Tuesday, May 30, 2006

WHY I DON'T LIKE TUESDAYS

It has been an inauspicious start to the week, to say the least.

Scrubbed, shaved and shiny, I went into work with a spring in my step and the chilled, summer wind on my face. After months spent adrift in the wilderness of night shifts and work that wouldn't challenge a five year-old, I'd finally been re-assigned to my reporting role. Or at least, I thought I had.

No sooner had I dumped my bag on the floor, switched on my PC and taken off my jacket than I was summoned to my boss's makeshift lair. I followed him nervously into a side-room and then he let rip.

Following my faux pas earlier this month, I would not, after all, be resuming my high-profile rule. C, the schedule man, should never have called me on Monday. If this was bad, far worse was to come.

Not only would I not be reprising my reporting role today, but I wouldn't be doing so any time soon. Senior bosses had called for me to be disciplined, perhaps even for my head. My boss said he had valiantly fought them off, considering the matter dealt with.

I thanked him, but couldn't help but think that his faith in me had been irrevocably damaged. Gone is the understanding and the optimism. Oh, and the job I applied for last week? I won't be getting an interview.

If I were Rocky, I'd be at the point where I'd been knocked down and clambered to my feet 15 times. I could call on my super-human reserves to get up one more time. I have the will and the strength of character to do so. But is it worth summoning them? Would I be able to survive another bashing? I just don't know anymore.

Should I leave? Absolutely. It's now just a matter of choosing my moment. What will I do? Either another job or - and I can't believe I'm considering this - I may just get on my bike and ride until I feel like returning.

Monday, May 29, 2006

FUCKEDY FUCKED UP

I fear my friend T may be right. Her theory posits that the reason I can't hold down a relationship is that once things get physical, I lose all respect for the lady concerned. I've poo-pooed this suggestion till I'm blue in the arse. But I now fear that she might be right.

I spent much of the day in the provincial idyll of Beaulieu in the New Forest. I didn't get to see much of the woods, and it wasn't for all the trees. When Z and I weren't on the motorway, passing from wintry downpours into sub-Saharan sunshine (will the weather please just make up its mind!), we were chilling with the donkeys overlooking picturesque lakes, or eating over-priced, farmed fish in a pub.

Towards the end of the day we tried to find the sea. We headed to Lymington, but somehow managed to avoid the big blue. A couple of friendly locals pretended to point us in the right direction, but the one-way system simply diverted us back to Beaulieu.

Back in London, physical fun and frolics finally fumbled their way onto the menu. After gentle coaxing and nibbling of ear, Z began to relax, her clothes came off and my self-control went out the curtain-less window, no doubt providing the delighted denizens of my neighbourhood with some early-evening, late-night entertainment.

She asked if I had any condoms. I told her I did. But already the dormant beast of my subconscious had been awoken. "Do I want to sleep with her?," I asked myself. "Is this going to work? I don't think this is going to work! Stop being so silly - you can't throw in the towel now."

In fact, the only towel that came into play was the one I had to lend Z. You see, at a point in the evening when our, or rather, my, passions got the better of me, Z, er, managed to get something, ahem, in her eye. And in her hair. And, urghh, in her nose. And, erm, well I think you get the point.

Under the circumstances, she took it quite well. My now-nagging doubts, though, remain a concern. Are they a product of Z and I getting down and rather disgustingly dirty? I hope not. But if T is right, I really do have a problem.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

SATURDAY NIGHT

Cheap, soft-porn playing on the tele and the cock, I mean, clock telling me it's time to go to bed: it can only be Saturday night.

As it happens, I went out earlier. I saw X-Men 3, whose plot-less stupidity didn't detract overtly from my enjoyment.

It would have been good to see my zippy Israeli lady. But she's entertaining a foreign friend this weekend. Come Monday, she'll be mine, though. I just have to think of where to take her for the day.

Were this not the UK, and were Bank Holidays not a cue for Biblical downpours, I would have taken her to Brighton, to the beach.

