It is 7:50am, and I'm standing on a cold platform (serious question - why are railway stations ALWAYS cold?). I've been doing this for two weeks. The train I'm about to board is heading to Wolverhampton, where I now work, so every weekday morning my alarm goes off at 6:30am and I wake up bleary eyed and wondering just what the fuck I'm doing up at this time and whether I could go back to bed for a few more hours and tell my boss that all the trains were massively delayed or something.
Having now become a dab hand at this "commuting" lark, I know I won't get a seat, so I decide to not bother trying and instead take the next best option - to lean on the nice cushioned thingy just by the doors where a commuter can leave his/her bike. Meh, it'll do. I pull my phone out of my pocket, and fire off a quick "good morning!" message via Facebook to my girlfriend whilst I'm in an area where my 3G works, and then I put it back in my pocket. Gaming apps don't really appeal at 8am.
(This will get more interesting very soon, I promise. I'm just setting the scene, OK?)
I decide to survey the people around me. There's a few, and they're all the same - they all look really bored, they all are wearing business suits, they're all holding cups of coffee....apart from one man. He's...well, fascinating. He's an elderly man - I'd place him roughly about 60 - and he has white hair and glasses. He is wearing a long tan coat, and he's carrying a battered old blue suitcase. He is fascinating me because he simply cannot stand still.
He paces up and down. He goes into the toilet, then exits 30 seconds later. He puts his suitcase down. He picks it up. He walks into a carriage, then walks back out again. He walks past me, and I realise he smells a bit. He holds the rail that I'm holding, then he lets go of it. He seems...troubled. He isn't talking to himself, or making strange noises, or anything that suggests serious mental illness. He's just...behaving a little oddly. "Maybe he's anxious about being on/having to stand on a train, and he's just fidgety" I think.
It is 8:05am. We're just outside Wolverhampton when the ticket conductor walks into our little area. I've bought a monthly season ticket, so I'm OK, but our friend in the tan coat isn't. Putting down his little suitcase, he admits to the conductor that he doesn't have a ticket...
"I have no means of paying" he begins. "My wallet was stolen, and it's been handed in at Wolverhampton police station. That's where I'm going."
"Sir you shouldn't have boarded the train. Why did you not speak to someone at the ticket office? Why didn't you come and find me?"
"I'm very sorry, it's very unfortunate..."
And this conversation carries on for about another 30 seconds. I'm trying not to listen, but when it's happening right in front of you it's difficult not to, isn't it? The chat ends with the conductor moving on through the train, and the man picking up his suitcase and waiting to get off the train at Wolverhampton, presumably to walk straight to the police station.
It is 8:10am.
My routine is pretty set in the mornings. I'll get off the train, pausing only to pick up a Metro paper from the concourse, before striding out of the station and to my place of work. It takes me about 10 minutes, and once I'm in I'll make myself a cup of tea, and then sit down at my desk to have a browse of the paper. My colleagues don't tend to arrive until sometime between 8:45am-9am, so I have a little time on my own. I quite like that.
Not this morning, however. Because this morning I'm too intrigued by our friend in the tan coat, and I can't shake off the feeling that he's lying. If your wallet was stolen, and handed in at a police station, would you take a suitcase with you when you go to fetch it? Wouldn't you hitch a lift, or sort out a train ticket somehow beforehand? No, there was something "Dodgepot McDougal" about this man - this elderly man, with white hair and glasses. He looked like a typical grandfather, not a criminal. I'm being stupid. This man isn't a liar.
I need to get to work.
But I don't, do I? Not yet, anyway. I'll be sitting in the office on my own for about 30 minutes, if I head straight to the office, so why don't I follow this story to a conclusion? Is this man a model citizen, or is he a big, fat liar?
(See, I told you it would get interesting)
We're now off the train. He walks slowly out of Wolverhampton station. Turning the collar of my coat up and fancying myself as the next Dick Tracy, I follow him, about 20 paces behind. "God I'm good", I think to myself, before about 3 seconds later he stops and pulls a cigarette out of a packet in his coat pocket. Shit. I stop, then decide a change of tactic. I walk past him, and begin making my way up the path towards the bus station. At a convenient point I stop, pull my phone out, pretend to text someone and look back towards the train station. I can see him, puffing away on his fag. I hate cigarettes, so I instantly change my opinion of him to "fare dodging, criminal bastard". Funny how we think stuff like that, isn't it?
A few minutes pass. He walks past me, and I give him 20 paces before sloping off after him, putting my phone back in my pocket. God, this is amazing. I'm a real life spy! I begin to imagine the screenplay. I see a sexually frustrated blonde wife, a complete brat of a child, and a really fit mistress who I have sex with in an apartment whenever I want to. It'd be awesome. I'm too busy thinking about this when I realise that he's stopped yet again. I let out a little sigh. This "following" lark is proving to be a little harder than I anticipated.
It is 8:15am.
What do I do? I pull out my phone again, but this time I actually do send a text. I message my friend Dan, who is undoubtedly still asleep but what the hell, I'm not really after a response:
"8:15am and I'm following an old man through the streets of Wolverhampton. No time to explain!"
And indeed there isn't, because he's off once again. He's walking down towards where the metro stops - walking away from my place of work, by the way - when suddenly I realise, to my absolute horror, that I don't actually know where the police station in Wolverhampton is. If I could find that out, it'd help. Out comes the phone again. I Google "Wolverhampton police station" and I'm greeted with a postcode of WV1 3AA. Splendid. I open up Google Maps, and, keeping an eye on our friend, I quickly type it in and ask it to go hunting for me. Seconds later, the app tells me where the police station is, and where we are in relation to it.
We're about 30 seconds away, and he's walking in the right direction.
How fucking stupid am I? I let out a little laugh - laughing at my own stupidity - before I stopped and turned round to walk to work.
But....not just yet. It was OK. I could keep on following him round the corner, and then when he went into the police station, I'd just continue walking straight on and up to the high street, and then just follow that all the way back to my place of work. I'd be in the office for 8:30am, it was OK. Another two minutes.
He walks past the police station.
And he keeps on walking. He crosses the road, crosses over the tram tracks, and walks down the road. He is now actively walking away from the police station. What do I do? "I've come this far" I think to myself, so I too cross over the road. Fuck it. I'm in the office every single day about 30 minutes earlier than I should be. I'm allowed to be a few minutes late just once.
I'm worried, though. I'm worried because I'm now walking into a part of Wolverhampton that I simply don't know, nor do I know where the frig our little fare dodger is going, and how long it'll take him. Thankfully, my fears are swiftly allayed. He turns left, and disappears out of my view. I follow about 15 paces behind, and, turning the corner myself, I'm greeted by the entrance to a Sainsbury's. Looking like any other kind, gentle and honest OAP in the world, he picks up a basket and serenely makes his way into the store, presumably to do his shopping.
Sneaky bastard.
Sunday, 24 March 2013
Thursday, 7 February 2013
Round The Wrekin
I'm overweight.
That's official, by the way. If you go by the BMI Calculator (which has its critics but for simplicity's sake let's run with it) I have a BMI of 27.4, as I'm exactly 6ft and I currently weigh between 14-15 stone (I'm 202 pounds, to be precise).
The BMI Categories are as such:
That's official, by the way. If you go by the BMI Calculator (which has its critics but for simplicity's sake let's run with it) I have a BMI of 27.4, as I'm exactly 6ft and I currently weigh between 14-15 stone (I'm 202 pounds, to be precise).
The BMI Categories are as such:
- Normal weight = 18.5 to 24.9
- Overweight = 25 to 29.9
- Obese = 30 or more
So a calculation of 27.4 means I'm smack bang in the middle between "normal" weight and obesity.
I don't feel obese. I've seen obese people - they waddle down the street, stuffing their faces with pasties they've bought from Greggs, their disgusting bellies protruding out underneath their tops - and I don't think I'm one of them. I do know that I'm overweight, however. I could really do with shedding a few pounds. Christmas has been a big factor in this regard, as it always is. Pre-Xmas I was down to 14 stone exactly, the leanest I've been for a long time. I stopped drinking Coke at home, I stopped drinking alcohol entirely, I was cutting down on stupid foods quite successfully, I was doing a lot of walking. Then Christmas arrived, then the snow arrived, then the comfort eating arrived, and now I'm back up to 14 stone 6.
So what do I do about this? A quick glance at Twitter and Facebook alerted me to a thing called "Insanity". I pondered it, for roughly 0.7 seconds, then firmly said "no". What does it entail? I've no idea, but it's called "Insanity" for fuck sake. I can't run for more than a minute and I can do about 3 press-ups, so even the notion of doing an exercise regime called "Insanity" is well and truly off the menu. The longest journey starts with a single step. If I was to do this, I had to do this carefully. Giving myself a heart attack and dropping dead wasn't really what I had in mind. Then I thought about a gym, but again, no. Gyms scare me, quite frankly, and besides, I don't have the money. I can't see myself ever getting a gym membership and "pumping iron" or whatever it is the meatheads do in there, so that idea was out. What could I do, then, for exercise? I sat at my desk and looked out of my window, pondering this dilemma. "Where could I go" I wondered, whilst I sat in my chair looking at the woodland at the back of my house and The Wrekin off to the right. If only there was a place......hey! Wait a minute! What about The Wrekin?! It isn't the biggest hill in Shropshire - The Stiperstones is definitely more elevated - but I'd wager that The Wrekin is the most famous. It towers over Telford and Wrekin, and inspires local phrases such as "Going round The Wrekin" to describe someone rambling on almost as much as I am right now. I've walked up The Wrekin a few times - I've lost count, roughly about 7 - a record which is better than others, but still not great when you consider that I've lived here now almost 14 years. With this in mind, a plan came to mind.
