Epilogue

Look like nothing's gonna change,
Everything still remains the same,
I can't do what ten people tell me to do,
So I guess I'll remain the same.

- Otis Redding -

My mission has failed and nothing has changed.
I have the same frustrations, the same hatreds and the same sense of loss. I just know something better was happening somewhere else, while I've been writing these pages. I just know it!

Not only has nothing changed in my mind, I now no longer have a well paid job, a nice car or a girlfriend. One could, I presume, reason that things have actually taken a slight turn for the worse!
I sometimes don't know what I'm thinking about. Perhaps people who say I've lost track of reality are actually right (God forbid).

The only conclusion that I can draw from the whole experience is...
Well...
To be quite honest... I conclude that I may have been searching for the wrong person entirely.
How could finding Robbie ever bring peace of mind? How could finding a friend I've not seen for 25 years ever relieve the manic tendencies of ADHD?

And as I'm sitting here, the night creeping in and the candles twinkling gently in the summer breeze, I can only shake my head, wipe away a tear and ponder the small things in life. I don't want to get all melancholic on you, but sometimes I wish I was in bed with my ex, the sweetest girl in the world, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and watching Star Wars.
Maybe the simple things in life are best. And maybe, just maybe they should be cherished instead of being cast aside.

Not to worry though. This morning I had an apo.. appa...apiro... a revelation!
I was strolling along the road, past the neo-classical library, when a bright yellow Lotus sports car ripped up the road; it's engine screaming like only a 3.-whatever engine can. And I remembered my first girlfriend. Her name was Lotus as well.

We were both 13 and we nearly went to bed together (which was quite surprising, because I was still playing with Star Wars figures). We were naked in bed, our young bodies pressed up against each other (but I won't go into details, because paedophilia is frowned upon), I was "up" and ready to go and Lotus suggested: "Let's kiss." And that sounded good to me!
And then she stuck her tongue in my mouth.
Needless to say I screamed like a Lotus (car Lotus, not girl Lotus...or perhaps she does scream? I wouldn't know...more's the pity) and ran into the toilet to wash my mouth out.
I continued to play with Star Wars figures until I was 17 after that little incident.

Anyways, I was thinking about Lotus and it dawned on me...She's the one I'm supposed to find! She is the unfinished business that will bring peace of mind; my first love, my first kiss! How could I have been so blind?
So, as of tomorrow, I'm going off in search of Lotus S.

But first I think I'll have a small vacation.
Obviously I'll need to save up for it and equally obviously I'll need to buy a computer to keep myself entertained while saving up for it. But Lotus shall be found and a vacation shall be had!

And Mongolia looks quite promising...




------
On a side note:
I'd like to thank you all for commenting and keeping me motivated!
As for the moment, I'm working 9 hours a day in a call centre, which is probably the most tedious job ever invented; indeed, it's the sweatshop scenario of the new century. I work in credit control and will be spending the coming months asking businesses to pay their telephone bills. Oh the joy of it!
I don't have a computer at home and the work's computers aren't allowed to be used for private use (not even during breaks), so my internet time, until I buy a computer in September, will be severely limited.

Enjoy yourselves!

The merry-go-round

I wish, I really, really wish, that I could end my tale on a more positive note.
Alas, that is not going to happen.
I guess it's one of those things when you start off on a project without knowing how it will finish, that the ending may well not be to one's liking.

Obviously me finding Robbie and having a picture of us as we now are, 35 years old, balding, standing together with Edinburgh castle (or York minster or the Eiffel tower) as the backdrop would have been the icing on the cake, the bubbles in the beer and the fairy tale ending to my search.

Alas, true Disney-esque endings are as sparse as honest politicians. So there will be no shaking of hands to close my story, no tears of friendship lost and then found to trickle down our cheeks and no soppy chick-flick ending to make us want to hug in relief.
No.
That's not how life really is. It would be nice, but it just ain't gonna happen!

I've scoured telephone books, I've had the electoral role searched, I've contacted my old school, I've looked on Friendsreunited.com, I've phoned and I've written.
Even the man in the grey overcoat with the Tom Waits like voice phoned up and said: "Unfindable."
And that's it. The options have run dry. The search is stranded in the Sahara of information.

