And so it begins

Eek blimey. Because of the move in January, I’m looking at work and job ads in the area. I wasn’t planning on sorting out any applications and so on for another couple of weeks, but today’s paper contained a couple that looked interesting, so tonight I’m going to be spiffing up the CV and getting it sent off. It’s all beginning to happen…

Crap Towns

Apparently, Luton has come top of a list of crap towns. There’s a flaw in this list (well, there’s several) but the main one is simply this – how come Coventry hasn’t come anywhere in the top ten? Nor Slough?

In order, the top ten is : Luton, Windsor, Sunderland, Glasgow and Edinburgh, Clapham, Bath, Nottingham, Corby, and Middlesbrough.

Chuff only knows how “Glasgow and Edinburgh” got linked together, and Bath’s not THAT bad (well, in comparison to such dungholes as Coventry, Bedford, Bradford, Leeds, and Slough, anyway) so really I suspect that this list is just an utter sack of shit.

Arse

Not content with simply being left in a miasma of smells today, I’ve also been an utter, utter twadge, and left my phone in Reading. It now has to be entrusted to Royal Snail.

Arses.

Vomitarium

Today’s travelling has taught me one thing, and one thing only. That lesson is this :

Train air-conditioning does not get rid of the smell of vomit.

The snot-grobbling little squealing hellspawn barfed at Banbury. Then didn’t get off the fucking train ’til Manchester. Two and a half hours of the most vile smells, accompanied by additional retches from people who got whiffs of the chunk-blowing exorcist-reject barfbin’s produce. God knows how his parents stood it – I assume they’re used to it as the incompetent frunts didn’t even take him to the toilets to hose him off.

It was actually a joy to get off the train in Manchester’s rain-clean atmosphere. Of course, the smelly bastard on the bus didn’t help – but even he smelled fresher than vom-boy.

Travelation

Well, sod it, I’m travelling back tomorrow morning. It’s been a good weekend, and I don’t really want my mood altering by Virgin tonight. So I’ll do it all tomorrow, and go into work in a shitty mood instead. Sounds like a plan to me.

If I’m feeling really brave, I may even include a photo of the bruise on my leg incurred while wedged under a table on Friday’s journey. It’s not a sight for the squeamish, let me tell you.

Penetrating

via Gert comes one of the funniest (in a kind of sad and pathetic way) pieces in a while. The Sun’s Dear Deirdre answering some questions about sex. If people keep on asking, for example, “How can I stop losing my erection?” truly should be answered with “Keep it tied to you with reins, and be more careful with where you leave it next time.” As well as being a lousy trainer, I’d make a shockingly bad agony aunt/uncle, although going for the Denis Leary “Shut the fuck up” method from “No Cure for Cancer” would probably be may main oeuvre.

Moving Swiftly

Back in June you may recall I mentioned about my workplace going through a restructuring where Stinky was convinced he’d be fine for his own job and no-one else would want it.

So I stuck in an application for the job. I don’t want it, but well, I’ve never dealt well with other people’s complacency.

I’ve got an interview for it. On Thursday. It’s taken them four bloody months to get round to it. The wheels of local government don’t so much move as drag…