Started new job and am now more fucked off than ever that I can't ever go back to my old one which wasn't that bad in comparison to being: a) new b) poor and c) utterly unable to type.

 

So that's that then.  thought I might have been getting a little less bitter, but now I'm fucked off that I had to change jobs. Fucked off like very majorly. 'Specially when I was actually decent at said job and others are fucking SHITE.

 

But new job generally not going to kill me and an excellent oppurtunity to continue my way through the whole of Newcastle being "different".

 

Had this conversation with The Mam the other day when we went to the closing night of the Tyneside Cinema (it's getting a makeover. Expect plexi-glass extensions and even more be-haircutted twats going "yeah, we'll really miss it" when all they ever did was ghost around Mezzo like anorexic LOTR extras and occasionally see something three months after its realease there in order to avoid being stabbed by charvers at the multiplex...). What really boils my broccoli is the way that every fucker's going on as if it's been razed to the ground, when it's only shut till 2008, and has temporarily moved to Gateshead for the time being. Heaven forbid a jaunt 'cross the river into the Deliverence-like haven of Gateshead for the two-tone hair uni brigade. FUCKERS!!!!!!!!!!

 

I'm angry tonight. Really angry.

 

Anyway, I was saying... Some arse turned up to this party wearing a knitted jumper with a horse pattern, much like the ones I used to wear on Budle Bay when I was 6. It was a party, so hot, and this ugly streak of pretension was wearin this hairy awld gansey all sodding night. The Mam found it hilarious, whilst I, in my usual balanced, reasonable fashion made an extra special effort to stare witheringly. As the wine went down, the stare became more threatening.... Until I realised that I was drunk, doing a wizened pirate face, and had bought almost exactly the same jumper from Keswick when I was at uni and insisted on wearing it to lectures despite my housemates shame and protestations.

I maintain, however, with some indignation, that I never ever wore it to go clubbing, and that therefore Horse Jumper Bloke = cock. Xine = ironic fashion-setter. 

 

My parents bought me my Christmas pressie tonight, because my toe actually began poking through my work shoes whilst we were having coffee after work. I got a really nice pair of boots (fat-leg, natch, because I do not go about on spindles and can kick a council door in.), but I realise that they are Sensible(TM), Nice(TM) and For Work(TM). Fucksticks. I've joined normality. Still, they also have heel enough to make me 6', and I can therefore easily gauge the suitability of any man I stand next to. Oh, and they will support my legs when it all goes horribly wrong, said man drives me to a nervous breakdown and makes me leave my job, and I have to kick their cheating face in. So hurrahs all round for my Xmas anti-cock boots.

 

I'm off. There's a puppy I need to kick, a kitten I need to drown, and a starving orphan I need to eat a Greggs pasty in front of. I'm sorry I'm in a mood, I'll be better soon.

 

Potentially when I stop having the shittiest year of my life.

 

Er, love to all. I really am sorry, but hey, I can't always smile: I don't want crow's feet. Think of this as the best anti-ageing system since Elizabeth Arden slapped a load of dripping on her face ran down a wind tunnel.

 

Laters.

xx

I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve been procrastinating ever since we got back from Rome; which has been a pleasant if pointless exercise. In honesty, I needed more of a rest when I got back than I had when I went. We walked everywhere – only taking public transport to get to the Vatican which is a little way from the city centre. After we got there and had a look round (a look round in Rome which took in the Colusseum, the forum, the Vittorio Emmanuel II: not bad for a quick traipse round the area in which we were staying), I had already developed a giant blister on the sole of my foot. I’d packed a pair of trainers (with a hole in the bottom) and some ballet shoe things, and in the 33°c heat they weren’t suitable. Darren, in his “man-flops” had been the victim of our jibes on the plane, but he was looking pretty smug sooner than I would have liked.

The hostel was clean and friendly, and we met some very lovely people with whom we drank Peroni each night. Darren, being a barista and manager of two of the best coffee / cocktail bars in Newcastle was on a bit of a busman’s holiday, but I was more than happy to stop off for at least three café lattes each day, and he introduced me to Montenegro which I like to imagine the taste of when I’m wrapped up in a duvet at night with no heating.

