Jonah

Wherever I've worked, I always seem to have been haunted by some issue or other. A problem without a satisfactory resolution.



When I was at Channel 4, it was a noisy air-con unit which used to cause the occupants of the floor it serviced to complain daily. We could not - despite throwing inordinate amounts of time and money at it - seem to make it stop. I even resorted to working among the complaining group to see if I could pin-point the cause of the problem. But to no avail. As far as I'm aware, the unit is still screeching away now, and the good folk of Legal Administration (or whatever the fuck department it was) are still phoning in daily to moan about it.

Prior to this, there were a couple of things during my reign at Disney which made my life a living hell. One was a scenic lift. It persistently intermittently and inexplicably broke down, occasionally with some high-flying (no pun intended) executive or other trapped in it. I can look back on this sorry tale now and laugh (unlike the poor claustrophobic executive, sad to say) but at the time I suffered many a sleepless night over it, I have to tell you.



Worse than that - far worse - was a cracked window. It may not seem a huge deal, but this window was gigantic. Approximately 8ft square, located on the 8th floor, above the Hammersmith flyover. JG Ballard could have written my CV if anything had gone wrong with replacing that damned thing, and it took an absolute age to get it done. I remember that there were quite a number of broken windows in the building, and great efforts were expended to find out what had caused this odd fracturing, though there was some hesitation when it came to committing to the huge sums of money necessary in order to (possibly) resolve it.

I can recall an expert who came to look at the problem with me. He and I were looking at one particular office with a broken window. There was a female manager sitting there at that time, but she was not at her desk when we arrived. We deliberated, digested and cogitated for a few moments, with the requisite amount of chin stroking and inside jokes. And then she walked in.

"Hi Carol." I said (for it was she)

"Oh, hello," said my erstwhile companion. "We've just been admiring your cra..."

I have one or two extant situations for the final bizarre couple of weeks remaining at my current place of employment, mostly involving pigeons and leaks, but the biggest bloody sea bird adorning my neck, Flavor Flav style, is a lazer blue bastard, draped around there from an early age, and hanging around like a bad smell ever since.

Sir

I have been beastly about chuggers in the past, for which I feel a twinge of guilt. Fuck's sake, they're only trying to make a few donations after all. Who am I to judge? Especially as this may be my next career move.
It's just...

In terms of shopping, I can't stop being an English male. If I need to buy something which isn't a pint of lager or a copy of the Currant Bun, I am immediately out of my comfort zone. The other day, noticing the fraying on the cuffs of my favourite shirt, I knew I had to take action. However, I eschewed the usual bun fight of M&S (Next is no longer an option in my neck of the woods, which is undoubtedly a good thing) and headed through Strutton Ground to McCombie Bros towards the Scotland Yard end of Victoria Street. Two shirts for £30. Bargain, I'm sure you will agree. It was (and is) also my kind of shop. Eccentric and odd. Not widely patronised. The assistant was sporting a mohican and the proprietor was filling in some stock sheets over the shirt racks as I entered. As mohican boy plonked down a couple of teas, the old man accidentally stood on his foot, and he reacted by silently demonstrating the agonising pain he was suffering - screwing up his eyes and hopping from side to side theatrically. But then he (I mean the boss) had to go and spoil it, didn't he?

He asked me if I was all right. The bastard.

He wondered if I needed any help. I told him that I was browsing - thank you - and I think managed to achieve an uneasy equilibrium after this rude interruption. But there was no doubt that something had been lost between us in that moment of prostitution, and things would never be the same again. I did end up buying a couple of dickies in the end, but I felt sullied nonetheless.

Then there's the Big Issue sellers. I do not mean to attack the homeless, as this would be pure foolishness, but I cannot abide the way that the sale of a magazine has to be so personalised. The lack of response (even should this be in the negative) is seen as a snub. I don't know why I have to enter into this immediate and ephemeral contract with someone standing on a corner, and why I have to feel so bad about not keeping my end of it.

For me, it's symptomatic of the malaise affecting the world...

But you've heard my bullshit on this subject too many times. I will allow you to continue browsing without further interruption.

Long time no City

It's not that I'm bored with footy. Far from it. I'm just more than a little ashamed of the way that my team has come to be the ultimate symbol (with the exception perhaps of QPR) of all that's wrong with the modern game. The plaything of some 'fit and proper' person, splashing out ludicrous sums of money for players, establishing some sort of global brand, and... Then what? What relationship does any of this guff bear to the reality of life? And why does Carlo Ancelotti insist on wearing jumpers over his shirt & tie combo? I thought he was Italian, and therefore not meant to make fashion gaffes?

On top of that, even Striker is over now, with the Warriors in administration, and the strip replaced by a few irritating web virals. Is that really the best the Currant Bun can do? I ask you.