Perhaps Robbie is dead, perhaps he lives in a different country altogether or maybe he just doesn't want to be found. It's not for me to judge and it's certainly out of my financial capabilities to continue.
And that's the truth and the end of it.

Okay, I didn't find Robbie, but did I find anything else?
Well, I don't know if "find" is the appropriate term to use, but I have a skanky foot left over from India, an increased balance disorder from Thailand and fleas from England. It seems that every country I visit feels a horrid desire to rub something off on me.

I'm working again, I'm living in a house again, I'm getting laid again.
Well, two of the three are true anyways...

I'm back where I started. Except all my friends and family now live in a different country, I'm working longer hours for less wages and I don't have a flashy sports car.

Sometimes it just makes me wonder what the hell it's all about.

Passing by the gates of Eden

Workin' 9 to 5,
What a way to make a livin'
Barely gettin' by
It's all takin' and no givin'
They just use your mind
And they never give you credit
It's enough to drive you crazy

- Dolly Parton -

Isn't it funny?
Well no, it's not really.
But six months ago I quit work because it's a drag.
I mean: You get up in the morning to work eight hours a day to make someone else richer than yourself, come home, watch shite on the television, listen to some CD's, chat online to people you're glad you don't have to smell, go to bed and then get up the next morning to do exactly the same just to keep this life-style up and running!

(Well, don't you know)
That's the sound of the men working on the chain gang
That's the sound of the men working on the chain gang

- Sam Cooke -

It's boring and it's mundane!
And, now, after giving everything I owned away to various lost causes, I'm now back in work again.
It's like I've come full circle or something. It seems I'm caught in a loophole of vicious circleness and no matter what I try I'm doomed to slave labour for the rest of eternity!
Needless to say, but I'll say it anyways, IT SUCKS!

I knew I would have to work, but I just wanted to work three days a week and get by. But nobody wants to employ a 35 year old for three days a week.
Bookshops, cinemas, restaurants, pubs...they all find excuses for turning you down. It's unhealthy for a man to work less than 40 hours a week! They don't want you having time to spare!
Hell no! That would give you too much time on your hands to get up to mischieve like writing a story, doing something creative, starting a revolution or masturbating.
THAT WILL NEVER DO!!

You have to work five days a week! It's a must! If you don't then you're an out-cast...and our employers want as few of these degenerates around as possible.
You just go out and work, be a good boy and buy a fucking Dolby Surround system!!! That is OBVIOUSLY what life is all about. Isn't it? Isn't it?

Bring me little water, Sylvie
Bring me little water now
Bring me little water, Sylvie
Every little once in a while

Don't you hear me callin'
Don't you hear me now
Don't you hear me callin'
Every little once in a while

- Leadbelly -

So, am I back to square one?
Hell no I'm not!
I'm now working longer hours for less money! How's that for progression?
I'm not even working 9 to 5 as Dolly suggests, I'm officially working 9 to 6 with two hours a day public transport added on...making it a grand total of 11 hours of hell a day!!! To do what? Fuck only knows.

At least I'll be able to buy a car, buy a stereo, buy a computer, buy a shirt, buy CD's, buy DVD's, buy a TV, buy, buy, buy, buy, buy, buy, buy, buy and buy!

And then die.

Early in the morning factory whistle blows,
Man rises from bed and puts on his clothes,
Man takes his lunch, walks out in the morning light,
It's the working, the working, just the working life.

Through the mansions of fear, through the mansions of pain,
I see my daddy walking through them factory gates in the rain,
Factory takes his hearing, factory gives him life,
The working, the working, just the working life.

End of the day, factory whistle cries,
Men walk through these gates with death in their eyes.
And you just better believe, boy,somebody's gonna get hurt tonight,
It's the working, the working, just the working life.

- Bruce Springsteen -

In the neighbourhood

The Curry 'slightly more than' 500 meters', bus drivers who don't speak English (I think they're speaking Polish, but Sophie's not popped by to verify it yet), 14 year olds with three babies (I walk by singing: "Every sperm is sacred...la die laaaa"), gangs of youths with caps on, trucks full of unemployed, Carribbean and Islamic fast food bars on every corner (but not a spare rib in sight), Fish and chip shops that don't sell fish and chips (and when you ask what they do actually sell they answer: "Warm food love.") and meetings with strange men in long coats in bushes...
Welcome to my residence. Welcome to the hood!