To walk up The Wrekin, at least once a month. But that was boring. I needed an edge to it, a target. Something that would make me interested in doing it. I pondered a bit more, then I picked up my phone. Because I have an app on my phone, Endomondo, which is like an exercise companion. You can start the timer, then when you complete your walk/run/bike ride you press "stop" and it tells you your time, calories burnt, average speed, top speed etc. I'm sure I had used it before, when I walked up The Wrekin last year....aha! All the logs are stored in the "History" screen. I had used it before - last Spring, I had walked up The Wrekin in a time, according to Endomondo, of 32 minutes. A slight shame that it hadn't been 2 minutes quicker, and so sub-30 mins, but never mind....hang on. That was it - there was my target. The foot of The Wrekin, to the top. 30 minutes or less. I could attempt it as many times as I liked, but I had to do it at least once every month. The cold of January, the heat of July, the possible snow of December. Every month.
A terrific idea, in principle, but there was no way I was going to do it. I'm overweight, and I'm asking myself to shave 2 whole minutes of the time I clocked up the last time I went up there? Nah, not going to happen. But it was worth a go, right? So last week, at the end of January and after the snow had finally gone away, I was standing at the bottom of The Wrekin, phone in hand. I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere near 30 minutes - roughly 35 was my aim - but I was going to give it my best shot. Off I trundled, putting my phone in my pocket for safety. I decided I was only going to look at my time once - half way up the hill, when I passed Halfway House (I've no idea why it's called that) - so that I could just set my mind on walking, and not worrying about the clock.
Up I went. Having walked up The Wrekin a few times I know the climb by now, which does help. A long drag up to Halfway House, then a kick up as you walk over three false summits, the trees giving way about 2/3 of the way up, the path leading to the peak of the climb now exposed to the conditions. At the top, it is always windy and cold. My brother's friend lives at Halfway House, and I've walked up there before. I know it takes roughly 15 minutes. Last week, as I walked past, I slipped my phone out of the pocket of my fleece. 11:30.
11:30? Eleven minutes, 30 seconds?
How the fuck? I panicked. Walking up The Wrekin has caused me to break down in the past, after I thought "Wow, this is easy!" during the first half of the climb, racing up it, before being made to really suffer on the second (and much tougher) section. It was 15 minutes to Halfway House, I was sure of it, but here I was over 3 minutes quicker than that. It made no sense. I slowed down a little, but I felt good. I kept on going. I scaled the three false summits, wincing as I almost went over on my ankle scrambling up the last upslope where the rocks are interspersed with loose stones. I kept on going however, and soon I was within touching distance of the top of the hill, the trig point and toposcope so agonisingly close. I could almost touch them, I was 30 seconds away....
....and then came the wind. It had been blustery at ground level, but now, 1330ft up, the wind was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I gasped as the wind - literally - took my breath away. I couldn't look forward, I had to turn my head to the side and try breathing in snatches. I tried putting my hood up on my fleece, the wind just knocked it straight back down with contempt. I was about 10 metres away from the summit, but the wind was so intense I couldn't actually walk straight. I was blown sideways, off the path, and had to compose myself before even attempting to walk forward again. It felt like I was in a wind tunnel, yet I ploughed on. After an epic struggle with the wind, I touched the trig point. I was at the top.
I took my phone out, stopped the timer without even looking at my time, then quickly shoved my phone back into the safety of the pocket. I was terrified it was going to blow away. I couldn't stay here, at the summit, so I immediately turned round and began walking back downhill to a clump of trees about 100 metres away. With the wind now behind me, I was convinced that I was about to take off, to be airbone and go whirling through the air. I shoved my hands in my pockets and made it to the trees, where I sat down at the base of the tree right in the middle of the miniature woodland. Here I had a shelter. After sitting for a moment and getting my breath back to anything approaching normality, I remembered my phone, in my pocket. I was a little annoyed. I thought I had walked really well, yet my chances of getting anywhere remotely near 30:00 had been compounded by the ferocious winds towards the summit. This was only January, though. It was my first attempt at this mark, I had at least 11 more to go. It was fantastic to get a time logged regardless of what it was - I knew I could beat it in more favourable conditions. I got out my phone and glanced down at the screen.
29:06
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
Doctor, Doctor!
Before I begin - I am not a doctor. I never have been, and I never will be. I do not speak for doctors as a whole, nor any doctor in particular. Everything in this blog post is simply my own outside opinion. I might be wrong, but it is what it is. I thank you very much.
=============================================================
Yesterday I had to pop down to my local medical practice. It is a squalid, grey, unappealing building in a particularly dubious area of town, and I certainly don't make a habit of going. I had to go yesterday however because like the IDIOT I am, I had lost my repeat prescription - I must have chucked it out by mistake when having a post-Xmas clear out - so I had to saunter on down to fill out a form so I could get my next batch of medication before the stuff I have at the moment runs out and I turn into a werewolf.
Whilst I was filling out the form however, something caught my eye. Lying on the desk was a pile of leaflets, roughly A3 size, bearing the slogan "DOCTOR FIRST IS COMING TO *INSERT TOWN NAME HERE* MEDICAL PRACTICE!". This intrigued me, so I picked up the top copy, folded it and stuffed it into my bag, promptly forgetting all about it until a few hours later when I was on the train going to the dentists. As the train rolled along the tracks, I read the leaflet and it concerned me a little, so I thought I'd write about it here. Again, I don't speak on behalf of doctors. This new system might be magnificent, but I'm unsure. The literature is in bold, my thoughts in this normal font....
DOCTOR FIRST IS COMING TO *INSERT TOWN NAME HERE* MEDICAL PRACTICE!
We are very pleased to announce that in February 2013, the Practice will be moving to the Doctor First appointment system. This leaflet will tell you what it means for you as a patient, and how you will be able to access Doctors quickly and easily in the New Year!
It can be a bit of a nightmare getting into the doctors, particularly at this time of year when the Norovirus is flying around and elderly people are struggling etc. To put this into context - I've never met my registered doctor. In fact, I wouldn't know him if I walked past him on the street. I know his name, and I know he's at my local medical practice, but I've never met him. Every time I've been fortunate enough to get an appointment in good time, I've had to be assigned to a doctor - any doctor. You hope you get lucky and get a decent one, basically. Now that's not necessarily a huge deal - they're all qualified - but I do find it a bit bemusing that the guy I put down on forms as my doctor is someone I've never actually met. So a new appointment system? Interesting. Let's read more.
What is Doctor First?
Have you ever tried to get an appointment with a Doctor and been told that there are none available?
Yes.
Doctor First is an appointment system that will make this a thing of the past! With Doctor First you will ALWAYS be able to access a Doctor on the same day!
That's a very, very bold claim. How do they plan to do this, exactly?
With Doctor First you'll receive the healthcare you need when you need it! Doctor First puts Doctors in control of appointments in order to put our patients needs first!
OK - alarm bells already.
I (and everyone else) go to a doctor for a reason - we are poorly in some way and we need a bit of help, whether it's depression or a broken arm, high blood pressure or schizophrenia. We go to doctors because they're medically qualified, right? They know how to help when it comes to this stuff - they know more than you or I do. As such, I want my doctors to be doing this - helping poorly people, whether that's at their surgery or via home visits. What I'm not sure I want them doing is the stuff that the people on reception do - booking people in for appointments and general other admin duties. Anyway, let's carry on.
How will I get an appointment when I need one?
With Doctor First, being able to access a Doctor is easy. Contact the surgery in the usual way and advise the receptionist that you would like an appointment with a Doctor. The receptionist will ask for a brief description of the problem and a telephone number on which the Doctor can contact you. The receptionist will put you on a list for the Doctor of your choice, where possible. The Doctor will contact you by telephone that day. The Doctor may be able to give telephone advice without needing to see you. However, if after assessing you, the Doctor feels you need to see an appropriate healthcare professional, he/she will book you an appointment for that day.
I see the logic here - if nothing else, this cuts down on the people walking into the surgery and seeing the doctor. But...
Firstly, are we not just transferring the doctor's time, rather than freeing it up? What changes here - the doctor doesn't talk to you face to face, instead he talks to you over the phone. No time has been saved there, unless this initiative is designed to let doctors fob you off, to put it bluntly. And then how does that help the patient? Do doctors even want to spend their time talking on the phone to people?
