Wednesday, January 05, 2011

We Really Are all Doomed

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-12119539

Everywhere you look it's gloom and gloomier. If it's not the growing number of bankruptcies, then it's the coldest winter since Moses parted the Red Sea or the increasing price of everything from cotton to Kit Kats... It's the end of the world and I don't really feel that fine. Couple this all with the fact that Britain is slowly succumbing to a flu epidemic; the cost of everything else that isn't affected by the global food shortage is going up and that gurning twot Cameron telling us we all have to pull together and its never been grimmer to be British.

My boss told me today that he was impressed by my sanguine and quite reticent attitude towards the impending redundancies (read: my impending redundancy) and other crap that's queuing up to destroy us all and I had to be brutally honest. It's shit, but if we spend the remainder of our lives sitting around whinging about the future then we might as well just give up now and slash our wrists. Of course, it's mainly just us, the Europeans and the Yanks that are feeling the pinch. Countries like China, Brazil and even India are barely noticing this so-called global crisis; it's only a global crisis because the western world says it is.

It's a bit like when I used to work in comics - as far as comics magazines were concerned the comics world revolved around the USA. Spider-Man sold an average 100,000 copies a month, when in Brazil comics such as Monica's Gang and its 12 other spin-offs sell in excess of 3,000,000 a week! Or the fact that in Japan a comic selling 100,000 was deemed a failure; or that in any developing country comics were considerably bigger business than they would ever be in the USA. India has a bigger consumer base for comics than the USA - yes, it has more people, but the USA is completely and utterly ignorant of the fact that just about everywhere in the world has a bigger comics industry than them. A good analogy would be for the BBC to focus all its attention on Rounders, claiming that it is the biggest sport in the world and the most important. The US comics industry reminds me in a weird way of Born Again Christians (or any fundamentalist religious twat) in that their God is the only god and everyone else is some kind of infidel. BACs seem to be the ones I identify with the most because I know some and I was once christian (by birth and certificate and with a small c); they seem to think it should be a sin to not believe in god and more of a sin if you happen to believe in some other religious groups' god. My colleagues and I came in for a lot of stick from Born Again American Comics Wankers back in Borderline's day because we dared to suggest that there were actually 250 times the number of comics fans in the world who didn't give a shit about the fucking X-Men and didn't think Jim Lee walked on water or could shag 200 women satisfactorily at the same time while pleasuring the egos of precious fucking comics fans... But, guess what, I'm digressing. While comics fans would like to believe that they hold the key to the future of the world; they hold the key to a locker full of superhero porn comics and a large roll of Andrex...

I fully expect countries like ours to be considered 3rd world by the time Tiger Economies have become the norm. I mean, come on, we're a small island with fuck all going for it in a world where some people are happy to work for peanuts producing ishit for the old and new idle rich. How long before someone in this country realises that we have no future whatsoever and the world is actually run by a man called Chang from the back of a takeaway in Singapore?

How much do you earn a year? Think about it. Think about your kids, your mortgage, your expenses, the cost of your life. Reconcile this to the fact that the late Gerry Rafferty received £80,000 a year from the royalties on Baker Street alone and he pissed the majority of that up a Yeovil wall. If you or I had £80k a year, I'm sure we'd be happy to be quite well off; but we don't. We don't sit around our paid for homes, getting smashed out of skulls on our drug of choice because we've written the words or music for something that is popular. We might contribute a lot to this world; we might be the fucking cogs that make this part of the big machine go round, but unless we can write a hit song, or a book, or be half talented, have huge tits or be in the right place at the right time, then we're fucked. The best we can expect is a shag on a Saturday night, a few pints now and then and a visit to our favourite restaurant or takeaway whenever the coffers allow it. Even someone like me, with no kids and supposedly more disposable income than most might as well shoot myself now and have done with it.

Most of us are just plebs; schleps who do a job and hope that we have some money left before the next pay cheque comes in. There are people out there who might have worked hard for what they have, but because we don't work in a meritocracy, they get considerably more than we'll ever get for providing something that doesn't enable the world to go around. If the entertainment industry disappeared tomorrow, we might get a bit bored from time to time, but equally we might shag and go for long walks and talk to each other a bit more; but we wouldn't die - would we? Yes, it would be boring, but it wouldn't cause mass death. Yet there are arseholes of champion proportions earning more money in the blink of a gnat's eye than we'll ever see in our lifetimes. Or there are ignorant excuses for humanity playing football or some other pointless sport who will earn more money tying their shoelaces up than you or I will earn if we live to be 300.

We, my friends, are witnessing the end of civilisation as we know it; from out of this will come a horde of cretins not fit to wipe our collective anuses; people that will be able to sit there and make you want to gouge your own eyes out with frozen earthworms as they waffle on about how fucking brilliant they are at being a tosser. And the weather is shite...

God, I fucking hate everything at times.

Tuesday, January 04, 2011

Do you Ocelot?

