What has our protagonist gotten himself into now?

Hands up if you spent 16 hours over the weekend locked in a room with thirty people learning the 'science' of making a phone call?

No? Anyone? Just me then.
Damn.

Boy was it tough. Painful. Demoralising. Patronising. Conceited.
Imagine being spoken to like a 3 year old for 16 hours.
Then add in a fuck-wad who insists on relating everything the trainer says to his past job where he was some salesperson extraordinaire. A past job where he... wait for it....

... sold double glazing. Could you be a more stereotypical shit salesman type asshole?

I got into an argument with this guy over lunch as he wanted to tell everyone how he went on a twelve day sales course and is now some psychological superpower. Dude thought he was Professor Charles Xavier. He insisted that he could manipulate anyone into doing anything he wants by getting them to answer questions that form a response pattern. Then, (wait for it) HE CHANGES THE PATTERN SO YOU SAY YES TO HIS REQUEST!

Pfft. Fuck off Uri Geller.
I told him he sounded stupid and I'd never buy anything from him ever.
He told me I'm the sort of person he loves to sell to, because he loves it when they eventually fall for his ploys and buy whatever it is he's selling.
I told him he couldn't sell to someone, if they weren't buying anything, hated him and thought that what he was selling was shit.
A girl in the group asked him when he'd been brainwashed.
He mumbled some pseudo-psych bullshit and went out for a cigarette.
I finished my mashed potato and imagined fun ways I could severely injure him.
I also postulated that guys with long vulture necks and giant adam's apples are always fuckwits. I base this on knowing three people that support my hypothesis. Shush. My sample size is valid.

The only positive thing came in the 'icebreaker' exercise. The exercise required you to find a partner, learn about them and tell everyone else who they were, where they came from and one weird fact about them.

We struck gold on the first pair.

Trainer: Ok, you guys, you go first.

Tate: Uh, this is Greg. Greg's from London and the weird thing about Greg is that he has OCD.

[Awkward silence as Greg glares at Tate, and then glances around awkwardly whilst unbuttoning and re-buttoning the top button on his shirt. Five times.]

I almost explode holding back my laughter. No one else sees the humour in this.

Social awkwardness is my favourite spectator sport.

The only other good thing was hearing the trainer tell a fully grown man to go out into the corridor and wait for her as she would not stand for people having private conversations in the classroom.

So umm. Yeah. This job is probably going to suck. At least i got to watch a video about an Orangutan for my training this afternoon.

Hmmm..... (A story in three parts)

Part One

After reading people's comments on various blogs today I've decided I'm sick of fuckwits on the internet that make retarded, inflammatory, pointless comments and think that grammar is the lady their grampa married.
Yes my grammar's not perfect, but I don't paint it orange, tie it to a balloon and tape that balloon to a seagull bound for some place where the WHOLE WORLD CAN SEE IT. Like the internet.
You will never see my bad grammar, painted orange, tied to a balloon and taped to a seagull bound for the internet.

What we need is semi-sentient keyboards that can tell when someone is being a tool and simply melt their fingers.

*Meanwhile back in less-angry land*

Part Two

I got the call centre job. It's for a charity, it's on evenings and Saturdays and I call old people, convince them to give me money, then get their bank details. This is how I spend my spare time anyways, so no big changes there.
I also get to wear one of those cyborg headset things, which basically makes this like the best job ever. I wonder how long it takes before people get sick of me yelling "HEY GUYS, GUYS! LOOK! I'M A ROBOT" whilst dancing in a way which resembles the fashion in which a robot would dance. Probably not long.
I think I may try to take the job to the next level and turn into my alter ego which is '80's Sales Guy'.
80's Sales Guy is just like me, except he has super gelled down hair, wears one of those blue shirts with white cuffs and collar and has suspenders. He shouts things like "You got it!" and does 'gun fingers' heaps.
That's how I'll be rollin'.

* Fast Forward to a small town called Banality*

Part Three

I caught the bus home from the interview last night. I sat at the front, on the top level of the double-decker.
Somewhere near Liverpool Street station, the bus turned a corner and in front of the bus, four dudes on rollerblades came skating down the road.
At the time, I was listening to some Alexisonfire, which was lucky. I mean if I'd had Ace of Base playing through my iPod, then I would have totally thought it was 1993.
Mainly because 1993 was rollerblading's equivalent to punk's 1977.
And 1993 was Ace of Base's equivalent to rollerblading's 1993.

It could be said that 1993 was a good year for both Ace of Base and rollerblading.
Conversely, not one single year has been a good year for this guy:

"What the hell are you meant to be? Surprise Roller Elf? There's no Surprise Roller Elf in the fucking nativity scene. Once again you've ruined Christmas, Dad."

