant; Chuck; Bill.

IF you drink bitter or stout, you invariably are.

YOU can live your life through a computer.

THE baddie is always English.

IF you like your men to be unbalanced and insecure stalkers with unnatural sexual fantasies then simply hang around the air rifle and combat magazine
section in WH Smiths.

IF you are a football manager, don't wear football boots for the game - you won't need them.

NEVER try to teach a pig to sing - it wastes your time and annoys the pig.

NEVER trust anyone who has a glass-top coffee table in their living room.

CHRIS Moyles is the only DJ who can be seen from space.

CAMOUFLAGE clothing is rendered useless in towns and cities.

IF you are amused by Giles Brandreth, chop your head off.

Later, GrocerJack

Turning Point?

You know how sometimes you hear or see something that immediately riles you up? You know the feeling that sometimes you just have to jump in with both feet and say what you feel? For me, it’s just my way of applying my version of common sense to an increasingly and maddeningly frustrating world of overbearing political correctness, acts of outright evil and the growing culture of the Nanny State. So yesterday in yet another day of stultifying boredom at work I did the usual blog round. I ended up at the site of Blue Witch. I can’t say I’m an avid reader, and I’m sure she thinks the same of me. However, I found myself both laughing at her recent musings, agreeing with some and hating others. Grist to the Mill one might say. A recent post was a little tale of an encounter she had with someone she knows who has draped her house in masses of Christmas Lights (that’s Christmas, not Festive or Holiday lights).

Basically Blue Witch is somewhat anti on this subject, mainly on environmental grounds but also on the rather vague “light pollution” issue as well. All well and good and each to their own would be my normal attitude. However, my mood being what it was yesterday caused me to write some comments along the lines of “Why oh why do some people have to be such bloody killjoys…..live and let live…..who are the real culprits……kids love sparkly lights displays….get a life etc etc” – it just seemed to be yet another sanctimonious piece of preaching the moral high ground.

To which Blue Witch replied, assertively but very kindly putting me in my place. So I replied again and await the next answer. Because I love an argument (as opposed to a row! So, this post was destined to be about me finally losing my rag with the sanctimonious and pious goody two shoes culture that seemed to be afflicting blogging. Then I realised that Blue Witch pissing on my fireworks had jolted me somehow. It’s HER opinion and as such if I want to live by a maxim of “live and let live” under the JS Mill “principle of greatest utility” then she has done me no personal harm. I might not agree, but then I should argue my case clearly and cohesively if I disagree with an opinion. I am asking myself if the dark thoughts pervading my mind of “tory-fication” under the influence of Romanced Diva are leading me to become intolerant of others views if I don’t like them. Of course it’s her blog, and if I don’t like what is said then I can say so (without being rude or personal). If it gets too much, then like my view of The Daily Fascist then I simply don’t read it (although for the most part her site is good fun).

It’s a timely lesson for me in occasionally dragging yourself out of the environment that can take your mood and demeanour to an abnormal place and warp your view of normality, giving people the wrong impression of you. And making you feel twisted. Add to this the interview I have just attended (more later) which even if i don't get the job, went well and reminded me of just how fucking good I am sometimes (cue sound of mini-jacks blowing trumpets!). I just need to remember to stop, take stock, give myself the once over check and remember who I am.

So blog on Blue Witch and everyone else. Be pious, be sanctimonious, be controversial , be irritating, be hateful, be spiteful, be kind, be respectful. It’s the variety of life’s rich tapestry, and maybe just maybe a little event like a wrist slap from another blogger is the catalyst to getting Jack back to the lesser, but ostensibly still Grumpy Bloke. Things look brighter already. And it might just start with an environmentally unfriendly display of some new tacky Xmas lights on the front of GrocerJack Palace.

Later, GrocerJack

PS – the picture is just something nice to look at and to remind me of where I want to be, and where I WILL be again!

Sick (and therefore funny)

Police have today admitted that George Best was not in fact buried in Belfast last week and that in retrospect the decision to cremate him in Hemel Hempstead on Sunday morning might have been a mistake.........

Later, GrocerJack

Wise Words mate.....

I can't take the credit for the following, so this is a lazy post. However - I agree with the sentiments totally. Teenager is following this course exactly, and more worryingly I can see the green shoots of teenagehood starting in Baby.

Oh Joy!

Is your child approaching those glorious teenage years? Have they started sulking for England, throwing apoplectic strops, slamming bedroom doors that shake the house to its very foundations? Have they turned from a child straight out of a fabric softener commercial to the lead role in The Exorcist?

Welcome to the wonderful world of teenagers. Trust me, nothing will have prepared you for this moment ... I don't care if you've climbed Everest single handed wearing nothing but a pair of Y-fronts, living with teenagers is akin to kicking jelly up a ladder.

I have just two words to offer you as your child arrives at this life changing threshold:

Brace yerself!

Oh, and the following tips might help:-

1. Make an appointment to see the dentist. You'll be doing a lot of teeth gnashing in the years to come so make sure they're up to it.

2. Check your cushions and pillows, make sure they're strong enough to survive a good bashing and dense enough to bury your face into them when the urge to scream is overwhelming.

3. Check your house. Ensure door frames are up for the slamming, pictures and mirrors are secured firmly to the walls, stairways are solid enough to withstand heavy stomping, and carpets are prepared for the inevitable trail of mud (teenagers don't wipe feet).
4. Invest in a good dishwasher. This has two benefits. (1) Your teenager will not, if their very lives depended on it, wash up again until they have children of their own; and (2) teenagers will use every single cup, plate and piece of cutlery in the kitchen to make one meal.
5. Stock up on junk food. Yes, I know, you want them to eat healthily, but forget it, you're wasting your time. Buy pizzas, those disgusting noodle things in pots, and as many bags of crisps as you can afford.

6. Also on the subject of food, check out the microwave ... it's the only kitchen implement teenagers will use. And stock up on microwave meals like frozen curries which will, hopefully, provide a modicum of vitamins in an acceptable form. (If you're worried about their diet, might I suggest crushing vitamin tablets into their food whilst they're not looking - avoid the temptation to crush a few sleeping tablets in there too).

7. Consider taking out a second mortgage. You're gonna need it.

8. Stand in front of a mirror and practice saying the word "No." Don't move away from the mirror until you have mastered this in a thoroughly convincing way. Continually saying yes to their incessant demands for lifts and money will result in major hostilities when you dare to say No for the first time.

