I’m in Rouen today. It’s near Normandy. So Im obsessing over D-Day, as has been par for the course in the last 6 months. I curse the day I borrowed that Band Of Brothers box-set.
I’m also in the shallow depths of a kind of … apathy. It’s not depression. Or misery. Just a kind of “OK, I’m bored of this now, I want to go back to England and drink brandy and ginger with my lunch again.’’
I shouldn’t complain. I’m very lucky to be in employment at all. This is, for some people, a dream-job. But a dream-job should be unattainable. If it’s attainable it’s just a job. That’s why rock-stars are so miserable and difficult. Apart from Dave Grohl of course, he seems lovely.
Maybe I’ve just got a cob-on because I should have had a day off in Lille the other day, but I ended up in Maastricht huffing cases around in a fucking sleet-storm, sleeping on a bus. My only respite was being called from crowded bars in Lille by various crew-members who wanted me to change their departure time in the morning.
The driver’s right fucking there next to you, chatting up a fifteen-year-old in a gold alice-band. You ask him.
There’s also the lurking feeling that I could get fired at any moment. I narrowly avoided it after the Blackout in Berlintm and it seems I’m getting closer by the day. The last guy’s only crime was lasting so long he required a permanent contract. Eep. That said, he could have been on the rob. I’ll never know.
Perhaps I deserve it of course. I’ve spent most of this morning trying to download a picture of Moomintroll. For a currently unknown purpose.
Still, if I got the boot, I know I’d be, for want of a better word that isn’t ‘devastated’, gutted. I’d probably cry a little bit. Then I’d be back in England, wondering what I could possibly do that I won’t be bored of in a month. The obvious answer is, of course, nothing. Work is for chumps. I read a bit of Monsterwork’s stellar blog where he said he was broody. I’m sure I’ll change my mind tomorrow but it occurred to me earlier that men want kids so that they have something to force them to work full-time. Otherwise you’d just shit on the boss’s laptop, kick the shit out of the snack-machine and go home to play Halo ’til the pub opened.
Sigh… Sorry, I shall endeavour to have a more upbeat entry next time. Or at least one with some purpose and a nice photograph.
I go to the States in two weeks. The work is the same of course, but it’s just so much easier to pull.
I’m also in the shallow depths of a kind of … apathy. It’s not depression. Or misery. Just a kind of “OK, I’m bored of this now, I want to go back to England and drink brandy and ginger with my lunch again.’’
I shouldn’t complain. I’m very lucky to be in employment at all. This is, for some people, a dream-job. But a dream-job should be unattainable. If it’s attainable it’s just a job. That’s why rock-stars are so miserable and difficult. Apart from Dave Grohl of course, he seems lovely.
Maybe I’ve just got a cob-on because I should have had a day off in Lille the other day, but I ended up in Maastricht huffing cases around in a fucking sleet-storm, sleeping on a bus. My only respite was being called from crowded bars in Lille by various crew-members who wanted me to change their departure time in the morning.
The driver’s right fucking there next to you, chatting up a fifteen-year-old in a gold alice-band. You ask him.
There’s also the lurking feeling that I could get fired at any moment. I narrowly avoided it after the Blackout in Berlintm and it seems I’m getting closer by the day. The last guy’s only crime was lasting so long he required a permanent contract. Eep. That said, he could have been on the rob. I’ll never know.
Perhaps I deserve it of course. I’ve spent most of this morning trying to download a picture of Moomintroll. For a currently unknown purpose.
Still, if I got the boot, I know I’d be, for want of a better word that isn’t ‘devastated’, gutted. I’d probably cry a little bit. Then I’d be back in England, wondering what I could possibly do that I won’t be bored of in a month. The obvious answer is, of course, nothing. Work is for chumps. I read a bit of Monsterwork’s stellar blog where he said he was broody. I’m sure I’ll change my mind tomorrow but it occurred to me earlier that men want kids so that they have something to force them to work full-time. Otherwise you’d just shit on the boss’s laptop, kick the shit out of the snack-machine and go home to play Halo ’til the pub opened.
Sigh… Sorry, I shall endeavour to have a more upbeat entry next time. Or at least one with some purpose and a nice photograph.
I go to the States in two weeks. The work is the same of course, but it’s just so much easier to pull.
2 comments:
I work, sleep, and dodge beggars.
Once a week I play football.
Living the dream baby, living the dream.
You've probably already got kids about the place you don't know about yet. You were like a fucking crop-duster in Newcastle.
I think think this entry is an attempt to get girls to think you're sensitive, and not just a walking libido.
You're not fooling anybody.
As if girls read this shit. i have the usual pangs of guilt today;
'God, it's so self-indulgent, there are people with real problems and fully-formed opinions out there who might read it and judge me.'
I'll get over it. I'm inCaen today, my grandad fought here in the war. I say fought, he was an artilleryman so he basically stood a long way back and killed indiscriminately. I was going to do a piece on that but I don't have a picture. I'm going to try to find one of Blakey from 'On The Buses'. He had a tache too.
'Ooh, I'll get you, Hitler'
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