Blegh... It's time I went to bed. The Stupid is stirring inside me.

A recap and some other junk...

Well, needless to say, my secret meeting with the CEO went well today. Whilst two of my colleagues don't have jobs as of next week, I used my charm and boyish wiles to convince her that I was awesome and that I could single-handedly turn things around.
Or something like that. Actually nothing like that. I had to be very honest and admit fault but it seemed to work out alright. There was an unnecessarily large amount of talk of office culture though. I found this funny because this is a workplace overrun with middle-aged women with nothing better to do than talk about when they had a cup of tea once that was so hot that the cup melted a mark into the top of their desk and they had to hide it with paper for a week because they'd only been working there for a little while and were afraid they'd lose their job.
Imagine banal conversation like that. All. The. Fucking. Day.
Although I lie. These conversations are punctuated with me being told what smart-casual means.
"So we all have to come along to this event tomorrow night. Dress code is smart-casual. Jiminy that means you should probably wear a collared shirt or something. Maybe jeans, I think that would be ok."
Ahh...yes. Thank you for clarifying smart casual for me. Unfortunately this means I ironed my string vest and camouflage three quarter cargo pants for nothing. Damn.

In an effort to boost the morale in the place, they've opted to install umbrellas in the middle of the groups of desks. Like, big fuck off novelty beach umbrellas. No shit. It's ridiculous.
These are the kind of people that make every second Friday "Dress As Your Favourite Pet Cat Day" because they think it will be so good for morale, not to mention FUCKING HILARIOUS to see Laneesha from accounts dressed up as little Mr Tinkles. They forget however, that no one else in the office owns a cat, let alone multiple felines from which to pick a favourite. Everyone also knows that you let your cats sleep in your bed and that your just-used vibrator has picked up so much cat-hair from your sheets that it looks like an Alsatian's disembodied tail. Fools.

So at the moment, there's a big taffeta umbrella perched gaudily over a desk. A green one, with a parrot on it and fairy lights.
The other one is pink with flowers embroidered on it. And tassels.
I work near colourful umbrellas and tassels, however I'm not a cocktail waiter at a burlesque club. What has my life come to?

Why don't you just shape some shit into a ball, roll it around in your cat-hair sheets and call it a fucking coconut. Because that's closer to paradise than these stupid umbrellas you're surrounding me with.

So being the singular synthesiser of testosterone in a thick swamp of estrogen producing manatees I mockingly declared that I felt left out of the festivities as i didn't have an umbrella above my desk.
Bad move Jiminy. Manatees cannot detect sarcasm.
Yesterday a package arrived in the post for me.
"Open it." My boss says, grinning daftly with her fish-mouth.
I sigh and pull away the packaging.
It's a wide-brimmed hat with corks dangling off it. It even had a kangaroo printed on the front of it. Because that's what we all do in Australia these days. Seriously, live in the now. Why didn't you just get me a brochure for EXPO 88 or a block of cheese signed by Peter Russell Clarke. Why stop there though? Buy me the box set of Crocodile Dundee videos wrapped in prawns and soaked in Eucalyptus oil. Or save yourself the trouble and just write me a card that says HEY YOU'RE AUSTRALIAN. Cos that's about as funny as your fucking hat.

It's like me buying her some severed heads, cos isn't that what the English were into at some stage? Cutting off heads and sticking them to things to ward off their enemies? Or was it burning people? Maybe I could bring her some matches and a some sticks to make a pyre.
They wonder why there's such a high staff turn-over? Geez... I dunno guys, it wouldn't have anything to do with the incompetent managers. Maybe it's because there's NOT ENOUGH UMBRELLAS.

Anyways, I'm getting all worked up. The point of this was to paint a picture of the 'culture' in my office. It may seem to you that it paints a more accurate picture of my current absence of sanity but frankly, I care not. Me and Other Me are very happy with ourselves.

Anyways, my office sucks and I'm powerless to change it, unless I magically develop ever-shrinking ovaries overnight and miraculously turn into a bitter, thick-skulled ass hat.
Quit, you say? I'd like to but I need the cash as The Girl and I are saving furiously (which I imagine would look like a tiny kid frantically jamming handfuls of bank notes into a piggy bank) for our big Europe/India/South East Asia/Back to Australia trip at the end of June.

Looks like I'm in Grit-Your-Teeth-And-Deal-With-It City for three more months. Hooray.
Oh well, I hear it's full of umbrellas culture at least.

Douche alarm! DOUCHE ALARM!!!

