Boy for Sale
Yep, never finished the travelblogs. I had a good time. Jumped on a plane home, got a headache and farted a lot. Is it a Lee Evans joke where he talks about there always being a wheelchair waiting when you get off a plane and it not being for an elderly or disabled passenger but actually for the guy who opens the door and gets floored by the collective wall of 300 peoples amalgamated farts.
And back to work. My new job is easy and I get to sit on my arse all day interrogating databases and making nice graphs. Easy but boring. Insurance is dull dull dull and I’ve not yet worked out how to keep myself entertained. Maybe I should interrogate the stationary cupboard and make nice hats instead. Taxi for Evennett.
My Dad once told me ‘There’s no money in working for a living, Sunshine. That’s why I never had a go at you for pinching stuff’. Sage like. But he’s right. Work pays the bills but I’m never going to make my millions sitting at a desk. So I have two plans. Firstly (and most importantly) I plan to buy my first property before the end of the year. Not to live in, oh no. I like my rented flat. No this will be a buy to let and the plan is to buy at least one property per year from now on on the same basis. In ten years time I’ll sell up the lot and fuck off to Southend.
Plan two is to set up a little ebay shop. I got my fingers burnt last time I did this by getting caught selling mobility scooters when I worked for Motability and they sacked me. But this time I won’t be trading in competition to my employer. I will however still be working within the mobility market.
To clarify. I Paul John Evennett am also Summerbourne Mobility. I will trade in mobility accessories such as rain capes, scooter covers, fleecy ponchos, walking stick holders (crutch holders ahem), pannier bags and sowesters. All gear I can buy cheap from a reputable specialist wholesaler and hock for profit on the ebay. First delivery expected by the end of next week. All profits to go towards deposits on future properties (after I buy a PS3 and a ticket to New Zealand and 4 new celestions and a new Dyson and a digital video camera and aaarrrggghhh).
“Summerbourne”. I made up the name to sound like a care home or a safe sunny old village somewhere in Wiltshire. The kind of place that the elderly trust, a family business run by a caring older couple and their live at home 40 something son called Nigel. Nigel, incidentally, never quite shaves all the stubble from beneath his nose and smells like raw meat because he only has a bath on Sundays. He also has a secret porn addiction and fantasises about Essex Mothers spreading their flappy wares and jiggling a floury bap. Mum and Dad no longer complain about the stench of death which emanates from his room in the annex but secretly worry that he’s started torturing kittens again. Still “Summerbourne”. Like a care home. Get it. Safe and Trustworthy.
I’ve started hitting the booze quite heavily again. For the time being I’m in control but I know that in a few weeks I’ll have to call it a day again. Either that or the bags under my eyes will draw and darken and my temper will shorten and my money will disappear in direct proportion to my memory. I don’t want sympathy, just fags. I’ve not had one all week. I’ve had three Stellas since I typed Boy for Sale up there at the top and can no longer remember why. Obviously it’s a Simpsons reference but what else could I have meant? Why can’t I moon people via my words? Or windmill for that matter?
Cricket. What toss. Vaughan should eat his one head. Oh diners arrived. Tonight I have a spicy bean burger in a bun. Thank you Lisa. The chestnut mushrooms are there for a bit of oomph apparently. But cricket. Vaughan should shit his leg off and feed it to the cold corpse of Bob Woolmer. By all means let him dib dab and nurdle away for a well earned 30 from 480 balls for a draw on the last day of a test but that was the World Cup he just burped on.
Bored now.
And back to work. My new job is easy and I get to sit on my arse all day interrogating databases and making nice graphs. Easy but boring. Insurance is dull dull dull and I’ve not yet worked out how to keep myself entertained. Maybe I should interrogate the stationary cupboard and make nice hats instead. Taxi for Evennett.
My Dad once told me ‘There’s no money in working for a living, Sunshine. That’s why I never had a go at you for pinching stuff’. Sage like. But he’s right. Work pays the bills but I’m never going to make my millions sitting at a desk. So I have two plans. Firstly (and most importantly) I plan to buy my first property before the end of the year. Not to live in, oh no. I like my rented flat. No this will be a buy to let and the plan is to buy at least one property per year from now on on the same basis. In ten years time I’ll sell up the lot and fuck off to Southend.
Plan two is to set up a little ebay shop. I got my fingers burnt last time I did this by getting caught selling mobility scooters when I worked for Motability and they sacked me. But this time I won’t be trading in competition to my employer. I will however still be working within the mobility market.
To clarify. I Paul John Evennett am also Summerbourne Mobility. I will trade in mobility accessories such as rain capes, scooter covers, fleecy ponchos, walking stick holders (crutch holders ahem), pannier bags and sowesters. All gear I can buy cheap from a reputable specialist wholesaler and hock for profit on the ebay. First delivery expected by the end of next week. All profits to go towards deposits on future properties (after I buy a PS3 and a ticket to New Zealand and 4 new celestions and a new Dyson and a digital video camera and aaarrrggghhh).
“Summerbourne”. I made up the name to sound like a care home or a safe sunny old village somewhere in Wiltshire. The kind of place that the elderly trust, a family business run by a caring older couple and their live at home 40 something son called Nigel. Nigel, incidentally, never quite shaves all the stubble from beneath his nose and smells like raw meat because he only has a bath on Sundays. He also has a secret porn addiction and fantasises about Essex Mothers spreading their flappy wares and jiggling a floury bap. Mum and Dad no longer complain about the stench of death which emanates from his room in the annex but secretly worry that he’s started torturing kittens again. Still “Summerbourne”. Like a care home. Get it. Safe and Trustworthy.
I’ve started hitting the booze quite heavily again. For the time being I’m in control but I know that in a few weeks I’ll have to call it a day again. Either that or the bags under my eyes will draw and darken and my temper will shorten and my money will disappear in direct proportion to my memory. I don’t want sympathy, just fags. I’ve not had one all week. I’ve had three Stellas since I typed Boy for Sale up there at the top and can no longer remember why. Obviously it’s a Simpsons reference but what else could I have meant? Why can’t I moon people via my words? Or windmill for that matter?
Cricket. What toss. Vaughan should eat his one head. Oh diners arrived. Tonight I have a spicy bean burger in a bun. Thank you Lisa. The chestnut mushrooms are there for a bit of oomph apparently. But cricket. Vaughan should shit his leg off and feed it to the cold corpse of Bob Woolmer. By all means let him dib dab and nurdle away for a well earned 30 from 480 balls for a draw on the last day of a test but that was the World Cup he just burped on.
Bored now.