Wait a minute. Hold on. This is my blog, yet I'm not moaning or winging about everything and everyone. I put this down to three things:

After hitting rock-bottom the other week I've become more sanguine. I've taken control of my life by putting in some serious job applications. And I've met someone.

Three weeks into my relationship with Zippy. Normally I'd be stressing about how best to let her down gently. But this time I'm not, at least not yet. The nagging doubts appear to have been silenced. It feels strange, but good. Let's see what happens.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

BACK TO BOREDOM
For the first time in over a week reminders of my faux pas par excellence were nowhere to be seen. Not in the papers, not on the radio, nor on the tele. So unless my African friend makes good on the press's threat and goes onto the celebrity circuit, I should be okay for a while. The question is, do I tell my parents (who remain blissfully unaware of my involvement)?

Right now, they're downstairs. I popped home to eat a decent meal and steal, I mean, borrow my mum's car. I'm off to Tami's place to watch Arsenal play. Hoping the spark that drew us together the other night remains in place. If not, then I think it will be proof positive that I have a serious problem. Tobi reckons I think less of girls after I kiss them. But I know that's not true (though for "something-but-nothing" she may have a point). I basically need to keep my snake in its cage, my hands to myself and my head in control. If I can do all that, then maybe, just maybe Tami and I might last longer than the requisite fortnight.

Monday, May 15, 2006

REVEALED

At last, my wrong-guest nightmare has come to an end. He's been identified. I've not been sacked and my boss is away on holiday. A few days' breathing space beckons.

Attempts at turning my notoriety into a money-making machine also appear to have failed. I spoke to a PR man earlier today. He warned that, yes, although I could make a quick buck, it wouldn't be much. And in the process, I was liable to come across as a dim-witted dolt with a ruined reputation and a few thousand former colleagues for enemies.

Not worth it. So now the drama's over, I can return to winging about more prosaic matters, such as my new Israeli bird who can run the 100m in 11.8 seconds. Or the prospect of my dishwasher engineer turning up at 5.30 tomorrow morning. Aarggh.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

MUCH MUCH LOWER

I knew I was in serious trouble on Friday morning. Already reeling from my dressing down the previous day, I spotted something even more unnerving: beaming out from the screen of the media managers I saw the "interview" of my mystery guest running. This meant it was being dubbed from one server to another; in effect, copied.

"What's going on?" I asked.
"Someone in the politics department asked for it," they said.
An editor, a director, a boss? "One of us," they reassuringly told me.

If word had spread to the other side of London already, I thought, it's only a matter of time before the world and his wife knows. I mailed my friend Tobi. This is what I wrote:

"Okay, so I've just seen the recording of my mystery man interview from Monday being sent over to people at our Millbank studios. From what I can gather, word has spread, and my cock-up is, as we speak, going viral. I can just see it, in a few weeks time, that this clip will become like the tasty-cum e-mail, or the "I kiss you man" from Turkey. Don't know whether to laugh or cry."

My fears were prescient. A few hours later I was warned that my faux pas was to be spread over the weekend papers. Some kind soul even forwarded the video footage to a paper. It's kindly made the footage available for download from its site.

As I pondered the joys that await me at work tomorrow morning, I was reminded of one of my favourite films: Election. In it, Matthew Broderick schemes against Reese Witherspoon, who's standing for school president.

At first, the story just makes the local papers. Then the wires pick it up and it goes global. No doubt mailboxes from Washington to Ouagadougou are already stuffed with this story, primed and ready for opening on Monday morning. I am so not looking forward to going into work tomorrow.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

HOW LOW CAN I GO

I've had some pretty shit days of late. But today took the biscuit. Barely had I got my arse under the desk than my personality-challenged boss appeared. He wanted a chat, and he wasn't smiling.

Seems I hadn't been impressing in my new role. I was making too many mistakes and I was no longer wanted. I'm to be taken down from my dispiriting, dehumanising job to one that will surely be the end of me.