Secondly, talking on the phone if you're a patient? Telling a receptionist about your problem? I'm very fortunate in that I've never had genital warts, touch wood, but if I ever do get them I'm not sure I'd want to tell a non-qualified receptionist about them, thanks very much. It'd be hard enough to talk to a doctor about it. Like lots of people I'm not a huge fan of talking on the phone about anything, let alone private health problems. This to me seems like cutting corners, with the rather ambitious promise that you'll "ALWAYS" get your doctors attention on the same day the sweetener to convince patients that this is a good idea.
The back page of the leaflet is essentially more of the same, so I'm not going to copy it all down for you. One bit in particular did stand out though...
Our receptionists will ask you only for brief details of your problem, so that it can be put on the list which the Doctor will see when he calls you back. This brief information will allow the Doctor to prioritise patients effectively.
I have a problem with "prioritise patients". Here are five ailments that I've just thought up off the top of my head:
Glandular fever
Depression which has led to suicidal thoughts/self-harming
Irritable bowel syndrome
Norovirus
Shingles
Now. Who do you phone first? Who do you phone last?
Earlier on I argued that you should leave the medical stuff to the doctors, and I stand by that. If anyone is qualified to rank those five ailments in order of seriousness/priority, it's probably a GP. Do we want them to, though? Never mind "What gets priority?" - should there be a "priority" at all? The cynical side of me thinks that if we go down this road, in 10 years time the questions the receptionist will ask you will include your postcode, your occupation and whether you can pay by card or not. Remember, this is a Tory government - privatisation is always just a shot away.
On paper, "Doctor First" seems brilliant, but I'm unconvinced. I can see a future where doctors have to juggle their medical expertise with their admin/diary planning skills, and that could become an issue. Doctors are people too - they get stressed, unhappy and down just like we do - and I worry that they'll hate this system which has been burdened upon and that their morale will drop. I hope not, but I guess we'll have to see.
=============================================================
Yesterday I had to pop down to my local medical practice. It is a squalid, grey, unappealing building in a particularly dubious area of town, and I certainly don't make a habit of going. I had to go yesterday however because like the IDIOT I am, I had lost my repeat prescription - I must have chucked it out by mistake when having a post-Xmas clear out - so I had to saunter on down to fill out a form so I could get my next batch of medication before the stuff I have at the moment runs out and I turn into a werewolf.
Whilst I was filling out the form however, something caught my eye. Lying on the desk was a pile of leaflets, roughly A3 size, bearing the slogan "DOCTOR FIRST IS COMING TO *INSERT TOWN NAME HERE* MEDICAL PRACTICE!". This intrigued me, so I picked up the top copy, folded it and stuffed it into my bag, promptly forgetting all about it until a few hours later when I was on the train going to the dentists. As the train rolled along the tracks, I read the leaflet and it concerned me a little, so I thought I'd write about it here. Again, I don't speak on behalf of doctors. This new system might be magnificent, but I'm unsure. The literature is in bold, my thoughts in this normal font....
DOCTOR FIRST IS COMING TO *INSERT TOWN NAME HERE* MEDICAL PRACTICE!
We are very pleased to announce that in February 2013, the Practice will be moving to the Doctor First appointment system. This leaflet will tell you what it means for you as a patient, and how you will be able to access Doctors quickly and easily in the New Year!
It can be a bit of a nightmare getting into the doctors, particularly at this time of year when the Norovirus is flying around and elderly people are struggling etc. To put this into context - I've never met my registered doctor. In fact, I wouldn't know him if I walked past him on the street. I know his name, and I know he's at my local medical practice, but I've never met him. Every time I've been fortunate enough to get an appointment in good time, I've had to be assigned to a doctor - any doctor. You hope you get lucky and get a decent one, basically. Now that's not necessarily a huge deal - they're all qualified - but I do find it a bit bemusing that the guy I put down on forms as my doctor is someone I've never actually met. So a new appointment system? Interesting. Let's read more.
What is Doctor First?
Have you ever tried to get an appointment with a Doctor and been told that there are none available?
Yes.
Doctor First is an appointment system that will make this a thing of the past! With Doctor First you will ALWAYS be able to access a Doctor on the same day!
That's a very, very bold claim. How do they plan to do this, exactly?
With Doctor First you'll receive the healthcare you need when you need it! Doctor First puts Doctors in control of appointments in order to put our patients needs first!
OK - alarm bells already.
I (and everyone else) go to a doctor for a reason - we are poorly in some way and we need a bit of help, whether it's depression or a broken arm, high blood pressure or schizophrenia. We go to doctors because they're medically qualified, right? They know how to help when it comes to this stuff - they know more than you or I do. As such, I want my doctors to be doing this - helping poorly people, whether that's at their surgery or via home visits. What I'm not sure I want them doing is the stuff that the people on reception do - booking people in for appointments and general other admin duties. Anyway, let's carry on.
How will I get an appointment when I need one?
With Doctor First, being able to access a Doctor is easy. Contact the surgery in the usual way and advise the receptionist that you would like an appointment with a Doctor. The receptionist will ask for a brief description of the problem and a telephone number on which the Doctor can contact you. The receptionist will put you on a list for the Doctor of your choice, where possible. The Doctor will contact you by telephone that day. The Doctor may be able to give telephone advice without needing to see you. However, if after assessing you, the Doctor feels you need to see an appropriate healthcare professional, he/she will book you an appointment for that day.
I see the logic here - if nothing else, this cuts down on the people walking into the surgery and seeing the doctor. But...
Firstly, are we not just transferring the doctor's time, rather than freeing it up? What changes here - the doctor doesn't talk to you face to face, instead he talks to you over the phone. No time has been saved there, unless this initiative is designed to let doctors fob you off, to put it bluntly. And then how does that help the patient? Do doctors even want to spend their time talking on the phone to people?
Secondly, talking on the phone if you're a patient? Telling a receptionist about your problem? I'm very fortunate in that I've never had genital warts, touch wood, but if I ever do get them I'm not sure I'd want to tell a non-qualified receptionist about them, thanks very much. It'd be hard enough to talk to a doctor about it. Like lots of people I'm not a huge fan of talking on the phone about anything, let alone private health problems. This to me seems like cutting corners, with the rather ambitious promise that you'll "ALWAYS" get your doctors attention on the same day the sweetener to convince patients that this is a good idea.
The back page of the leaflet is essentially more of the same, so I'm not going to copy it all down for you. One bit in particular did stand out though...
Our receptionists will ask you only for brief details of your problem, so that it can be put on the list which the Doctor will see when he calls you back. This brief information will allow the Doctor to prioritise patients effectively.
I have a problem with "prioritise patients". Here are five ailments that I've just thought up off the top of my head:
Glandular fever
Depression which has led to suicidal thoughts/self-harming
Irritable bowel syndrome
Norovirus
Shingles
Now. Who do you phone first? Who do you phone last?
Earlier on I argued that you should leave the medical stuff to the doctors, and I stand by that. If anyone is qualified to rank those five ailments in order of seriousness/priority, it's probably a GP. Do we want them to, though? Never mind "What gets priority?" - should there be a "priority" at all? The cynical side of me thinks that if we go down this road, in 10 years time the questions the receptionist will ask you will include your postcode, your occupation and whether you can pay by card or not. Remember, this is a Tory government - privatisation is always just a shot away.
On paper, "Doctor First" seems brilliant, but I'm unconvinced. I can see a future where doctors have to juggle their medical expertise with their admin/diary planning skills, and that could become an issue. Doctors are people too - they get stressed, unhappy and down just like we do - and I worry that they'll hate this system which has been burdened upon and that their morale will drop. I hope not, but I guess we'll have to see.
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
New Year, New Me!!!!!
Tis the season for people to make ridiculous resolutions, resolutions which they can't/don't even bother trying to manage, so why should I be any different? Here's a few that I've thought up off the top of my head. Some are more serious than others.
1) Get a job - standard.
2) Do some voluntary work - good for the CV, gets me doing stuff, makes me seem a lot more charitable than I actually am.
3) Start sponsoring a Dogs Trust dog like I used to - this admittedly depends a lot on 1)
4) To start cracking down on "should of" and "would of" - Twitter users, I'm coming for you, and I'm correcting you, whoever you are. Be warned.
5) Walk up The Wrekin once a month - yeah, you know when I said some of these were less serious/realistic than others?
6) Subscribe to Private Eye - again, can't help feeling that this is in relation to 1)
7) Read more - I'm not going to set a target on how many books I read, because that will make it tedious, invite pressure and make the whole thing completely joyless, but I'm eager to devour books at a pace I haven't done for many years. University seemed to suck the fun out of reading, truth be told.
8) Watch every Al Pacino movie - can this be done in a year? And do I want to watch/re-watch the shit ones? Will I get paid for watching 'Jack and Jill'?
Oh god, I've just seen that he was in 'Gigli' as well. WHAT HAVE I DONE?
9) Lose more weight - LOL
10) Cut down on Coca Cola - because it's full of shit and I'm annoyed that it's taken me this long to realise that.
11) Check Facebook a lot less often than I do now - a waste of a life, quite frankly.
12) Cut down on reading the letters page in The Shropshire Star - it just makes me angry, and I can't be doing with it any more. Not every day, anyway.
13) Play more sports - back when I was about 4 stone lighter I played a lot of sport. Where did those salad days go?