Yesterday morning I was sitting on my bed at about 10 O'clock in the morning. I had thirty minutes to go before I would be meeting the man with the whiskey voice.
As per usual when I get nervous, I start fantasising about beautiful things, envisioning lustful thoughts and quite generally avoiding anything which might be important...that's right... I was playing with my star wars figures!


This is the bloody re-enactment of the duel between Kenobi and Grievius, just after order 66 was given.

Eventually I dragged myself away from the battle at hand (Kenobi was just about to slaughter the evil traitor who was accused of stealing a sock. A blue sock I might add, which has mysteriously disappeared after yesterday's washing) and stepped out into the warm summer morning's sun.


This is the street I live in. You can't see it very well, but right at the end there, there's a pub. In the Beehive (that's the name), you will find garlic smelling Muslims, sweaty smelling unemployed people, fried chicken reeking Afro-Carribbeans, fat chain smoking white birds and prams filled with babies and cheap booze. Who says multi-culturism is dead? In poverty we all drink at the same watering hole.

Walking from my house to the park always reminds me of a book I wanted to write when I was a teenager. In it a mad scientist brings the garbage cans to life and a war between humanity (The Hellevoetsluis rebellion) and the dustbins commences. I was going to call it "The annals of Hellevoet: The first garbage war".
Naturally I ended up day dreaming about women instead and the story of backstreet clashes with filth-containers was forever doomed to the...well, to the garbage can, I suppose.


Just imagine a loan garbage can on the prowl...
Yes, It's terrifying. I know!


Or a pack of Triffid-esque dustbins innocently hanging around the backstreets, just waiting for an innocent virgin to come skipping by.

Anyways, the walk to the park is quite interesting from an odd point of view. There are many interesting things I could point out, but if I pointed out everything that was pointedoutable you wouldn't be able to keep track of this complicated plot-line.
But here are a few:


Only the in-crowd will get this one, but it's suffice to say that one of my best friends; my drinking buddy; my partner in booze; my compadre d'vin came all the way over to England, 100 meters from where I live, hung up expensive looking graffitti and didn't even pop by to visit me!


This is a travel agency. But take a closer look at the sign above the door:


Yes! A travel agency and a circumcision clinic.
Now, I don't know about you, but if I decided to chop a piece of my penis, I certainly wouldn't have it done in a travel agency backroom!

Yes, Rusholme is a wonderful place.
I live on the border between Rusholme and the Moss side. As tranquil as Beirut on a bad day.

When you walk along Claremont road towards Wilmslow road; which is better known as the Curry mile, you pass the Claremont primary school. I was going to take a photo of it, but then I thought that it's probably, considering the current climate, best not to be seen as a 35 year old in shorts which are too small taking photos of a kiddie's school.

And then I saw the park!


Somewhere in those trees would be the man from the mysterious phone call. How did this man know my number? How did he know my name?? How did he know I'm looking for someone???

* insert nerve racking climatic music!!! *

I peeked over the bushes and through the fence before entering, but I couldn't see anyone. It was nearly 10:30.
Taking a deep breath I walked into the park.
Well, I say park, but it's basically half a football field with some bushes around the edges and a couple of trees. I decided to go and stand by the goalpost.
I checked my telephone, it was 10:34 and as patient as I am, I started thinking it was a prank call and was about to leave when I heard a "Pssst" from behind me.
Either someone was urinating, a bike tyre had punctured or someone was luring me to the bushes.
I'm no coward! I walked towards the bushes.

"Anyone there?" I asked, my voice breaking like it used to do when I was 14. So it sounded more like: "Any n ere?" and I got irritated, because it didn't sound very man-like, cool and unscared.
"Stand at the tree-line and turn your back to the bushes." A rough voice said. "Don't look around". He really sounded like he smoked too much weed.
I did as I was told, the sweat dripping down my back. NOT, I feel I must add, sweat from fear, but sweat because it's a heatwave!