With the realistic threat of redundancy hanging over my head, I return to work tomorrow after 3½ months of doing nothing. If estimates are correct, I should be looking at joining the dole queue some point in March, possibly sooner, unless, of course, I manage to find suitable alternative employment. Obviously, finding a job over Christmas is as difficult as attempting to get Karen Carpenter to resurrect herself in your flower beds and I noticed that the once bulging job pages in the local paper had shrunk like a small penis attached to an under-endowed boy swimming in the sea. It seems that there aren't that many jobs about and one must wonder what chances I have of securing anything after 21 months of pretty crappy physical health. I'd say my chances are a bit like my health - pretty crappy.

Still, mustn't grumble. I might be dead. Or a Tory. Or both.

Roger said to me just after Christmas to come up with an idea that will make us lots of money and he'd see to it that it happens. Well, I've had an idea and, amazingly, it's a sensible one. The problem is we might both have starved to death by the time it is practical to set into motion.

It's weird; I always think of potential Christmas presents the week after the event and I've just had a perfectly sound money making idea just after the most opportune period. Well, when I say money making, it isn't, but it has the potential to make money, if handled properly and it isn't porn! Although, I'm wondering if there's a market for middle-aged cripple porn? There seems to be a pervert out there into most unusual things; just type 'broccoli porn' into Google with the safe search turned off and you will NEVER eat it again! Or, then again, you might...

Tomorrow, I will return to work. I will discover what I'm going to be doing for the indeterminate amount of time I'm remaining there and I will do it to the best of my abilities. I have 21 days worth of holiday to cram into less than 3 months (that's like 4 weeks and a day), so don't be surprised if I'm off a lot of it. Apparently you can only carry 5 days over, you lose the rest if you don't use it and I don't see the point of even thinking about carrying any over; it's not like I'll get the chance to use it.

Ho hum...

Monday, January 03, 2011

The Cutting Edge (and How I Lost it, but Someone else Got it)

There is very little I will say about Dez Skinn that isn't libellous, but I will acknowledge that he is an extremely good editor, possibly one of the best in the comics industry. This is because he is actually an 'editor' rather than a production or traffic manager. He gave me my job at Comics International under duress. He really didn't think I was that good, but his partner at the time (in both his personal and professional life), Sarah Bolesworth had said to him that of all the contributors to CI, I had energy, life and vibrancy in my writing. I might have been grammatically illiterate, but what I did write garnered reaction and absolutely buzzed with life. He took the chance and the rest, as the old cliché goes, is history.

It took him a lot longer to knock me into shape; he was hampered by the fact that I was stoned for most of my life. I didn't stop smoking pot at the office until I'd been working with him for a year. I figured if I wanted to have a crack at this comics editing lark then I needed to at least be on the ball during office hours. While I learned most of the basics, I was forever exasperating him by my ability to consistently be inconsistent. There was no rhyme or reason for my mistakes - one day I'd get something right, the next I wouldn't and I was prone to writing sentences that started and maybe stopped sometime. Once or twice they would even make some sense and I'd get the tense right.

Editing others was the real enigma. I could do it really well and this was a constant puzzle for him. I would turn someone else's work into something readable, but my own efforts would look like a load of words thrown in a tumble drier and reassembled by a chimpanzee on drugs. I suppose, with hindsight, he taught me how to edit, not how to write. Learning to write was something I did after we parted company.

It wasn't until Borderline came along that I had to either write proper like or I'd be exposed as this bloke who must have had some evil secrets about my former employer to have held a job there for over a decade. I had two editors at Borderline; Mike Kidson and Martin Shipp. Mike made sure my words made sense and Martin was his safety net. But it was me who had to really make sure that what I writted made sense. There were times when Kidson barely touched my copy and you would not believe how much that made me happy and proud of myself.

I did a stint at Marvel UK in the 90s. I was producing an A-Z of the X-Men and I was forever being called up by my editor at the time and shouted at. He wasn't used to having to edit; essentially, while he liked what I was writing, he didn't like the fact that he actually had to work on it to make sure it met his high standards. Looking back on that period, I can't say I was particularly proud of myself then. I got arsey with the man, for no reason whatsoever and eventually I was replaced and justifiably too. The same mistakes wouldn't be made now; but now there's no work in that area and if there was I'd be 200th on a list of 199.

Ironically, the stuff I wrote for Borderline, my old blog and a blog I wrote pseudonymously, were all really good (even if I say so myself). I was looking at the pseudonymous blog the other day and wondered why the hell my current blog couldn't be as good as that. I was saying to the wife that my flakiness from CI days has returned. You take http://independentchoices.blogspot.com/ which I actively write for an audience and its considerably better than this blog and yet I know there are heaps more people read this than that. The difference is that I make damned sure there's a quality threshold over there, where here I just waffle on and make mistake after mistake and figure that if I don't give a shit, no one else will.

