Despite having had to wade through a ream of offers and licensing requests for my previous invention, the Tubet, I am willing to share another.
As I wander around, I am sometimes distressed by those poor souls, huddled in doorways with a lighter and a makeshift, Coke-can crack-pipe. I think you’ll agree that it’s troubling and more than a little depressing. Inspired to do something to better this situation, I happened upon a simple solution:
The Crackmonica
It’s a crack-pipe with a built in harmonica. In this way, the user can play a cheery tune as he or she gets off his or her face. Granted, draw notes would be more in evidence than blow notes, but a tune could still be managed.
And, with the addition of an upturned hat (not included) on the ground, the Crackmonica player can earn some busking money for later fixes.
Sweet Jesus, this month is dragging. My last month of work, you see. Working my notice, counting the days, hours, minutes to the 31st of July. Then it’s over. The nightmare that has been my time with my current employer will be at an end. Perhaps when I’m out of legal range, I’ll regale you with more detailed tales of work-woe. Perhaps not though - you’re not interested and I’d rather forget the wasted years.
So then, at the end of the month, I’ll be gone and a big chunk of virtual-cash will be transferred to my bank account. I’ve given some thought to my options:
- Get another job immediately and invest the cash wisely.
- Blow it all on sweets and bubblegum.
- Buy a motorcycle and travel around the country helping people. Sort of like a two-wheeled Littlest Hobo.
- Eke out a frugal existence and stretch the money as much as possible while desperately trying to think of ways, legal or otherwise, of earning a steady income without having to do the rat-race thing. A bit like Hugh Fearnly-Whittingstall but with less offal and fewer book and television deals.
Obviously 1 is right out. Ditto, 2. Number 3 has a certain attraction so I’m not ruling it out completely. Number 4 however is the main contender at this stage.
As you can imagine, this decision finds Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers beside herself with joy as well as fully behind me - sort of a co-location, happy/support thing.
Dear god. While flicking through the channels, I just found Celine Dion singing, in thigh-high boots, a cover of George Harrison’s ‘Something’, as Joe Walsh plays guitar.
So many things wrong. So many things
Still though, thigh-high boots…
How truly beautiful is this film? Just found it again, showing on one of the C/E/More 4’s. There are not enough good things to say about it. I believe there are those that dislike the film. I can only assume they are morons.
How truly beautiful is Audrey Tautou as Amélie? All innocence and prurient purity (yes, I’m a bit pissed again - big deal). All immense, inky eyes and slightly dodgy bob. She’s very talented too. Not quite sure why she got involved with the arse-stained wet-wipe that was The da Vinci Code. I can only guess that Ron Howard seduced her with his ginger fingers and tales of talking pies.
Beautiful.
The builders are in.
Perdition Inc. are refurbishing the large office area just next door to my area. The usual residents of the to-be-refurbisehd area have all been shoe-horned into other areas for the duration of the work.
This project leaves me with a dilemma. Should I continue to use the toilet located in builders’ ground-zero or should I go to the toilet downstairs?
My usual toilet will now be frequented by those here to do the work and bitter experience has taught me that builder-poo is none too pleasant. On the other hand, the downstairs toilet loses points by being downstairs and farther away. Also, the evidence seems to suggest that, on a nightly basis, someone goes there and stuffs a handful of human hair into the hand dryer.
So then, the smell of builder-poo or of burning hair?
I have news. Big news. For me.
My boss called me into his office for a chat a few days back. Out of the blue, he told me that there are a limited number of voluntary redundancy packages now available and asked if I would be interested in availing of one.
Now, despite the fact that I despise my employers with a passion that is difficult to express, and despite the fact that for the last two years I have wandered about the place saying, “Jesus Christ, I wish I could be made redundant”, my first reaction was to be slightly offended. What had I done to be singled out for this? Why me? Are you saying I’m not doing a good job?
After this initial shock however, I came to my senses and said I’d give it some thought. I didn’t need to, but I did need to discuss it with Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers. She, having barely persuaded me, one Sunday three months ago, not to go in the following morning and resign, wholeheartedly agreed that I should take the money and run.