"Who are you?" I asked.
"None of your business!" the voice rasped.
"Well, technically, seeing I'm here and you're there and you know me and have my telephone number...it could be construed as being somewhat of my busi..."
"Enough!" It could have been polite or irritated, but with so much gruffy distortion it was hard to tell.
"What's the name of this friend you're looking for?"
"Robbie. Robbie Howett." I said.
"Is that Howett with E.T.T. or Howett with I.T.T."
"I...uh...don't know..."
"You're a dunce van der Born. A complete dunce!"
"Well, it was long ago an..."
"Enough!" It seems the coarse voice from the bushes has a stop-word.
He continued: "This may take a little longer then. I have your address, you'll be hearing from me!"
I turned around and I'm sure I saw a long grey overcoat disappear behind the tree line.

Various questions came to mind as I made my way into town.
How did this person recognise me? And Who on earth wears a long grey overcoat in the middle of a heatwave?
After drinking a few pints to calm my nerves which didn't need calming because I'm not a coward and a long bout of internetting I decided to pop by the games shop I've been frequenting the last couple of weeks. I play the Star Wars game there and as of yesterday I also will be playing Magic (a fantasy card game) there too.
I bought my usual diet coke, although admittadly, Coke Zero is truly scrumpious and is slowly becoming my beverage of choice, and sat down to shuffle my cards and moisten my pallet.

And what should I see draped over a chair in the backroom? A long grey overcoat!
Coincidence?
I shuffled my cards slowly like Maverick in an important showdown poker game aboard a Mississippi boat with a big paddle wheel... and watched and waited.
Eventually a spotty teenager with a problem d'body odour picked up the long grey overcoat, said: "Talk to you later then." to the shopkeeper, in voice sounding much like Macaulay Culkin in 'Home Alone' and walked out the door, coat flapping in the hot summer breeze.
"No way!" I shouted to no one in particular, although a few people in the shop looked like they were in the company of the insane.
No way could that teenage kid have produced that jagged sounding cigar voice! No way!

But at least I know who wears such garnments in the middle of a heat wave!

Well Big Mambo's kicking
his old grey hound
and the kids can't get ice cream
'cause the market burned down
and the newspaper sleeping bags
blow down the lane
and that goddamn flatbed's
got me pinned in again

- Tom Waits -

The mysterious phone call

All things considered, this phoning business isn't turning out to be very succesful.

Me: "Hi, I'm Mark van der Born. I'm looking for a Robbie Howett..."
Man: "YOU LOST THE WAR. STOP HARASSING ME!"
Click.

I swear to Callsheva (The Indian demi-God of tele-communications) that there are a lot of strange people out there. I'm sure most of them are perfectly harmless, but I do question the success of 'Care in the community' as a whole.

Another phone call I made Friday morning:

Man on phone: "Robert speaking."
Me: "Hi, my name is Mark van der Born, am I speaking to Robbie Howett?"
Man on phone: "Yes. What can I do for you."
Me: "Well, I went to school with a lad from Penicuik called Robbie and I was wondering if that was you."
Man on phone: "I've never been to Penicuik. Sorry."
Me: "Oh well. Sorry to have bothered you."
Man on phone: "That's all right. Why are you looking for this school friend?"
Me: "I'm writing about it. You know..."
Man on Phone: "Do you live in Scotland then?"
Me: "No, I'm down in Manchester."
Man on phone: "Manchester! That's quite close by. Do you want to meet up sometime?"
Me: "Uhhh... well...."
Man on phone: "You seem quite sympathetic, I'm sure we'll get on fine..."
Click.

And anyways, what the hell was he doing at home instead of at work??

I went off to the library to do some online job searches, etc. and as I'm walking past the town hall, my telephone rings.
"Ah..." thought I, "that will be the sandwich shop offering me a job as a toilet cleaner or the Ikea turning me down because I'm not qualified enough to sell office desks... and probably mentioning child labour and the fact that I despise the quality of their products didn't help too much either..."