When I realised that I wouldn't be an artist, despite all my teachers claiming I would be, I decided that as I had a knack for the English language, I'd become a writer. I figured, long before I worked for Dez, that I could make people sit up and notice my literary work, so why bother to learn the basics; that was, after all, what editors are for. I wrote my first novel at 21 and what an awful piece of crap that is. All credit for writing 300+ A4 pages; it's just a shame that it smells like a month old lump of blue cheese, left out in the elements and pissed on by foxes, regularly. I often claim that my most recent finished novel - Gentle By Name - is the best thing I've ever written. In truth it's the most vicious and nasty piece of slash fiction you are likely to see; I like the pacing and the way I use every cliché in the book just so I can prove that clichés can be apparent, but don't necessarily have to work. But there are few redeeming features about it and several friends who have tried to read it, gave up long before the end. Not because it was that badly written (which, I now think it was), but because it's just relentlessly vile.

Yet, I have written articles that have been universally respected; during my time at CI, I built up a formidable list of contacts, because they liked the way I saw the comics industry and wasn't afraid to talk/write about it in a way others wouldn't. Writing factual stuff is the legacy that Dez gave me. Any aspirations I might have had of being a novelist should have been consigned to the toilet a long time ago. Give me a factual piece and I'll do a far better job with it. I think that was proved beyond a shadow of a doubt recently. I announced in this blog that I was having a go at writing a story again and the main protagonist would be a builder. I spent two months working on this and its over 20,000 words long and it's barely got beyond the first chapter. Every time I returned to it, I applied my factual editor's hat and reworked, rewrote, elucidated, extrapolated and attempted to make sure that no stone was unturned. I wanted to make sure that it made perfect sense and there wasn't an opportunity for readers to go, 'but this doesn't make sense or why is that like that?' In the end, the pace, the vibrancy and the thrill of writing it disappeared in a puff of smoke. It will sit, with my other 536 started story ideas, and rot in a virtual writer's block. I have become all the things I wasn't when I got my break. In other words, I've sort of lost the ability to be a writer. It isn't going to stop me from trying, but I no longer think of my future being intrinsically linked to it. I don't have the application to apply myself to it as I once did and even if I had, I don't think the spark is there like it once was...

There must be a reason for all of this rambling and self flagellation?

Yes, there is. I have a friend who I have known for 22 years. I don't see as much of him now than I once did (and that's a shame). His name is Jay Eales and we met through my comic shop and he remained one of the few friends I kept hold of after it went out of business. Jay aspires to be a writer, or at least he did. I think it would be unfair of me to suggest he is anything but a writer now. When he was younger and I was a good editor, I struggled with his stuff. We tried to work together and failed. He'd often submit comments and stuff to CI and both Dez and I would agree that while he was technically very good, there was no oomph in his work. But, you see, Jay was my mate and I ended up inventing all kinds of bullshit excuses why things of his weren't used. During his time as Features Editor at Borderline, we all (that being the rest of the editorial team) felt that technically Jay was good, but his writing seemed perfunctory rather than inspiring and then we started to drift apart. His writing continued apace and I didn't follow it mainly because I had no interest in comics, SF, Doctor Who (this was pre-Ecclestone) or anything that Jay seemed interested in. In fact, during Borderline's life, I wanted his partner Selina Lock more than him, because she had that energy in her writing that Jay seemed to lack. Plus, he was my mate and he sort of lived in my shadow and while he wanted to be out of my shadow, I always felt like I needed to keep him there. He was my Phil Hall, I was his Dez Skinn - but to a much lesser degree.

Today, I discovered he had been nominated for a British Science Fiction Association award for his short story Spare Change. I was so chuffed. The first thing I did was rush downstairs and tell the wife. I don't know what his chances of winning are and from what others have said on his Facebook page, his chances of winning are probably slim; but who gives a fuck? Even if he doesn't win, it proves that plugging away at something you want to do is worth while. I'm so fucking proud of him I'm fit to burst!

Well done, Jay!

Sunday, January 02, 2011

Several Words About Association Football

In many ways, as a Spurs supporter, I can have no complaints about 2010. In May, they finished 4th, allowing them to participate in the Champions League tournament for the first time since they were actually Champions (incidentally that last foray into the Champions League was the year I was born...). By December, people were talking about Gareth Bale, Rafael Van Der Vaart and Luca Modriç as world class footballers and now, on the 2nd day of 2011, Spurs are still 4th and only 5pts behind the leaders as opposed to 20, as they were in May.

There's still a long way to go and to finish in the top four again is going to be very, very hard. Not only have Manchester United managed to remain unbeaten this season, but Man Citeh's riches are beginning to show; they might be a team without much harmony and a manager who isn't that good, but when you have £300million worth of talent, like scum, quality has a tendency to rise to the occasion. Arsenal continue to flatter to deceive, if it wasn't for their inconsistencies they should be five points clear at the top rather than 2pt behind and Chelsea are a team that you write off at your peril. Yes, they are on their worst run of results since 2000, but they will still be in with a shout come the end of the season. All four of these teams are more likely to achieve a top four finish than Spurs.