If anyone is feeling a bit down and out or is questioning their validity as a human or thinks they are the scummiest piece of worthless crap on the planet may I offer you some kind words?

K, thanks, here's they are.

-At least you're not this guy.-

Wow.
Choas, I bow before your illiterate, bigoted, numb-skulled, assholish douche-a-rama.

Seriously. Choas? Did a butterfly flap its wings somewhere and the resulting winds rearraged the letters in your name?

For those of you who are too lazy/retarded/weak to click the link, here's a small slice of the fried gold that is Choas' ripping entry on his CRAZY, but totally SMOOTH pick-up efforts.

" I was dancing with a girl from my work that were just friends and I would just go up and start like grinding on other chicks from behind my friend in front and be like sry and stuff.."

Wow... And I thought I knew some assholes.
In their heads, the above movement is called a Sex Sandwich of Hot Lust and Sexy Sexness.
To the poor, poor girl trapped between Choas and his friend, who I'm going to call Disordre, it's a Vomit Inducing Asshole Sandwich With A Side Of Sweaty Palms And Tiny Pokey Boners.

And before you say anything, I am very happy with my girlfriend and I came across this through a google search gone awry. I would never ever want to associate with any of this 'Pickup Artist' nonsense. Subway Sandwich Artists are more artist than you are, Choas. Plus, the sandwiches at Subway never involve two sleazebags and unsolicited grinding.

Unless you opt for the Skeezy Mystery Footlong. Which I'd recommend you don't.


Choas, you are douche of the week. Congrats.

Stop calling me, fools.

I just had a phone call at work that went like this:

Me: Hello, Jiminy speaking.

Guy: I want a Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hat.

(Long Silence)

Me: Sorry, I didn't quite catch that, what was it you were...

Guy: (interrupting) Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hat.

(At this stage I started getting self conscious that my voice was monotonous and he'd mistaken me for one of those automated voice recognition bots. Luckily there wasn't the sound of him mashing buttons to try and get back to the main menu. Also I couldn't think of any system that would have a question where one of the spoken response options would be 'Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hat'*)

Me: I'm not sure what you're talking about, we're actually an organisation that does 'x' (where x is completely unrelated to Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hats)

Guy: Oh, so you don't know about Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hats?

Me: (Tersely) No.

(Long silence)

Guy: Ok.

(Hangs up)
-----

What the fuck? What is wrong with you man? And how many times do you have to say Stella McCartney tersports hat?
I did some research and it turns out that a Stella McCartney tersports hat looks like this:

What a shit beanie.

Who wants a hat like that one bad enough to call someone about it anyways? You could get one like that out of a bin. Or an even better one off a guy who lived in a bin. Also What makes a plain blue beanie 'designer'? It's not pleated in some crazy way. There's no asymmetrical lapels. It's wool, spun into string which is then knotted together in a head shape. You're a sham Stella McCartney.

It did remind me of the Bai Long Tong phone call I had a while back...

Phones are crazy.

Fridays are awesome.

Tell me your crazy phone stories. TELL ME THEM!



* Unless the question was "What is the shittest hat ever?"

Slacking...

Yes, I'll be updating properly again soon... Non Blondie and I are just in the middle of moving house, celebrating birthdays, working etc etc etc so am a bit caught up in all that shit to get a chance to post.

I'd do it from work, but the mad vomit fish/lever arch woman has recently finished an advanced course in 'Pathetic Management- Guidelines For Fat No Hopers With Inferiority Complexes' and is doing her best to look busy in order to cover her stupidity, uselessness and complete incompetence.
God, I hate her and her brainless ass.

So yes, more stories and whatnot to come shortly.

In the meantime, go embrace the real world. Or if you're currently in the north of England repair your shattered home after this morning's horrific earthquake disaster. This will probably require you to do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING considering the earthquake was about as violent and dangerous as a stoned ladybug in a cotton wool jumpsuit.

If the media says one more thing about this 'horrible earthquake' the ghosts of 110,000 Japanese that have died in actual earthquakes are going to come and rape everyone in England with slabs of broken concrete and be all like "You want to feel real earthquake, bitches?"
So stop talking about it.
I don't want concrete in my ass.
Thank you.

Well?

Since when is calling someone you've just got off the phone to 'Cockface' deemed to be inappropriate for work?

Prudes.