But that wasn't all. A cock-up of elephantine proportions the other day has reached the ears of the complaints department. Even though it really wasn't my fault.

It was Monday. A guest was late in arriving. I found him, brought him to the studio and put him on air. He was awful: hardly spoke English, knew nothing about his specialist subject and made us all look like fools.

A few minutes later the real guest materialised. He'd been waiting in a different reception area and hadn't told me of his arrival.

Sadly, in this case I couldn't cite mistaken identity. You see whereas the guy who went on air was a francophone African whose knowledge of technology was limited to setting the video, the real man was a lean, bearded man - who was white!

So now there's been a complaint - from whom, I know not. I could be in serious trouble. Maybe now's the time to call it a day?

Certainly, if I ever needed extra excuses to make my exit, the past few days have provided them. Trouble is, I wanted to leave on my terms, not on theirs. To leave now, on a low, as a bumbling failure, is not my idea of going out with a bang.

Friday, May 05, 2006

DATING DESPAIR

I thought online dating would broaden my horizons, make it easier to meet new people and bring me one step closer to meeting "the one". Four days after I started, I've realised that the whole enterprise is futile and fraudulent.

First of all, you have no idea who's actually paid their dues. So, if you send a message to your online fantasy-woman, there's no guarantee she'll read it, let alone reply.

Second, of the thousands of eligible bachelorettes on JDate and living in the UK, most are inadequate, ugly hephalumps who's introversion in the real world is sadly lacking online. Every few minutes I get a message from someone wanting to bend my virtual ear. I refuse, and their face - and profile - slowly slides away, off the screen and out of my life for ever.

Third, and most guttingly of all, the same has happened to me with at least two girls. One, a sepia-framed 31-year old teacher; the other, a 26-year old, Jew-frod Sephardi. Both stood out because they were actually pleasing on the eye, rather than gauging. Neither wanted to chat with me. Was it my photo? Or perhaps my demands for a woman with intellect, wit, an ample bosom, perfect teeth and an ability to reverse park?

So, just days after my online dating odyssey began, I'm already having my doubts. So far I've managed to woo just one punter - a 22-year old student, with another, a 29-year old nursery teacher, just a possibility. Gorgeous Dutch girl - the one whose picture prompted me to cough up and sign up in the first place - hasn't even opened my message. I don't think I'll be renewing my subscription.

Monday, May 01, 2006

BITING THE BULLET

I've finally done it. I've signed up and paid my dues for online dating. And it's all because of a super-hot Dutch girl who thus far has ignored my entreaties.

My original plan, as outlined here previously, was to get my mate Ian to schnorrer me a date with her on my behalf. That way I could still maintain my boast that I'm not desperate enough to have to resort to online dating.

Sadly, my plan failed on all fronts. Dutch bird never replied to Ian. I could let her go or pays my money and takes my chances. I chose the latter. And, after some prompting from my mate Stephen, I meekly updated my profile and entered my credit card details, and that was it: I had joined the international fraternity of online desperados.

So far, I must confess, it's been less than successful. First of all, my photos aren't yet online. They're awaiting approval, in case I've peppered my pics with penises, or my hairy chest is deemed pornographic.

Then there's the way you're matched. The site keeps on sending me what I can only describe as a gallery from hell; picture after picture of oversized, facially-challenged, hirsute girls, each one more desperate than the next. I hastily clicked "No" next to all of them, hoping that the next bunch would prove a little easier on the eye.

To be honest, after an hour's searching on the site, I've found a total of 10 girls - that's 10 out of thousands - who might, just might not have been a support act for the Elephant Man had they been born a century earlier (this of course excludes the six-foot tall, green-eyed Norwegian model who suprisingly doesn't keep kosher or go to synagogue).

So far, I've not received any replies; nulle points to me then, no dates and a £20 hole burning in my wallet for my troubles. Is this what love is?