Monday, February 07, 2005

Plank smacks and pint procrastinations….

It’s great to see young Corneilious back on the blogging job as it were, after an all too long absence. Were I a resident of some far-flung land I would think that the people he describes are the feverish fabrications of a frenzied me they are all too real. Another electronic cohort, Steve Plume of sausage fans (no, it’s not that type of site), alerted me to this fine source of ‘anti-valentine’s’ e-cards with such messages as "It’s ok, I didn’t need that particular ventricle anyway" and "You'll do".

Anyway, knowing I would find myself at the computer at about fucking five in the morning to try and get something done before this afternoon, I was particularly garrulous to my bar customers last night. It was Super bowl Sunday and some rugby thing’s also on, oh and the Spanish football. There is something bizarre and hilarious about the look of the average straight male barfly who finds out you DON’T LIKE SPORT! It’s like 'burn the witch' time! They say things like ‘your lot did well yesterday’ and I’d go ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, is it football or rugby or something..?’ an inevitable silence follows and then they say ‘It’s the SIX NATIONS!!’. I’m like ‘fuck you! I don’t make you watch Buckaroo Banzai or The Prisoner or something, so don’t foist your bizarre 'men-running-after-balls' interests on me.

Anyway, I’d rather serve a hundred pints to those goons than serve the type of person who spends an inordinate amount of time deciding what to drink from the following (self-prescribed) options:
1. half pint of orange juice or
2. half pint of soda water with lime or
3. half pint of soda water with blackcurrant or
4. just a half pint of soda water.

This isn’t a life-changing decision by any standards, yet the facial expressions of such people is normally that of some mythical or religious character deciding which of their offspring to eviscerate. We’re talking here of things that cost between .00p and .60p. Plus why are they so miserable? They’re in a pub. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but being in pubs is fun. I forget I’m in England, where the look on blokes’ faces when they choose their solitary pint of weak ale is like that of a condemned man choosing his execution option.

Worse than the costumers who have crippling beverage-based indecision problems, are those that seem to have indecision about being in third-level education at all. I’ve wanted to lecture and write about films ever since I knew the job existed. Not as dramatic as "As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster..." but pretty damn close—I haven’t yet got to drive around with Joe Pesci and a corpse though (although with job competition in academia these days, who knows).

Anyway, these wistful mooks come up to the bar and say things like: "I did my degree and masters here and just thought I might as well do a PhD, seeing as I’m here and that". Fuck! That’s like saying "I just sort of found myself in a lumber yard and started to hit myself over the head with a plank, and as I spent four years smacking myself in the face with a bit of wood, I thought I might as well just keep smacking myself in the face with a fucking plank for another four years...while trying to decide what mediocre beverage I want".

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