9. Toughen up your tongue - chew it all over for at least an hour a day until it has the texture of rhinocerous skin. This will come in handy when they bring a boyfriend/girlfriend home. If you keep quiet about the green haired, tattooed, multi-pierced monstrosity they think is God incarnate, they'll soon get bored and wander off to (hopefully) someone a bit more human - dare to voice your objections and you'll be stuck with the monstrosity for a long, long time.
10. Join a prenatal clinic. The deep breathing exercises are helpful in times of immense stress ... pretty much 24/7. Alternatively, buy a crate of good whisky.

11. Remember, at all times, that they really can't help being so loud/selfish/argumentative/
unreasonable/thoughtless - its just a phase they're going through, their hormones are raging, it'll only last ooooooh 4 years or so.

12. Remove all dangerous items from the house; this includes baseball bats, knives, any sharp objects, any heavy objects and glass from interior doors so they're not to hand when they've Driven You To The Very Edge of Sanity.

13. Keep photographs of their young, innocent faces handy to remind you of what they used to be like. Try not to cry over them too much.

14. Invest in more cushions and pillows, the bigger the better. And probably a couple more crates of whisky, too.

15. Try to avoid resorting to swear words when your tether end has been long surpassed - its not a good example to give them, and apologising afterwards can be a bit grim.

16. Don't bother arguing with them, you'll never win because teenagers are totally without logic. When they're jumping up and down screaming blue murder about the £250 trainers they Simply Must Have, just shrug and smile serenely (and push the cotton wool deeper into your ears).

17. Warn the neighbours about the increased noise levels - both from the screaming matches and from the volume of their music (well, they call it music, you'd probably call it 'Sounds from the Edge of Hell').

18. Whatever you do, don't laugh at their choice of clothing (remember what you wore at that age, probably in the 70's ... say no more). Oh, and try to pick out some distinguishing mark on your teenager so that, in a group of identically dressed teenagers, you might stand a chance of recognising them.

19. Don't expect any help from your teenager whatsoever. They don't do vacuuming, they don't do washing up, they don't do ironing, and they won't have a clue what the washing machine is for. Remember, in the eyes of a teenager, all domestic duties are 'Mothers Domain' (joy).

20. A word here about their bedrooms. They will turn into indoor council tips. Nagging, bribing and threatening just doesn't work, so save yourself the effort and simply forget about the festering filth. Keep their bedroom door shut at all times to avoid contaminating the rest of the house (occasional fumigation might be required).

21. Remember, if they smile at you, they want something (usually money).

22. NEVER expect gratitude. You've kitted out their bedrooms with every state-of-the-art technology conceivable to man, spent hundreds of pounds on petrol driving them places and scrimped for months to buy that expensive pair of trainers for their birthday, but they'll still believe you're Asking Too Much when you dare suggest they put the rubbish bags out on Tuesday night.

23. Once they reach oh-my-god-haven't-they-grown proportions, buy a stepping stool for those moments when you need to give them a swift cuff around the back of the head. Buy old copies of Land of the Giants to pick up tips on how to cope.

24. Remove all telephones from the house unless you enjoy heart resuscitation every time the phone bill arrives.

25. 3 o'clock in the morning is a perfectly reasonable time for a teenager to come home during the week - don't even question this.

26. Teenagers are slobs.Its inbuilt. Nothing will change this.

27. At the onset of hormonal angst your teenager will either abandon personal hygiene altogether or else be constantly hogging the bathroom and all the hot water.

28. Your eloquent child will turn monosyllabic almost overnight. Expect only grunts and dirty looks for at least the next two years.

29. Teenagers don't sleep, they hibernate - draped over the kitchen table, spread out like a starfish in the middle of the living room, or huddled up on the lawn during a thunderstorm. You have more chance of finding the Loch Ness Monster in your garden pond than rousing a teenager from bed in the morning.

30. Remind yourself that teenagers are retribution for what we did to our parents, so just accept the inevitable and keep dreaming of peaceful times (when they've left home and you sit there sobbing that you miss them).

Later, GrocerJack

Nothing better to do?

Fuck me, there are some weird fucking people around aren’t there? None more so than the professional TV watchers who have nothing better to with their lives than sit around watching TV in order to find things to complain about?

The latest casualty of the sad twat club is the BBC’s rather striking and innovative “talking heads” ident (as seen in p[icture) used recently to promote its digital services. Apparently a number of people found it “alarming” and “disturbing”. In some cases very young children were scared by it apparently. One has to wonder in what world these people live, and indeed, what world their children live. I mean apparently some young children are scared by Santa Claus. Does this mean all images of our jolly old toy-bringing hero should be left until after the watershed? If, say, 10 people ring in and complain about the fact that they found Jonathan Ross “disturbing” would that mean he would be dropped from the schedules? If a collective group of children found images of a cartoon rabbit scary, is that the end for Bugs Bunny?

The whole premise of the argument used by these sad moron s is destroyed in some fairly noddy examples of the “reducto ad absurdum” technique I have used above. Just for once I wish the TV companies would turn round and say a collective “fuck off” to the whiners. Just stand their ground and say something along the lines of "go and get a fucking life". In fact I would advocate the TV companies being able to broadcast anything, including hard core porn, using appropriate controls. After all I can indulge in it (maybe via a private club or a liberated set of friends), or even buy it online and have it delivered (not strictly legal in the UK but easily done) or buy it in an approved "sex" shop. But apparently I can’t film it and show and distribute it to others even if they ask to see it because …well perhaps an errant 3 year old might catch sight of it, conveniently forgetting the fact that children walk into Mum and Dad's bedroom all the time and perhaps see things they shouldn't (well not for a few years yet) …and no.....don’t even think of the “exploiting women argument” so fondly trotted out by fat, spotty dykes and vegetarians.

Surely it is parent’s responsibility to police what their kids can see. My kids have cable in their rooms but we apply parental responsibility controls to what channels they can and can’t see, so how come no one else seems capable? Or is it just society playing to the lowest common denominator again, whereby people too ignorant, thick or stupid to switch off, or control the TV output define the rules the rest of us “adults” live by.

In this day and age of “time-shift”, multi-channel and On-demand TV surely the argument for censorship is dead in the water. I think anyone who complains about TV programmes for any other reason than the quality is shit (see virtually every ITV programme) should have their TV viewing rights removed and be reduced to late night local Radio. They’d find plenty to moan about there.

Later , GrocerJack

Big Black Cloud

And so with a great amount of personal effort I finally dragged my sorry, sulky arse along to the “workshop” organised by The Company to help me learn how to deliver “difficult messages” to people. In other words how to destroy their lives, de-motivate and demoralise them, whilst helping them through the “transition curve”.