"Hi, Mark speaking." I say in my professional and highly ADHD friendly manner, like a dog wagging its tail when its owner comes home.
"Mark van der Born, is it?" replied a dark and husky male voice. A voice that sounded like it drank too much whiskey.
"Yessssss..." I answered, it didn't sound like a blonde haired, happy-go-lucky-human-resource-girl-from-Ikea.
"I've, *cough*, heard that you are *cough* *cough* looking for..."
There was a hesitation which I've cleverly portraid with the triple dots...
"a missing 'friend'..." The man sounded like he smoked too many cigars and he lingered on the word friend as if he didn't quite believe that it was a friend I was looking for.
"Well, yes. As a matter of fact..."
He wasn't going to let me finish my sentence and rudely interrupted with a voice that sounded like Tom Waits' after a night of binge drinking and opium inhaling:
"I can help you."
"You can?"
"Meet me Tuesday 10:30am in the park in front of Claremont primary school. Be there and come alone."
Click.

How bizar is that?
I'm well chuffed! At least someone is wanting to help me!

And the first job offer is in!

Yes.
Finally someone does not find me too dirty to serve food, too ugly to sell beer or too stupid to park FUCKING CARS...
Obviously I turned the job down. Hell, I ain't no slut. I don't bed the first guy to offer me a job. Fuck that.

Obviously there are real reasons for turning down a job, but they are both boring and mundane. Needless to say though, to cut a long story short, I can no longer prance about on bare feet, I'm not fit enough to do a Kata and a job which only offers commission is too much of a risk. And I'm not in the business of taking risks.

Well, I want to waste a few seconds and point my finger at Israel and shout: "YOU BUNCH OF FUCKING U.S. PAID AND SPONSORED TOSSERS!"
It is probably true that oppression doesn't make one more humanitarian, just better at oppressing, but I believe it also seems to defecate on rationality and force governments to make stupid decisions which inevevitably will only make matters worse.
And obviously it's the poor, the meek and the children who suffer.

This afternoon I have a job interview at Subway's. It's a sandwich restuarant.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure making sandwiches is a difficult enough job as it is, and I'm equally sure that it's made even harder because you have to talk to customers (and handle money!) at the same time...but...but, I really, really feel I have the skills and requirements to make those fucking sandwiches work! I seriously do. No, I don't have motivational issues on the subject of food preperation.

I'd like to take a moment to congradulate Zidane, the French footballer. He is an artist on the field and even his headbutt was beautiful and gracious in a slightly deserved sort of a way. He's now officially, by my reckoning, up there with the best of them: God (although some call him Maradona) and Pele.

The search for Robbie continues and I have a gutsy feeling that this phoning malarky is getting me nowhere and delivering me there fast. Nothing really much to write about, besides this one lady (the same one as in the last post) threatening to call the police if I kept stalking her.
I did tell her it wasn't her I was after, but her husband. That didn't go down as I intended either and I hung up before things got well out of hand.

And I'd like to thank my sister and her boyfriend who sent me a giant cuddly rat to catch fleas with. A financial donation would have been more appreciated, but hey, beggers can't be choosers. Naturally I will return the giant rat once its stuffed insides are crawling with critters.

I guess the last thing on todays agenda is my weight.
Holy fuck, I swear to God (could be Maradona, could be Jesus...one can never be too sure with these heavenly creatures) that for someone who's running out of money I do seem to be getting rather fat.
And I know what it is!
Cheap food makes you fat.
So, it's alright to consume steak, salmon pate and Bordeaux. It's not okay, though, to stuff your face with chips, crisps and McDonalds super-sized meals.

Funny how expensive fat is good for you and cheap fat is not. One could, however, argue that the cheaper fat is a better investment for when my bank account gasps its dying breath, for then I will have more reserves to live off...

Robbies here, Robbies there, bloody Robbies everywhere!

As poverty creeps up on me like a bad hangover on New Year's day, as my world slowly crumbles around me and all I'm left with is a vivid imagination and a dulled sense of reality, as my sex life is comparable to a dead nun's; who's been buried, cremated and sealed in a vault, as hot-dog food poisoning sets in and I delicately place my sore-to-be arse over the toilet bowl, as my splitting headache resounds in unison with the pains of ten sore stomach ulcers in a hellish cacaphony of bubbling burning turmoil...
...I decided to focus my attention on the mission at hand, I started phoning the Robbies.

