160609 – What’s my excuse?

So I start a blog and then don’t add to it………………I seemed good at finishing day jobs and other kinds of jobs……..yesssssssss, I think I may have caught some awful carntbearsed disease from jobclub.

So here we go with some random ramblings, since my brain has crawled out of my left ear and slid somewhere between my ribs and economy arsehole.

This is partly due to the fact that Hove Station appears to have run out of Metro. Permanently. Which means no brain-feeding sudoku for Godiva. I still trot up there once daily to check. I usually settle for Friday Ad or some such other free paper (wishful thinking, them were the days). I spend my time cutting coupons out then never using them. There’s a comp on at the moment to win an entire case of Princes pastes! Mmmmmmmm, fish paste. If I get that photo my life will be complete.

Talking of nutritious, delicious cuisine, I went to a council bbq at the weekend. I ate mechanically processed council meat. YUM! My friend got the squits after, that’ll learn her.

My offbeat friend and I were rehearsing for a mass ukulele event, and by accident I ended up running an unofficial kiddies music corner. This seemed okay, until there were four or five of them spreading swu amongst the constituency by vigorously spitting into my harmonica. Urgh. Somewhere in me there is the will not to be killed by hepatitis.

Inspired by the sloppy seconds Friday Ad, I have been finding much pain in advertising my oversized fridge freezer. Made an ex-executive decision to only advertise it online – most people have the internet, and if they’re too stupid to use it, they’re too stupid for my fridge, (we have an unhealthily intense relationship, that’s why I have to set it free).

Eventually a man from the inglourious Burgess Hill turned up to do a swap. Except that when he cleaned his fridge the gas pipe burst in his face. Yes, he had been gassed in the face that morning dear readers, and didn’t even get a cheap thrill out of it.
*Did I ever tell you about the time I decided to romance by boyfriend by gassing in his face? Yellow, apparently*

So I decided last week was a week for breaking things. I have deep cuts on two of my fingers and the lino I bought isn’t wide enough for the bathroom. I blame it on the sun – the sun that never shines…………

Well, what a turn of events eh? This week I can eat my £1.30 low-fat salmon and cucumber sandwich on the beach everyday! (Watch the metal content of your food Godiva, watch it!) People think my tan is from India, but anyone with inside knowledge would know the burgundy tinge can only be that of the great British CFC-fuelled sun.

Yesterday evening I decided due to these breakages and my isolation from the media and suchlike that I am not in the land of the living. I have no TV as I thought I’d be ultra modern, (and pikey), and watch catch-up on my laptop. But to have broadband you have to have BT, and that line was broken too. However, the chirpy Ian from Shoreham sorted that out and as of this Friday I should have broadband.

So no telly, no paper, broken phone, dodgy lino. Something had to give. I thought I’d call my trusty friend Jana, with whom I wrote haikus for a year whilst sitting in a box office. I got marched out of that job for having no work ethics. Marvellous! Stick that on yer dole form, and CV while you’re at it!

In my last job I got told off in my appraisal for doing high kicks in the office. They say never put your daughter on the stage, but sometimes I wonder………….

Suddenly I remembered my £2.15 jobclub swimpass! Yippee it’s women’s hour! So I cycled down there and joined far too many oestrogen junkies, but enjoyed my swim. Exiting knickerless, dry-skinned and with goggle-marks, I decided to risk a cycle along the sunsetting seafront then a whiz up to Somerfield where I could slip in, rummage about for some greasy old chicken bones and hope that the hunky eastern europeans wouldn’t notice my panda eyes.

No sooner had I turned for the approach to the beloved 1960s seaside rendezvous Maroccos, than I hear a woman shouting my name. I brake, cock my head round and there she is…………….Jana. Who needs this mobile technology?! So we coffeed and yabbered at the kiosk-style Italian café, and the ideas couldn’t come out quick enough.

Turns out my apathetic attitude to small city apathy was misjusged! She informed me of writers groups, Russian choirs, knitting circles, exhibitions, seafront concerts and event ideas. Wow. For a moment there I became fuelled by a passion for the discovery of this underworld………………but why was my excitement turning to disdain? Oh yes, there it was………………the local feel. The fact it is an underworld. That isn’t ‘the underworld’ of Corrie knicker factory fame, nor the kind movies are made of. In fact I’ve been reading the magnificent Fight Club by Pahalniuk. Y’know, where a man is so desperate to feel something he becomes addicted to self-help groups?.......

When I moved to London I was gigging at Wembley within six months. If I popped for a drink in Soho I’d end up in a sex documentary. If I went out at night I’d end up on exclusive rooftops in private clubs in Kensington, talking to the gardener about the sexual appetite of flamingoes. Decadence. Hedonism. They are not the be-all and end-all I know, and for crick’s sake we’ve got Zoe Ball in Tescos Express down here by the sea! But we also have Chris Eubanks……………………

Do I bother trying to penetrate this dusty culture? Do I create my own? Shall I be so successful that London will beg me for my services? Time will tell.

And time is something I do have.