Monday, February 04, 2008

Crappy Mondays

Jesus I hate Mondays, those stern, officious humourless days of the week. Mondays are so downright fucking evil that they're quite capable of bleeding into the previous day and ruining your Sunday too. Mondays in Auschwitz must have been unbearable.

They're the vote-rigged, 'My brother runs Florida' George Bushes of the lunar cycle. If days of the week were celebrities, they'd be a totally pointless Peaches Geldof. If they were comedians, Mondays would be Jim Davidson.

Monday is the High Holy Day of The Man, when you pay for your attempted debauched weekend by going back to fucking work with your body clock out of sync because you left some godforsaken overpriced room in Shoreditch and decided to walk back to the West End to catch a nightbus bus home only to pass out unfulfilled at 5am.

I'm fucked off again, in case I've not made that clear, fed up with this useless spinning ball of Arse, where nothing ever happens, or else something happens and it gets flushed down the toilet. It is the world of meeting your friends at the weekend who greet you with 'Look at you, you fat bastard,' repeatedly.

It is a world where you cannot think of anything better to do on your day off than visit a pub and drink heavily because everyone else is, plus it's a party you've been invited to and you should really join in and end up singing 'If I Were A Rich Man' by yourself on karaoke to bemused looks.


This is a planet where you indulge in a little drugtaking at the weekend which only makes you panic the next day when you remember that you've applied for jobs that feature compulsory drug testing.

It's the random, godless universe where you read about rapists winning the lottery, where you cycle to work in a vain attempt to get into shape, only to leave after nine hours to find, in the darkness of the evening, that some weasely, slit eyed little cuntpacket has stolen your lights.

In this world, you're forced back onto fucking Facebook because a job you'd just applied for actually required it, only for half your friends to write 'WHERE'VE YOU BEEN?' all over your profile which may prove to your prospective employer that you'd left a while ago.

It is a world where personal emails pile up and make you feel stressed, where your boss hands you a full pack of cigarettes on the day you vowed to give up forever (again), but you're just too damn weak and pathetic to say no to free fags.

It is a world of cold and wind and rain where you have to wear two shirts, a jumper and a coat, as a tourist saunters past obliviously in a t-shirt and shorts, making you feel like a walking icicle with a circulation problem. It's fucking February, for christssakes.

It's a world ten days away from a cruel global celebration of being Loved and In Love, perfectly designed to make everyone else feel like a useless, smoking, single fat bollock.

A world where I'll never earn enough to buy my own house, where I'm getting older to the point that all my hopes and dreams are beginning to look really fucking ridiculous, and where I may never see my enormous feet again as I can't seem to shift a single fucking pound of excess fat.

In this world, payday is a full and painful bladder, and the working month a steady series of visits to the urinal of life. At the end of it, you've got nothing to show for another 30 days of ageing but a headache and a bad haircut.

Women don't look at you in this world, and you're not sure you want to be looked at anyway.
Your chins hate you.
Paedophiles look at you in disgust.
Trains and buses take off seconds before you approach them.
Customers yell down the phone at you for giving them exactly what they fucking asked for the week before.
You begin to envy gnats.

Fucking hell, I'm in a foul mood.


Hannah said...

Bad day...?

Anonymous said...

I only called you 'a fat bastard' once.

And at least you didn't have a petite asian girl run away from you because you were hollering at the injustice of being on Kingland Road because the fuckin' signposting around Old Street is a pile of wank.

At least you weren't hopelessly and utterly lost.

Z said...

God yes you're right. I'm in a foul mood too now.

Sodding bloody Mondays. Pah.

I need whisky.

Anonymous said...

Um. Okay.


Dandelion said...

I came here via z-erina. I loved the last post, and I love this one too. Another one for Post of the Week, I fancy. Thank you for brightening my little life.

Anonymous said...

ruby mon - go n drown yer bleedin sparrers in a fuggin pub ferfecksake! then review it!

Clarissa said...

I love your passion for the twatiness that is this world. I too had a crap Monday from which I had to run and hide. Back into the bed, pretending to be ill when really I was just kind of sick of it all. I'm trying to muster up the less-than-crap attitude, but it's eluding me. xx, c

Jo said...

I tend to think Tuesdays are a bit of an arse day. Not quite the beginning of the week, not quite the end, not even the middle. Just arsey Tuesday.

(Except this tuesday - pancake day)

fwengebola said...

Hannah ~ Normal day.
Anon, my arse ~ It's a lot easier to keep walking westwards into central Cunt London than it is to wing it home when you're half-cut and only vaguely aware of the directions.
And you called me a fat bastard about four times.
With bile.
Z ~ Now I feel bad. This post was meant to be cathartic, not contageous.
Mar ~ Um, thanks.
Dand ~ Well that's cheered me up a-plenty. Thanks!
Anon ~ Erm, what?
Clar ~ You got to skive? God, I envy that. Remember, we're all in this together.
Jo ~ But at least Tuesdays aren't Mondays. Mondays have Tuesdays after them.
And I forgot it was pancake day. No Jif adverts anymore, that's why.