Yes. Plural. There are many Robbies in Britain.
In fact, so many that I decided to start with Robbies who had Howett as a surname.
In fact, there are so many of them as well, that I decided to phone the Robbie Howetts in Scotland first.
In fact, there are so many of them too, that I decided to stick, for the time being, to Robbie Howetts on the Scottish East coast.

If you hear a vague plopping sound as you read this, it's probably just another stress ulcer evolving or, if I'm lucky, it's my brain blowing out my ears.

Let me share a couple of example phone calls:

Phone call nr. 2
Robbie: "Hello."
Me: "Yeah. Hi, Mark van der Born here, is this Robbie I'm speaking to?"
Robbie: "Hello?"
Me: "Hello?"
Robbie: "Hello?"
Me: "Hell..."
Click.

Phone call nr. 3
Me: "Hi, this is Mark van der Born speaking. Am I speaking to Robbie Howett?"
Robbie: "You sure are love."
Me: "Excuse me, but you are a woman."
Robbie: "Last time I looked love."
Me: "Yeah...but...okay..."
Robbie: "My name's Roberta."

Phone call nr. 6
Robbie: "Robert Howett speaking."
Me: "Hello. My name is Mark van der Born."
Silence
Me: "I'm looking for an old school pal..."
Robbie: "You're looking for an old school pal?"
Me: "Yeah. Could you be him?"
Robbie: "I probably could. Your name, Mark is it, doesn't ring a bell though."
Me: "Penicuik?"
Robbie: "Been there, aye."
Me: "Did you go to school there?"
Robbie: "No, I was stationed there in World War two."

Phone call nr. 8
Lady: "Hello."
Me: "Hi, my name is Mark van der Born, I'm looking for Robbie. Robbie Howett, an old school friend."
Lady: "Why?"
Me: "I'm writing a novel and it's about finding him."
Lady: "Why would you want to find him?"
Me: "Well...for the book."
Lady: "What book?"
Me: "My book. Well novel. Well blog."
Lady: "Who did you say you were?"
Me: "Mark. Mark van der Born."
Lady: "I've never heard of you."
Me: "No...but Robbie may have."
Lady: "Robbie?"
Me: "Yes. Robbie."
Lady: "How do I know you are who you say you are?"
Me: "....uh... well, if you could put Rob..."
Click.

Out of the first eleven phone calls number 8 has been the most promising. I'll wait a couple of days and phone her back.
A lot of Robbies weren't in or just didn't want to speak at all. Quite strange, you'd think they'd be glad that someone was phoning them. Me? I just hang around all day waiting for the fucking phone to ring. A job, a friend, a family member... But no! Nobody ever fucking phones me, do they? Bastards, the lot of the...

Anyways, as I was saying, I've had little succes so far, but I've got another 70 odd Robbies to engage (like captain Picard engages the Borg... although slightly less spectacular) and then I'm going to have to expand the search.

One day at a time sweet Jesus, that's all I'm asking from you... la die laaa die laaaa

Marijohn Wilkins / Kris Kristofferson

I think I've caught fleas

How does one get flead? Is that even the proper term?

I woke up this morning, put my feet on the carpet (my arse still on the bed) and phoned some job interviewer who, needless to say, was about to turn me down...
And I looked down and lots of little black beasties were crawling over my ankles!

Maybe I would have gotten the job if I hadn't screamed: "HOLY FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!!!???" But as things went, I did shout that and didn't get the job (who wants to train as a bunion specialist anyways?).

I tried brushing them aside, but they jumped away at incredible speed. Fleas! In my bedroom!
This can't be good.

I've travelled around Indian slums, across rivers of mud and up through jungles of horrors and never, NEVER, have I been savaged by little black beasties before.
I'm sitting in the library typing away, and I swear to God I feel little creatures crawling over me and biting me.
Now, it may be just my imagination here, but so what? If I mentally believe I'm carrying the critters around on me, that's surely just as bad as actually having them on me!

Now I'm going to have to spend even more hard earned cash (well... cash anyways, I don't actually know who earned it, but it sure as fuck wasn't me) combatting an infestation!
And weren't fleas responsible for the Black Plague? Holy Hell! I swear to God I'm going to die in this job-forsaken country.