Bolton and Sunderland are playing beyond their fans' beliefs, but while the Europa League is now a definite possibility, it is only because Liverpool, Everton and Aston Villa have been so poor. Liverpool (or The Red Shite) isn't a shock. The Fat Spanish (Unemployed) Waiter successfully destroyed this team in his final year at the cloob and poor old Roy Hodgson has been on to a hiding to nothing because he hasn't immediately transformed them into title challengers. Red Scousers are CAUCs - pure and simple.

Everton have flattered to deceive; the majority of their points coming from teams in the top half of the table while showing a profligacy against crap teams that must have had David Moyes wondering what he has to do to get his team to understand the concept of the word 'consistency'. However, my team go to Goodison Park on Wednesday night on the back of a 10 match unbeaten run... Kiss goodbye to that unbeaten run then...

Villa were everybody's favourites to cause a few upsets this year and push on from perennial top 6 finishers. No one expected them to push down and become relegation candidates. Was it Martin O'Neill's departure, Gerard Houllier's arrival or Randy Lerner falling out of love with this soccer game that caused this massive about face? Villa are now the new Newcastle, while Newcastle are still the laughing stock of English football. Chris Hughton is better off away from lunatics like Mike Ashley and Alan Pardew is just waiting for his contract to be ended so he can pick up 4 years and 10 months worth of reneged contract.

I'd like to see West Ham do a bit better. I understand that Hammers' fans hate Spurs, but having a wife who supports this poor excuse for a football team means they have always been my second club (or cloob as the FS(U)W says).

My nomination for manager of 2010 goes to Ian Holloway (narrowly beating the Lord Harry Rednapp). Barking mad, covered in bum fluff and leading a team with not a single player worth more than Didier Drogba's left testicle, Holloway is a fantastic advert for eccentricity and how to impress chairmen. He should be knighted.

Outside of the Premier League: my tip for the Championship, QPR, are still there, but Colin Wanker is struggling suddenly. Cardiff are capitulating faster than a Craig Bellamy contract clause and suddenly Narch are looking like they might grace the top table again; which would be nice.

The Cobblers are just that and probably have just enough to avoid playing Kettering and Rushden next season, but I fear for Sampson's job. He literally got rid of an entire team at the end of last season and replaced it with a shit one.

It's the FA Cup next week and I hope that Liverpool or TRS as we shall forever know them as now get one over Man U so that whoever draws them in round 4 will be assured of a round 5 tie. My tip to win the FA Cup this year? If we don't win it then Everton will and if they don't then it will probably be the Arse, because they have to win something at some point.

ɸ ɸ ɸ

A brief mention for the oval shaped object that isn't a ball. At the beginning of December the Mighty Saints were 8 points clear at the top of the Aviva Premiership and with two games in hand. They are now 2 points behind with two games in hand, and have to play new leaders Leicester next week in Leicester. Bugger...

Friday, December 31, 2010

Final Call

I think being optimistic about a New Year died a long time ago. True optimism; the kind where you genuinely think that the coming year will usurp the previous one and exceed all expectations only exists in some. William, the spinal injuries doctor I saw on December 22nd, laughed and agreed with me when I said that once upon a time a doctor would give an honest and considered opinion, but now paints the worst possible scenario. It's not that he really believes you're going to die, but if you don't: everyone's a winner!

We have to accept that the experts got it wrong and that the majority of us will not be the last generation better off than our parents. I suppose all of my friends and family with children will have to work extra hard to guarantee that their children have a fighting chance of being happy - but the massive pessimist in me looks at any child born in this century and I get a pang of fear and despair where there should be joy... Let's be honest, for a lot of people the future is a scary place that some wish will never come. We can stick our heads in the sand and pray (if we're even remotely religious) or just hope that things will get better, but unless we're already rich, have a wealthy relative who thinks the sun shines out of our arses or we win the lottery, life is going to be a hard slog and it will lead, every year, to this point, where we wait for the festivities to start and declare that next year it'll be better.

It won't.

Oh and by the way, I was feeling this way during a large percentage of the Labour administration; having this current shower of shit doesn't exactly fill me with hope (especially as I will be one of their statistics before midsummer arrives) but neither does it make me feel any differently than I have in previous years.

It does make you feel as though you have to grab hold of the good times and cling onto them or their memories for as long as you can, because the shit is going to far outweigh everything else in our lives. There hasn't been a lot to get me emotionally charged this year; it has been friends on Facebook posting abhorrent and frightening examples of human crassness and misery that have stirred passion inside me more than anything else. From friends with seriously ill partners to idiots wilfully being cruel to animals and the depths that humanity will sink to, either personally or politically - these have been the things I wish weren't happening.

It's damned altruistic of me to want a world, with my friends in it, that hasn't got some shit sandwich waiting to be devoured. But that's what I'd like. I might be considered a grumpy old cunt by a lot of people, but I'd really like every one of my friends, and their friends, and their friends' friends to be happy; even if its just for one year: I'm sure some of them are or have. I've maybe been too wrapped up in being a miserable old git to have noticed.