Salad being the key word there.
14) Complete more XBox games - in other words, play XBox games that aren't Lego ones.
15) Listen to a lot more Radio Shropshire - especially in the mornings.
16) Get myself a bit more organised - and not leave everything to the last minute like I usually do.
I think 16 is enough. I'll probably stick to about 3 of them, but life is too short to sit around doing nothing like I usually do. Onwards and upwards, eh guys?
Happy New Year!
1) Get a job - standard.
2) Do some voluntary work - good for the CV, gets me doing stuff, makes me seem a lot more charitable than I actually am.
3) Start sponsoring a Dogs Trust dog like I used to - this admittedly depends a lot on 1)
4) To start cracking down on "should of" and "would of" - Twitter users, I'm coming for you, and I'm correcting you, whoever you are. Be warned.
5) Walk up The Wrekin once a month - yeah, you know when I said some of these were less serious/realistic than others?
6) Subscribe to Private Eye - again, can't help feeling that this is in relation to 1)
7) Read more - I'm not going to set a target on how many books I read, because that will make it tedious, invite pressure and make the whole thing completely joyless, but I'm eager to devour books at a pace I haven't done for many years. University seemed to suck the fun out of reading, truth be told.
8) Watch every Al Pacino movie - can this be done in a year? And do I want to watch/re-watch the shit ones? Will I get paid for watching 'Jack and Jill'?
Oh god, I've just seen that he was in 'Gigli' as well. WHAT HAVE I DONE?
9) Lose more weight - LOL
10) Cut down on Coca Cola - because it's full of shit and I'm annoyed that it's taken me this long to realise that.
11) Check Facebook a lot less often than I do now - a waste of a life, quite frankly.
12) Cut down on reading the letters page in The Shropshire Star - it just makes me angry, and I can't be doing with it any more. Not every day, anyway.
13) Play more sports - back when I was about 4 stone lighter I played a lot of sport. Where did those salad days go?
Salad being the key word there.
14) Complete more XBox games - in other words, play XBox games that aren't Lego ones.
15) Listen to a lot more Radio Shropshire - especially in the mornings.
16) Get myself a bit more organised - and not leave everything to the last minute like I usually do.
I think 16 is enough. I'll probably stick to about 3 of them, but life is too short to sit around doing nothing like I usually do. Onwards and upwards, eh guys?
Happy New Year!
Monday, 3 December 2012
Gizza Job
Apologies for the two "personal" blog posts in a row, but I really wanted to write this one, for a few reasons. Regular readers will remember my last blog post, where I mentioned about the college course I had been enrolled on by the Job Centre. I just wanted to talk a little about that course, if you don't mind.
When you're on benefits and looking for work, the Job Centre like you to use their "SOC codes". What this means is that at your first interview, you discuss with the person what areas of work you're ideally looking for, what areas perhaps suit you re. your work experience, what areas are good for jobs etc. You discuss these areas, then you get allocated your "SOC code" for each, and you use that to narrow your job search down on their website. So, Admin jobs will be 4150, Librarianship 2451, and so on and so forth. Because of my previous experience, which was working in an office, a lot of jobs I go for are the Admin jobs, 4150. A lot of these jobs I'm not getting, however, because I don't have any experience with a thing called SAGE. I'm not going to tell you about SAGE because it's as boring as fuck, but it's essentially a piece of software that assists you with double-entry bookkeeping. Financial stuff, bookkeeping, accountancy - that's not really me to be honest (I did Business at A-Level but struggled with it and only got a D) so Lord knows why I agreed to do a six week SAGE course down at my local college, but I said I would be interested, and before I knew it, there I was taking the 30 minute walk down to the Arts and Technology college one cold October morning.
Six weeks, Mon-Thurs, 9-4. What the fuck was I doing? Why was I doing a course I wasn't particularly interested in? Well, fast forward six weeks, and the course is over, and my thinking has altered ever so slightly. Our exam was last Thursday, 1-3, and I think I did well. We don't find out our results for ages (about 8-10 weeks) but with 70% needed for a pass, and the ease at which I rattled through the paper, I think I've done enough. Yet for all my joy about doing well (I hope) in the exam, I feel an overwhelming sadness that the course has finished. I appreciate that's mental, considering how much I was dreading these last six weeks, but it's true - I'm already missing the course, and my fellow job-seekers on it, desperately.
It's crazy, I know. It was six weeks, that's all, but it's mad how quickly you can get attached to people, recognise their quirks and habits, identify what you like about them and how to behave around them. These people weren't my friends, and most of them, I'll probably never see ever again, but I was fortunate enough to be in a classroom with people that I liked - all of them - and I will miss them. I'll miss Howard's moments of genius. I'll miss Jon, always happy to help and patience personified. I'll miss Madeleine's laugh and I'll miss her because I secretly fancied her a bit. I'll miss Diane always looking smart. I'll miss Matt and his 'Pantera' T-shirts. I'll miss Steve - just in general. I'll miss Wera, a genuinely lovely lady. I'll miss Crystal whinging. The only person I won't miss is Becky - but that's not because I didn't like her, but because I'll hopefully be seeing a lot more of her in the future.
(We're dating, by the way. I'm not going to stalk her).
I've given them all a namecheck for two reasons. One because I know in five years time I'll have forgotten their names, so this blog post will be a handy reference to remind me of the "glory days". But secondly - and more importantly - because they were all interesting, smart, capable people, with fascinating employment histories, and they were all in that room with me because they're all currently unemployed. We were all in that room because the Job Centre put us forward for the course, and the course proved to me one very important thing - that some people's attitudes towards the unemployed need to change, and quickly. Nobody in that room was "scum", or "cheating the system", or a "layabout", or whatever adjective the Daily Mail wishes to use next. We were all in the room by 9am every day, so no-one was lounging about in bed until 10am and then sitting around watching Jeremy Kyle. Everybody in that room worked bloody hard, and several times I looked round at everyone working well and in complete silence and thought "I wish a Tory minister could come in and see us now - see that the people they constantly vilify aren't as disgusting and useless as they think".
Apologies. I'm a bit bitter about this, and I also know full well that there are people out there who "fiddle" and play the system. You don't need to tell me about them. But I do get angry when people try and bash the welfare system in this country. It makes me even angrier when the people bashing it are the Government themselves.It makes me angrier still when they don't target healthy young people like myself, but the sick and the disabled:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2012/nov/30/sick-disabled-work-benefits-programme
When I was growing up, my parents told me that it was how you treat the people with the least that says the most about you.
Cameron, Gideon Osbourne et al are easy targets here, but for once I'm not going to make this a political attack. After all, it was Labour who introduced ATOS, it's Labour who also have a leader who looks like he's never stepped foot in the real world, and it's Labour who are now occupying the same ground as the Tories. Let's not even mention the Lib Dems. Any wonder that people don't bother voting anymore?
It's Monday morning. My alarm went off at 7am (admittedly, this is only because I forgot to turn it off) and I got up to get ready for college until I remembered. None of that any more. So it is back to the old routine - scouring websites for jobs, applying for jobs, sending out CVs, writing covering letters, and then not hearing anything back 90% of the time. In a few weeks time I'll slow down for Christmas, before starting all over again with earnest in January. New Year = new start and all that shit.
Still, there are people far worse off than me. I'll never lose sight of that.
When you're on benefits and looking for work, the Job Centre like you to use their "SOC codes". What this means is that at your first interview, you discuss with the person what areas of work you're ideally looking for, what areas perhaps suit you re. your work experience, what areas are good for jobs etc. You discuss these areas, then you get allocated your "SOC code" for each, and you use that to narrow your job search down on their website. So, Admin jobs will be 4150, Librarianship 2451, and so on and so forth. Because of my previous experience, which was working in an office, a lot of jobs I go for are the Admin jobs, 4150. A lot of these jobs I'm not getting, however, because I don't have any experience with a thing called SAGE. I'm not going to tell you about SAGE because it's as boring as fuck, but it's essentially a piece of software that assists you with double-entry bookkeeping. Financial stuff, bookkeeping, accountancy - that's not really me to be honest (I did Business at A-Level but struggled with it and only got a D) so Lord knows why I agreed to do a six week SAGE course down at my local college, but I said I would be interested, and before I knew it, there I was taking the 30 minute walk down to the Arts and Technology college one cold October morning.
Six weeks, Mon-Thurs, 9-4. What the fuck was I doing? Why was I doing a course I wasn't particularly interested in? Well, fast forward six weeks, and the course is over, and my thinking has altered ever so slightly. Our exam was last Thursday, 1-3, and I think I did well. We don't find out our results for ages (about 8-10 weeks) but with 70% needed for a pass, and the ease at which I rattled through the paper, I think I've done enough. Yet for all my joy about doing well (I hope) in the exam, I feel an overwhelming sadness that the course has finished. I appreciate that's mental, considering how much I was dreading these last six weeks, but it's true - I'm already missing the course, and my fellow job-seekers on it, desperately.
