Here’s the story of cheer, exhaustion, and sausages.
I knew I was having a weird week when I saw a demented squirrel boy at the bus station. I’m not even kidding, either. There was a very young teenage lad dressed in a giant fluffy onesie costume. Oh, yes. It’s hard to explain, really. The head of the costume sorta looked like a cross between a squirrel, a fox and a chipmunk. And the eyes were yellow with a black swirl in them, instead of pupils, like the swirls in old hypnosis films. And he kept waving at me, too. I was wondering what was in my water, so to speak, until the bus turned up being driven by Santa Claus. If I was a young boy, I’d be wondering why Santa had given up his sleigh and I’d be worried about what had become of Rudolph and Blitzen. “Ho, ho, ho! They’re in the Christmas stew…”
Seriously, I don’t know what was going on. That young boy was clearly wearing a dog collar, clearly wearing a weird fluffy costume, with a tail, by the way, clearly looking like a prat, and had, obviously, far too much ‘festive spirit’. I was seriously worried he was going to come over and start hugging me after around ten minutes of waving at me. And I would’ve had to fend him off, readers. Imagine how that would look in a job interview. “Oh, sir. I see you have a criminal record. What did you do?” “Oh, that. Funny story. I beat up some pillock in a squirrel costume…”
I mean, fair enough if he had a bucket and was collecting for some charity, but firstly, that is not what you should be letting out onto the streets to collect money. I saw at least one child run away terrified. Secondly, he didn’t even have a bloody bucket! And yes, he may have had one and was on his way home after a day of collecting, but why hadn’t he got changed and why was he wearing the head in the middle of the bus station?
“Ah, well. Bit of festive spirit! Bit of cheer! Come on, everyone! Happy! Happy! Happy!”
Oh, shut up. THIS IS BRITAIN! We are not a happy bunch! Stop trying to force happiness on us! It’s infuriating!
And yes, I’m fully aware that the driver of the bus wasn’t actually Santa Claus. It was a woman dressed up as Santa, raising money for a charity. She wasn’t the only Santa I saw. The whole bus station was full of them. It was like some Kafkaesque nightmare. The demented bunny thing only amplified the hell…
Do you know what I heard one of the kids say to one of the Santa’s?
“You’re not Santa.”
“Just saw him in the grotto.”
Awww, aren’t children sweet little bastards, some days?
Kids don’t know a lot about the real world, but they sure know a lot about the fictional world…
It was all a nice end to what’s been a difficult week. I’m worn down, readers. I’m a bit knackered. Like a rusty old car that literally refuses to move. I started work experience this week, and boy, it was a culture shock.
I’ve been designing banners and posters for a local radio station and it’s going okay, I suppose. I haven’t been fired, yet, which is a bonus. I’m quite surprised by that, because I’m fairly sure I’m a terrible employee.
Up at seven each day. The sky outside pitch black, not even a glimmer of the faintest speck of light can be seen. My body doesn’t react well to early mornings. My heart beats faster. I feel dizzy and I get headaches. I feel very sick and I have a very unsettled stomach. My unmentionables are itchy, too. What? TMI?
The buses haven’t been running properly. They come up to an hour and a half late on some days. Bus stops with no seats so I’ve ended up with terrible backache. Standing out in subzero temperatures with sleet and wind trying to blow me away. I am so incredibly tired, all the time. I barely have the energy to move.
I get in at half five every night and I have to spend hour after hour researching and uploading blog posts, something that has become so difficult that I’ve had to reduce my third blog to just once a week, and that broke my heart.
And then there are the bus journeys. The ‘youff’ blasting some modern techno dance shit out of their latest electronic gizmos. It’s like a bloody rave some days and there is smoke, too, although not caused by smoke machines. No, that’s from the ‘vapers’, people smoking these electronic cigarettes, perfectly legal on public transport and something that absolutely disgusts me. They contain nicotine, you know, and I’m being forced to breathe in it. Inconsiderate bastards. Thank you for considerably reducing my lifespan. Oh, no, you don’t worry your pretty little head about me. You keep poisoning everyone with your strawberry flavoured bullshit.
Oh, and then there was the rain. So much it was like a waterfall streaming down my glasses. So I had to take them off. Needless to say, I was nearly run over…
But all this shit ended on a high note. A bus station full of Santa’s and a weird fluffy chipmunk boy. I needed that lift and I feel much better. I even managed to crack a joke, and I never do that. People who know me will tell you that. “Ah, Alan, not at all funny. Least funny person you could have the misfortune to meet. What a massive tool he is. A joke? You’re joking telling me he made a joke, right?”
I was in a government building having a chat with someone. And it was about my résumé. And on there, I have a warehouse qualification I got from a course I did. Anyway, the person I was chatting to asked me if I would like to do it. And I said, “No.” I was forced to do that course. And she pushed me a bit. “But would you consider it? Did you enjoy it? Did it go well?” And I said, “No, I kept crashing the trolley.” And she laughed! Dagnabbit, she laughed! I made a woman laugh! And it only took 25 years! Yippee.
As if my week that started so terribly and ended so well couldn’t get any better, I discovered something rather wonderful on my town’s highstreet. They have erected a small temporary wooden building that sells genuine German sausages! Now, I don’t like Germany – I still haven’t forgiven them for the war – but their sausages – oh, my, God. They’re better than sex. I’d imagine…
So there I was, huge grin on my face. Eagerly fishing around my jacket for the £3.50 for a genuine bratwurst hunk of meat, two inches thick, six inches long, cooked on a grill in front of my eyes, the smell like – ooh, like the most heavenly thing imaginable – drool worthy. I wanted to lick it so much. And I was getting closer and closer. I was shaking with excitement. And I found my money. And I started to count it and – OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE! I ONLY HAVE TWO POUNDS! TWO! DAMN YOU FATE, YOU CRUEL WENCH!
I tell you what, people don’t half stare when you start crying in the middle of a highstreet…
Scottish philosopher, satirical writer, essayist, historian and teacher, Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881), once said: “I’ve got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.”
Peace Out :|:
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