My corner of the world is pretty crap. North, south, east and west my friends are suffering in different degrees and it just doesn't seem very fair. Back in the late 1980s and early 90s, when I had my shop, my landlord Mr Chan, who I got on extremely well with, once said to me, "I don't want life to be better, I just want it to be fairer," and that sank deep into my heart. It's a saying that resonates with me far more than anything else. It must do; I remember it now as it was told to me. I try to forget the fact that Mr Chan knew that he was asking for the moon. But it isn't really too much to ask for. Is it? Fairness, that is, not the moon...

The problem I have is that I don't know what I want from 2011. I half expect that whatever I might want won't happen, but what will happen will be similar to things we've seen in the past. I expect the misery to continue for many and that is unfair, but, hey, life is just fucking unfair - haven't you realised that yet? Some people will close their eyes, continue spending, get themselves into increasingly more debt, give their offspring a real crappy negative equity legacy to inherit - Your father's will says you will be burdened with his debts as well as your own! Other people will just grin and bare it, being carried along on a flow of false optimism, but why burst their deluded bubbles; they're simple, but happy.

This isn't about me being some kind of week long mega-Scrooge. I might hate Christmas, but (presumably through my Scottish heritage) loved NYE. it was, for me, the real thing to celebrate - getting through one year and facing the next with renewed vigour. None of this pretending to celebrate a fictional character's birth when all it really is is a chance to get yourselves into more debt, do everything in excess and not really give a flying fuck about anyone else. Christmas should be the like the Olympic Games - once every four years, that way we can try and attempt to appreciate it. All we have to do is move it to February 29th and convince every one else that Christ was actually born on Leap Year day.

In 2011, I celebrate my Silver Wedding Anniversary, but in reality despite having been married to the wife for 25 years, I've actually been with her 28 years in January - so we're just talking numerics. On April 19, I enter my 50th year on Earth. Yes, it might not be my 50th birthday until 2012, but the maths are accurate, so we're just talking numerics again.
2011 might also give me the opportunity to begin a new career - as a desk jockey or shelf stacker at Aldi, perhaps - woo and indeed hoo. At least I won't be alone; there'll be an extra ½ a million joining me, all vying for the shit left at the bottom of the Job Centre's waste bin. My 7 months off of work in the last 20 months is going to look great on my job applications, isn't it?

Still... 2010 had a few highs: some new friends, a great year for Spurs, eight months of job satisfaction, stopping smoking, um... Gosh...

I suppose seeing some of my friends suffer, having a prolapsed disc (now with added nerve damage), being told I face imminent redundancy and having a dreary year bookended by some of the worst Siberian weather Blighty could muster and throw at us must all be forgotten about and I should go out tonight with tinsel in my hair, a bottle of Scotch dangling from my utility belt, a cheesy grin and enough optimism to wake the dead? Perhaps I should, as I expect 2011 will go downhill fast.

This final blog post has been brought to you by Happiness Guaranteed Inc. Now fuck off and leave me alone until next year!

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Nostalgia Factory

My employment history is... um... chequered. I don't know if I just rub people up the wrong way or if I'm just an arrogant bastard, but I have an employment history that makes me cringe at times. But, to be fair and to put it in perspective, I also have a past where I have been very unlucky and have worked for some CAUCs.

Obviously I can't really talk about my current job, but, if I did most of it would be positive. I'm not going to talk about my 11 odd years in publishing, because I've already written a book about that which runs to 130,000+ words and that missed a lot out. Maybe when the arsehole who I worked for has died and I don't have to worry about a malicious lawsuit (which he would pursue even if it meant spending the last penny in his pocket), but for now I will just continue to embellish the story with more and more nuggets from my memory.

I could talk about working for TNT, but as that lasted 3 hours I'd be hard pressed to make it last longer than this sentence. Equally, I could talk about the job I had when I got married, but that story fits in with another I'm not talking about just yet; or I could mention my 3 months at Levi's; a job where I got sacked because I complained about them not training me to do a job I was employed to do. But, again, that wouldn't really amount to more than a small paragraph.

I could talk about Initial and Bill Port, the man who called me a 'useless wanker' and wouldn't have been wrong, but he did so in a really malicious and nasty way. Bill was responsible, in a roundabout way, for me opening my shop; so while I have zero respect for him and hope he's long since died, without him I might not be where I am today (crippled and staring at redundancy).

I could waffle on about the 2 years I worked for my dad, behind bars (social club, not prison), or the subsequent part time jobs I had as a barman up till I met the wife. I could regale you with a fantastic story about working at Lings Forum when I was 17 and one day I might. The only problem with retelling this story is that the arsehole responsible for me getting the sack is now the wife's brother-in-law and while I always said I'd never forgive the bastard... I have. But only because he's married to my sister-in-law and I believe that is karma working at its best.

It seems that talking about my employment history has baggage attached, whatever job I've done. Except maybe for the YMCA. I have wanted to write this for a long time but figured it was a futile and pointless exercise unless there was a pay off. Now, it seems there is...

