Give Me Pound Shops Or Give Me Death

The next whingeing whelp who writes into the Evening Times to gurn about the proliferation of shops that aren't M&S, Boots or Sainsbury's in Glasgow city centre is gonna get a turd through their letterbox. Fucking hell, to hear them bleat on you'd think every second shop on Sauchiehall Street & Argyll Street was a twenty bob stop of some sort. Even if it was, so fucking what? Those streets have always had their tat shops and glorified sport-sock retailers. You want posh? Go to fucking Edinburgh! Or maybe the lower end of Buchanan Street............. Then there was the girl at work who had never eaten a scone. Is that possible? Reports that she passed out with excitement when someone tried to describe pancake to her are as yet unsubstantiated.............. Everyone on the planet has had a scone at some time in their life, whether they wanted one or not. Visits to your aunt's house on a sunday afternoon were always fraught with the dangers of being left with the cake-stand outcasts. All it took was a poorly timed toilet break and all the Taxi's, Breakaways and Jammy Dodgers would be nestling in your brothers trouser pockets, leaving you with the odious fruit slice, the foul lemon fingers and and those dry, scabby looking, but ultimately edible scones. Right, I'm off to a branch of "Everythings A Fucking Quid" to buy a pack of 100 half empty AA batteries, some place-mats with Labradors on and a screwdriver kit and I'll still have enough left from a tenner to get the messages in at Lidl! To quote Joe Fagin, "That's Livin' Alright"

Swells

As if last week's Michael Jackson/Farah Fawcett '2 for 1' deal wasn't fascinating enough for a rubber-necking scumbag like me, the news comes through that SHOUTY MUSIC JOURNO Steven Wells has also relocated to a quieter suburb. I don't really remember much of his writing in the NME, though his by-line meant you'd get a few laughs if nothing else. I was more of an Melody Maker chick to be honest. In the intervening years since I gave up reading the weekly music comics, it seems he'd relocated across the Atlantic and was plying his scabrous, contrarian trade over there when he fell ill with cancer. Och! Anyway, just a thought God, but any chance of a similar run this week, but on slightly more deserving targets? I'm watching the Glastonbury coverage on BBC just now, and I can think of at least three of the presenters.........Or possibly the whole of Blur. That would be nice. As I said, just a thought...

Ladies Sitting Between Parked Cars

Take our leave of the city It's manic temper and sweating walls Screaming brakes and rigid forms Out of the subway and into the heat To ladies sitting between parked cars Bare feet, cigarettes and bottles to hand Rust on the railings Weeds in the gutter Sunlight reflects on chrome Sound of the river Under the traffic hum We're almost home.

Bury Me Standing, I've Been On My Knees My Whole Life

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STOP.

Is That The Time?

Jesus! It feels like an eternity since I last posted. I'm getting a bit fed up of writing these entries like periodic postcards to the outside world, but until I get mind, soul and body in order, it'll have to do. The truth is that I've been a little too tired to think about anything other than the most rudimentary blog input. Alas, I'm off until Tuesday and I'm taking myself away for most of that time. Where? Ha! I'm not telling, someone might find me. Work has been the biggest fucker. Two of our number were made redundant and we've moved to another office. The days go by quicker but the work is a few degrees more intense. Having to account for 90% of your working day was the first big shock. I shit ye not, every single thing we do in a day has to be logged and timed. For some jobs it's not a problem, but when you do half a dozen different things, it's a fucking nightmare. I spend about an hour of my day just filling the bastard fucking spreadsheet in, complete with the case numbers of everything that's crossed my desk. I keep looking for the column in the spreadsheet that says "Time spent filling in this useless piece of shit because some over-paid retard at the top of the company gets a fucking hard-on from reading statistics".

Bah! It doesn't help when one of the folk to survive the cull is contributing to the deterioration of my mental hygiene. We all know the concept of the 'man-child'. This is the 'woman-child'. I haven't had to deal with her much before, but she's starting to drive me to distraction. Job-wise, she does one thing. All day. She has done for the past four or five years. This wasn't a problem when we had high volumes of work and everyone was assigned a duty. Now we all need to be able to do each others jobs and while this is no problem for most sentient beings, fat arse has done nothing but wheedle and whine like an irritating five year old. Fuck! If I hear her simpering on about how she misses our much loathed old boss, or how she's fed up of getting emails from the team leader updating us on our new roles, or how she doesn't like the new office, I'll end up snapping and cramming one of her filthy cheese spread white bread sandwiches down her craw with a rolled up Land Certificate!! At the very least I might ask her to experiment with eating with her fucking mouth closed. All I hope is that management and HR realise they got it wrong when they decided to jettison the smartest cookie in the pack and keep this stammering, simple minded fucktard. There, all gone. A little weight off my chest.................. Feels better already. So, that's the state of play in my world. Borderline psychosis, fatigue, anger management issues etc............... What about the rest of you? Has the very notion of going to work made you physically ill in recent weeks? Are you having a wonderful time in a land of milk and honey where nobody cares when you come and go and free gym membership and prostitutes? Are you constantly justifying yourself to an off-hand, shit thick time server who looks at you like you've just vomitted on their lap? Do you get to watch YouTube and I-Player on your company's internet connection and spend your days emailing clips of swearing hamsters and old Rainbow episiodes to workmates? Are you a smug comfort-zoner or are you a down-trodden prole? Answers on the back of the usual beermat. Behold! U2 Are Shit! as are Coldplay, Metallica