Who let the blogs out?

Right following one of my by now accustomed 6 month breaks, Max is back. And do I ever have some stories to tell. Now the reason for my absence can easily be explained by an extraordinary cashflow crisis, a relationship breakdown, a forced relocation and two further job roles... I'd probably better tell you about what happened to the last job I had before all that though, eh?

Well inevitably I got fired from the ripping off old ladies gig. This was partly because I didn't turn up, but that wasn't enough on its own. It wasn't because I was shit at it, even though I was, really. It was at least partly because the faceless sickline voicemail turned out to be staffed by radical incompetents, which meant that I could have left a message saying that I had been abducted by aliens and was being cruelly dismembered on one of the moons of Jupiter and it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference.

So even though, from their perspective, I had been AWOL for days before turning up late and out of the blue for a poxy 4 hour shift, they were still prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt.

In short, I had to make them fire me. The prospect of remaining actually paniced me because it would firstly mean another four hours of Old Lady hell, but it also would probably have forced me into leaving of my own accord. Unfortunately sacking is an essential first step on the road to jobseeker's allowance; resigning doesn't cut it unless there's a court case pending. Fortunately they asked me what I had been doing, so I told them about the job interview I had been preparing for

"Hang on a minute", my superviser said, and went off to get the HR manager.

The gravel voiced hatchet faced crone with whom I was eventually faced had obviously engaged in a vast number of these conversations. The patronising smile and firm demeanour told of someone ready for dissent, itching to crush her enemies beneath her sensible shoed heels. Her broad shoulders clearly carried the weight of many ruined lives and shattered dreams. She loved it.

As I was once again escorted from a premesis I could reflect on a job well done (getting sacked), and a princely 150 quid in the bank for a job badly done (erm... the job). Being fired still shears away a bit of your soul though, however it occurs.

Talking of jobs badly done, you're probably wondering what happened on the trip to Ireland. Well, possibly. Anyway, what happened is this:

Max

The blog posts you have written are not suitable and I am sure you can understand why.



Kind Regards,

I never even got my fiver. Philistines.

Hypothetical Holidays, and Fields.

I've always fancied myself as a bit of a writer. Whether I'm any good or not is not for me to say. It's quite subjective, really. Some people enjoy reading Geoffrey Archer, for example. To be honest, I enjoyed reading Geoffrey Archer, if only because in the book I read the main character was so clearly a glamourised version of Geoffrey Archer. It was almost like some bizarre wish fulfilment fantasy on his part.

So making money from writing then.....

I started by drawing on my academic background. Applying for a role in academic writing actually involves quite a significant amount of effort. You have to fill out a lot of forms, and send a lot of information. Whilst I was applying the application process changed twice. In the end they told me that they alrady had far too many writers in my field. It was actually quite flattering to imagine myself belonging to a 'field'..

Although not surprised, I found the whole process slightly dubious. I have this horrible feeling that they're asking desperate people for examples of their work and then using those for some nefarious purpose I have as yet been unable to identify. Either that or it's some massive identity fraud scam. Whatever, it's probably not the way forward - I hate writing bloody essys anyway.

So I explored the blogging option instead. Now, I always assumed that in order to make money from a blog you had to be a prostitute, or a criminal. Not so, apparently. I've found a job where I can make 5 pounds a month from blogging about purely hypothetical trips to Ireland.

So here goes.

My job search has led me to become desparate, so I drove to the Emerald Isle after visiting a friend's house and leaving in a hurry. It was late at night by the time I arrived, and I was rather fuzzy around the edges to say the least. I was aiming for a small village near Dublin, where I knew of a Traveller's Tavern with a highly reliable quality of fried breakfast, in traditionally abundant Irish style. I have a feeling I could use this as a reason to go to Ireland every month, just because I can.

As I pulled up outside the worthy tavern, I was comforted by the crisp crackle of the car's tyres as they rolled across the primitive car park. I grabbed my overnight bag and made my way inside; the frienly matronly type on the reception swiftly checked me in, and following brief enquiries regarding the aforementioned breakfast I made my weary and still jobless way to bed.

I had driven to Ireland without a plan of action, and it was only when I awoke that I recalled what had happened the day before. I remembered a major argument that I have been having with my friend, just prior to my departure. I vaguely remembered the context of the argument, that I had just found out that my drink had been heavily spiked with acid for kicks...

As I rose, blinking and filled with dread, I had no choice but to take in my surroundings. Straw fell from my bedraggled hair, and there was a strong smell of dung. I appeared to be in some kind of stable. Staggering outside, I observed my car overturned in a ditch and seemingly integrated into a dry stone wall, a wheel slowly rotating in forlorn fashion - it no longer resembled a car at all, really. A ruined stone cottage and a road sign which read 'Dublin, 8km' were the only indications of human existance. Oh, and the road, obviously.

The Traveller's Tavern had all apparently been some kind of monumental acid based illusion - even the nice lady was a product of my crazily tripping mind. A pony clopped past, full of curiously. It stopped to lick my face, quite improbably. Well that explained it. Well, not really, not totally, but it would do for a fiver.... I was still in Ireland though. I knew that much. I was going to need some kind of Dublin car rental to get home, that was for sure. Or possibly an air ticket. Well, you know.

Next time: More fun in Dublin, possibly involving a police station, a hurling team and a great deal of Guinness. Oh, and I may actually have found yet another job - imagine that, eh?