After walking out of my publishing/editorial job (he says he fired me, I say I quit), I had a few months of being unemployed. I couldn't get a job doing what I had been doing because being an editor for a comics magazine holds absolutely no truck with serious publishers and publications. It's a little like going for a job as a butcher on the basis that I gnawed a bone once - or at least that's the impression I got. There was an ignominy about it and it took me about a week to realise it. My journalistic career, regardless of how much money it paid me and the respect I earned in the comics 'industry', didn't amount to a bean, let alone a hill of them. I was faced with the prospect of being 39 and having no career.

The wife and I were becoming so poor we were having to shop at a place where we shopped at anyhow, but were now watching the pennies and buying frugally. Daily Bread is a co-operative, is still there and sells cheap vegetarian staples. It was now a requirement rather than a occasional detour. It was a cold February morning and we were heading back to the car when we bumped into our good, but not often seen, friends Ian and Sarah. Ian was a pagan weirdo and Sarah was the ex of my former best friend. They had found each other and were happy, despite their hang ups. Sarah was a part time counsellor, Ian, formerly of British Rail, has somehow managed to change his entire life around and was now CEO of the Northampton YMCA.

Northampton YMCA in 2001 was an unusual beast. It was largely autonomous from the rest of the YMCA movement. It made money through a mega-successful homeless housing scheme and it was run by 80% non-Christians. Ian, not a Christian, felt that the best people to hire were the best people to do the job, not the best Christians to do the job and subsequently Northampton YMCA had won numerous awards and retained the respect of just about anyone who mattered. The fact that Ian often turned up for work in a dress, or had more jewellery than Ratner's was neither here nor there, what mattered was the fact that he got homeless kids off the street and eventually through his team of caring and dedicated staff turned them into useful members of society.

So, we're standing outside Daily Bread and they ask me how things are going and we told them how it was. Sarah suggested, I thought jokingly, that I went and worked for Ian and he seemed up for it. "But... But, I'm not working with scum bags!" Says I.
"I think you'd do well at it," says Sarah and Ian agreed. My wife gave me a stern look and reminded me that I was currently not earning a brass farthing. I weighed it up in my head and agreed to go along and do a volunteer session, figuring that I could say I hated it and the subject would never be mentioned again.

I turned up at St Matthew's Hostel at midday on the 15th February. I was scheduled to do a maximum of 2 hours to allow the staff to hold a meeting. If there was any problems I was to interrupt them, otherwise I was on my own.

At 6.45pm, Rose Stewart the manageress came up to me and said that the wife had phoned to see if I was okay and that I really should consider going home. She was over the moon about me; said that I was a natural (as did Sarah) and said that as soon as my CRB was cleared I'd be offered shifts. I started working for the YMCA on March 3rd with a two day induction course. I was offered a full time job in the March of the following year and for a while the team that worked at St Matt's were 2nd to none. We were good; we were an excellent team and everyone loved everyone else.

I went in, voluntarily, on Christmas day to cook the residents' dinner and was just a phone call away from being there in case of sickness or emergency. It didn't change after I got a full time job there. But by the summer of 2002 things started to change. The YMCA was so successful we were offered more money to expand the services and new staff joined the team. We didn't really need them. It actually had a negative affect on work and many of us found that the jobs we had that worked well for one person, didn't work well for two. A perfect example was the night shift. Prior to the influx of extra cash, we had a sleepover rota. If you were on sleepover, you basically crashed out about 1:00am, got up about 7.30 and went home when the morning shift turned up. There was an emergency bell to ring if the residents needed help or attention, but nine times out of ten no one was disturbed. Yeah, they would try it on with new staff or agency, but if you were one of the regulars, you were respected. The new money meant an extra night staff, who didn't go to sleep and subsequently got bored out of their minds with no company.

By the end of 2002, the Christians had started to look at Northampton YMCA under the microscope. It was a fantastic advert for the work they could do, but it was run by a hippie and a lot of his staff were not, how shall we say, very spiritual. They shafted Ian, reorganised the structure of the YMCA and made it so that he had to reapply for his own job, knowing full well even though he was the best choice, he wouldn't get it. Over 4 months, they fucked him about left right and centre until they appointed a man called Storey in his place. Ian was offered a senior role at Connexions and the YMCA changed tact completely.

I applied for a different job at the Y, got it, and so moved away from St Matt's and into Cheyne Walk. The new CEO changed the operating practice of the place and suddenly new residents had to be offered 'spiritual guidance' if they required it and to determine whether they required it, it became part of the interview process. If homeless people weren't already God botherers, they sort of faced a dilemma - become one or risk not being offered a room. This was never a written rule, but it was inferred to us in team meetings. We also noticed that more and more new members of staff had more experience being religious than they did as experienced workers with the homeless. People started to become concerned.

In the winter of 2004, my mate Jon became the target of some unwanted attention from my new line manager. Jon, who I'm told is a good looking fella, found he was increasingly being put in awkward positions. Comments were made, surreptitious gestures made, little touches, that were not welcomed, were made. Jon became literally scared because my boss - a moose of a woman - was now suggesting that unless he gave her a 'good time' he might find he has problems in his job. Both me and another colleague witnessed her sexual bullying and inappropriate behaviour and when she finally made the aforementioned ultimatum, Jon decided to take it to senior management. My boss had been hand picked for her job by the new CEO. She was a member of his church and was clearly not experienced enough to do her job. In fact, I was more experienced than her.

