There is nothing like being sat at home on a Saturday night watching a Channel Four list show about celebrity drunks to make one feel like one is missing out on something. Still the chaos in my head out does anything that shower of pampered coke addled ninnies ever managed. Mind you when I used to go out of a weekend I always felt as if I were in the wrong place. On one of the few occasions I felt I was in the right place I was dragged home by a responsible friend (total bore).
Imagine young Clairwil just eighteen years old, goggle eyed in amazement as all these aspiring models, a nightclub owner and assorted toff wasters started fucking each other in full view of the other guests. I need hardly say it was the best bloody party I'd been at since my school days or it nearly was. Just as I was about to slip my drawers into my handbag for later I was strong-armed out the door and given a stern lecture about being 'taken in by weirdos'. As if that wasn't bad enough, just as I was saved from a life of vice I'd been talking to a colourful young lady who was showing me the rash she's acquired having sex doggy style in a nettle patch. These are my sort of people, I've always wanted to be corrupted.
Back to more mundane matters. I have long been angered by the excesses of management. Ever since being forced to take a job as a checkout girl for a brief period in my teenage years I've known that 90% of people in authority are insufferable morons. You'd think the checkout is easy and it would be if it were possible to get on with the task at hand without clowns trying to 'manage' or worse 'supervise' you. During my six week supermarket career I got into trouble for 'being enigmatic', failing to 'build relationships' with the customers, not apprehending the manager as he walked out the shop with four jars of coffee, selling sugar and butter to 'pakis' and giving away a free carrier bag. Little in my subsequent life of toil has increased my respect for authority.
This is a new low. What fresh madness has got the Clairwil goat, I hear you ask. It is the wheeze dreamt up at a cost of £7 million to make the civil service more efficient. Sadly the plan does not involve bullets or redundancy notices but black tape. It should be unbelievable but it isn't. The government have blown £7 million pounds on a gaggle of consultants to come up with the truly terrible idea of putting strips of black tape on civil servants desks to tell them where to put their pens and suchlike. Until now I believed that it was impossible to overestimate the stupidity of the civil service but I stand corrected. Even I, their harshest critic trust them to arrange their desks.
One could wail and gnash at the loss of £7million and what it could have bought but that would be dull. Instead let us ponder the concept of 'active' and 'inactive' fruit. Having given the matter some thought I'm no further forward. If one intends to eat a melon for example in the next two minutes, does that make it active? What if you want to eat it in half an hour? Does that make it an inactive melon? What are the timescales and more to the point is some Nazi being paid to monitor this?
How in the name of Christ did I end up living in a world where such questions are possible?