It's crazy, I know. It was six weeks, that's all, but it's mad how quickly you can get attached to people, recognise their quirks and habits, identify what you like about them and how to behave around them. These people weren't my friends, and most of them, I'll probably never see ever again, but I was fortunate enough to be in a classroom with people that I liked - all of them - and I will miss them. I'll miss Howard's moments of genius. I'll miss Jon, always happy to help and patience personified. I'll miss Madeleine's laugh and I'll miss her because I secretly fancied her a bit. I'll miss Diane always looking smart. I'll miss Matt and his 'Pantera' T-shirts. I'll miss Steve - just in general. I'll miss Wera, a genuinely lovely lady. I'll miss Crystal whinging. The only person I won't miss is Becky - but that's not because I didn't like her, but because I'll hopefully be seeing a lot more of her in the future.
(We're dating, by the way. I'm not going to stalk her).
I've given them all a namecheck for two reasons. One because I know in five years time I'll have forgotten their names, so this blog post will be a handy reference to remind me of the "glory days". But secondly - and more importantly - because they were all interesting, smart, capable people, with fascinating employment histories, and they were all in that room with me because they're all currently unemployed. We were all in that room because the Job Centre put us forward for the course, and the course proved to me one very important thing - that some people's attitudes towards the unemployed need to change, and quickly. Nobody in that room was "scum", or "cheating the system", or a "layabout", or whatever adjective the Daily Mail wishes to use next. We were all in the room by 9am every day, so no-one was lounging about in bed until 10am and then sitting around watching Jeremy Kyle. Everybody in that room worked bloody hard, and several times I looked round at everyone working well and in complete silence and thought "I wish a Tory minister could come in and see us now - see that the people they constantly vilify aren't as disgusting and useless as they think".
Apologies. I'm a bit bitter about this, and I also know full well that there are people out there who "fiddle" and play the system. You don't need to tell me about them. But I do get angry when people try and bash the welfare system in this country. It makes me even angrier when the people bashing it are the Government themselves.It makes me angrier still when they don't target healthy young people like myself, but the sick and the disabled:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2012/nov/30/sick-disabled-work-benefits-programme
When I was growing up, my parents told me that it was how you treat the people with the least that says the most about you.
Cameron, Gideon Osbourne et al are easy targets here, but for once I'm not going to make this a political attack. After all, it was Labour who introduced ATOS, it's Labour who also have a leader who looks like he's never stepped foot in the real world, and it's Labour who are now occupying the same ground as the Tories. Let's not even mention the Lib Dems. Any wonder that people don't bother voting anymore?
It's Monday morning. My alarm went off at 7am (admittedly, this is only because I forgot to turn it off) and I got up to get ready for college until I remembered. None of that any more. So it is back to the old routine - scouring websites for jobs, applying for jobs, sending out CVs, writing covering letters, and then not hearing anything back 90% of the time. In a few weeks time I'll slow down for Christmas, before starting all over again with earnest in January. New Year = new start and all that shit.
Still, there are people far worse off than me. I'll never lose sight of that.
Monday, 19 November 2012
I'd Rather Have a Piece of Toast
Hiya.
I knew I hadn't blogged for a while, yet I was aghast to load up Blogger just now to find the last time I had scribbled some utter nonsense was almost two months ago. TWO MONTHS! Time to rectify that, I think. I haven't blogged for two months(!) because since my last blog my life has gone a bit mental, and that's not even taking into account the rather lengthy column Nigel Hastilow penned about me in The Shropshire Star a few weeks ago. Thanks for taking my constructive criticism on board, Nige. So what on Earth has been happening? I'm not too sure where to begin, so I'm just going to start typing and hope for the best.
A few weeks ago I was sitting here at my computer when something caught my eye out of the window. It was a cat, wandering around our garden. That wasn't unusual, as Tom Jones might say - our neighbours either side of us have a few cats, and they are always jumping into our garden and being chased by our dog. But I hadn't seen this cat before, and it was loitering by the gate at the back of our garden, which leads out into a neglected field covered in brambles and nettles. I didn't think too much of it, until the next day I saw it out there again. So I went to investigate, and found a gorgeous tortoiseshell who was worryingly thin and had no collar. She wasn't going away, so we put up a bed for her in our greenhouse and fed her whilst we asked around the neighbourhood whether they knew where she had come from. Nobody knew, so we took her down to the vets, where they confirmed that she wasn't chipped...but she was pregnant.
It was a beautiful cat, but with a dog already in the house we couldn't keep her, and she deserved to have her kittens in peace. So after phoning several cat shelter places, all of which were full, apparently, we decided to take the vets advice and "leave her to it. Cats are very resourceful". Meanwhile, our next door neighbours were in the process of moving, hiring a skip to chuck all their rubbish in before they left (can you see where this is going?) The cat disappeared for a few days, and when I next saw her her "saddlebags" had gone, and she was sitting on the fence in our front garden, peering into the skip (which was full of rubbish) before diving down into it. Again, I didn't think too much of that, until my mother saw her doing the same thing. Either the cat was very hungry, and was scavenging, or...but surely not?
Alas, it was true. The cat had gone off and had her kittens in the bottom of a skip, which was filled to the brim with sodden junk thanks to the insane rainfall we'd been having at the time. Any of you ever knocked on someone's door and asked them if you can root through their rubbish? If you haven't - trust me, you feel wonderfully awkward doing so. They probably thought we had gone bonkers, as we stood on their driveway in the drizzle rooting through their trash. We knew what we were looking for, but we didn't find it. The skip went the next day. It wasn't a nice experience, but the cat didn't seem bothered at all. Maybe they were already dead. The cat soon became the newest member of our family, I'm pleased to say - our fears about the dog failing to materialise after the cat whacked him one and then stood her ground after he tried to chase her. They're best friends now.
(God, this is boring. When is he going to talk about interesting stuff and shut up about cats?)
Finally graduating from university was a huge weight off my shoulders, but my mental health still wasn't improving. It turns out that my tactic of "try to ignore it and hope that one day you'll wake up and it'll be gone" wasn't the best, so I needed to re-think things. Against my masculine urges, I decided I needed to go to the doctor. I've had some horrific experiences down at my local health centre, but the doctor I landed with this time was honest, clear, and actually bothered to listen to me, which some of the dickheads down there don't. I'd been on tablets before, but I hadn't really got on with them and I had given up on them far too readily. The doctor listened to my concerns, prescribed me the same medication but in a lower dosage than before and then told me to stop being a knob and actually take them. I've been taking them for a month now and - touch wood - they're working brilliantly. I feel much more content with 10mg than I did 20mg. They're not miracle pills - I'm not suddenly "cured", and it's still a battle sometimes, but I'm fighting.
Away from cats and happy pills, the main reason I've not had time to blog is because I've started doing a course down at my local college. Like the idiot I am, when my advisor down at the Job Centre asked me if I wanted to do a six week SAGE Accountancy course, I said I wouldn't mind. The next thing I knew, I was booked onto their next one. True to form for the Job Centre, their communication was absolutely bollocks. I was told the start date for my course, that it was six weeks long, and....that was it. So on the Monday morning I walked down to my local college for 9am, not knowing: if I needed to be there for 9am or later, what hours I was doing, who I was with, who was taking the course, what room I was in, whether the course was just SAGE or with other stuff included. What a mess.
After eventually finding out what room I was in, I walked in with a very pleasant but also very confused German lady called Wera, and we sat down at a table with ten others. At the other end of the table there was a cute brunette, looking a bit nervous and shy. "She's pretty", I thought, but I didn't get the chance to talk to her until the following day, when our employability teacher (as part of our course, we have to do "employability skills". The Job Centre didn't tell me about that, naturally) put us in a group together. With all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I engineered it so that I could sit next to her, and I tried to make conversation and make her laugh. At the end of the day, we swapped numbers, a process made a little harder than it should have been by me taking half an hour to pluck up the courage to do so. I'm glad I did, however. Things have snowballed a little since then, but we're taking it slowly. I dunno about her but I'm a happy bunny right now anyway.
(That doesn't make any sense - why did they exchange phone numbers when they're doing a college course together and see each other every day?)
Because, my irritating little friend, after two days of the college course I thought I was done with it all. I had an interview for a position at the university, one which I felt I wanted to do and one which I felt confident I could get. The position was to be part of a team, conducting a survey on behalf of the university. Every uni has to do this survey, apparently - getting in contact with graduates and finding out what they're up to now they've left education and (hopefully) in the workplace. Drawing up a survey, sending it out, getting the forms back in and inputting the data onto a computer system for decent money and the chance to work at the university? I could do that! I wanted to do that!
So the interview was going well until the catches began to appear. Catch 1 - we had to hit a target of 80% of forms returned. Catch 2 - the overwhelming majority of people can't be bothered, don't want to do it, so don't do it. Catch 3 - it'd be my job to phone up these people, and go through the form with them on the phone. Catch 4 - there'd be roughly 3,000 of these people. Catch 5 - some people, unhappy with the fact that they're unemployed, get emotional/upset on the phone. Catch 6 - some people, unhappy with the fact I've phoned them up, get arsey on the phone. Catch 7 - the university would be setting up a "call centre" for us to do this job. It was the second that the words "call centre" were uttered that I mentally bailed out on the position. I still tried my best at the test they gave us, still tried to give a good interview, but I walked out of the university a bit despondent. This wasn't what I thought it was. This wasn't what I wanted to do.