An investigation was conducted; people were interviewed and the evidence against her was both damning and numerous. The investigation team concluded that she had done nothing wrong and that it was misinterpretation by Jon and his witnesses. We were amazed.

In the spring of 2004, Jon followed the book on an unruly and drunk resident. He did everything that was expected of him and laid down in the policy and procedures handbook. He ejected a drunk and violent resident from the hostel on a cold March night. The CEO arrived at 7:00am the next morning and found the resident sitting on the main steps, breaking milk bottles and freezing his arse off. He stormed up to the hostel office, refused to listen to the reasons for the ejection and suspended Jon for misconduct. Jon, totally fucked up by this, quit without fighting. He concluded that it wasn't worth it. If they refused to see that he had been sexually intimidated, they weren't going to rule for him in this case.

Three weeks later, I was in a team meeting when I made a sarcastic remark about Supporting People - one of the organisations that funded us. We were due an inspection by them and I commented that previous inspections had been a waste of time because their inspectors didn't have a clue what they were looking for and we might as well just carry on regardless. I was thrown a stern look by my boss. This was at 10:00am. At 12:15 the same day, one of the senior managers called me into her office and told me that I was being disciplined for remarks made. I stormed out of her office and confronted my own boss in her office. During our heated argument, she said a remark that was something like - you should never have sided with Jon - so I went back to the senior manager's office, repeated what had just been said to me and asked to put a grievance in about my boss. I felt this was proof that I was being picked on. Two days later, my boss handed in her notice, took her remaining holiday and never came back to work!

The following Monday, our colleague who had also defended Jon in his sexual harassment case was told she was being let go and her contract was not being renewed. She was an excellent worker and all the residents loved her. In fact, you could not find fault in any of her work. The main reason for her dismissal was because the management didn't feel she was cut out for this kind of work!!!

I remember talking to my mate Paul Smith that day and saying that I'd better watch my back because I was going to be next. He said for me not to make jokes like that because stranger things have happened.

On the Wednesday, the senior manager called me into her office and told me I was being suspended - on full pay - because there had been an accusation, an allegation, made about my by one of the residents. Gobsmacked, I asked what the allegation was and was told I couldn't be told until they had time to speak with the resident themselves. I got home and both me and the wife were shell-shocked. I had an allegation made against me and no one would tell me what it was. I phoned Ian up and told him, he said that they could not suspend me without telling me what the allegation was and that I should ring the boss up straight away and demand to know what the allegation was. I did this and she said she would call round my house on the way home to talk to me.

She admitted that when she had suspended me she didn't know what the allegation was, only that her boss had authorised it. She had gone to see her boss - the 2nd in charge - after I'd called and he told her that I was being suspended because a former resident had claimed that I had told her that my boss had been sacked and that I was going to replace her. it was claimed that this happened while my boss was being investigated on the sexual harassment charges. I explained to the senior manager that I had not seen the resident in question since the previous Christmas, long before any of this had happened. She suggested I got myself a lawyer.

This was April 2004. I was suspended but didn't hear a thing for two months, so at the beginning of June, feeling like I was in limbo, unable to go away on holiday because the details of my suspension meant I had to be available at a moments notice, I decided to contact the senior manager and ask her what the fuck was going on. I was informed that she was on two weeks holiday and nothing was likely to happen until she got back. I was furious. I felt like I was being fucked about, so I contacted the CEO. I wrote him a long letter, asking for him to look into the situation. Within a week, a hearing was scheduled and I took Roger along as my witness and to act like a lawyer type person. The allegations were made, I answered them and the meeting concluded.

Two weeks later, I was invited to a meeting with the CEO. I chose to take Paul Smith (a caretaker, but also an ex-union man) with me. Now, it's important that you understand the job I was doing. I was now working with young people who had moved on from the YMCA and were either living in accommodation provided by the Y or on their own. We were part of a Tenancy Support Scheme. This meant that we helped people who were no longer residents. We were also encouraged to keep in communication with them, as a sort of last resort support mechanism. This had always been the ethos of the YMCA while Ian was in charge. However, several months before my ex-boss had quit, she pulled me into her office and asked why I'd sent texts to a resident at midnight. I explained that I was replying to texts I'd received from an ex-resident because he had locked himself out of his new flat and didn't know what to do. I even had the texts to prove this. She agreed that we had a moral responsibility to help our kids if they were in trouble and the thing was forgotten about.

The meeting with the CEO went very badly. He informed me that there was not enough evidence to prove the allegations against me, but he felt that it was not a good idea to continue employing me. Paul, who was extremely religious and regarded by many to be on their 'side' stood up for me big time. The CEO then said that I had been punished for continually contacting ex-residents - we stood our ground and said there was nothing written down that we shouldn't help ex-residents in a time of crisis and that it was actively encouraged for people in my specific job. The CEO ignored this. Paul then intervened and asked what exactly the YMCA wanted of me. "To leave," was the reply I received. I said I had done nothing wrong and had no intention of leaving. To which I was told that if I didn't leave, I would be continually suspended until they got something on me where they could fire me. Paul was disgusted, I was totally amazed. This was a deeply religious man sitting in front of me - a Christian.