Medical Issues

Does anyone else find that they sneeze when they look at a bright light?
I do. It sucks.
Many a year ago I remember hearing Dr Karl discussing it on Triple J.
It happened to me today and I thought that you'd all be completely captivated by this debilitating condition known as Photic Sneeze Reflex. Or as some retards have backronymed it: ACHOO (Autosomal dominant Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Outburst syndrome.)
As you can probably deduce for yourself the Photic Sneeze Reflex is caused by sudden exposure to bright light. Basically scientists posit that it's caused by the nerves that prompt sneezing receiving impulses from short circuiting nerves nearby, which are usually optic, olfactory or involved in gustation.
And I can vouch for this.
If I look at bright light: Sneeze.
If I chew certain types of gum: Sneeze
It's not that I spend all my time sneezing. In fact, I don't sneeze much at all. It's just that sometimes if the light hits my eye at the right angle, I sneeze almost instantly.
It's interesting to note that between 17-35% of the population is affected by this condition, yet everyone I tell about this hasn't got a clue what I'm talking about.

Then again, I have all kinds of weird syndromes like this. For example, if I'm really hungry and I eat too quickly, I get a really dull ache behind my nose.
Or if I'm walking and start chewing some Airwaves eucalyptus and menthol gum, every time I exhale it makes my eyes water. I think is more to do with the strength of the mint though.
Also I have one leg. Not really.

Whilst it's fascinating to learn all of this stuff, I wouldn't recommend using the internet to solve your health problems.
I've had stacks fo sporting related injuries. The worst is probably the 7 or so concussions playing football. A couple of these required ambulances and hospitals, once I couldn't see or hear properly for a couple of hours and others were just quick blackouts and some nausea. (Possible link to forgetting of passport etc?)
I've dislocated fingers, torn hamstrings and torn ligaments in my ankles on 3 occasions, all through football and netball.
The ankles were particularly painful and always looked awful. Exactly like the photo below. For reals.

There was one occassion on which I'd hurt my ankle badly. It was looking similar to the above image and I was in all kinds of pain. I thought I'd have a bit of a dig around online to see if I could determine whether it was a break, sprain, strain or foot-herpes.

Somehow I ended up on Yahoo Health. On Yahoo Health there's a symptoms checklist where you can see possible diagnoses for your ailment.
They ask all kinds of questions, like 'Is there swelling?' or 'Do you have the full range of moevement?' both of which are fine. Then I came across the one that brought all their good work undone.

Yes, that's exactly the problem. I hadn't realised before but it appears there's a jar stuck on my foot. WTF!?
This raises alot of questions:
1. If your foot was trapped in a jar, wouldn't you assume that the jar would be the cause of the pain, thus excluding the need for internet research into it?
2. If you did find that your foot was trapped in a pipe, how would you get to a computer to find out if that was actually the cause of your pain. I mean, pipes by their very nature generally aren't mobile. Maybe you'd just happen to have a laptop on you and there'd be wireless near the pipe? Not likely.
3. Toy? What in the hell kind of toy do you get stuck on your foot? A football? No. A matchbox car? No. What then!??
4. Why would you want to put your foot in a jar? I know sometimes it's hard to scrape that last bit of jam out because you can't get the knife into that little ridge around the top, but do you really think you'll get it with your heel? No. And if anyone asks 'Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?' I say look for the guy with the jar on his foot.

Fortunately for me, I didn't have my foot stuck in a toy, pipe or jar. I'd just torn all the ligaments in my ankle. It fixed eventually.

Anyone else have any weird ailments? Elephantitis? Mange? Lack of arms?

Why I Hate Harrods.

Before I came to London I was of the impression that Harrod's was a noble place. A place where the rich went to buy opulent and luxurious goods. A place where the social elite congregated to purchase their truffles, their perfumes, their spices and their caviar. A place where you had high tea and drank champagne at the oyster bar.

Whilst the amazing fresh fruit and vegetable displays rotted on their shelves, Britons were busy fighting over the last pack of fish fingers in the frozen food section.