And run I shall.
Under Operation Bad Apple, I will receive a wad of cash just to go away and stop bothering good employees with my negative vibes. I’m happy. My boss is happy (as he’s currently paying me one twelfth of a wad of cash every month to do very little). Everyone’s a winner. Having done some sums with a clever bloke from the financial company responsible for handling my employer’s many financial doings, I am happy with my Bad Apple Bonus. Papers have been signed (by me) and will be countersigned by the company tomorrow. Barring any nastyness, I will be a free agent come the end of July. Hurrah and huzzah! As mentioned in the title, I have made up the Redundo-Jig. It’s a sight to behold.
I have a worry that it’s all a trick though; a nasty ploy to break my will. Like in that film where the Russians told a prisoner he was going home, let him have a wash and shave, gave him back his civvies and walked him to the gate only to then drag him back to his cell.
I wouldn’t put it past them.
I know. I haven’t been posting much lately. There’s no real reason other than the fact that I didn’t really have anything to say. What can I do? I’m not going to start posting stuff that’s even more bland and dull than the usual shite just to have something to post. This dedication to the, albeit rather low, levels of quality that I’ve set is, I think, commendable.
I am profoundly conscious of my lack of posting however. I feel I should be doing something here. I just don’t have anything. Even a Saturday night, fueled by beers and chilli, without my wife and daughter hasn’t inspired anything of interest - only a post, ironically enough, about not having anything to post about.
Incidentally, in a couple of days, I probably will have something of interest to say (to me at least). It’s all still on the hush-hush though. I’ve already said too much.
Now that I think of it, even that’s not interesting to anybody else. I guess that now, I’m a real blogger. I blog, therefore I am. Vindicate me. Please.
And Bowie just came on the telly. How much does he rock? Let me count the ways.
I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits. I’m going to see Tom Waits.
Granted, it’s in a bloody tent in the bloody Phoenix Park and I’m in bloody Row ZZ, Block 99 or something. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to see Tom Waits. Am I allowed an “all fucking righty”?
Granted also, there are some insanely draconian restrictions on the tickets in an attempt to stop touting:
Only two per person and the purchaser has to bring a passport or driving licence to the gig so they can match your name to that on the tickets. Jesus! All are completely non-transferable so I’d better not get sick or something. There may be fingerprinting and DNA sampling. It’s like Gattaca or something.
Still, I’m going to see Tom Waits.
Someone bumped into me in the canteen and sploshed a good portion of my freshly made Earl Grey over the back of my hand. As the only way to properly drink Earl Grey is sans milk, it was pretty damn hot. I now have sore and scalded fingers.
While I am tough and manly enough to just put up with this, I thought of my fellow customers and decided to have a word with the manager of the place. We talked on the health and safety issues at length and, after considerable discussion, and a threat of legal action on my part, they have agreed that boiling water will only be served at 36.8°C, thereby significantly reducing the risk of accidental scalding.
It may take my colleagues some time to get used to body-temperature tea but I think they’ll eventually agree that it’s a small price to pay for the additional safety benefits.
ScriptFrenzy ended on 30th April. I’m sure that you’re all on the edge of your tenterhooks wondering if I managed to finish. Wonder no more. I did. I now have a feature-length script sitting on my hard drive.
One hundred and one pages completed within the allocated thirty days. I am now fully sanctioned to display the ‘winner’ badge on my website or blog and to wander around with a smug, self-satisfied expression.
Of course, the main problem is that I stopped liking what I was writing at somewhere around page 55. I’m not sure if this was because I was lazy, tired, dejected, slightly peckish, or what, but I know that the second half of my script was a real hassle. I know that there is a kernel of a good idea at the heart of the story and I may well just put it aside for a month and come back with fresh eyes and mind, and some biscuits, for a read-through. Possibly there’s something I can salvage. We’ll see.
It was a useful exercise though. I’m glad I did it, even if the script itself is shite and even if Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers got a bit stroppy about my ‘not spending enough time with her’ for the month. Women, eh? I’m going to write her in as some sort of hideous crone in my next project. That’ll learn her.
