Thursday, June 29, 2006

June 29 (Thursday) – World Cup Day 21

These days are sent to test us. Last night was heavy but I don’t feel bad for it, I don’t feel hung-over or necessarily tired out for that matter. Racton on the other hand emails telling me how he is suffering and is still able to taste cheap spirits on his breath. Nice.

Today is hella chock-a-block at work. The month is all but ended and I am still plugging away with only two days remaining within which to still get a fair bit of work finished off. And I still don’t feel well with it, the people at work tell me that they think I may have tonsillitis – unlikely but I’m happy to milk it for what it is worth.

At lunchtime we head out en-mass to the world famous Mike’s Café sat opposite Hugh Grant’s travel bookshop from the Notting Hill movie (which is real life is not next to the school – the fuckers from Hollywood performed an illusion and moved it). Is it a poor show to eat gammon steak in front of Jewish people? Regardless I am bought an amazing slice of chocolate cake for desert. High times.

The day ends well as the Latitude Festival blag comes through and the word on tickets is officially “no problem”. Rejoice!

Despite the good news, by the time I arrive home I am not the happiest person in England. Are Thursdays worse than Mondays? Sometimes to me they are. Friday afternoons are melancholy and Thursdays are pretty damn too close to that for comfort. Thursdays are indeed the new Friday.

Tonight I arrive home, probably late – fucking trains! I’m not happy, I am hot, I am sweaty and there is no food in my cupboards. So this is perhaps not the most choice time for 3G Mobile to be cold calling me. At first when the phone rings I think it is a real person. Obviously its not a friend calling my landline so thoughts move towards my parents calling me at home – is something up? Is either of them ill? Is the dog OK? Instead there is a brief buzz of a call made inhumane and suddenly on the line there is some idiot from some hole in Asia mispronouncing my surname, trying to sell me a new mobile phone contract in 3G’s usual patronising and aggressive manner. What the fuck gives? 3G Mobile spam called me four times last summer, always with a sticky ending and I am registered on rather efficient TPS scheme. These calls never get off to good start when some guy sounding like a stereotype from a racist seventies sitcom goes “is Mr Grar-Ham there?”. As usual I play thick and ignorant until I make the piece of shit say me name correctly with a limited amount of respect. For my amusement I usually string these calls out for as long as possible up until the point where they begin asking for my bank details – how personal, a true violation. Tonight when I begin messing the guy about around the time he begins requesting my bank details he puts me onto his supervisor who begins to condescend me, telling me how I have agreed to a new 3G mobile and that I now need to give over my bank details as if my life depends on it. Considering I have been grunted down the phone for the past five minutes, I really don’t feel I have agreed to anything legally. I get really arsey with this guy who is more than a sheer minion, attempting to razz me with pukka English terms as if to say “see, I am one of yous, guy”. Unfortunately however when he accuses me of wasting their/his time that is like showing a red rag to a bull and out come the expletives – “me waste your time? You’re wasting my fucking time!” which gets coupled with “how fucking dare you call me up” and suddenly I am in rant mode, a rare aggressive me that rarely gets shown/seen in public. I tell him I am registered with TPS and that he really should not be calling. This fact doesn’t appear to impress him at this point so when I begin telling him to “fuck off” Mr Telesalesman Supervisor loses his cool and throws his English manners manual book out of the window and in his little Asian voice he tells ME to “fuck off”. YES! I actually pushed the guy over the edge. That’ll teach him/them to phone me. I really am a total cunt sometimes.


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