What a crock of shit.

As expected, I was patronised from the moment I went in. First we had the obligatory introduction of ourselves, including the obligatory “unusual fact” about you. I find this bit incredibly patronising. Everyone is unique I grant, but some of us have led such dull lives it’s hard to find some unique fact that others might even find remotely interesting. I thought I’d list some unique facts about me of which only one is true (and although other interesting things have happened in my life, none are fit for public consumption, least of all by the automatons I work with)…see if you can work out which is true, and which I actually quoted………

My cousin played Benny’s girlfriend in Crossroads (the one that got killed on her pushbike)

Mark Lamarr used to empty my bins

I went out with Lorraine Kelly just before dating Kate Garraway

I am allergic to water

I have 5 children by 5 different women in 3 different countries

I play the spoons in a Lonnie Donegan tribute band

I once smacked Mark Lamarr in the face after a nightclub drink spilling incident

I survived being hit by lightning when camping with Mark Lamarr on Bodmin

I impersonate Shirley Bassey at weekends for money

I once hit Mark Lamarr with a golf ball from a mis-hit drive

Anyway, it was three hours of “being sensitive”, of “not clobbering nor pussyfooting” of being “supportive yet honest” ….blah blah blah. I mean I’m 44 years old and apparently too much of a fuckwit to realise concepts such as compassion or sensitivity or humility. The course was full of silly little role play sections where to be honest most people sat around and chatted about the football or whatever. Of course, who do I get to role play with all morning? The Babe…..the Director of Pipes, Tubes and Strings, and she chose me!. To be fair she looked as if she wanted to be there as much as I did so maybe she thought I looked like a laugh, which of course I duly was. . So did I let her have both of Jack’s barrels at any point. Did I let her know of my deep dissatisfaction with my job? Did I let her know I write a blog during work time because that’s HOW exciting and fulfilling work is?

What do you think? Remember I suffer from Hypocrititis!

I did leave a warm impression I think as I cracked jokes and acted like a clown during parts of our chats. But did she see the tears of The Clown or did I mask my career unhappiness sufficiently to allow her to think I like what I do? Who knows, like I have said my woes are trivial in comparison to most, and although the slide in my morale has apparently halted I still cannot say the recovery has started, and that’s worrying because by now I’ve normally snapped out of it and decided to continue making a good fist of such a dull role.

At least I know what to expect when someone has to deliver me a a “difficult message”.

Later, Grocerjack

Time for a Change?

As a fading socialist fed up of being mugged by New Labour's hoodie clad tax regime I'm now ripe for being picked off by another party. I actually voted for the Lib Dems at the last election because that was the only tactical hope for preventing Michael “ Pssst….wanna buy a watch” Mates being re-elected.

Some hope of that in Blue-Rinse county.

However, the Lib Dems seem to have lost a bit of momentum lately. So am I about to become a Tory?

The very phrase and idea sticks in my throat like a cyanide coated rusty razor blade, but with the election of David Cameron, the taste of the cyanide/rust cocktail seems to becoming more palatable. I actually applaud this bloke's apparent willingness and desire to move away from the "traditional" yah boo sucks playground politics that diseases the alleged Mother of Parliaments. Tradition it might be, but the catcalling, insult lobbing, finger-pointing, cheap point-scoring bollocks that masquerades as democratic political debate is patronising and insults the large number of people in this country who really care about the society we live in, and the manner of how governments behave.

When we see our politicians acting in such a puerile and childish manner is it any wonder the country is awash with apathy and cynicism? Can you imagine how such behaviour would go down at your place of work? Not much of a career development strategy is it?

I vowed once never to vote Tory again (I lapsed in 1979 because someone convinced me that as a flat-owner Labour would leave me with fuck all), but as the New Labour crowbar of taxation diminishes my hard earned savings and earnings more and more each day, and the Nanny State tendencies creep in more and more (don't smoke, don't drink, don't sunbathe, don't fly, don't drive, don’t watch TV, don’t eat red meat, don’t shop at supermarkets, etc etc) the more I feel this government is on borrowed time. Cameron may be a flash in the pan, but then again maybe, uniquely, he really means it. His evident love for his wife, his apparent normal family domestic life, his regular visits to his local for a pint or two, his alleged use of drugs in previous times, his doting on his children, including a severely disabled son, his apparent willingness to introduce a new era of inclusiveness to the Tories, his anti-Thatcher acceptance of the concept of “society” and his willingness to hold back on policies rather than make promises that can’t be fulfilled are all attributes that I find interesting. Perhaps he is more in touch with life in modern Britain than the Ivory Towered hierarchy of New Labour.

I am not yet willing to commit to a swap on “red” principles of my life (fairer society, limited re-distribution of wealth, equality for all irrespective of race, sex, age, creed, size, colour, free healthcare etc) for the “blue” but maybe I’ve reached a time where my goodwill to tax dodging self employed people, along with benefit fraudsters, illegal immigrants here to screw the system and all the other ne’er do-wells of society has been drained. I hope he succeeds because this country needs a new kind of opposition and a new attitude to leadership.

Gordon Brown is NOT the future, and if he succeeds Tony Bliar (sic) then it seems to me that New Labour/Nanny State will be subject to a period of reflection on how robbing honest hard-working people blind via tax, in order to support the fucking wasters, whilst small businesses hire devious accountants to minimize their tax contribution, is NOT the way to remain in power.

Later, TaxedJack

Worth Every Penny

Tonights Shakespeare Retold was A Midsummers Night Dream. Frankly I was laughing my arse off. Yet another quality production from the Beeb and a re-telling of a tale that has convinced me even more that old Billy Boy certainly knew how to knock out a good story. Fuck the traditionalists, this is the way to spread the gospel of how iconic this bloke is in English literary history (yes, English, all the rest of the UK can fuck off on this one). Great performances as well, notably Johnny Vegas as Bottom, the ever excellent Sharon Small as Tatania, Bill Paterson as Theo...in fact they were all good.

But hats off to Dean Lennox Kelly who played Puck.

He played Puck in the style of Shaun Ryder when he was still comprehensible. And boy did he make me laugh with his narration to the viewer. Especially after administering the antidote to his "love juice" with the line "Me, I'm gonna go and pick me a big bag of mushrooms, put me feet up and get a bit of a wobble on". Magic

Later, GrocerJack

So farewell then.....George Best

Anyone who thinks that George Best deserved all he got clearly has no idea of the nature of alcoholism and the fact that its a disease. Generally people who end up as alcoholics don't choose to be that way. They drink to cope with different issues and stresses, be it fame, work presuure, bereavement or mental fragility. What's the cynics answer for people with depression or who are having a nervous breakdown? Let me guess, something like "pull yourself together, snap out of it, get a life?". If only things were that easy.

