Jolly Blog 11 - Much ado about everything PART TWO

Additionally to this blog, I’d like to talk, if I may, about the Olympics.  First off, if anyone has any tickets lying about, I want them.  But to the Paralympics.  I’m not interested in the able-bodied one.  I really wanna see para-volleyball - it’s probably the best sport in the world.  Wheelchair basketball is a close second.  Compared to the Paralympics, the Olympics is watched by more people, more money is spent on it, and a lot more money is made from it.  I am one of the few who actually thinks the Cripple-ympics is more interesting.  The games are far more competitive, and, I believe, more awe-inspiring.  And thanks to the wars in the Middle East (and an acute observation by Jimmy Carr) our, already phenomenal, Paralympic team has recently become even better.  So if y’all know of any para-tickets going let us know... assuming of course that due to the ineffably under-staffed security they haven’t all been blown to smithereens [again].  I’d like to say ‘I don’t know what imbeciles G4S have in their employ’, but I actually know exactly which imbeciles they’ve hired.  How’s the job going, David? :) 

So the big news, some of you already know.  Some of you I’ve told, some of you heard it through the rumour mill.  In either case, I have finally found myself a job that I don’t hate.  For the moment I’m still at the pub, but for the last couple of months I’ve been going through the application process for the BBC’s Production Talent Pool.  From over 3,000 applicants, I am one of 120 people who have a place.  Essentially, when producers need people for running and/or production assistant jobs, they’re encouraged to pick people from this list what I’m on.  That means that at any time they could offer me a contract.  It could be a long weekend in Cardiff, or eight months in London.  I just have to wait and see.  This is also the reason why I’ve been forced back onto social networking sites.  Remaining anonymous is not going to help me stand out from the crowd when it comes to securing a job in this field.  This all means that in the very near future I could be moving to Lundun.  I play the part of an obnoxious, self-centric tosser pretty well, so I should fit right in.

A few weeks ago I came to the conclusion that I wasted too much of my time doing nothing.  I spent all of my time at work or asleep, and on my days off, I just slept a bit longer.  So I decided to develop some hobbies.  If you’ve read my last post you’ll know that there’s a girl at work who’s teaching my sign-language.  Here are just some of the things I could say to a deaf:

‘Hello’

‘How’re you’

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name is...’

‘Shut your black mouth’

‘Go fuck yourself’

‘I wish you would die, you stupid retard’

All the day-to-day essentials, basically.

I have also bought, and am teaching myself to play the guitar.  Thus far my repertoire includes:

‘Your Song’ - Ellie Goulding

‘Our song’ - Taylor Swift

‘You Belong With Me’ - Taylor Swift

‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ - Bette Midler

‘Hot and Cold’ - Katy Perry

‘Chasing Cars’ - Snow Patrol

Some are saying I’m the new Johnny Cash.

And then there’s my final hobby and my last bit of news.  I’ve spent literally thousands getting to this point in my final hobby.  It was seriously worth it, though.  Youtube’s online editor was just tolerable enough to edit this one as a video... t'ra for now.

Jolly Blog 11 - Much ado about everything PART ONE

Right now it is 17:17 on Tuesday, 17th July and I’m sitting down-stairs in the pub what I live in ‘cos this dodgy guy has come in and the waitress on duty is scared; and with good reason.  This guy is one of those genuinely unhinged weirdos, who’s somehow managed to slip through the cracks in the mental health system and is allowed out by himself.  The last few times he’s come in, he would buy seven or eight Guinesses then try and pay with an expired card.  I was by the bar once when he came in and he decided to strike up a conversation with me which mainly consisted of asking me inappropriate questions about my lifestyle.  Then he asked one of the waiters for a arm wrestle before he followed me into the bathroom when I went to go pee (I’m seriously not making this up).  So now I’m helping to guard the pub while we wait for the manager to get back and tell this guy to go do one.

In any case, it was my genuine intention to do a vlog today; I filmed about half an hour of footage then came home to edit it together.  It didn’t occur to me, however, that I’ve not tried to edit a video since my old laptop broke and I got a Mac.  iMovie (for anyone who cares) is seriously shite.  I could get Final Cut Pro X, but I don’t have the money at present, ergo, what was going to be a video blog is now just a regular old blog.  C’est la vie.

You may have noticed that I am back on Facebook, and I also have twitter and Google+ accounts.  The first two I’ve had to drag back into my life for reason which I will explicate later.  Google+ I have for the very reason that no-one else does; I can trawl through trending topics and recent news without having to listen to whatever inane drivel my generation feels the need to vomit onto the internet.  Please tell me again how shit your day was, LOL!

So first news happened about three months ago, when I finally cut off my hair and donated it to charity.  I hate it when I have a drastic change in my hair.  It’s comparable to the feeling of post-coital guilt.  That sinking you get after climax; the feeling of loss, of loneliness, the feeling that somewhere, somehow, my mother is disappointed with me.  So I donated this hair and all I got in return was some stinking certificate, which didn’t even have my name on it.  When I first decided I was going to grow my hair for charity, I figured ‘meh, it costs me nothing to grow it.  The length of my hair is inconsequential.  Why not just grow it and then give it to some kid who ain’t got no hair.  One of them rubbish ones with cancer, or alopecia, or one of those kids who’s so annoying that their parents shook them until their hair fell out?’  But I’m telling you now, growing hair is not free.  Hair brush, hairbands and bandanas for work, hats for when it’s dirty, shampoo AND conditioner, and then ANOTHER shampoo AND conditioner, because if you only use one it ‘builds up’ and goes greasy.  It does, it actually does.  I spent a fortune on this damn hair and for what?  For a certificate?  I want a photograph of a diseased child, in a god-awful, greasy, Jesus wig and a hand-written thank-you letter telling me how great I am.  I want it now or I’m gonna thump someone in the throat.

In other news, my mum is getting re-married, and she’s asked me to give her away.  She claims that it’s to stop my Grandfather from being offered the opportunity to draw focus.  He will do a speech, and he will find a way to play his trumpet at least twice if he’s not properly attended to.  She also claims it’s because she wants her children involved in the wedding.  My younger sister, Alice, is a bridesmaid, and my older sister, Emily, is a witness.  Whatever the reason, just so long as my mum is happy... and I get the suit she’s promised me.

I also have a new tattoo, which I got a few months ago now.  It’s something I’ve thought of getting for a while, and I positioned it as a segway into getting my Hong Kong one on the top of my right shoulder.  As soon as I forget how much it hurt, I’ll get the Hong Kong one.

END OF PART ONE