It's nothing like that though. Well it probably is, but you have to get inside. Which isn't usually an option due to the throng of idiots that surround it constantly.
On a Saturday, if you're European, consider yourself to be wealthy and have the the worst fashion sense this side of the Eastern Bloc then for some reason you'll find yourself walking around out the front of Harrod's. There's no explaining it, it just happens. You may not want to be there, but on a Friday night someone inside the big domed tower overlooking Brompton Road flips a switch that turns on a special bad taste magnet which is so strong that if you live anywhere from Germany to Italy to Portugal and have one single item in your wardrobe that is embroidered, is glittery or has rhinestones on it, you'll wake up on Saturday morning some time and realise you're wearing your embroided/glittery/rhinestoned clothes and are blocking the footpath out the front of Harrods.
It's probably not your fault, but by god do you bunch of retards piss me off when I'm having to pass through that area.
Seriously, what the hell is with people who can't get from one point to another without doing any of the following:
1) Drifting.
Drifting is when you walk along the footpath and ever so slowly deviate from your initial course and begin walking diagonally across the footpath, cutting off everyone behind/beside you. Whenever someone attempts to pass you on the otherside, you then counter-drift in front of them. This is usually when you'll feel a sharp blow to the back of your head, courtesy of me.
2) Stopping.
This enrages me so much. People who walk along, then suddenly decide that the best time to stop dead in their tracks and reach around in their pockets to find their rhinestone encrusted Nokia is whilst they are on the busiest footpath ever. If you do this, know that I will probably cut you.
3) The Flying V
Yes, like on The Mighty Ducks. This is when there's a bunch of people walking shoulder to shoulder and taking up the entire footpath so anyone walking in the opposite direction is forced to edge between them, walk onto the road to avoid them or just turn around a walk back the other way. For fuck's sake you people, the footpath is wide enough to accommodate maybe four people, there's eight of you. It's not going to work. Go single file you assholes and stop making everyone else walk around you. Often this is a family. I still hate them. Children are not an excuse.
4) God-ing it.
This is when you believe that you are a supreme being that can walk through crowds without having to ever move for anyone else. You think the crowds will part, just so you can get to the luxury optics aisle to find a tinted lense for your Prada monocle.

Anyways....

I hate going anywhere near Harrods.
If it's not the European fashion victims clogging the footpaths, it's the Japanese tour groups.
And then you've got the protestors picketing against Harrods because they use fur in some of their items.
Fuck off with your posters of skinned dogs. I don't care if Harrods has a tiny zoo full of animals it slaughters nightly to create fur lined chihuahua carriers. Yes it's bad that these animals get treated so badly, but if I've pushed through 10,000 people to get to Harrods, I'm not going to turn around just because you're giving me a fucking pamphlet.

Wow, does this rant ever stop!?

Well yes it does.
Sometimes all it takes is one little moment to make it all worthwhile.
Today, that moment was a dick joke.
On the tube, I was nearing Knightsbridge, preparing myself for the impending battle through the Harrods crowds.
As the train was about to pull out of South Kensington the standard announcement rang out.
"Stand clear of the doors. Mind the closing doors. This is a Piccadilly line train stopping all stations to Cock..."
For some reason the message cut out and so the train's destination changed from Cockfosters, to somewhere arguably less savoury.
This was enough to make me giggle, because I'm basically a 4 year old. But the best part was just down the carriage from me there was a man and his son. The son was about 8.
When the announcement was made, the little kid threw his hand over his mouth and began laughing. He looked up guiltily at his dad who smirked, ruffled the kid's hair and laughed as well.

Yep, dick jokes bring people together.
It's badly dressed Europeans out the front of Harrods that tears them apart.

My colleagues, on Australia:

You know when sometimes you're roped into something so absurd that it angers you because now you're implicated in a conversation that will go down as being one of the single most retarded things of all time?

Female Coworker1 (FCW1): Oh, I vomited once when I was underwater.

Female Coworker2 (FCW2): Oooh, gross! How?

FCW1: Well I was over in Australia (gesturing across the room towards me, because apparently, I'm Australia in it's entirety) and I was snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef and we'd had too much to drink the night before and I had the urge to throw up, so i pulled my snorkel out and vomited in the water.

FCW2: Oh that's disguting.

FCW1: Yeah i know, and then all the fish came up and were just eating it like 'chomp chomp chomp'. (Making chomping gestures with hand in front of her face)

FCW2: (Even more alarmed) Ewwww!

FCW1: Yeah they were like those little silver fish... (Pauses, shouts at me) Hey Jiminy, you know those silver fish that they have over there?(Placing hands about 30 cm apart which I assume serves to indicate the approximate size of the fish.)

Me: They have silver fish everywhere, FCW1.

Trying to identify a specific type of fish with 'silver' being the only descriptor is like trying to find a restaurant in India with 'unhygenic' as your sole clue. And no 'sole' wasn't intended as a fish pun. But it can be now I noticed it.

FCW1: Yeah, but you know the ones in Australia that swim around and then they'll be under a jetty in the shade?

Me: (Incredulously) Are you serious? It could have been a million types of fish. I mean, nearly all fish are silver and I don't know what fish you saw under a jetty. I have no idea what you're talking about.

FCW1: Oh well... (Then to FCW2) Yeah, well anyway., these fish were just swarming around eating all the vomit. It was crazy! (Doing 'swimming fish' AND chomping gestures with hands)


Oh. My. God.