Monday, September 27, 2004

August 25 (Wednesday): The Trouble With Teddy. This more I brave up and MSN Phoebe. She is goodness, sounding happy to hear from me, which is always a good start to any day.

Today is the first day of the drama (for me) that has become of the Acme Carefore audit. I am also at the same time chockablock with work to finish off for Randy Pan. The days is a balls up from the off, we have to wait until 11 AM for our mighty leader Melchard to get his shit together and his fat arse over to take us to the client's. This gives me an unscheduled 2 hours to work on the jobs I have fallen behind, which perhaps had I been aware of ahead of time, I would have been able to get the jobs done and out of the way.

We trawl ourselves over to Mersea Island and due to things getting moving so slowly and the lateness of our arriving, Emma and I miss out on a lunchbreak. All in all, it breeds resentment and I find it very hard to get my heart into the job, especially while the stench of Melchard is lingering. After speaking to the client for about five minutes (did I say speak, I mean bumlick), he proceeds to spend a further 15 minutes in the back office on his own before disappearing leaving us to our own devices. Ironically, after my last audit experience where I was initially begging for more duties and got none, by now where I fail to really give a flying fuck about the job, I find myself with more duties than usual. Work that one out. After popping out for some food, in the afternoon I gradually get into the job. Fortunately, as per usual, on the whole I have been handed the no-brainer tasks.

When the day comes to a close, we find ourselves driving back to town in the company pool bubble car with the petrol light permanently pinging. I love the way these cars are neglected. For the best part, it genuinely looks as if we are going to run out of fuel on the way home, where the fuck are any petrol stations in Mersea? Whilst driving, Craig from Accountancy Additions phones me up with an interview in London. In the recent light of events I tell him I am putting London on the back burner in order to concentrate on my studies. He sounds disappointed but what has he done for me lately? All surprises (and relief) the bubble car gets back to the office without running out of fuel. I walk into the office and immediately I am getting it in the neck from all directions: Melchard asking me how the job is going, Randy Pan asking me if I have “had chance to look at those jobs?� and Jack is asking me if I am ready for football. I point out to Jack that the team we are putting out doesn’t actually have any goalscorers in it. And then it feels like pulling teeth getting any money out of the firm/him for petrol for the car. Eventually though, I get some and fill up.

Once I get home to change, my computer beeps and it is Phoebe on MSN once more asking how I am and how my day has been. Blinging.

Football tonight is bad news. We are playing Scrutton Bland or Bland And Son, whatever the fuck they are called these days, and they have pulled out the ringers. And the scrappy four eyed arsehole is padded up and playing in goal. Our team is pretty much injury wrecked, on our side we have: myself, Jack, Kev, Kermit, Danny. On their side they have that guy Lamby, who is an ex-semi pro who religiously appears to wear a Leeds Utd whilst looking like John Scales and some kid who looks 13 year old and a gob to match. What’s the fucking deal, are this lot from Bland a bunch of groomers or something? So there it turns out they have a team of seven against our five. Immediately it goes horribly wrong and, as much as I don’t like to admit it, I was right when I said we have no goalscorers. In the meantime, with their semi-pro at the back and little kid up front no one wants to tackle for fear of breaking him, Bland drum up a horrific scoreline, which by halftime is 10-1 to them. The second half calms down slightly and the game ends officially with us losing 16-3 but in earnest it was a lot worse. At the end of the game hands are shaken, showers taken while our opposition stare at their thirteen year olds penis (joking!). This is the sort of game that makes you want to jack playing in.

I waste no time in getting out of their and when I get home, I am exhausted/fatigued. I run myself a bath but I am too tired to fucking get in it. Instead I listen to Henry Rollins MP3s and fall asleep. I wake up 1.30 and am fucked, unable to get back to sleep. I put the Ali G movie on the DVD and watch that, discovering that his real name is Allister Leslie Graham. Oh my god, that is my middle name and surname (and my Dad’s). All those years not knowing that, I could have so milked that, lunched off the fact and perhaps sued the filmmakers. And Me Julie in the movie is played by the actress that Sara always reminded me of. Go figure.

np: Ash - Orpheus


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