The people criticising George Best should look up the word Compassion in the dictionary along with Humility and towards the end even Dignity. And yes I know I criticised him here a few weeks ago. But I've got the bollocks to do a re-think and take a more compassionate view having watched the decline with morbid fascination over the last few weeks.

Georgie Best (as we always knew him as kids) was news, whether you liked him or not he was an icon of the 60's in the same way as Lennon, Hendrix, Charlton, Moore etc etc. For people of my age (44) he was the footballer we all wanted to be. He was the role model for us as children. he showed the way out to fame, riches and glory we so desperately wanted as young football mad boys at my school. We grew up idolising him and his journey through life was made available to us all, both as spectators and as a piece of modern iconic history documented in our glorious (sic) press. Unlike today's pampered protected stars he had NO-ONE. No agent, no minder, no-one to completely trust, no protection from the leeches of sport, from the seduction of vice, from kiss 'n' tell women and the hangers on attached to celebrities. Women wanted to be able to say he'd shagged them. Men wanted to buy him a drink in the hope of becoming his mate. He was mobbed wherever he went in his heyday, as if a little of his magical talent would rub off on those who hung around him. He was subject to vicious tackling from players not fit to lace his boots hoping to become a name for getting the better of the 60's own "Special One".

No doubt partly the architect of his own downfall, we all could be there without the support or guidance networks we build or have from birth, something which was patently missing from his life. Yes, he was a drunk, yes he was a womaniser, yes he was a bankrupt and yes he was a wife beater. But he never ever blamed anyone else for his faults. He only blamed himself. But of course none of these attributes are the features of a normal person, but are clearly indicative of a troubled soul with a different perspective on their own reality and their place in life.

He was a great footballer whose full talent was never released, an interesting and articulate man and a great pundit on Soccer Saturday, but ultimately also a tortured soul in search of something he couldn't find and probably couldn't define. I hope he has found the peace that was so obviously missing from his life and that his family are spared the normal catalogue of George Best horror stories likely to be uncovered by the gutter journo's working on the red tops.

***UPDATE***

Thanks to Inspector Sands for putting this link up - download this video. It's 18Mb and might take 10-15 minutes even on Broadband. I believe it might have been put together by some Manchester Utd fans, so full credit to them because if this doesn't convince you, or even put a lump in your throat, then you're dead from the brain down..

Later, GrocerJack

I've met some useless cunts.......

I've come across the odd fuckwit numpty in my time. Usually I just ignore them, or try and cater for them if they decide they must converse with me. Some of them run their own business and it amazes me that these morons make a living. Today I met a ....whats the collective term....ah yes...a pair of cunts. In the form of Sky TV (non)installer and Sky TV Customer Service. I can only further describe the (non) installer as an Amoebic Brain Celled Wanker who I doubt would qualify for a single MacDonalds star.

"Hello mate, your mobile's unavailable " were the first words he said. I may be wrong but how about "Good Morning, I'm here to install Sky" wouldn't that be more normal and acceptable. I asked him to try again as I've already taken several calls this morning. He tries, number unavailable and hands me his phone. "there you go ...told you" he says. I then point out that if he actually dials the right number instead of transposing the last 2 digits to end in 67 as opposed to 76 he might be more successful. "Oh right he says, they must have written it down wrong" .....I look at the order and no they haven't. They are right and this festering useless piece of human detritus is just wrong. So very wrong in every way.

"Oh, you're a Chelsea fan are you" was the next conversational gem to tumble from his brain disengaged mouth. ...."I'm an Arsenal fan meself...we didn't have to buy the title...." he tittered. At this point I'm thinking "Just install it you cunt and fuck off".

But it got worse.

You see there was a problem. I have a cladded house. Not cladding as in multi-coloured stone tat so stunningly trendy in the 70's. No merely cladded with discreet grey tiles front and back. To be honest it's not something I've ever noticed before. We just liked the look of the place and bought it as seen. Apparently because I wanted the "multi-room" install it would have meant siting the dish and then running individual cables around the outside of the house and through the tiles. So Gumby Fuckwit says " Can't do this install coz I'm not insured for tile drilling...I'll ring Sky and they will have to get an "independent" to do the job". Not unreasonably I ask him why he can't put the dish on the side of the house (still clear view to satellite) and run all the cables through the brick work and run the cables to each room internally. The answer "nah needs a specialist to do that and we just install dishes"

Craftsmanship huh?> You just can't beat it. He rings his boss "Jamie" who apparently says "don't touch the job". So, he says he'll ring Sky and let them know and they can contact me to make an alternative arrangement. "It's not going to happen today though is it?" I say..."I've taken the day off for this" i stress. "Yeah well,, niuffink I can do about it he says" At this point the red mist has descended and something along the lines of this comes from my fury-infested brain.......

"So, you're telling me that you can't seek an alternative way of connecting even though I've pointed this out to you?"
"What do Sky do...employ the thickest people on the planet to come out and piss people off"
"Are you just a waste of space?"
" You might as well just fuck off then and stop breathing my air"

etc etc

And off he trundles, no doubt thinking "That'll teach him to support Chelsea".

Sjy then ring and tell me that as they can't install cladded properties they'll refund the money and cancel the order. I ask them if they can arrange for an "independent" to come and do the work instead of the plankton minded fool they sent this morning

"No, we don't offer that service. We may do in the future, but you have to shop around and pay them to do the work. Of course that means we can't do the same deal on the boxes and the package"

"What no alternative at all, no contingency. Thats it! Tough Shit Jack"

All I heard from that point was ...."Blah blah blah". So for the ultimate in fist class shitty customer experience then I heartily recommend Sky TV. They now join the ranks of The Fucking Bastards...organisations who seem to be adept in screwing peoples lives up. If they turned up here now, giving free blow jobs with each install I would still send them packing with the business end of a garden hoe shoved up their arse so far they'd have trouble swallowing.

And so I have had to jump into my humble pie lorry and drive up to the door of my former partner, the mistress NTL, apologise for being seduced into temptation and plead with them to not cancel my TV, and could they please re-instate the phone from BT that was transferred just 3 days ago. And within 5 minutes the soothing scottish lilt of the NTL lady, forgave me and welcomed me back to warm enbracing bosom of Cable TV and phone, all for the same monthly outlay as before.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

Including me.

