I was just guessing at numbers and figures,
Pulling your puzzles apart,
Questions of science; science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart ..
Kellie needs something to read again.
The frequency with which she seems to read this blog also suggests she may need a hobby of some kind.
My ongoing war with the job centre continued this morning. Signing on was a fairly depressing affair anyway, but the amount of faff you have to go through in order to get anywhere makes you want to die, and even that probably wouldn't speed the process up for anyone else.
I'm currently in the process of proving I'm not an immigrant or a refugee; it seems that even though they have a copy of my passport and every other document relating to my person worth looking at, I might still be an imposter. The reason for this is my year in Germany. On their records, it basically says "entered UK June 2011", without mentioning the previous 20 years I lived here.
After being born here.
So I spent an hour today with a nice Indian lady telling her all about the year and what it was for and hopefully the whole thing'll get sorted within a couple of weeks. The year abroad thing also seemed to grant me some magical queue-hopping tactic at the Jobcentre; I was there 9am this morning alongside 40 or so others who I'd gone through a big mob crush with when the doors opened. And we were all milling about waiting for our turn when a lady comes out and shouts "Is there a Max Martin here?"
And I tipped my hat to the fat girls with at least two babies each and the Asian guys with caps and very low trousers and sauntered off for my queue-jumping appointment.
On some levels, the Jobcentre is one of the best place for people watching, simply for the variety of people and the litany of complete nutjobs. There's always a guy effing and blinding about how long he's had to wait and some black guys who do that whole secret handshake thing when they see each other. Ain't nuthin' but a G thang baby.
Anyway, here are the best ones.
The first time I went in, I learnt too much about a guy in the toilet. It's not what you're thinking, like "He has quite a lot of grey pubes for a young looking guy" or "He must have eaten sweetcorn in the last 24 hours".
No, I went in for a tactical wee before my interview, and was just going to wash my hands. The guy was already at the sink, in a tracksuit with that army haircut, short on top and shaved at the sides. Looking back, I never actually saw exactly what he was doing but he was either about to do something with his hair or he was setting up shop to shave. It's weird, but whatever. I give him a generic "Y'alright?".
"Ohh man, just got back from holiday" he says.
Fuck. It's the late-night university computer room experience all over again.
So I said "Oh, right, good stuff". But I didn't say it like "Oh, right, good stuff. Tell me where you went and how it was". It was fairly uninterested, more in the vein of 'I've just nipped for a wee in the Jobcentre, leave me be'.
"Yeah man, went to Spain. It was great, but that fuckin' weather. Just fucked shit up."
Crikey. This is a profanity-filled first encounter. It usually takes me half an hour or so before I'm comfortable cursing in front of someone. Less for him apparently.
So I say "Oh, yeah". This time it was more of a 'I know nothing about the weather in Spain but I'm aware they have it, and it sounds like it wasn't great'.
"Yeah, fuckin' shit. And the fuckin' plane home as well, man. I thought me mum was gonna fuckin' shit her-sen. It was like 'Burrrrrrrrrrrrr'" He gestures with his hand to indicate turbulence.
This was pretty much our whole conversation, but it lasted too long. I really hope our appointments don't cross over again or I feel like we might have to have another conversation and hear about his mum shitting herself. His company was only really enjoyable retrospectively.
The gold medal winner however was last week. I was sitting waiting on one of the sofas when I notice a guy standing near the queue by the front desk. He seems to have a bit of a wobble on, like he was drunk. He'd soon confirm this for us. The lady at the desk calls out "Sir? Can I help you?" The G4S security staff have also clocked him at this point. The guy slurs that he doesn't need help. Then the woman says something like "Well, are you here to register or just to sign?"
"I'm here to register" says the guy, stumbling over.
He slurs "I just want you to know I have to get the bus to Bradford at quarter past eleven and I have 4 more Carlsberg tinnies with me. Ha, they'll probably be all gone in half an hour."
Uncomfortable laughs from desk ladies, security guys shift about. Did I mention it was about half past 9 in the morning?
He mumbles something about applying over the phone. The lady asks "Do you have a reference number?". He says he doesn't think so. A guy behind the desk says he should have got one when he applied.
