Dear God #1.

(I shall be 40 on the 23rd of this month.  On the same night Rufus Wainwright is playing in Bristol.  I found out today that the tickets are sold out.  Which inspired this post….)

Dear God,

I don’t know who You are.  I don’t know what You want.  If You are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money.  But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career.  Skills that make me a nightmare for people like You.  If You get me tickets for the Rufus gig in Bristol on the 23rd, that’ll be the end of it.  I will not look for You, I will not pursue You.  But if You don’t, I will look for You, I will find You, and I will fucking kill You.

Advertisements

Ae Fond Kiss

It has just occurred to me, the major difference between my old job as a gas engineer, and my new(er) job as a carer is this – as a gasman, I saw my customers/clients, wee auld biddies in distress, once or twice a year, whereas as a carer, I see my residents/service users, wee auld biddies in distress, more or less every single day of the week.  I am told that I am their carer, not their friend.  In December(one week after my focking fortieth) I will have been at this job two years.  Most of these people are like family to me now.  I suppose that makes me a bad carer.  But hey, I never do anything ‘right’, life, love, and aw the rest o’ it.  But I try…

Proof Positive – Kilts Pull The Birds.

Just in case there was any doubt about the matter, I today present definitive evidence of the bird-pulling abilities of a Scotsman in his kilt.  Last Wednesday, I donned the tartan finery to attend the wedding of a good friend of mine.  After a few ales I looked a little like this –

The following day, a bird decided I was so good looking, she took up residence at my work in Newton Ferrers.  At the time of writing she has been there for over a week.  I reckon she has taken a wee shine to me.  Quite the poser too, loves having her photo taken.  And check out that plumage!

Of course, one always faces stiff competition when it comes to pulling the birds.  This little bugger is trying to steal mine.

Dream on, pussy cat!!

Joke Police.

I was unfriended on Facebook the other day, by a lass I have known for over ten years, and all because of a joke I posted about Jimmy Savile.  Here is the joke in question –

“They have just found Jimmy Savile’s diary.

His last entry was about 10 years old.”

According to the lass who found this “appalling”, I am “laughing at child rape”.  And this from a girl who studied journalism and, presumably, knows a thing or two about the English language.  If you take the time to actually read the joke, you will notice the butt of the joke is the child abuser, not the victim.  I am guessing this nuance is lost on the professionally offended.  Still, never let the facts get in the way of ones self-righteousness, eh?
I find it kind of frightening really that people trained in, and preparing for a career in journalism are prepared to insist on censorship.  I find it unbelievable that the joke is more offensive than the decades of silence by mainstream journalists on the “open secret” that was Jimmy Savile’s alleged fondness for pre-pubescent girls.

In my humble opinion there should be no topics off-limits for comedy.  The topics that are deemed taboo, I suggest, are the very subjects that need broached the most.  Comedy has a long and noble tradition of tackling difficult subjects.  Take Bill Hicks on Iraq, or abortion for instance.   Near the knuckle jokes and comedians, at their best, help test and define boundaries, and consequently help progress or redefine the moral code of society.  It is also informative.  After all, who else, during the last ten or twenty years was informing people about the suspicions about Jimmy Savile?  It certainly wasn’t journalists who were too scared of Savile’s “fame and power” to report on it.  There is always a place for comedy, particularly when the media is such an embarrassing failure.

I Will Survive…

OK, I admit it, I have been a miserable bastard this last 9 months or so.  I apologise to all those(all two of you) who have had to read ma sad laments and moans.   From today I intend to get back to normal.  There may still be the odd bit of moaning though….  😉

Beset by a litany of problems, that, frankly, might have killed a lesser man, I have allowed maself to wallow far too long in a depressing stupor.  Falling out with my father, falling out with my brother, becoming homeless, the stress and hangover from Occupy Plymouth(which I have still to write about at some point), serious health problems in the family, being skint, getting bronchitis, an abscess in my mouth, and the falling apart of what I regarded as a serious long-term relationship, all contributed to the ‘perfect storm’ that afflicted me.  It has taken me til now to clear the mental fog all this has caused.  Problems still exist, my Mum is going in for a hysterectomy soon, and Dad in for an operation on his prostate, I’m still skint, and single, but things do not seem so irredeemably bleak as they did a short while ago.  I am not quite sure what has lifted my spirits, possibly the intervention of some good friends, but I feel better.  Maybe the two weeks I had off work, which I thought I had wasted, have actually done me some good after all?

Anyway, thank you to all those who have put up with me, tried to lift my spirits, or attempted to distract me from my own personal annus horribilis.   You will be pleased to know your efforts have not been in vain.  All I need noo is ma leg over and I’m sorted…    😉