The Drip

Ask any scientist and they’ll tell you that it’s a fact that the most restful night’s sleep you can have is a dribble sleep. Some scientists are so enthusiastic you won’t even have to ask, they’ll come and tell you. There really is no better feeling than waking up with a gooey cheek and a pool of cold mucus on your pillow. Nobody has ever been able to fully explain why it’s so satisfying to regain consciousness bathing in your own spit but it is.

I have much more time to enjoy a good bit of dribble these days. With my friends back at university and the boredom of unemployment setting in I have started to appreciate the smaller things, dribble is just one of them. Another is my new Blackberry. It has taken four years for me to get a phone that allows me to look down on people and now that I have one I couldn’t be happier. When I see fellow blackberry owners I feel the need to high-five them and boisterously shout “Blackberries!” Then I suggest we exchange bbm pins, that way, we can instant message one another all the way around the world. FOR FREE.

At first I really wanted an i-phone, but then I found out that I couldn’t afford one and swiftly realised that I’d wanted a blackberry all along. “I-phones are for wankers and posers anyway,” I reassured myself, much in the same way middle-aged men have to convince themselves Vauxhall’s are better than Jaguars.

I recently visited my friend in Bournmouth. We ate pizza, drove recklessly, smoked and drank vodka, pretty much the usual non-stop parent’s nightmare that is a twenty-something’s weekend. One thing that will stand out from the trip was our visit to ‘V’. Now V was once a church, but for some reason, it is now a club. To me, building a club in a church is like setting up a chocolate fountain in a gym. The two ideas are oppositional. I’m not at all religious, but there’s something a bit depressing about seeing a bouncers toss smashed chavs from a church, or semi naked ladies sprawling themselves over sofas that were once pews.

Who am I kidding?! It was great fun and to be honest, there isn’t that much difference between churches and clubs anyway. Look at bouncers and priests for example. I mean they’re almost identical. Both wear black, both are grumpy, boring and often bald. I hope that doesn’t mean that I’m going to hell. Gulp

Pampers

So I strutted over to the office yesterday morning with a grin on my face and an NHS badge swinging around in my pocket like a giant health care cock. I reached into my trousers, grabbed the badge and raised it to the little plastic panel by the entrance. There was a professionally discreet ‘bleep’, the little light changed from orange to green and the metal bolt snapped back into the door. “AHHHHH” it was like a self important firework display. “I can get into this building but none of the peasants can, Ha.” I thought to myself as the door swung open and I ascended a flight of stairs. Greeting several middle-aged men in suits, I continued down a corridor. What’s this? Another door; another plastic panel beside it! I got the badge out of my pocket again, surly my badge wouldn’t open two security locked doors?

This time; goose bumps of narcissism as I raised the badge. The same tell tale bleep and light show. “I’m James Bond,” I reflected aloud as I continued towards my desk.

“If the peasants get through the first door, they haven’t got a chance of getting past this one. I’m going to have to let them in.” What power I had.

That's how every morning in the NHS started.

I sat down at my desk with a cup of awesome work tea, content that I was a shoo-in to get the job I had worked so hard for. After all only idiots wouldn’t give it to me, right?

Well it turns out that all employers continue to be idiots, because I didn’t get the job.

Getting told you will remain unemployed by your boss is a lot like getting wacked in the Sopranos. You’re innocently tapping away at your keyboard one day, minding your own business while all but one of your colleagues leaves the room. Then; before you even have time to call them a cocksucker, bang, there’s blood splatter all over the computer screen and your head flops lifeless into a plate of office cake.

“Moist, there’s no easy way to say this...” After that I ignored everything she said. I spent the next hour printing out posters and waved goodbye to my successful life as James Bond of the public sector and got the bus home.

I sit before you, dependant, unable to drive, unemployed, unloved and penniless or DUUUP for short. Just like every other twenty-one year old graduate then. (Well apart for the driving... everyone can drive, they’re all just DUUP.)

I feel I should mention that on Sunday I got so colossally drunk that I danced around with an inflatable guitar and became incredibly aggressive in front of everyone I know. It was like Scott Pilgrim meets Scarface. Disgraceful.

If you would like to know how to achieve something similar with an evening here is the recipe for a Moscow Mule. They really are very delicious

· A few drops of Angostura Bitters

· Two measures of Vodka

· One measure of lime juice

· Toped up with ginger beer...

A few of those and you'll be a right wanker. It's worth mentioning that the morning after drinking a rather a lot of these I went into work at a hospital. It may be why I didnt get the job.

Four Parties and an Interview

The last few weeks have presented more plot twists than an average episode of Jonathan Creek. Intrigue, suspense, love, lust, triumph and disaster, we’ve had the lot. I have found time to write this blog in what can only be described as the last ad break; after which, we will all find out who murdered who and whether the killer is going to chuck themselves off a cliff, (That’s what usually happens).

So what’s been happening?

Well, your ever so handsome and humble narrator has been working (unpaid) in an office for eight weeks trying to secure himself a well paid job. A job that would not only offer financial security but also a break from the inevitable boredom of watching all of his friends piss off back to uni. It would also provide him with enough money to continue his driving odyssey and in due course, get himself.... HIS OWN PLACE.

Working in an office is really very bad for you. Since starting I have developed a fetish for canteen food, in particular, trifle. Each lunch time I scuttle down to the food hall and grab myself a BLT sandwich, a pot of pineapple and a strawberry trifle. Often, the trifle is so appealing that I eat it first. This makes the first few mouthfuls of BLT taste weird but it’s completely worth it. I should add that this food is often in addition to a school boy style packed lunch. If I continue in the same vein I’ll be obese in a month. If the overeating wasn’t enough I’ve also suffered from some pretty serious sleep deprivation. Not wanting to miss out on the fun of the summer holidays, I have made little to no consideration for the working week when planning my sleeping pattern, often awaking with my ears buzzing and spending entire days downing tea to stop my eyes sealing themselves shut.

The last and most serious of my health concerns comes in the form of a growing fondness for cigarettes. At first I had the odd one to fit in. Then I wanted to stop stealing other people’s so I bought a pack or two. Then I decided I often wanted to look cool while walking around on my own. I mean it’s not like I’m addicted or anything bad like that, it’s just..... Sometimes I fancy one, all the time. I regularly wake up with a smoky mouth.

So I spent eight weeks stuffing envelopes, laminating, writing about middle aged women and abusing my body in preparation for the interview I had last Thursday. I wasn’t nervous about the interview but I was really fucking stressy. When occasionally stopping to look at myself in the mirror (at least 10 times a day) in the preceding week I didn’t recognise the zombie staring back at me.

The interview itself went fine, but there were 300 applicants so I’m not holding my breath. In truth I am holding my breath. I spent eight weeks working there which left me black lunged and penniless. If they don’t give me the job it might be me Jonathan Creek comes after when he finds an NHS director with their head twated in with a laminator. I can just imagine Alan Davies crouched over the body.

“Look! The murderer has given him paper cuts all over his body..... That’s funny, no blood. These wounds were inflicted after he died! What sick bastard did this?!”

Me. I did it! He didn’t give me a job.
Anyway, enough of that, for now at least, I find out in the next day or two.