Bum Neck
By unpopular demand, I’m back. Well, first things first, goodbye Piers Morgan, won’t be missing you at all you muthafuckin cunt! Shame you couldn’t take your crap paper with you [The Daily Retard].
Well I’ve been somewhat busy lately. I’m GMing 2 separate vampire groups in medieval cologne. Both are causing mayhem and fun in equal measure. I had forgotten how splendidly Machiavellian Vampire can be [shenanigans and chaos theory]. I’ve also started CAB training which I hope updates my skills. I haven’t worked since Sep 02 and my housing and welfare advice skills are a bit rusty. I’m meant to be starting a new job working as a Homelessness Investigator on Monday [£10/hour] but I’ve decided that I’m not going to turn up now. I think it’s meant to be sunny tomorrow and I forgot that it’s my birthday. One simply can’t start a new job on one’s birthday. I keep forgetting my birthday these days. Ummm, wonder why that is?
Actually I would like to find a job soon. Plymouth is shite for good jobs but I’m due some luck apparently. How do I know this you ask? Easy I say. I was walking to the gym a few weeks ago when a seagull shat on my head, actually on my bald patch to be exact. I had just taken off my baseball cap as well. Apparently being hit by bird shit is meant to be lucky. Bollox is it. It’s humiliating and it hurts. If you’ve ever been hit by something hot and acrid, you’ll know what I mean. And on my bald patch, it’s like adding insult to injury, salt to a wound [get the picture?]. Lucky for the seagull maybe, but not for me!
Speaking of pain. Every year I go for a well person check-up and ten days ago I went for the usual routine blood test. I’m beginning to think that nursey doesn’t like me very much because she really screwed my arm up. After the check-up, bruising began spreading up and down my arm from the needle wound and it scared the fuck out of me. Over the last few years, I’ve developed some irrational fears, mainly of flying and injections. Initially these fears were not based on any personal experience. Well in part, they are now! I think nursey tried to kill me with a Tetanus injection last summer [my blood pressure went off the scale], then my GP refused to accept that I had a chest infection for 10 weeks last winter and then casually informed me that X-rays showed that I had [whoops, pleurisy, sorry]. Now this. Current mood - fuckin alarmed.
Speaking of crap jobs, here’s a disturbing memory for you. I was once in her majesty’s army. Didn’t do that well really but then I was only 16 or 17. In a previous entry, I talked about the confidential reports from WWII that indicated that only 2% of combat soldiers actually killed an enemy combatant. I don’t think the report was far wrong. Most of us were not professional killers. In fact we were incompetent morons. Example, one day we were on the parade ground doing drill with bayonets attached to our rifles. It was the first time we had practiced with sharp pointy things. Unfortunately I hadn’t attached mine properly and it fell off backwards and stuck in the back of my leg. I felt such a twat as they carted me off to hospital. A week later we had our second practice with sharp pointy things. Although I spent ages making sure the bayonet was attached firmly this time, I didn’t trust myself and whenever we were standing still, I made sure that the rifle was well away from me just to be on the safe side. Unfortunately I angled it out a little to far and before I had chance to react, matey next to me had raised his arm up and then brought it down smack bang on top of my bayonet. As he pulled away, my bayonet was still stuck in his elbow. As they carted him off to hospital, I could have died. I was so embarrassed. It just wasn’t meant to be. I still remember my army number though.
I’ve just remembered something else …. when the army realised I was leaving, for my last few days, they billeted me in a wing of the block away from the rest of the troop. On the last night, I went out for a piss up with the lads. I was given everything under the sun [mainly Tequila and Pernot & Black]. Suffice to say, I woke up during the night with an imminent puke attack but I was miles from the bogs so I barfed in the nearest thing [an empty wardrobe next to the bed]. Then I barfed again, and again, and again, and then stopped, and then I started again, and again. As I was leaving a few hours later, I simply shut the cupboard door and left it there; a steaming stinking pile of blackcurrant-flavoured puke. My very last act before they released me was to attend the Regimental Sergeant-Major’s office. This was their last attempt to change my mind about leaving. For those of you who don’t know, an RSM is the main God-like man in any unit and usually very scary. Before they sent me in to his office, they made me wait in a stationery room for twenty minutes or so. They did this so that other squadies didn’t see me leaving in case it made them want to leave too. Eventually they called me into the RSM’s office. He was gentle at first and then got very nasty because I wouldn’t change my mind about leaving. He went on about me being a failure, useless, even questioned my sexuality I think. I was scared but I couldn’t change my mind. He kept on shouting and all I could think about was the steaming pile of puke in the cupboard and the fact that my pockets were now stuffed with rulers, pens, paper clips, rubbers, pencils, staplers, staples etc. For some inexplicable reason, I thought it would be a great idea to nick the stuff. Fuck knows what I was thinking about because I had no use for it at the time. Anyway, I’ve still got some of it now and it still gets used. I suppose it wasn’t a complete waste of my time after all, was it?
Well time to go
Ps Before I go, just remembered a funny story by Mark McCann. When he was a kid, his local grocer had to have an operation on his neck. Skin was taken from his bum and grafted onto his neck. When they found this out, Mark and his mates started calling the bloke ‘Bum Neck’. My kind of humour, cruel but funny.