I had a tough decision to make. I was unemployed after all, and it was decent money. I was secretly hoping they'd turn me down, but no, there was the email - they had offered me a graduate internship. So the choice was a stark one - a job and money, but a job I had lost interest in before I had even started, OR no job and no money but the chance to complete a £600 course (which I was getting for free via the Job Centre), which will look good on my CV, which might open some doors and which I could do alongside a girl I fancied like crazy and wanted to get to know a bit more.
What would you do?
I finish the course next week, and whilst I'm not assured of passing the exam, I feel confident that I can iron out the little problems I'm having with SAGE and get it licked. Then it's back to the daily grind - applying for jobs, not hearing anything back, applying for jobs, not hearing anything back....
So that's roughly why I haven't blogged for a while.
The other day I was sitting on a train when a weird sensation came over me. I realised - for the first time in 7 years - that I was happy. My soul felt....happy. It was a nice feeling. Life isn't perfect - never is, is it? - but it's getting better. Slowly. And that's all I can ask for.
Until next time knuckleheads!
I knew I hadn't blogged for a while, yet I was aghast to load up Blogger just now to find the last time I had scribbled some utter nonsense was almost two months ago. TWO MONTHS! Time to rectify that, I think. I haven't blogged for two months(!) because since my last blog my life has gone a bit mental, and that's not even taking into account the rather lengthy column Nigel Hastilow penned about me in The Shropshire Star a few weeks ago. Thanks for taking my constructive criticism on board, Nige. So what on Earth has been happening? I'm not too sure where to begin, so I'm just going to start typing and hope for the best.
A few weeks ago I was sitting here at my computer when something caught my eye out of the window. It was a cat, wandering around our garden. That wasn't unusual, as Tom Jones might say - our neighbours either side of us have a few cats, and they are always jumping into our garden and being chased by our dog. But I hadn't seen this cat before, and it was loitering by the gate at the back of our garden, which leads out into a neglected field covered in brambles and nettles. I didn't think too much of it, until the next day I saw it out there again. So I went to investigate, and found a gorgeous tortoiseshell who was worryingly thin and had no collar. She wasn't going away, so we put up a bed for her in our greenhouse and fed her whilst we asked around the neighbourhood whether they knew where she had come from. Nobody knew, so we took her down to the vets, where they confirmed that she wasn't chipped...but she was pregnant.
It was a beautiful cat, but with a dog already in the house we couldn't keep her, and she deserved to have her kittens in peace. So after phoning several cat shelter places, all of which were full, apparently, we decided to take the vets advice and "leave her to it. Cats are very resourceful". Meanwhile, our next door neighbours were in the process of moving, hiring a skip to chuck all their rubbish in before they left (can you see where this is going?) The cat disappeared for a few days, and when I next saw her her "saddlebags" had gone, and she was sitting on the fence in our front garden, peering into the skip (which was full of rubbish) before diving down into it. Again, I didn't think too much of that, until my mother saw her doing the same thing. Either the cat was very hungry, and was scavenging, or...but surely not?
Alas, it was true. The cat had gone off and had her kittens in the bottom of a skip, which was filled to the brim with sodden junk thanks to the insane rainfall we'd been having at the time. Any of you ever knocked on someone's door and asked them if you can root through their rubbish? If you haven't - trust me, you feel wonderfully awkward doing so. They probably thought we had gone bonkers, as we stood on their driveway in the drizzle rooting through their trash. We knew what we were looking for, but we didn't find it. The skip went the next day. It wasn't a nice experience, but the cat didn't seem bothered at all. Maybe they were already dead. The cat soon became the newest member of our family, I'm pleased to say - our fears about the dog failing to materialise after the cat whacked him one and then stood her ground after he tried to chase her. They're best friends now.
(God, this is boring. When is he going to talk about interesting stuff and shut up about cats?)
Finally graduating from university was a huge weight off my shoulders, but my mental health still wasn't improving. It turns out that my tactic of "try to ignore it and hope that one day you'll wake up and it'll be gone" wasn't the best, so I needed to re-think things. Against my masculine urges, I decided I needed to go to the doctor. I've had some horrific experiences down at my local health centre, but the doctor I landed with this time was honest, clear, and actually bothered to listen to me, which some of the dickheads down there don't. I'd been on tablets before, but I hadn't really got on with them and I had given up on them far too readily. The doctor listened to my concerns, prescribed me the same medication but in a lower dosage than before and then told me to stop being a knob and actually take them. I've been taking them for a month now and - touch wood - they're working brilliantly. I feel much more content with 10mg than I did 20mg. They're not miracle pills - I'm not suddenly "cured", and it's still a battle sometimes, but I'm fighting.
Away from cats and happy pills, the main reason I've not had time to blog is because I've started doing a course down at my local college. Like the idiot I am, when my advisor down at the Job Centre asked me if I wanted to do a six week SAGE Accountancy course, I said I wouldn't mind. The next thing I knew, I was booked onto their next one. True to form for the Job Centre, their communication was absolutely bollocks. I was told the start date for my course, that it was six weeks long, and....that was it. So on the Monday morning I walked down to my local college for 9am, not knowing: if I needed to be there for 9am or later, what hours I was doing, who I was with, who was taking the course, what room I was in, whether the course was just SAGE or with other stuff included. What a mess.
After eventually finding out what room I was in, I walked in with a very pleasant but also very confused German lady called Wera, and we sat down at a table with ten others. At the other end of the table there was a cute brunette, looking a bit nervous and shy. "She's pretty", I thought, but I didn't get the chance to talk to her until the following day, when our employability teacher (as part of our course, we have to do "employability skills". The Job Centre didn't tell me about that, naturally) put us in a group together. With all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I engineered it so that I could sit next to her, and I tried to make conversation and make her laugh. At the end of the day, we swapped numbers, a process made a little harder than it should have been by me taking half an hour to pluck up the courage to do so. I'm glad I did, however. Things have snowballed a little since then, but we're taking it slowly. I dunno about her but I'm a happy bunny right now anyway.
(That doesn't make any sense - why did they exchange phone numbers when they're doing a college course together and see each other every day?)
Because, my irritating little friend, after two days of the college course I thought I was done with it all. I had an interview for a position at the university, one which I felt I wanted to do and one which I felt confident I could get. The position was to be part of a team, conducting a survey on behalf of the university. Every uni has to do this survey, apparently - getting in contact with graduates and finding out what they're up to now they've left education and (hopefully) in the workplace. Drawing up a survey, sending it out, getting the forms back in and inputting the data onto a computer system for decent money and the chance to work at the university? I could do that! I wanted to do that!
So the interview was going well until the catches began to appear. Catch 1 - we had to hit a target of 80% of forms returned. Catch 2 - the overwhelming majority of people can't be bothered, don't want to do it, so don't do it. Catch 3 - it'd be my job to phone up these people, and go through the form with them on the phone. Catch 4 - there'd be roughly 3,000 of these people. Catch 5 - some people, unhappy with the fact that they're unemployed, get emotional/upset on the phone. Catch 6 - some people, unhappy with the fact I've phoned them up, get arsey on the phone. Catch 7 - the university would be setting up a "call centre" for us to do this job. It was the second that the words "call centre" were uttered that I mentally bailed out on the position. I still tried my best at the test they gave us, still tried to give a good interview, but I walked out of the university a bit despondent. This wasn't what I thought it was. This wasn't what I wanted to do.
I had a tough decision to make. I was unemployed after all, and it was decent money. I was secretly hoping they'd turn me down, but no, there was the email - they had offered me a graduate internship. So the choice was a stark one - a job and money, but a job I had lost interest in before I had even started, OR no job and no money but the chance to complete a £600 course (which I was getting for free via the Job Centre), which will look good on my CV, which might open some doors and which I could do alongside a girl I fancied like crazy and wanted to get to know a bit more.
What would you do?
I finish the course next week, and whilst I'm not assured of passing the exam, I feel confident that I can iron out the little problems I'm having with SAGE and get it licked. Then it's back to the daily grind - applying for jobs, not hearing anything back, applying for jobs, not hearing anything back....
So that's roughly why I haven't blogged for a while.
The other day I was sitting on a train when a weird sensation came over me. I realised - for the first time in 7 years - that I was happy. My soul felt....happy. It was a nice feeling. Life isn't perfect - never is, is it? - but it's getting better. Slowly. And that's all I can ask for.
Until next time knuckleheads!
Friday, 21 September 2012
Oh-Oh, Hastilow!
Well, well, well, what do you know? You wait over a month for a blog entry and then two come along at once. TRAROTL is the blogging equivalent of buses, something which Will Self so eloquently whined back when I met him at a drinks reception in 2010.
Regular readers will be familiar with me analysing stupid letters that have been sent in to my local rag, The Sloppy Star, for many years now, so this blog entry is something an ickle bit different. On Page 8 of yesterday's Slop we have a column written by a man called Mr Nigel Hastilow (more on him later. Much more) which is possibly the worst thing I've ever read. I know I say that every week but, seriously. Let's go:
Complaints by us lefties wouldn't be right
That's the title, and it's one that caught my eye because, based on his previous muck, there's no way this dude is a "leftie".
