Friday, 11 November 2011

The Dead Head, the Dead Wasp and the Fallen

I got a rejection email from Asda today. 2 days after my asinine, politically correct, cobblers-bollocks role play based interview thingy.

The reply told me in woeful, apologetic prose the following:

“It was great to have you along to our recent Asda Magic Assessment Centre, and I hope you took something away from the special day.

I am sorry to tell you that unfortunately you have been unsuccessful on this occasion. But don’t lose heart, because the overall standard was so very, very high so our decision was a supremely difficult one to make.

Your assessment is valid for 6 months and so I am afraid we cannot accept any further applications from you for any other roles within this time.

We really do hope that you find something soon and thank you for your interest in joining our wonderful team

Keep believing in yourself and I’m sure you’ll get the break you really deserve”.

Bunch of wankers.

I got a job offer via phone today from someone named Shabahaz Khaladin who had found my CV on a teaching website and offered me a position in Saudi Arabia for 40 grand a year. While the offer was indeed tempting it turned out that it’s not an ex-pats compound where shagging out of wedlock and boozing are discreetly ignored but actually in Saudi itself. My mate said I was being hypocritical for not wanting to “merge with the local culture” until I pointed out that in England if a Muslim burns a poppy on Armistice day he or she will get a 50 pounds fine BUT if a Christian in Saudi Arabia drinks a beer in the street he or she can be publicly flogged.

Might have been interesting to see a public beheading at the local amphitheatre while munching on popcorn and coke though.

I bumped into one of my old teachers in Asda just before that bastard interview thing. I hadn’t seen her for 28 years and although grey haired and leathery it was great to have a quick chat and I helped her carry the electric guitar she’d bought for her son’s Xmas present to her car. She’s nearly 80 now and still cracking jokes. I asked her if my headmaster was still alive and she replied that he’d croaked a few years back. I later posted on Inspector Gadget’s blog in the comments section that I was pleased about this and someone later remarked that I had “persecution issues”.

Now that the old cunt is dead I can safely say that

a). I’m glad and;
b). He touched me when I was 12.

Incident was at the lower end of inappropriate but it only occurred to me as “wrong” years later when I heard from a female ex-pupil of the school that the old twat had “wandering hands”. This was about 7 years after I had left the school and it made me remember what had happened.

I was in his office in tears in October 1983 for a telling off after writing a poem for Halloween that had the line “the dead roaming slut” in it. I had heard that slut meant “tramp” and in my na├»ve, pre-teen mind thought this meant someone who sleeps on park benches and stuffs newspapers down their undies in order to keep warm in a British winter. I didn’t know (and was at that point in my childhood unable to imagine) that this in fact meant the type of woman to whom knickers are an optional fashion accessory.

I started to cry as he gently told me off and as I stood there he put his hand on my lower back and began to rub, I assumed to be soothing. However, my shirt was untucked at the back and he then put his hand up my shirt and began rubbing my back again.

I had been told from about the age of 3 which places an adult shouldn’t touch a child and the lower back wasn’t one of them. At the time it crossed my mind that what he was doing was weird but it didn’t feel “wrong” or make me feel dirty so I didn’t say anything or try to move away.

It was only when I heard the gossip, 7 years later that his hands were prone to wandering that I remembered this. It occurred to me then that it had in fact been wrong and inappropriate and while he hadn’t touched my arse or “fiddled” with me, it was totally off for teacher, let alone a 65 year old Headmaster to do that.

This incident has creeped me out for years in retrospect and at the risk of sounding vindictive…I hope the nurse lost the key to the morphine cabinet a couple of days before the old bastard bought the farm.

Big Bang Theory does nothing except make me chuckle. I hated that pile of baboon innards that was Friends with its contrived plot lines and grinning millionaires and when I first saw Sheldon Cooper on TV I thought it was going to be more of the same. Thing is…geeks and nerds lack social skills and antics such as Raj, Howard or Leonard’s are funny due to their inability (in varying degrees) to blend in. Seeing Penny chasing Sheldon off with an armchair cushion he thought was germy nearly had me breaking my ribs laughing.

Got out of bed this morning and as I put my feet on the floor it felt like the little toe on my right foot was burning. The pain was excruciating and I leapt about thinking I'd stood on a pin or somehow got acid on the floor. Luckily I sleep in my socks (not proud, not sexy BUT it's an English winter and some spack handed twat installed my double glazing in the bedroom) and as I hopped about sucking air through my teeth a wasp fell onto the floor. How the hell it was still alive in my room which is the sociable side of fucking freezing at the best of times is a mystery. Still it could have been worse, it might have stuck its barb in my scrotum while I was asleep. I put one slipper on, stamped on it and then hobbled downstairs to wipe it with one of those alcohol towelette things from the First Aid kit. Came back upstairs and the revolting creature wasn't quite dead but was twitching like one of the corpses in the last series of Torchwood. I contemplated leaving it to die in aqony but then realised the poor little horrible bastard wasn't being malicious so put the slipper back on and finished the job.

11/11/11 is Armistice day and I attended the War Memorial in Leamington Spa to pay my respects. Very moving.

My enjoyment of the occasion was marred only by hearing one of the women escorting a class of 4 year old kids saying to her colleague “it’s ok, we got permission for all of them to have their photos taken” as the Lord Mayor and Mayoress plus various grizzled veterans adorned with medals started snapping pics of the well behaved little uns.

To be fair the teacher agreed with me that this was a ridiculous rule in the circumstances and you would have to be the world’s most determined pervert to dress up in a beret, medals, regimental tie and smart suit in order to take photos of fully clothed children next to a moss and exhaust fume-covered war memorial.

Kudos to Leamington police for shutting that section of the main road for 10 minutes out of respect for the minute’s silence.

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