Wednesday Joy

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So, sluggishly pushing aside the ageing ex-army blankets I entered the world as fresh as a daisy, albeit one that had experienced a very rough night. After a gallon of coffee I headed for what I refer to these days as 'work.' I clambered aboard the rusting bike and headed down the pavement towards the corner thirty yards from my door. I sniffed the air, I noticed the sun, I appreciated the warmth on my feeble body, I observed the bright blue of the sky, I ran into three policemen!
Just as I reached the corner three of the boys in blue (well one was female but often it's hard to tell isn't it?) arrived at the same time as I, and I met them head on! I suddenly forgot everything and the conversation, which was was polite, almost friendly, as I blabbered stupidly while they beat the life out of me. "Just for practice you understand," said the leader, an experienced and possibly senior, officer. I gathered the remains of my limbs, thanked them profusely for not giving me the ticket, three tickets one suggested, and raced off slowly to 'work.'


Entering in my usual cheery manner I greeted the two ladies sitting at reception, the sour faced bint I noticed was not there today, possibly at home practising her early menopause I suspect, and greeted the men in the warehouse in similar cheery manner. They as yet do not comprehend me as others do so there were no remarks informing me where I could place my cheeriness, there was however a bad air. This is partly caused by the drain near the door, it is mostly caused by the bad news. This news I heard last week, the place is closing down! The company, who have only recently moved here, have decided to 'outsource' their warehouse. 'Outsource' is another way of saying 'getting another to do it cheaper.' There is no doubt the warehouse is a bit of a muddle, and there is no surprise that money is a problem after their recent move here. However while several of the boys will find work elsewhere, many are 'agency temps' anyway, others will end up like me, old and unwanted! Naturally the 'suits' are saying little. If they could it would make things worse, and as it is a 'suits' mindset not to say anything unless it is required, nothing is said. Result, no-one is sure of anything!
When I started I noticed a problem, now understanding it I feel bad for the ones that will lose out. The whole operation is planned for a week or two ahead, yet silence is what is heard, an no news is indeed bad news for morale!. Two weeks before they become unemployed, unwanted and kicked out onto the street, while po-faced receptionist will most likely keep her face furrowed on the four days she actually shows up.
This of course means my job will end, and I do not know when! Marvellous! I sit here with limbs aching because no pretty girl will massage them for me, debts so high George Osbourne (the Chancellor) has offered to help me budget (No thanks Georgie!) and an energy loss that equals that of a Rangers player called upon to represent Scotland!
Still, as I always say, it could be worse, I could be English!

After reading this I may go in for an 'Idiot of the week' award, well I would but I might win it myself of course. This idiot was forced by his screaming wife and terrified kids to act the 'hero.' His job was to get the spider from behind the loo and remove it, or the family would be constipated by dawn!
Now normal folk would get a bit of card and chase the brute from it's (is it male or female and how do you tell?) hiding place. Not our hero. Maybe it is because it was late,maybe it is because he is an IT expert and more used to staring at spiders on the web (get it?), or possibly it was because he lives in Clacton (IT expert in Clacton?) where stiletto heels and ankle chains still abound among the Essex Girls there, but our hero went for the dramatic solution. He fired an aerosol spray, some sort of deodorant (BRUT probably) and then, for reasons of his own, lit a cigarette lighter to see if the spider had gone.
Naturally it exploded!
Burns to fingers, ambulance to hospital, 'Daily Mail' for photograph. (And how come this is in the 'Daily Mail' I ask? Do you get paid for blowing yourself up stupidly these days?). A small story to show that the stupidity of the Essex Man never dies, even when an IT expert!


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