We also saw everything we should have: The Vatican Museum and Basillica (too crowded – how can you appreciate the Sistine Chapel with forty fat American kids complaining that they’re bored in your ear?), Pantheon (amazing), Trevi Fountain (which we always seemed to end up at until we needed to be there to meet Emma’s aunty and uncle for a meal, and which we sat resignedly in front of when the walking got too much and ate amazing pizza), The Mouth of Truth (which I was wetting my pants over touching – not because I’m a liar, but because I was absolutely expecting someone to be on the other side and grab my hand), Maria Maggiore (right next to the hostel and a good intro to Roman excess. It was the first basilica we went to and my eyes nearly fell out of my head), Piaza del Popolo (not as good as I’d hoped), The Spanish Steps (crap), Piazza Navona (with my usual sense of timing their was a pensioner’s march and it was all scaffolded), and all the stuff mentioned before. But the best part was just wandering around, taking in the (prepare for sadness…) architecture and culture. Oh, and I have been miraculously cured of my obsession with religious tat. Even I couldn’t decide what to get. If I sound like I'm being negative, I'm not. Just loved all the stuff in between the tourist stuff best.

Anyway, I’m sticking the pics up, the third member of our party who crops up is my mate Marty Cohen. I do wish he’d smile on photos a bit more.

 

My only other news is that t’other night I went to see the WWE Raw Survivor Series Tour at the arena with Gillian and her son Nicholas. Thank God for Nicholas, I say. Otherwise I might have looked a prick with my cardboard H which went with their two to spell HHH. I might not have gotten away with screaming when DX came out, either.

Anyway, I loved it, and enjoyed the excuse to be silly for a night. I’ve got no money at all at the moment, but it’s a good thing when you could be tempted to buy T-shirts saying “eat spit”.

And I would be, you know.

 

Also had a painful night out last week which ended up in Mood – date rape drug Mecca of Newcastle. I’m fucking sick of students, to be honest. I know that I was one not so long ago, but that was in Wakefield, and we never had the “trendy” attitude that the haircut brigade in Newc seem to have. I mean, they even think they’re cool when they’re dancing to the frigging Grease Megamix in The Gate. The Gate, for anyone who lives elsewhere is a “leisure complex” which is sort of like a plastic, noisy, indoor bar street with several “luxebars” pretending to be either a Morroccan bivouac, a New York Piano bar, or a set from Noel’s House Party. The fluorescent lighting exposes designer air-conditioning vents and your eyes are constantly assaulted by brushed aluminium and neon. Fill the place with men in dress-shirts (two for a tenner from Matalan), heaving behemoths in boob-tubes, and students with asymmetric haircuts, and Aunty Christine’s going back to fetch her hammer and trenchcoat. And Diet Bacardi Breezers? Don’t even get me fucking started.

 

Still, nice to be out once in a while, isn’t it?

 

The Book is meant to be out next week, which should be interesting. I have my contract and a barrister on standby. Still no word to say it isn’t, and Amazon included it in their top ten hot picks last week (I had to Google it to find that out, so nice to be in the loop), which is a good sign. We’ll see. I’m working on a new one as we speak, which will hopefully be good. More on that when I can actually see what it’s going to be.

 

The Mam won tickets for the Northern Lights Film Festival so I’m off there tonight. On Monday we went to a Moomins retrospective, which sounds oh-so-cutesy, but was actually utterly fascinating, despite being packed full of the sorts of people that I try not to stare at when I’m in Mezzo for one of Darren’s super lattes. Bloody artsy-types make my blood boil almost as much as students. But in this case, I think it’s just jealousy because all their friends still live in one town and they haven’t reached the pizza and beer stage of being artistically impoverished. This means they are all rake thin and can therefore attract partners who don’t think that culture is something o be beaten from the door with a stick. You now the sorts, the girls wear purple tights and Peruvian hats to go to the corner shop, and the blokes have NHS specs and man-bags. But then again, if Primark and George sold retard coats I’d look like them too. Although in big print.

 

Not much else to report, really. Just been a bit haddock-mouthed recently for various reasons. If I keep busy I sometimes don’t notice it.

 

Hope all are well.

 

Laters.

xx