Later, GrocerJack

Regressing? Moi?

OK, Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now....well maybe just a bit, but it's not often that something makes me feel like jumping onto the strobe and flashing light bedecked dance floor, strutting my stuff and getting into a groove thang.

However the fab new album by Madge herself has transported me back to the days of a hawaiin shirted, wedge haircut Jack, lighter in frame, crooked pearlies a little whiter, but becoming stained by Rothmans King Size, dancing at Disco's and drinking vast quantities of a cocktail called a Traffic Light. Fuck me I'm considering getting a glitter ball installed in the living room and buying me a John Travolta white suit. And as for the single "Hung Up" with it's sampled Abba strapline (she's the only person they've allowed to sample their music such is the respect they have for her...high praise indeed. ) well thats just a complete smile inducing piece of perfect disco pop. Fantastic.

Later, BoogieJack.

A Sunny Dawn

Well, I've taken the plunge. I've hit the vanity phase of the mid-life crisis and decided to undergo a course of mildly painful self-mutilation in the form of cosmetic surgery. Well of a kind I suppose. You see when I was a kid circa 11 years of age my upper canine teeth popped through one day, a little early you might say as the previous incumbent milk canines hadn't quite fucked off at the time.

So I ended up with a dual set of upper canines for a while. Unfortunately because of this unscheduled appearance the new canines sat proudly atop the milk ones thus actually existing at the top of the gum rather than the bottom. Unknownt to me at the time, the teeth on the bottom jaw were conspiring to recreate Tombstone Cemetery and ended up at an interesting mathematical set of different angles. My parents packed me off to the dentist where at the tender age of 12, life stretching out in front of me, a time of discovery and teenage angst as mates entered puberty before me, proudly displaying their newly honed bodies and hairy bits in the showers at school, I was given the choice - Removable "quick win" braces to pull the upper canines down, or "train track" cast iron appliances to fix them long term and give me a lovely set of pearly whites. Faced with the 70's school culture of being mercilessly ripped to shreds, called Jaws or MetalMouth and probably never having a girlfriend.....ever... meant that the cowards choice of the quick win braces won through. At that time we didn't know what "EnglishTooth" was as the yanks so graciously refer to this sceptred isles indigenous populace's crooked yellowing and generally ropy teeth. We were happy in our tobacco and beer stained apathy around dental hygiene. And so fo 32 years I have lived with crooked teeth. Not hideous, but not straight either. And after all this time my vanity and current mental fragility has pushed me into the world of adult orthodontics. And it is like cosmetic surgery because it is pure vanity that is driving me. My confidence through work has dipped. Of course this means that the writing increases because I have more time to think and more issues to mull over. But ostensibly this is just like someone having a nip or a tuck, or a boob job, or liposuction. I have started to wonder when meeting new people whether or not they are looking at my avant garde dental layout, and what decisions about me they then make because of it. To be honest I've been looking at this for a while now, but only recently decided to go for it.

So, for 2 years I'll be wearing some rather fetching half stainless steel, half clear ceramic weights on my teeth clamped by fine gauge steel wire. A year for the top row, a year for the lower row and some follow up work to prevent the "muscle memory" snapping them back to their comfort position of the last 32 years.

A snip at £3450 wouldn't you say?

Later, GrocerJack

Hail and thunder.......

So, there I am travelling home through the night-time traffic on the A34, listening to whatever was being discussed on the radio. The phone rings and its The Shepherd's secretary asking if I can deputise for The Shepherd at a "Communicating Change Workshop pre-meeting". I had carefully planned a sickie or a "wfh" (work from home) day for today in order to ring The King and get a game of golf in.

Plan ruined as the tone of the call indicated that it wasn't a request as such, but a directive. For this is the way of The Shepherd and it's becoming fairly obviously that his style is autocratic. It's also obvious that he listens to your views, decides his are better and does what he wanted in the first place. So at last I am understanding the traits of this new Nemesis. And of course, "know thine enemy" is a classic maxim used by all engaged in battle in order to get the upper hand and defeat their enemy.

Hmmm......"enemy"...."nemesis"....."battle"........seems like an obsession might be coming my way. Is this really what my working life is becoming? A tirade against hierarchy triggered by insularity and bitter jealousy? Is paranoia fever starting to pervade my thoughts.

The evidence is unclear but then today I attend this meeting with others at The Shepherds level. I dress down because it's ....well...Children in Need day...a pisspoor excuse for trash entertainment and acts of folly in order to apply charity guilt to normal people through the twisted mask of the faux clown. (another subject ....), but also just to fuck these knobhead club tie/firm handshake twats right off. My best "worn" jeans, my trendy reebok trainers and one of my Chelsea Polo's not tucked in.
It definitely got me noticed as they turned up in their Alan Partridge sports casual ranges making unfunny sarcastic comments about "Chelski" supporters (Listen you fucking ignorant cunts....Russian tends to end in ....kov.....so it should be Chelskov if you want to take the piss...). I of course laugh at these airheaded corporate mannequins because I am still infected with Hypocrite-itis. . That is my cross and I'll carry it until "my head explodes with dark forebodings too" and end up on some kind of serial manslaughter charge for decapitating some people who belong in Golgafrincham. Either that or I'll get honoured by a grateful society looking for a solution to ridding society of these useless pieces of semi-human detritus. And guess what? The meeting was actually to discuss a course that all line managers will be going on that helps us deliver bad news or "difficult messages" as they put it, in a positive manner. That's right. I'll be able to devastate peoples lives and make their world cave in, but at the same time sell them the benefits of this and help them through the "transition cycle" of denial through to acceptance at the same time!

I can hardly believe my good fortune (sic). So, here I am, someone who could be the first, albeit reluctant citizen of Golgafrincham, desperately trying to batter his way out, but continually being chased back in by a giant inflatable ball ....just like Number 6.....being trained to deliver a potential knife to someone's heart, through a velvet scabbard and with a smile on my face. Killer and Curer in one easy package.

And for all I know someone is waiting to do the same to me.

Delegated dirty work some might call it.

Being given the shit stick is my view.

(Keanu Reeves pic? I just needed to show a picture of a wanker to illustrate how I feel about The Shepherd)

Later, GrocerJack

Snowstorm....near blizzard strength

Guess which bits of the following I didn't put on my interim performance appraisal form.