There's nothing sinister about it. I am left-handed and the world's against me. Who can I sue?
Ah. Left-handed.
It's the ginger-whingers who finally convinced me there must be money in it.
As you read this column, please note one thing - I'm left handed. Yes, I'm left-handed, and even I think this is the shittiest thing I've ever seen since Lord Charles Shitty took a shit on a shitting toilet.
In Milton Keynes.
So, a few people call you carrot-top? Get over it. You really don't know what discrimination's all about. Try being left-handed, cack-handed or simply gauche.
Could you excuse me for a moment?
*taps out unnecessarily long phone number*
HEAVEN: "Thank you for phoning Heaven. For the Big Man Himself, press 1. For a guest, press 2. For a saint, press 3. To be re-directed downstairs, press 666."
HEAVEN: "Thank you for pressing...2...you are now on-hold. Your call is very important to us. Please hold."
They're playing "Abide with Me". Don't you just hate on-hold music?
ST PETER: "Hello?"
ME: "Rosa Parks please. Fifth floor, I believe."
ST PETER: "One moment."
"Little Donkey" now, for fuck sake.
ROSA PARKS: "Hello?"
ME: "Rosa, it's me, Ewar!"
ROSA: "Yes?"
ME: "We met before, a few years ago. I was just wondering if you could tell me your story, you know, the bus one. I love to hear it."
ROSA: "Of course! Well, one day I was sitting on a bus, and, you know, there were awful problems at the time. This was 1950s deep south America, you see, and on the bus there was a "coloured section" and a "white section". A white person wanted to sit in my seat, in the "coloured section", and I refused.
ME: "Hmmm."
ROSA: "Yes?"
ME: "I was just thinking...were you called 'gauche' though?"
ROSA: "What? No!"
ME: "So what do you know about discrimination?"
ROSA: "...."
ME: "I mean, why don't you look up to and revere Nigel Hastilow? Why do you and everyone else discriminate against him, just for being left-handed? Hmm?"
ROSA: "It's not because he's left-handed. It's because he's a fucking cunt."
Fair.
There was a huge fuss recently when Wolverhampton's Laura Payton was given an apology and £150 compensation by the Halifax because she took offence at a bit of a joke about the colour of her hair. Mrs Payton complained a member of staff told her: "I bet your daughter is glad she isn't ginger like you."
Now, OK, maybe this is just me, but I think that's pretty damn appalling. "I bet your daughter is glad she doesn't look like you, you freak"? If someone said that to my wife I'd poke them in the eye. An apology and £150? Good! I'd want that employee sacked as well. Why would you even say that to somebody? I've already laboured this point but "I bet your daughter is glad she isn't black like you" - would that still be "a bit of a joke"?
When I read about this I'm sorry to say I wasn't outraged on Mrs Payton's behalf.
You're not sorry.
It just made me chuckle.
Really? This is probably the unfunniest thing I've ever read in my life, and I've watched "Citizen Khan" AND "My Family". Saying that to a stranger isn't humorous, it's incredibly disrespectful.
But it turns out most of the world's redheads are happy to moan about how badly they were bullied at school and you think: "You're having a laugh." Or, in the words of John McEnroe, one of the world's famous left-handers :"You cannot be serious."
Nigel Hastilow's advice to children who are currently being bullied at school: "Just shut the fuck up."
I have nothing against redheads. Some of my best friends are ginger.
Did we have a sweepstake for how long it'd take for that sentence to get an airing?
Obviously you have to be wary of them, given their notoriously bad tempers.
I'd be wary of the Irish, given their tendencies to gun British people down.
Even so, there can be something distinctly alluring about all that flame-coloured hair. What really isn't on is for this group to complain it's discriminated against. Reddism is nothing compared with leftism, discrimination against left-handers.
(Here comes a really boring bit. Sorry. It does get better later on though.)
The world isn't designed to make life difficult for ginger-nuts but it certainly is for us lefties. We can't even sit at a computer without having to move the mouse from the right hand side of the desk to the left (assuming the wire is long enough) or we have to try manipulating it with our right hands. I'd like to see you right-handers try it left-handed. Institutionalised leftism is rife. For years, I found it completely impossible to use chopsticks. I just couldn't manipulate them in any way which conveyed food to face.
Based on what we'll see later, I'm a little surprised Mr Hastilow eats that foreign muck, but we'll get to that.
Then - and you may say this shows just how slow-witted left-handers must be - one day it occurred to me to try transferring them to my left hand.
And the award for "World's Shittest Anecdote" goes to....
Suddenly a whole new world opened up. The miracle of chopsticks. Why hadn't I tried them in my left hand before?
You're a bit thick?
Because they are laid out for right-handers and the obvious solution to my problem never occurred to me.
As you're clever people you already know that this is bollocks, but take it from me, a leftie - this IS bollocks. If there's a pen to my right, I'm not going to pick it up and try writing with my right hand. I'm going to transfer it to my left. Now either Hastilow is the thickest man EVER, or he's just writing this to fill space and praying that this backs up his point. Not that he has one anyway.
Thick, I know, but we lefties are used to life's little inconveniences. Try, for instance, cutting your fingernails with a pair of scissors using your left hand. It is more or less impossible. Discrimination starts early, of course. When I was at school, they still held to the antediluvian
Great word, I'll give him that.
view that all kids should be right-handed. Lefties were, as the Romans used to say, sinister. So I was taught to play cricket right-handed and kick a football with my right foot. Worse, of course, was the requirement that I should write with my right hand. It was very difficult and my handwriting was awful. We had to submit examples of our work to be assessed by the teachers. Mine were so consistently terrible I took to writing things out secretly with my left hand and then swearing blind it had been done with my right. What a terrible little liar I must have been. But the alternative was to have my work thrown back at me time after time because my (right handed) handwriting was so poor.
That's all very interesting, Nigel, but I don't think that sort of attitude has prevailed in our schools for many years now, so why reference it?
I don't think that sort of attitude has prevailed in our schools for many years now.
Yes.
But unthinking leftism remains a daily difficulty for the 10% of the population blessed with the talent, creativity, and originality to make the best of our unfortunate predicament. Even my dictionary defines left-handed as being "awkward, unlucky, dubious."
A biscuit to anyone who can remember what kicked off this weird little rant in the first place. Wasn't it about a woman being abused in a bank? It's been so long now, I forget.
And if you think a laughable lefty is as bad as a ginger whinger, consider this: Research in America shows that even left-handed surgeons are themselves frightened of being treated by fellow left-handed surgeons - because all their training and equipment is designed for right-handers.
We've still got about four paragraphs of this nonsense left, fucking hell. I'm as bored as you are.
Still, this is not intended to be another moan from a supposedly oppressed minority. Quite the opposite, in fact.
You could have fooled me.
Mrs Payton should have laughed off the Halifax worker's little joke just as rich redheads like Lily Cole or Nicole Kidman should just get over it.
Fuck Nicole Kidman. I'm serious. Aren't you sick of her, constantly whining? I walked out of the cinema halfway through "Moulin Rouge!", such was the frequency of her moaning "Wah wah wah I have red hair, boo hoo everyone fucking hates me".
My advice to Lily Cole and Nicole Kidman - just, like, get over yourselves darlings!
And, whatever inconveniences we lefties have to put up with, you won't find us queuing up at the bank for compensation because all those pens-on-string are positioned for right-handers.
Because A) They extend across for left-handers and B) They don't verbally abuse you.
Yet the prevailing sense of victim-hood knows no bounds. Any group of people can find reason to moan - and most of them do: "Oh it's so unfair they're calling me fat or Welsh or too tall, or too thin, or a Scouser, or too old, too young, a social security scrounger, a rich banker..."
Am I wrong or did I just read about a million fucking words from someone complaining about holding chopsticks in the wrong hand, or something?
We are all eager to portray ourselves as hard done-by. I blame the compensation culture.
We're almost done, I promise.
People will always give each other nicknames, make snide comments and rude remarks or unthinkably ignore the needs of left-handers. But we lefties wouldn't dream of complaining. It wouldn't be right.
End of bollocks.
Hastilow's article caught my eye because I read some utter nonsense from him a few weeks back which was crowned off by the charming sentence of "What's good about the NHS anyway?" Last night, I was intrigued as to who he is/what his background is so I Googled him and H-O-L-Y S-H-I-T.
Google Nigel Hastilow. First thing you see is this:
"People also search for: Enoch Powell"
followed by several articles about him quitting as a Tory (of course) PPC because of his belief that "Enoch Powell was right". You then go onto his Wiki page, which tells us that he's an "active member of the TaxPayers Alliance and a supporter of the Freedom Association".
In short (and I bet he is short as well) Hastilow is mad, bad, and very dangerous to know. How fucking appalling it is that local newspapers are giving him space and money to spew his filthy bile out at us.
