Tuesday, September 07, 2010

Otherwise Engaged

I hate engagements. Not of the betrothal kind although they’re bad enough, but of stuff, the kind of things that hijack your lonely evenings in front of the TV with a family bag of Doritos and enough crack to kill Samuel L Jackson’s character in Jungle Fever, or the kind of do that cancels out your hard earned weekends with their early Saturday starts that lead to Sunday-obliterating hangovers.

And I’ve had a lot of them, these stuffs, with their engagements to attend and politeness to feign, and as a result my private life, and my living quarters, look like shit.

I’ve clean clothes hanging wrinked in the kitchen for a week now. Pots and pans are stacked reeking and unwashed. There’s a month’s paperwork of bills, statements and assorted crap to file or forget on the living room table. My computer desk has dozens of scrappy notes with songs to steal download, or amazing bits of dialogue to add to the World’s Shittest Novel I first started sixteen billion years ago, a novel that I intended to restart about two months ago but haven’t quite got round to it just yet .

My diet is also in stasis, stalled as if trying to compete with the rest of my fucking life for most atrophying noun, ready to return one day but not quite. The stats are as follows; from a fat 16 stone (224lbs in old money), to a sturdy 14st 10lbs (206). I am doing my best not to go back to those ‘Old Ways’, but neither am I currently losing any further weight.

But the real backbreaker is work. My boss recently took a two-week holiday, leaving me in charge. Regrettably, he absent-mindedly allowed our driver to disappear for a week at exactly the same time, meaning I was doing three people’s jobs at once. And to frustrate things even more, said driver is – what’s the word? – a cunt, viz: when we gratefully expected him back to work on Monday so he could go back to driving our transit van around London instead, leaving me to return to my desk to crack the paperwork mountain that had now formed, I was thrilled to note he didn’t bother coming in, his phone was off, and he wasn’t replying to any texts.

Repeat: Tuesday.

And when our driver did saunter in on Wednesday morning, he rambled incoherently about non-specific “delays” for about 30 seconds before quickly changing the subject.

Come Friday, as I sat through the weeks deliveries, I asked him (fairly, I thought) why he hadn’t collected certain items, or made certain drops, and returned every single night exactly 5 minutes to clocking off whilst I’d spent nearly a week and a half doing his job and finishing everything by 2? For some reason he didn’t like this - really didn’t like this - and I’d got a tirade of eye-bulging red-mist abuse in return, and several dozen ‘Go fuck yourself’s during which he pointedly refused to let me state my case before storming out.

I’m now trying to get him sacked - so needless to say, I’ve had other things on my mind lately.
On the plus side, this Saturday is an engagement I’m looking forward to. One of my favourite stand-ups, Doug Stanhope, is playing in London, and I’d got FRONT ROW SEATS, bang in the middle. I’ll be quite literally within spitting distance of the fucker.

But, oh yeah, three months after I bought my ticket, a friend told me he was getting married that same day. I had to tell him that I was terribly sorry but unfortunately I had a prior engagement.

For some reason, he didn’t accept “But I’m going to a comedy gig!” as reasonable grounds for absence.

So I’ve been forced to sell my ticket.

Call me spiteful, but I really hope Stanhope’s shit.