A challenging few months with a new manager (the most inspid and uninspiring man in the world) and new skills (in corporate gobbledygook spin) to learn and new role objectives to be assimilated (what am I to you - a fucking Borg?). I believe that thus far I have acquitted myself well in all areas (like anyone gives a shit). Some observations though:

Promotion seems impossible for me now and I can't be sure that my age (being 44 and seemingly ready for the knackers yard as far as most in this organisation think) is not a major factor here. I also feel that none of my past achievements have been recognised and that specifically my stewardship of the Data Network team in a frankly highly pressurised, god forsaken, thankless environment was totally ignored. It seems to me that no-one notices good work unless you're prepared to sell your achievements constantly (like some desperate old whore hoping to find some rich corporate cock sucking ladder climber sugardaddy or to provide her with her next fix of Corporate Heroin). There seems no mechanism or process for recognizing those who prefer to adopt a lower profile on their achievements in the hope that actually someone does care (give a shit) and will notice them (i.e. those of us who actually walk the fucking walk as well as talking the talk and who manage to keep some semblance of a normal life outside of this hellhole) and a massive gap exists in any guidance on how to achieve promotion or further career progression (or even satisfaction). Unfortunately try as I might to forget this and concentrate on the future I can't help thinking that if the past is anything to go by then no matter how well I perform (or what the fuck I do) it won't really make any difference. (So stop patronising me Sonny, stop telling me how to develop myself, how to target my aspirations, how to focus on my objectives and achievements, stop the pretence that there is anything left for me here, stamp the fucking stamp, sign the fucking form and lets save ourself 2 hours and get on with something more worthwhile).

I have given some clues to help you along the way.

Later, GrocerJack

A Brief Sunny Spell

I could go on and on about the fantastic value the BBC gives for the licence fee. I could mention the usual stuff about 33p a day giving 2 terrestrial stations, 2 digital channels, numerous national radio stations, endless local radio stations, an authoratative rolling news TV channel, a bang-on web site etc etc etc all advert free.
I could also mention that in the general rather low mood, self esteem and motivation running through Jack Towers these days I need every little lift that comnes my way and grab at everything like a thirsty man trying ot catch every raindrop that falls, but readers laready know from the headings that the mood is low and the recovery slow.

And then, last night, I watched the second of the BBC's adaptations of Shakespeare's plays. Last week a wonderful version of Much Ado About Nothing, one of the few bits of Shakespeare I was able to decipher in its natural "olde englishe" language in the Kenneth Branagh film from a few years ago. I saw Macbeth with my school when i was 13 and ....well.........like all 13 year olds we were completely bemused by it. Strange language, convoluted acting, the opportunity to sit in the back with DW coz me mate told me she fancied me all contributed to this being a non event (including the ....ahem ....liason with the young lady DW). So, last night I gave it another shot. 27 years later and in English that i understood with a top quota of actors this was simply stunning. One of the best bits of drama I've seen in my life. A tale of skullduggery, deceit, jealousy and murder most horrid recreated brilliantly in the confines of a newly 3-Michelin Star decorated restaurant.

Of course, the purists will be apoplectic with rage and indignation at this "dumbing down" of our greatest playwright, but fuck 'em I say. Anything that brings this stuff to life for a mass audience (and old Will himself wrote and had them performed for the masses - don't forget this was the "common" langauage of the time) has to be a good thing doesn't it? To the purists I say this......"is this a dagger I see before me....."

Another Gold Star for the BBC to put on the page when justifying the licence fee. ShiteTV must be quivering with jealousy.

Later, GrocerJack

Night time again.....

So, according to some PC boffins at Oxford University, bad food leads to bad health. And this is the top news story on the usually level headed 5 Live this morning.

Here's another thing that leads to bad health, depression and general low morale.

TMFI Syndrome - or to give it the full name TOO MUCH FUCKING INFORMATION Syndrome. It is a hybrid of another pernicious virus rampaging through British, nay world society called STFO Syndrome - full medical name STATING THE FUCKING OBVIOUS Syndrome. And this is what we have to listen to. A bunch of bleeding heart Nanny State wankers harping on about what a bunch of clueless fuckwits we all are and how we should all have our freedoms curtailed because Nanny knows whats best for us all. Another removal of a "negative freedom" beckons as the Nanny State gets a firm grip on all of us ingrates.

Of course the NHS is overburdened, but we all the know the problem. Sick people clogging up what would undoubtedly be one fo the worlds best bureaucratic systems. Christ, just think of the efficiency gains to made form removing all sick people from the system.

So, to paraphrase a previous post is what the government thinks of us.

No drinking because you're ALL a bunch of binge drinking louts and hooligans.
No smoking, passive or active because you may die one day but its important that some smoke to pay taxes to fund the .....errrr....NHS....err..... maybe the poor or the bored
No junk food - no burgers, kebabs, hot dogs or anything that tastes nice. Just fruit, veg, and water. All of which is fresh and flown in from exotic places just for us
No sunbathing - skin cancer is not trendy and doesn't look good on the catwalk. If you must go out in the sun it is best to wear plenty of heavy clothes and barrier cream
No speeding - you may think car safety had advanced but it hasn't - cars are as dangerous today as they were in the early 20th century
No driving - you're the chief cause of the environment going to pot and global warming. Plus all the cumulative effects of those car hi-fi's is the speaker magnets are changing the magnetic field of the earth.
No sex - because you're all just a breeding ground for STD's.
No poultry because you're likely to be the cause of bird flu spreading you unclean, unhygienic plebs
Don't even think about having a bath or shower. Arid Britain is your fault!

and so on.....

What I don't understand, and would welcome any explanation for, is why we're all living so long despite all these threats, and hence why I am being told I'll have to work until I'm at least 70 before retiring?

Pourqoui?

Later, GrocerJack

Grey clouds with the odd sunny spell

As if......














Later, GrocerJack

A little ray of light

14 days until Sky + and ChelseaTV.

It's the little things that keep me going.

Later, GrocerJack

A slightly less dark grey

It must be something to do with the week moving on. I definitely hate the start of the week.

What about that last episode of Spooks season 4 tonight?

What a fucking ending. What a twist. You just knew it had wrapped up too easily with 10 minutes left.

Simply stunning.

And a whole fucking bastard bloody wanking year to wait to find out the fates of Adam and Harry.

As good as Doctor Who and continuing proof of the excellence of the BBC.

Later, SpookJack

Dark grey

It's only a little lighter. A chance lunch with my former right hand man Mr Argumentative has led to a discovery of mutual dissatisfaction and a very preliminary investigation into other options we may wish to pursue.