Talking about jobs (a subject which, much like fleas and diarrohea, hangs around me with an ever-present stench of foulness, defeat and self-pity), I got turned down as a parking attendant today. I wasn't qualified enough! How fucking ironic is that then?
"So," asks I, "What qualifications do you need to become a parking attendant then?"
"Well," answers she, "You need to be able to park cars professionally and talk to customers."

Yeah. Well that REALLY fucking rules me out then, doesn't it!
Holy hell, I am being bitten, I swear to the great horned one!

Yeah, so, yeah. Well it's just as well the interview was over the phone, because I would have dragged the stupid bitch over the desk and smacked her silly with my sandal.

Losing the plot? Me? Na. Never.
I'm contemplating trying to get a job at the McDonalds. The obvious problem is that if they turn me down, then my life really is worth less than the vitamins in a big Mac.
Good grief.
But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

One of the jobs I've applied to is for a big warehouse-like-store-chain, much along the lines of Ikea. The actual job I've applied for is called: "Financial control expert", which basically means that I work the till. Oh the joy of it all.
This coming Thursday there's a three hour assessment...
Let me repeat that, just in case you thought I wrote something else: A 3 hour assessment!
Three hours I'll be grilled like an Al Qaeda suspect, questioned like a Scientology target and bossed around like an unemployed bum.
Three God damned hours, just to see if I'm capable of scanning a product, smiling and asking: "Will that be all then?"
And get this. They want you to dress smart for this arsessment.
"What," asked I, "do you mean by smart?"
"Well," answered she, "we mean shirt, tie and trousers."

And that really rules me fucking out doesn't it? I DON'T WEAR TROUSERS!
No. I mean, I don't wear ties. I don't do ties!
There's not a tendon in my body, not a ligament in a limb and certainly not a sinew in... what the fuck is sinew anyways? I've never even heard of the bloody word!
Anyhow... there's not a bone in my body that even contemplates putting a string around my own neck. Hell no. I'm not gonna walk around like some bitter fruit that's pulling a Triffid-esque dance of death. Or whatever... see if I care...

And what's the point of dressing smart when fleas are bungy jumping off you?
See what I'm up against? See?

God damn it.

If not slain, at least brought to its knees!

There is a party on the streets!
No cloud can constrain the rays of the sun as she shines like never before!
Water is turning to wine and beer doesn't give you hangovers (I hope)!
Yes. Today is a great day. A day for celebrating, a day for making merry (or love, if you're luckier than me)!

Now, it may be true that I still don't have a job. And it is equally true that my money is running low. In fact, it's probably quite honest and realistic to say that if things don't change soon, I'll be eating peanut butter sandwiches morn', noon and night!
But I'm not gonna let that little dilemma piss in the proverbial beer today. Oh no. Today is for rejoicing, and rejoice I shall.

This isn't a football thing, this isn't a Star Wars thing and no, I've not even found Robbie yet either.
No, today news has reached these far and distant shores (well, 'far and distant' being relative to where you're reading...) of one of the great beasts of our time being netted and dragged to the floor, screaming and kicking, hollering and wailing. Yes! The Dutch government has imploded!

Let me give you a few dots silence so you can regain your composure.
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Regained it yet? Okay, I'll give you a few more...
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Yes! D66, one of the three Dutch coalition parties (and reknown for having only one policy: beheading the monarchy) has stabbed the Dutch government in the back, and a-fallin' it is! Oh joy! Oh Celebration! One right-wing spreader of evil less on our little planet!

D66 (God bless their little souls) finally had enough of the immigration minister Rita (spit on the floor) Verdonk, the most Right-wing, Randian imbecil to curse the streets of Europe since Satan's shite stain (or Thatcher as she's sometimes called) exploded on the scene. And not a moment too soon... in fact, I'd dare say about three years too late... but as the saying goes: Better late than fucking never!
Rita just deported one child too many, lied one whopper of a fib too habitually, sent way too many dossiers off to the Congo and tripped over her own bloopers too often to bother mentioning.
D66 stabbed her as the Beelzebub spawn that she is over something quite trivial (compared to the attrocities she's continued); poetic in a Capone sort of a way.

From the BBC:
The Dutch government has resigned because of an internal dispute about the Immigration Minister, Rita Verdonk.