Regular readers will be familiar with me analysing stupid letters that have been sent in to my local rag, The Sloppy Star, for many years now, so this blog entry is something an ickle bit different. On Page 8 of yesterday's Slop we have a column written by a man called Mr Nigel Hastilow (more on him later. Much more) which is possibly the worst thing I've ever read. I know I say that every week but, seriously. Let's go:
Complaints by us lefties wouldn't be right
That's the title, and it's one that caught my eye because, based on his previous muck, there's no way this dude is a "leftie".
There's nothing sinister about it. I am left-handed and the world's against me. Who can I sue?
Ah. Left-handed.
It's the ginger-whingers who finally convinced me there must be money in it.
As you read this column, please note one thing - I'm left handed. Yes, I'm left-handed, and even I think this is the shittiest thing I've ever seen since Lord Charles Shitty took a shit on a shitting toilet.
In Milton Keynes.
So, a few people call you carrot-top? Get over it. You really don't know what discrimination's all about. Try being left-handed, cack-handed or simply gauche.
Could you excuse me for a moment?
*taps out unnecessarily long phone number*
HEAVEN: "Thank you for phoning Heaven. For the Big Man Himself, press 1. For a guest, press 2. For a saint, press 3. To be re-directed downstairs, press 666."
HEAVEN: "Thank you for pressing...2...you are now on-hold. Your call is very important to us. Please hold."
They're playing "Abide with Me". Don't you just hate on-hold music?
ST PETER: "Hello?"
ME: "Rosa Parks please. Fifth floor, I believe."
ST PETER: "One moment."
"Little Donkey" now, for fuck sake.
ROSA PARKS: "Hello?"
ME: "Rosa, it's me, Ewar!"
ROSA: "Yes?"
ME: "We met before, a few years ago. I was just wondering if you could tell me your story, you know, the bus one. I love to hear it."
ROSA: "Of course! Well, one day I was sitting on a bus, and, you know, there were awful problems at the time. This was 1950s deep south America, you see, and on the bus there was a "coloured section" and a "white section". A white person wanted to sit in my seat, in the "coloured section", and I refused.
ME: "Hmmm."
ROSA: "Yes?"
ME: "I was just thinking...were you called 'gauche' though?"
ROSA: "What? No!"
ME: "So what do you know about discrimination?"
ROSA: "...."
ME: "I mean, why don't you look up to and revere Nigel Hastilow? Why do you and everyone else discriminate against him, just for being left-handed? Hmm?"
ROSA: "It's not because he's left-handed. It's because he's a fucking cunt."
Fair.
There was a huge fuss recently when Wolverhampton's Laura Payton was given an apology and £150 compensation by the Halifax because she took offence at a bit of a joke about the colour of her hair. Mrs Payton complained a member of staff told her: "I bet your daughter is glad she isn't ginger like you."
Now, OK, maybe this is just me, but I think that's pretty damn appalling. "I bet your daughter is glad she doesn't look like you, you freak"? If someone said that to my wife I'd poke them in the eye. An apology and £150? Good! I'd want that employee sacked as well. Why would you even say that to somebody? I've already laboured this point but "I bet your daughter is glad she isn't black like you" - would that still be "a bit of a joke"?
When I read about this I'm sorry to say I wasn't outraged on Mrs Payton's behalf.
You're not sorry.
It just made me chuckle.
Really? This is probably the unfunniest thing I've ever read in my life, and I've watched "Citizen Khan" AND "My Family". Saying that to a stranger isn't humorous, it's incredibly disrespectful.
But it turns out most of the world's redheads are happy to moan about how badly they were bullied at school and you think: "You're having a laugh." Or, in the words of John McEnroe, one of the world's famous left-handers :"You cannot be serious."
Nigel Hastilow's advice to children who are currently being bullied at school: "Just shut the fuck up."
I have nothing against redheads. Some of my best friends are ginger.
Did we have a sweepstake for how long it'd take for that sentence to get an airing?
Obviously you have to be wary of them, given their notoriously bad tempers.
I'd be wary of the Irish, given their tendencies to gun British people down.
Even so, there can be something distinctly alluring about all that flame-coloured hair. What really isn't on is for this group to complain it's discriminated against. Reddism is nothing compared with leftism, discrimination against left-handers.
(Here comes a really boring bit. Sorry. It does get better later on though.)
The world isn't designed to make life difficult for ginger-nuts but it certainly is for us lefties. We can't even sit at a computer without having to move the mouse from the right hand side of the desk to the left (assuming the wire is long enough) or we have to try manipulating it with our right hands. I'd like to see you right-handers try it left-handed. Institutionalised leftism is rife. For years, I found it completely impossible to use chopsticks. I just couldn't manipulate them in any way which conveyed food to face.
Based on what we'll see later, I'm a little surprised Mr Hastilow eats that foreign muck, but we'll get to that.
Then - and you may say this shows just how slow-witted left-handers must be - one day it occurred to me to try transferring them to my left hand.
And the award for "World's Shittest Anecdote" goes to....
Suddenly a whole new world opened up. The miracle of chopsticks. Why hadn't I tried them in my left hand before?
You're a bit thick?
Because they are laid out for right-handers and the obvious solution to my problem never occurred to me.
As you're clever people you already know that this is bollocks, but take it from me, a leftie - this IS bollocks. If there's a pen to my right, I'm not going to pick it up and try writing with my right hand. I'm going to transfer it to my left. Now either Hastilow is the thickest man EVER, or he's just writing this to fill space and praying that this backs up his point. Not that he has one anyway.
Thick, I know, but we lefties are used to life's little inconveniences. Try, for instance, cutting your fingernails with a pair of scissors using your left hand. It is more or less impossible. Discrimination starts early, of course. When I was at school, they still held to the antediluvian
Great word, I'll give him that.
view that all kids should be right-handed. Lefties were, as the Romans used to say, sinister. So I was taught to play cricket right-handed and kick a football with my right foot. Worse, of course, was the requirement that I should write with my right hand. It was very difficult and my handwriting was awful. We had to submit examples of our work to be assessed by the teachers. Mine were so consistently terrible I took to writing things out secretly with my left hand and then swearing blind it had been done with my right. What a terrible little liar I must have been. But the alternative was to have my work thrown back at me time after time because my (right handed) handwriting was so poor.
That's all very interesting, Nigel, but I don't think that sort of attitude has prevailed in our schools for many years now, so why reference it?
I don't think that sort of attitude has prevailed in our schools for many years now.
Yes.
But unthinking leftism remains a daily difficulty for the 10% of the population blessed with the talent, creativity, and originality to make the best of our unfortunate predicament. Even my dictionary defines left-handed as being "awkward, unlucky, dubious."
A biscuit to anyone who can remember what kicked off this weird little rant in the first place. Wasn't it about a woman being abused in a bank? It's been so long now, I forget.
And if you think a laughable lefty is as bad as a ginger whinger, consider this: Research in America shows that even left-handed surgeons are themselves frightened of being treated by fellow left-handed surgeons - because all their training and equipment is designed for right-handers.
We've still got about four paragraphs of this nonsense left, fucking hell. I'm as bored as you are.
Still, this is not intended to be another moan from a supposedly oppressed minority. Quite the opposite, in fact.
You could have fooled me.
Mrs Payton should have laughed off the Halifax worker's little joke just as rich redheads like Lily Cole or Nicole Kidman should just get over it.
Fuck Nicole Kidman. I'm serious. Aren't you sick of her, constantly whining? I walked out of the cinema halfway through "Moulin Rouge!", such was the frequency of her moaning "Wah wah wah I have red hair, boo hoo everyone fucking hates me".
My advice to Lily Cole and Nicole Kidman - just, like, get over yourselves darlings!
And, whatever inconveniences we lefties have to put up with, you won't find us queuing up at the bank for compensation because all those pens-on-string are positioned for right-handers.
Because A) They extend across for left-handers and B) They don't verbally abuse you.
Yet the prevailing sense of victim-hood knows no bounds. Any group of people can find reason to moan - and most of them do: "Oh it's so unfair they're calling me fat or Welsh or too tall, or too thin, or a Scouser, or too old, too young, a social security scrounger, a rich banker..."
Am I wrong or did I just read about a million fucking words from someone complaining about holding chopsticks in the wrong hand, or something?
We are all eager to portray ourselves as hard done-by. I blame the compensation culture.
We're almost done, I promise.
People will always give each other nicknames, make snide comments and rude remarks or unthinkably ignore the needs of left-handers. But we lefties wouldn't dream of complaining. It wouldn't be right.
End of bollocks.
Hastilow's article caught my eye because I read some utter nonsense from him a few weeks back which was crowned off by the charming sentence of "What's good about the NHS anyway?" Last night, I was intrigued as to who he is/what his background is so I Googled him and H-O-L-Y S-H-I-T.
Google Nigel Hastilow. First thing you see is this:
"People also search for: Enoch Powell"
followed by several articles about him quitting as a Tory (of course) PPC because of his belief that "Enoch Powell was right". You then go onto his Wiki page, which tells us that he's an "active member of the TaxPayers Alliance and a supporter of the Freedom Association".
In short (and I bet he is short as well) Hastilow is mad, bad, and very dangerous to know. How fucking appalling it is that local newspapers are giving him space and money to spew his filthy bile out at us.
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