Also, last night whilst GMD and LittleSis prattled away over a bottle or two of Vin rouge I spent the night surfing the information highway and uncovered this little gem of a site called TV-ARK. If you want to wallow in a visit down memory lane the click the link and have a look around. Fantastic quiz material by the bucketload, and also a chance to invoke memories (of better days?) by the simple act of playing back opening titles to kids programmes and loads of others. Its funny how such a small thing can lift the mood so apparently dispropotionately, but perhaps when you're in a trough you notice extremes a bit more, and are more likely to apportion greater solace to "the small pleasures". I wish I still smoked.

Yes, it's a bit of an anorak site, but all the same it felt like a little gem last night. And very odd that the Thames TV ident bought a lump to the throat. As did the revelation that I remember the Associated Rediffusion branding and ident and the ATV London ones, which were the predecessors to Thames/London Weekend, way before carlton got their grubby hands on the service. In other words pre-1968 (when Associated Rediffusion/ATV London lost the franchise). The kids programmes are also very interesting. I mean the theme tune to Animal Magic is always a reminder of dull Thursday afternoons when it was LITERALLY all that was on, and even at 8 or 9 years old I thought "what a load of shit" (well poo was probably the word). And was The Woodentops theme really that sombre and dull?

Anyway, have a visit, it is definitely worth a look.

If you're as sad as me.

Later, GreyJack

Black

I see a red door and I want to paint it black
No colours any more I want them to turn black

Things are not getting better.

The time to worry is when I print the lyrics to Goodbye Cruel World.

At the moment it's therapy.

Later, WhateverJack

Unfaithful...Moi?

I have been unfaithful.

I have turned my back on someone after 10 years.

To be honest the relationship was always uneasy. I wanted so much more, so much more, but they just couldn't provide what I wanted.

Yes, I feel guilty, but honestly it's not like I haven't been honest with them. It's not like I didn't tell them how I felt about what my needs were. If they'd smartened up their act then none of this would have happened.

So after 10 years with NTL I have finally decided to move to SkyDigital. Truth is cancelling NTL did make me feel guilty. I felt I'd broken a trust. But I need Chelsea TV. I've wanted it since it started a few years ago but NTL just wouldn't negotiate with them. Apparently the deal was almost done and then Roman Abramovich took over and NTL saw an opportunity to make a bit more cash. Chelsea TV told them to fuck off (perhaps not exactly like that, but in a more diplomatic way). I also want Sky+ as well, and despite several calls to NTL they couldn't tell me when their PVR offering would be available, or when their Video on Demand service would be in my area. So, NTL were aware of my needs but didn't seem keen to deliver them. Sky always seemed keen to snap me up, in fact last year I was 30 minutes way from moving to them but the subsequent cancellation call to NTL resulted in them dropping the charges for the two extra receiver boxes we have up stairs, thus saving £30 per month. From the minute NTL did that I always felt I'd compromised. It was like staying with the wife in her flanellete nightie and hairnet when a sexy young subservient rich woman wearing stockings and lingerie is tempting you.

Oh yes, moving to Sky feels like moving to the dark side, like becoming one of the undead. The final decider was when The Company announced a tie up with Sky giving us a free Sky+ box plus HALF PRICE, yes HALF PRICE SkyWorld (the full sports/movies package) for 12 months. I do need the multi-room option as well but even with this it's cheaper than NTL, and I get to "pause live TV" .....yay! Sky also lobbed in a phone offer for £10 line rental and £7.99 per month unlimited calls (mobiles excluded of course). After 12 months, who knows...NTL may have bucked their ideas up and I can go back to their welcoming bosom (sic). So, on the 21st I will be with BT and Skytalk Anytime for the phone. And on 24th a man will come and fit a dish, and loads of lovely boxes. And from that point I will be loading The Dirty Diggers pockets with my cash.

For my soul has therefore been well and truly sold to Satan.

Later Mini-dishJack

Time for Time

Warning - self indulgent whinge ahead.

Now that The Sandman has left to follow The Godfather to Rottweiller Broadband it's all change in my area of The Company. Change is good. Change is necessary. Change makes us all better people.

Yeah, like fuck.

Actually The Godfather has been replaced by BeachBabe, a rather young and pretty blonde, of English nationality but having spent the last 9 years in New Zealand. About 35 at the most. Similarly The Sandman has been replaced by The Shepherd, a rather strange northerner who speaks in staccato diktats in Management bible terms. Maybe he sees himself as The Biblical shepherd. Not spontaneous or warm and certainly not someone to inspire me. It seems my days are numbered. Stuck at my middle management level, delivering more they asked me to , turning problem staff into high flyers, singing the company song etc ...ad infinitum. The Stumbler tries to build my morale and set me "challenges" but he's a bit ineffectual and uninspiring. A kind of Tim Nice But NotDim. Clever, but a bit of a stereotypical boffin. 4 years ago I managed a team of 25 hairy-arsed engineers, a rumbumptious lot, but the team had spirit and camaraderie and virtually every one of those guys felt more like amate than a colleague. I explained my decisions, I bollocked them in private if they fucked up. I did a good job , they liked me, I liked them. I mistakenly believed that I could bask in the reflected glory of a high performing, high delivering, well liked and respected team. I thought that achievement would be recognized and rewarded. I was wrong of course. Led by my own stupid naivety I fooled myself into believing my rejection of captain/crew team dynamics and the "lets all pretend to be mates and be nice" styles in favour of a kind of Glory in the face of adversity team building style would bring its own rewards. But in these new days of" touchy feely soundbite management delivering fuck all mentality" so superbly espoused by New Labour's Nanny Government my policy failed. Results don't matter. Bad is the New Good. Reward for failure. Anonymity for the likes of me.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm lined up for redundancy (as far as I know), more the fact that it's obvious I can only sit at the Big Table when asked to deputise for the Stumbler. A patronizing task because apparently I'm not good enough to do such a role full time, but a tophole substitute when The Stumbler is off. They call it acting as DoA. It means Delegation of Authority. When I was an engineer it meant Dead on Arrival. I know which one suits me best these days.