"Hang on a minute. I think I do" he says. He bangs his hand open on the desk and starts reading from his palm. He has his reference number written there. He recites aloud to the desk people. He must have been a military guy or maybe a truck driver, because he starts saying "Tango, Oscar, Two-Niner". And then my favourite bit: he gets to the last letter, looks the desk lady directly in the face and dramatically says "Foxtrot". Then he repeated it a few times for good measure.
They're the two best ones. I'll keep you in the loop, though not for a week or so (take note Kel) because I'm going to Norfolk for a quaint family holiday on Saturday. I'll take pictures for you.
Before I go though, my last whisper of self respect and what I assume is middle-class paranoia feels the need to point out that my going on the dole doesn't signify a life of idle sponging or an abandonment of hope and prospects. It's mainly because of the rumours that I might be able to get the funding for a CELTA course, similar to a TEFL. They're £1100 for 4 weeks, so getting that for free from the Jobcentre would be pretty sweet.
Anyway, here are the best ones.
The first time I went in, I learnt too much about a guy in the toilet. It's not what you're thinking, like "He has quite a lot of grey pubes for a young looking guy" or "He must have eaten sweetcorn in the last 24 hours".
No, I went in for a tactical wee before my interview, and was just going to wash my hands. The guy was already at the sink, in a tracksuit with that army haircut, short on top and shaved at the sides. Looking back, I never actually saw exactly what he was doing but he was either about to do something with his hair or he was setting up shop to shave. It's weird, but whatever. I give him a generic "Y'alright?".
"Ohh man, just got back from holiday" he says.
Fuck. It's the late-night university computer room experience all over again.
So I said "Oh, right, good stuff". But I didn't say it like "Oh, right, good stuff. Tell me where you went and how it was". It was fairly uninterested, more in the vein of 'I've just nipped for a wee in the Jobcentre, leave me be'.
"Yeah man, went to Spain. It was great, but that fuckin' weather. Just fucked shit up."
Crikey. This is a profanity-filled first encounter. It usually takes me half an hour or so before I'm comfortable cursing in front of someone. Less for him apparently.
So I say "Oh, yeah". This time it was more of a 'I know nothing about the weather in Spain but I'm aware they have it, and it sounds like it wasn't great'.
"Yeah, fuckin' shit. And the fuckin' plane home as well, man. I thought me mum was gonna fuckin' shit her-sen. It was like 'Burrrrrrrrrrrrr'" He gestures with his hand to indicate turbulence.
This was pretty much our whole conversation, but it lasted too long. I really hope our appointments don't cross over again or I feel like we might have to have another conversation and hear about his mum shitting herself. His company was only really enjoyable retrospectively.
The gold medal winner however was last week. I was sitting waiting on one of the sofas when I notice a guy standing near the queue by the front desk. He seems to have a bit of a wobble on, like he was drunk. He'd soon confirm this for us. The lady at the desk calls out "Sir? Can I help you?" The G4S security staff have also clocked him at this point. The guy slurs that he doesn't need help. Then the woman says something like "Well, are you here to register or just to sign?"
"I'm here to register" says the guy, stumbling over.
He slurs "I just want you to know I have to get the bus to Bradford at quarter past eleven and I have 4 more Carlsberg tinnies with me. Ha, they'll probably be all gone in half an hour."
Uncomfortable laughs from desk ladies, security guys shift about. Did I mention it was about half past 9 in the morning?
He mumbles something about applying over the phone. The lady asks "Do you have a reference number?". He says he doesn't think so. A guy behind the desk says he should have got one when he applied.
"Hang on a minute. I think I do" he says. He bangs his hand open on the desk and starts reading from his palm. He has his reference number written there. He recites aloud to the desk people. He must have been a military guy or maybe a truck driver, because he starts saying "Tango, Oscar, Two-Niner". And then my favourite bit: he gets to the last letter, looks the desk lady directly in the face and dramatically says "Foxtrot". Then he repeated it a few times for good measure.
They're the two best ones. I'll keep you in the loop, though not for a week or so (take note Kel) because I'm going to Norfolk for a quaint family holiday on Saturday. I'll take pictures for you.
Before I go though, my last whisper of self respect and what I assume is middle-class paranoia feels the need to point out that my going on the dole doesn't signify a life of idle sponging or an abandonment of hope and prospects. It's mainly because of the rumours that I might be able to get the funding for a CELTA course, similar to a TEFL. They're £1100 for 4 weeks, so getting that for free from the Jobcentre would be pretty sweet.
Max Martin: Bourgeois parasite.
