Hog on the Run
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Minor Humiliations
A daily occurrence. Most recently:
* I made a letter template for customer letters including the phrase, "If any further assistance is required, please me on the extension number below". The real problem? No-one did.
* Having cloth ears, I have difficulty with names. I recently put a call through confidently proclaiming the caller to be "Dave Imstadt". His name was Fred Mutch.
In the past:
* The gym our school used had a fitness room where all the blokes hung out, rather than playing squash or whatever. Myself and a "friend" decided to penetrate (eh?) this bastion of masculinity in the hope of attracting them to our staggering and fabulous girlness. Climbing aboard the Torturomatic (tm) running machine, I strode out, waiting for awareness of my presence to permeate the room. I was young, I was nervous, I was sure that boy from my French class was watching me. I smiled tentatively, absolutely convinced of having staked my claim, sure I could now use the gym every week. Great! I belonged! Then my "friend" reset the belt speed from "leisurely stroll" to "minute mile coronary certainty" and I shot backwards like a greased pig from a slingshot and rebounded from the wall. Never been to a gym since.
* Getting fiendishly drunk seemed to be the only way to survive the coming of the millennium, trapped as I was in the third tackiest night club in the world. "Neebleys" or whatever the hell it's called is situated within easy perpetrating distance of the Police Station, but approximately 400 light years from anywhere you'd ever want to be. It still has those streamers of silver paper (think circa 1985 Top of the Pops) strung round the dancefloor, and every inch of the place is painted black. The walls sweat on busy nights. Into the home straight now, Sidekick takes me to a friend's house for the bells. If I'd known, I'd never have had that last vodka and redbull, but a game of Trivial Pursuit was proposed.
Which brought out my vicious competetive streak.
By 2am I am yanking the box of questions from the grasp of somebody's mother yelling "You don't fucking know anything, don't answer any more questions! You fuck!". Don't drink. It can make you the source of pure parental horror. Oh, the humanity.
There's more, I'm sure of it, but I have blanked the memories. If I wake screaming in the night when they come rushing back, I'll probably add them in an effort to exorcise the demons.
:: gibbered Okapi, at 8:14 pm
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Thursday, January 13, 2005
Minor Humiliations
A daily occurrence. Most recently:
* I made a letter template for customer letters including the phrase, "If any further assistance is required, please me on the extension number below". The real problem? No-one did.
* Having cloth ears, I have difficulty with names. I recently put a call through confidently proclaiming the caller to be "Dave Imstadt". His name was Fred Mutch.
In the past:
* The gym our school used had a fitness room where all the blokes hung out, rather than playing squash or whatever. Myself and a "friend" decided to penetrate (eh?) this bastion of masculinity in the hope of attracting them to our staggering and fabulous girlness. Climbing aboard the Torturomatic (tm) running machine, I strode out, waiting for awareness of my presence to permeate the room. I was young, I was nervous, I was sure that boy from my French class was watching me. I smiled tentatively, absolutely convinced of having staked my claim, sure I could now use the gym every week. Great! I belonged! Then my "friend" reset the belt speed from "leisurely stroll" to "minute mile coronary certainty" and I shot backwards like a greased pig from a slingshot and rebounded from the wall. Never been to a gym since.
* Getting fiendishly drunk seemed to be the only way to survive the coming of the millennium, trapped as I was in the third tackiest night club in the world. "Neebleys" or whatever the hell it's called is situated within easy perpetrating distance of the Police Station, but approximately 400 light years from anywhere you'd ever want to be. It still has those streamers of silver paper (think circa 1985 Top of the Pops) strung round the dancefloor, and every inch of the place is painted black. The walls sweat on busy nights. Into the home straight now, Sidekick takes me to a friend's house for the bells. If I'd known, I'd never have had that last vodka and redbull, but a game of Trivial Pursuit was proposed.
Which brought out my vicious competetive streak.
By 2am I am yanking the box of questions from the grasp of somebody's mother yelling "You don't fucking know anything, don't answer any more questions! You fuck!". Don't drink. It can make you the source of pure parental horror. Oh, the humanity.
There's more, I'm sure of it, but I have blanked the memories. If I wake screaming in the night when they come rushing back, I'll probably add them in an effort to exorcise the demons.
* I made a letter template for customer letters including the phrase, "If any further assistance is required, please me on the extension number below". The real problem? No-one did.
* Having cloth ears, I have difficulty with names. I recently put a call through confidently proclaiming the caller to be "Dave Imstadt". His name was Fred Mutch.
In the past:
* The gym our school used had a fitness room where all the blokes hung out, rather than playing squash or whatever. Myself and a "friend" decided to penetrate (eh?) this bastion of masculinity in the hope of attracting them to our staggering and fabulous girlness. Climbing aboard the Torturomatic (tm) running machine, I strode out, waiting for awareness of my presence to permeate the room. I was young, I was nervous, I was sure that boy from my French class was watching me. I smiled tentatively, absolutely convinced of having staked my claim, sure I could now use the gym every week. Great! I belonged! Then my "friend" reset the belt speed from "leisurely stroll" to "minute mile coronary certainty" and I shot backwards like a greased pig from a slingshot and rebounded from the wall. Never been to a gym since.
* Getting fiendishly drunk seemed to be the only way to survive the coming of the millennium, trapped as I was in the third tackiest night club in the world. "Neebleys" or whatever the hell it's called is situated within easy perpetrating distance of the Police Station, but approximately 400 light years from anywhere you'd ever want to be. It still has those streamers of silver paper (think circa 1985 Top of the Pops) strung round the dancefloor, and every inch of the place is painted black. The walls sweat on busy nights. Into the home straight now, Sidekick takes me to a friend's house for the bells. If I'd known, I'd never have had that last vodka and redbull, but a game of Trivial Pursuit was proposed.
Which brought out my vicious competetive streak.
By 2am I am yanking the box of questions from the grasp of somebody's mother yelling "You don't fucking know anything, don't answer any more questions! You fuck!". Don't drink. It can make you the source of pure parental horror. Oh, the humanity.
There's more, I'm sure of it, but I have blanked the memories. If I wake screaming in the night when they come rushing back, I'll probably add them in an effort to exorcise the demons.
:: gibbered Okapi, at 8:14 pm