I remember a Schools programme called Picture Box, introduced by a guy called Alan Rothwell, an episode of which could have been a vision of my life. It was so sad that even as a kid it made me cry. Way before I understood concepts of socialism, hierarchies in the workplace etc the story was of a young lad who is offered an apprenticeship and starts work under the tutelage of the well respected Senior Engineer in a fictional company. The story follows the development of the young lad as he learns the trade and becomes an engineer himself. The Senior Engineer was also a shop steward, a sensible one ensuring basic rights were protected for the employees of the firm. Over time the young lad moves up the chain as the older man is left in his safe position, caring for his fellow workmates, coaching and teaching the new interns. Eventually the story ends with the young lad eventually becoming a Senior Manager and becoming more at odds with his teacher. One day the older man gets called into the office to be told that the firm is "letting him go". His heartbreak, confusion and disbelief were obvious to all. Yes, even back in the 70's they dressed it up to mask the cowardice of those too scared to tell the man to his face he was no longer viable. Why did it affect me so much then and why has that episode stayed with me? Because I couldn't believe that someone could be treated this way for just standing by their beliefs and values. I couldn't belive there wasn't a different way to treat this man. Baby has a similar view of the world. Nastiness does not exist in her world. It does of course but she chooses to blot it out as if by doing that it doesn't really happen.

Today a dear friend of mine has been promoted. Deservedly so. A friend I recruited and help to develop. I gave them their first role as a Team Leader, on pure merit. It was obvious a bright future lay ahead. A friend that I've always considered friend first, colleague second. And still do. But inside it tells me that the Picture Box episode is starting to happen to me. My friend isn't my boss, it's just that they have overtaken me in the career stakes. And they have age on their side. As a 44 year old I have joined the ranks of the "safe bets". The non movers. The people thought too old to adapt. The targets for when the next round of rationalization and efficiency drives arrives. I'm not bitter, just sad. Sad that I allowed this to happen. Sad that I didn't push myself into people faces more. Sad that I didn't feel the need to blow my own trumpet. Sad that I trusted others to have the same values and morals as me. Sad that the inevitability of passing time has crept behind me and spat in my face.

It's time for some Floyd for a few weeks methinks. Music to sulk by. Music to capture the mood and inherent injustice of life. Music to inpsire and stir the soul. Music to eventually turn the glass from half empty to half full. Cathartic music. Perhaps I'll start with Time from the imperious Dark Side of the Moon.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.

Later, Deadon ArrivalJack

A Weekend Laugh

It's old, youve seen it before but how this still makes me laugh. It's probably not even true, but who cares. Picture yourself as the listener.......

Just imagine sitting in traffic on your way to work and hearing this.

Many Sydney folks DID hear this on the FOX FM morning show in Sydney.
The DJs play a game where they award winners great prizes. The game is
called "Mate Match". The DJs call someone at work and ask if they are
married
or seriously involved with someone. If the contestant answers "yes", he
or
she is then asked 3 random yet highly personal questions. The person
is
also
asked to divulge the name of their partner (with phone number) for
verification. If their partner answers those same three questions
correctly, they both win the prize.

One particular game, however, several months ago made the Harbour City
drop to its knees with laughter and is possibly the funniest thing
you've heard yet. Anyway, here's how it all went down:

DJ: "Hey! This is Ed on FOX-FM. Have you ever heard of 'Mate Match'?"

Contestant: (laughing) "Yes, I have."

DJ: "Great! Then you know we're giving away a trip to the Gold Coast
if
you win. What is your name? First only please."

Contestant: "Brian."

DJ: "Brian, are you married or what?"

Brian: (laughing nervously) "Yes, I am married."

DJ: "Thank you. Now, what is your wife's name? First only please."

Brian: "Sara."

DJ: "Is Sara at work, Brian?"

Brian: "She is gonna kill me."

DJ: "Stay with me here, Brian! Is she at work?"

Brian: (laughing) "Yes, she's at work."

DJ: "Okay, first question - when was the last time you had sex?"

Brian: "About 8 o'clock this morning."

DJ: "Atta boy, Brian."

Brian: (laughing sheepishly) "Well..."

DJ: "Question #2 - How long did it last?"

Brian: "About 10 minutes."

DJ: "Wow! You really want that trip, huh? No one would ever have said
that if a trip wasn't at stake."

Brian: "Yeah, that trip sure would be nice."

DJ: "Okay. Final question. Where did you have sex at 8 o'clock this
morning?

Brian: (laughing hard) "I, ummm, I, well..."

DJ: "This sounds good, Brian. Where was it at?"

Brian: "Not that it was all that great, but her mum is staying with us
for a couple of weeks..."

DJ: "Uh huh..."

Brian: "...and the Mother-In-Law was in the shower at the time."

DJ: "Atta boy, Brian."

Brian: "On the kitchen table."

DJ: "Not that great?? That is more adventure than the previous hundred
times I've done it. Okay folks, I will put Brian on hold, get this
wife's
work
number and call her up. You listen to this."

[3 minutes of commercials follow.]

DJ: "Okay audience; let's call Sarah, shall we?" (Touch
tones.....ringing....)

Clerk: "Kinkos."

DJ: "Hey, is Sarah around there somewhere?"

Clerk: "This is she."

DJ: "Sarah, this is Ed with FOX-FM. We are live on the air right now
and
I've been talking with Brian for a couple of hours now."

Sarah: (laughing) "A couple of hours?"

DJ: "Well, a while now. He is on the line with us. Brian knows not to
give any answers away or you'll lose. Sooooooo... do you know the
rules
of 'Mate Match'?"

Sarah: "No."

DJ: "Good!"

Brian: (laughing)

Sarah: (laughing) "Brian, what the hell are you up to?"

Brian: (laughing) "Just answer his questions honestly, okay? Be
completely honest."

DJ: "Yeah yeah yeah. Sure. Now, I will ask you 3 questions, Sarah. If
your answers match Brian's answers, then the both of you will be off
to
the Gold Coast for 5 days on us.

Sarah: (laughing) "Yes."

DJ: "Alright. When did you last have sex, Sarah?"

Sarah: "Oh God, Brian....uh, this morning before Brian went to work."

DJ: "What time?"

Sarah: "Around 8 this morning."

DJ: "Very good. Next question. How long did it last?"

Sarah: "12, 15 minutes maybe."

DJ: "Hmmmm. That's close enough. I am sure she is trying to protect
his
manhood. We've got one last question, Sarah. You are one question away
from a trip to the Gold Coast. Are you ready?"

Sarah: (laughing) "Yes."

DJ: "Where did you have it?"

Sarah: "OH MY GOD, BRIAN!! You didn't tell them that did you?"

Brian: "Just tell him, honey."

DJ: "What is bothering you so much, Sarah?"

Sarah: "Well..."

DJ: Come on Sarah.....where did you have it?

Sarah: "Up the arse....."

After a long pause, the DJ said, "Folks, we need to take a station
break"

And the drivers of Sydney almost crashed their cars laughing!

G'Day, Grocerjack