Anyway, what can I say about City at the moment? Lescott, Bridge, Richards... the defensive line-up still doesn't fill one with confidence, despite the undoubted ability of the team to bang in the goals. Witness shooting ourselves in the foot against Fulham, and not being able to finish off sodding Wigan. We have also not really looked that creative, with few passages of really good play. Wright-Philips is in a form dip (again) and I've said it before, but Tevez (except against teams like Scunthorpe - no offence) is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I am happy that old Abs is back though.
If we don't give the Brummies a good whacking this afternoon, I shall want to know why. Should be followed by a routine thrashing of Burnley, a trip to the wobbly Scousers (who will no doubt beat us) and it's Arsenal kids in the Spurs Cup. Let's see how we get on against those callow youths. If I can retain interest that long, that is.

Waster

I've just spent a day (more or less) sitting in a room listening to bullshit. I needed that like a hole in the blooming fuselage, let me tell ya. Anyway, the primary aim of the day was to work out how to make a couple of people do less 'work' than the negligible amount they already get paid a fortune for, er, doing. What's worse: these two people had (I suspect) orchestrated the day in the first place, but also had the brass neck to sit there whilst everyone (in between the coffees and the egg sandwiches) worked out how to take away even more of their pointless and overpaid existence, leaving them free to... Something.



Clearly, nobody could understand why these (state funded, I feel I must add) worthies should be bothered with the mundanities of everyday life, concerned as they are with the fundamental and vital issues of relationship management.

I don't rile easily, but my tether was stretched by one of them (tightly-curled redhead, incidentally) I have to admit. I struggled to empathise with her complaints of dealing with idiots who fail to understand just how things should be done. I was too far away from the Powerpoint and flipcharts to see clearly the baby blues of my boss as he effortlessly segued into consultation gags at the same time as tossing put-downs over his shoulder, too concerned with the doodle on my notepad and the filth on the window to actually give a shit.

It's strange to be betwixt and between.

Renewed faith?

Don't get me wrong, but I was pleasantly surprised to see one of our top politicians practicing what he preaches yesterday. I was on the bus heading towards the Angel, and we approached a set of traffic lights just as they were changing to green. Two cyclists were slightly caught out by this and started a little slowly, but one - riding a sleek racer - soon picked up speed and kept pace with the bus for a few yards. The other, who was perched on a far more utilitarian model, struggled slightly and laboured up the incline as the bus passed him. Something about him caught my attention; sticking out of his German army style cycling helmet could be seen unruly strands of platinum blond hair, and his head was moving from side to side as he pedalled.

I turned in my seat to look closely and was almost inclined to say something to my fellow passengers when I saw that it was your favourite and mine - Boris Johnson - muttering away to himself. Of course, along with that twat Cameron, old BJ has made a big deal out of the fact that he rides a bike, though he could hardly be called a champion of green causes, so I did wonder why he bothered. Cynical as I am, I just assumed that he didn't really ride around unless there was a posse of paps on his tail, thus maximising the photo opportunity. Like Dave, I believed that if and when he did cycle, he was supported by a large retinue of assistants, carrying his important papers and protecting him from assassination attempts.

I was mistaken. I hold my hand up. But as I said, don't get me wrong. I have no time for the man and his politics, his privileged upbringing and his lovable buffoonery.

It did strike me however, that Gordon Brown would never be seen dead on a bicycle (I hope I'm not being too horrid when I say that, for the sake of other Londoners' safety, I suppose this is a good thing) and it would indeed be an incongruous sight if he ever did get on one. As you all probably know, I do work in the Whitehall area, so often see old GB in and out of Downing Street, led by tough looking motorbike cops and a couple of Daimlers, and followed by blacked out people carriers and yet more motorbikes. So, the PM can't move without a major security operation, but the Mayor of London is OK to ride around like a naked baby through the capital's mean streets.



(sorry about the size of the pic - I'm new to yfrog and haven't worked out its mysteries yet)

It's a funny old world, I reckon.

10 line poem

BEFORE THE DAY BEGINS

Before the day begins

The bus washes me ashore,

And then is sucked back into the stream

Of smoke and metal.

On the strand of the Thames

Along Millbank's concrete bastions

Detritus spewed by the shushing waves;

A plastic bottle listlessly rolls

Back and forth

In the steely murk.

Housewerk

I have been vacillating about this one, because somewhere in my mind (nothing new under the sun and all that...) has been a nagging suspicion that it's all been done before. But, buoyed by your (thank you, dear reader) unstinting support, I have decided to press on.



Deep breath... Wouldn't it be amusing if the band members of Kraftwerk shared an apartment - in Dusseldorf if you like - and argued endlessly (a la The Upper Hand) about whose turn it was to do the washing up? Something has been in the back of my mind that there was a skit along these lines some 20+ years ag0, hosted by the great Paul Hogan. Or something.



In any case, I'm sure you can just imagine the (admittedly fleeting) hilarity as the boys fret about their plastique hair and John Smedley polo necks whilst running a hoover round. There would be a cat. And possibly a wacky neighbour, though I'm not sure if this would be a Kramer-esque creation, or altogether more Rosemary's Baby type freaky old lady. I may prepare a treatment.