Hahahaha
Hahahaha
Haha cough

From the same BBC:
A junior partner in the coalition, the centrist D-66 party, walked out after failing to get Mrs Verdonk sacked. It objected to the way she had handled the citizenship case of a Somali-born Dutch MP, Ayaan Hirsi Ali.

Oh the irony! Hirsi Ali being as right-wing and nausiating as Rita (spit on the floor) Verdonk!
Hahahaha

And this too is from the BBC:
Mrs Verdonk is known as "Iron Rita" for her tough stance on immigration issues.

Yes. Let's melt her down and re-mould her into something useful. A metal latrine or something.

I can just see her crawling on the floor towards Balkenende, the Dutch prime-minister... oh sorry, I mean EX-DUTCH PRIME-MINISTER hahahaha... her green blood dripping behind her making little bubbly noises as it seeps into the cracks on the floor. I can hear her whining and moaning; screaming and screeching like a banshee. Squirming and gargling like Gollum on an Orc torture rack...
Balkenende bubbling like her blood, tears flowing down his face in a John Majoresque fashion: "Oh Rita... what will become of us?" He'll wail in self pity. And I can just about hear Rita (spit on the floor) Verdonk's last words: "...you'll have to go and live with your mum again... I'm just gonna get pissed on..."

Hahahaha

Life is good and it is now time for beer!

The BBC website:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/5132832.stm

Just another job interview

"Good morning! I'm glad so many of you came!"

I do so like cheerful people in the morning. Obviously I started sniggering at the choice of words and was frowned upon for doing so by many of the other job-combatants.
I don't use the word combatant lightly either. Hell no, it's a dog-eat-dog world out here and one must use one's claws and teeth if one wishes to work!

The job interview was for a vacancy in a restaurant. Or a pub. Or a bus station; it wasn't too clear from the start.
I'm sure I read on the application form that it was for a restaurant, but the interviews were going to be held in a pub and 80% of the gathered looked like they were bus drivers. It was all terribly confusing, so I was improvising from the start.

"Why do you specifically want to work for us?"

What can one answer when one doesn't actually know what one is applying for. I used the old Viet Cong manoeuvre of keeping quiet until the time to strike is at hand.
One of the combatants raised a hand and meekly answered: "I love serving drinks."
"Aha!" escaped my lips like Frank Lee Morris from Alcatraz. Again a couple of warmongers were giving me the evil eye. But, at least I could scrap bus station from the list!

The intervieweress (sort of like a Mistress in a bondage film, dressed slightly different, but still entitled to whip you into submission) was asking everyone this question and soon my time would come. I nearly panicked, but then I remembered the wise words I'd heard once in a documentary about hitchhiking: "Don't panic." And so my mind wandered to fields of roses and the soothing sounds of waterfalls.

"Mark?"
"42."
"What?"
"Oh yes. Well. I love serving drinks as well!"
A crafty improvisation, I'm sure you'll agree.

As the interview progressed I began to realise that not all was as well as it seemed. Somehow my wittisms and giggling were not achieving the reaction I expected. The intervieweress wasn't throwing herself at my feet and saying: "Take me like a big horny sex machine!"
Indeed, I got the distinct impression she was snarling like Gollum when she spoke to me. I decided to take that as a good thing anyways, no need to be negative. Is there?

"I think you're over-qualified for the job."
"mhmmmm... yah. I've heard that before yes."
"I don't think you're the sort of person we're looking for."
"Now look here!" I demanded, "Just because I'm not a complete imbecil like the rest of the bus-driver's association here," I said, sweeping my arm around the room at the people gaping at me in disrespect, "doesn't mean to say that I'm too over-qualified to serve fucking drinks. Alright!"
"I think you have anger problems as well." She said defiantly, but I sensed her falling for my charms, so since I was on a roll I decided to continue:
"I don't have fucking anger problems!" Then I took a deep breath and continued in a lower tone of voice: "Ofcourse, if you don't give me the job I'll probably rip your head off and shite down your neck. Let's not go there okay? You power hungry fucking freak!"

I don't know if I got the job or not, because I woke up.
But let me ask you this: "Is it healthy to have nightmares about job interviews?"
I think not.
It's clearly a sign of me losing the plot, cracking up and about to do something horribly drastic.

Oh well. Best fill in another application form then.