Well I’ve been somewhat busy lately. I’m GMing 2 separate vampire groups in medieval cologne. Both are causing mayhem and fun in equal measure. I had forgotten how splendidly Machiavellian Vampire can be [shenanigans and chaos theory]. I’ve also started CAB training which I hope updates my skills. I haven’t worked since Sep 02 and my housing and welfare advice skills are a bit rusty. I’m meant to be starting a new job working as a Homelessness Investigator on Monday [£10/hour] but I’ve decided that I’m not going to turn up now. I think it’s meant to be sunny tomorrow and I forgot that it’s my birthday. One simply can’t start a new job on one’s birthday. I keep forgetting my birthday these days. Ummm, wonder why that is?
Actually I would like to find a job soon. Plymouth is shite for good jobs but I’m due some luck apparently. How do I know this you ask? Easy I say. I was walking to the gym a few weeks ago when a seagull shat on my head, actually on my bald patch to be exact. I had just taken off my baseball cap as well. Apparently being hit by bird shit is meant to be lucky. Bollox is it. It’s humiliating and it hurts. If you’ve ever been hit by something hot and acrid, you’ll know what I mean. And on my bald patch, it’s like adding insult to injury, salt to a wound [get the picture?]. Lucky for the seagull maybe, but not for me!
Speaking of pain. Every year I go for a well person check-up and ten days ago I went for the usual routine blood test. I’m beginning to think that nursey doesn’t like me very much because she really screwed my arm up. After the check-up, bruising began spreading up and down my arm from the needle wound and it scared the fuck out of me. Over the last few years, I’ve developed some irrational fears, mainly of flying and injections. Initially these fears were not based on any personal experience. Well in part, they are now! I think nursey tried to kill me with a Tetanus injection last summer [my blood pressure went off the scale], then my GP refused to accept that I had a chest infection for 10 weeks last winter and then casually informed me that X-rays showed that I had [whoops, pleurisy, sorry]. Now this. Current mood - fuckin alarmed.
Speaking of crap jobs, here’s a disturbing memory for you. I was once in her majesty’s army. Didn’t do that well really but then I was only 16 or 17. In a previous entry, I talked about the confidential reports from WWII that indicated that only 2% of combat soldiers actually killed an enemy combatant. I don’t think the report was far wrong. Most of us were not professional killers. In fact we were incompetent morons. Example, one day we were on the parade ground doing drill with bayonets attached to our rifles. It was the first time we had practiced with sharp pointy things. Unfortunately I hadn’t attached mine properly and it fell off backwards and stuck in the back of my leg. I felt such a twat as they carted me off to hospital. A week later we had our second practice with sharp pointy things. Although I spent ages making sure the bayonet was attached firmly this time, I didn’t trust myself and whenever we were standing still, I made sure that the rifle was well away from me just to be on the safe side. Unfortunately I angled it out a little to far and before I had chance to react, matey next to me had raised his arm up and then brought it down smack bang on top of my bayonet. As he pulled away, my bayonet was still stuck in his elbow. As they carted him off to hospital, I could have died. I was so embarrassed. It just wasn’t meant to be. I still remember my army number though.
I’ve just remembered something else …. when the army realised I was leaving, for my last few days, they billeted me in a wing of the block away from the rest of the troop. On the last night, I went out for a piss up with the lads. I was given everything under the sun [mainly Tequila and Pernot & Black]. Suffice to say, I woke up during the night with an imminent puke attack but I was miles from the bogs so I barfed in the nearest thing [an empty wardrobe next to the bed]. Then I barfed again, and again, and again, and then stopped, and then I started again, and again. As I was leaving a few hours later, I simply shut the cupboard door and left it there; a steaming stinking pile of blackcurrant-flavoured puke. My very last act before they released me was to attend the Regimental Sergeant-Major’s office. This was their last attempt to change my mind about leaving. For those of you who don’t know, an RSM is the main God-like man in any unit and usually very scary. Before they sent me in to his office, they made me wait in a stationery room for twenty minutes or so. They did this so that other squadies didn’t see me leaving in case it made them want to leave too. Eventually they called me into the RSM’s office. He was gentle at first and then got very nasty because I wouldn’t change my mind about leaving. He went on about me being a failure, useless, even questioned my sexuality I think. I was scared but I couldn’t change my mind. He kept on shouting and all I could think about was the steaming pile of puke in the cupboard and the fact that my pockets were now stuffed with rulers, pens, paper clips, rubbers, pencils, staplers, staples etc. For some inexplicable reason, I thought it would be a great idea to nick the stuff. Fuck knows what I was thinking about because I had no use for it at the time. Anyway, I’ve still got some of it now and it still gets used. I suppose it wasn’t a complete waste of my time after all, was it?
Well time to go
Ps Before I go, just remembered a funny story by Mark McCann. When he was a kid, his local grocer had to have an operation on his neck. Skin was taken from his bum and grafted onto his neck. When they found this out, Mark and his mates started calling the bloke ‘Bum Neck’. My kind of humour, cruel but funny.