I asked what were they prepared to offer me to leave and this is where things got even more interesting. I was told if I agreed to leave, the YMCA would offer me a severance package that suited me. I was to go away while he spoke with his colleagues and they would be in touch within the week. And so they were. I was offered two weeks money and a one line reference stating that I had worked for the YMCA between date A and date B. I told them to stick it up their arses and that I was going to see my lawyer.

They got back to me with a new offer and I still got in touch with a solicitor who, like the wife, wanted me to sue their arses off. But, I had already decided that this was not what I wanted to do. After much negotiation, we agreed that on a package totalling over £5000 and the guarantee of a good reference highlighting all the achievements I had while I was working there. I signed a piece of paper that prevented me from taking them to court and we parted company.

However, I struggled to get a job in the care industry. I was going for jobs I was totally qualified to do yet wasn't even getting an interview. I felt that perhaps the YMCA had reneged on their side of the deal. On failing to get a job at a local hostel which i had had a successful interview for, I contacted them and asked why I'd been unsuccessful. I was told that I was perfect for the job, but there was a line at the end of my reference from the YMCA that caused them to not offer me it. The line said: "Mr Hall left the YMCA by mutual consent" - this had not been on the original reference I was shown. I was about to get my solicitor to fuck them over big time, when the Mayday Trust offered me the job of Deputy Manager at their hostel in Wellingborough. I figured they were not as bothered by the offending line as others and saw that I was the right person for the job.

Three weeks into working at Mayday, the area manager came into the office and asked to see me. He wanted me to explain what this superfluous line at the end of my reference pertained to. I them had to write a statement out explaining why I'd left the YMCA; what entailed, in fact, everything above was submitted to them and I was told that I still may lose my job. I informed Mayday that I intended to sue the YMCA if I did lose my job, because they had added that line without my knowledge or agreement. It was concluded that as I was offered a lot of money to leave, that I was not in the wrong and had done nothing to warrant the treatment. I kept my job, but I felt like I had to work very hard to do it. The wife still wanted me to get a lawyer onto the Y. It seemed that while I kept my position at Mayday, the reference from the YMCA had caused enough smoke for someone to think there was a fire. I just wanted to forget about it; suing seemed like a fruitless exercise.

Sadly, both Sarah and Paul have since died. If it hadn't been for Sarah I wouldn't be working in this industry and if it hadn't been for Paul, I might not have been as good as I became or got as much actually and spiritually from it.

In September 2010, I learned that all of the YMCA's funding had been lost and that the CEO and many of the deeply religious lackeys who he put in position rather than the people who could actually do the job were losing their jobs. It was sad that some of the excellent people still working there will also lose their jobs come March, but karma has swung around and bitten these hypocrites on the arse big time. I hope that none of them find a job easily and the ones who fucked me over never work again, lose their houses and get sent to Hell by an astute St Peter. It's what they deserved for being evil Christians. And we worry about Muslims and other religious fundamentalists - fucking Christians are just as insidious and evil.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Fear of a Blank Planet

Next year, blog titles will be surreal rather than 99% relating to the music I'm listening to.

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I don't know if stopping smoking has made my tolerance for alcohol unimaginable, but I drank two bottles of Shiraz last night - 13½% - in about 6 hours and woke up this morning with a slight ache behind the eyes. I didn't even feel remotely drunk, apart from during Doctor Who, when I could quite easily have gone to sleep. However, I'm not sure it was the wine that was making me sleepy; the wife's verdict of last night's episode was quite succinct. Shit.

I've always struggled with DW X-Mas specials; I tend to feel stuffed, half-pissed and sleepy, therefore can never remember much about them at all. Last night I was very alert, having not stuffed myself and still only ¾ of a way through my first bottle of red. Yet the sleep wanted to come, despite it looking pretty amazing. It suffered from several things - a naff story, a poor shark and not enough Amy Pond. It was, a big disappointment and that seems to fit in nicely with my opinion of Moffat's run so far - so no surprises there.

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I remember when Christmas Day TV was the highlight of the year. Now it's pretty much a load of gnarly old wank. Our TV was on pretty early; we watched bits of Singin' in the Rain, then it got turned off and I put on Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas CD and then Classic FM for some carols. We then took the dogs for a walk, came home saw a bit of the Ronnie Corbett tribute thing, which was slightly disappointing, but the Egg's Box £3.60 gag was stupendous!

Then it was the Who crap, followed by a repeat of Tuesday's Top Gear and then, what has been the highlight of this festive season for us so far, we finished watching the last 3 episodes of Misfits (although we still have the Christmas special to watch tonight). This has been a quite brilliant TV series, which we missed when it was first on and I decided on a whim to download both series last week. We have watched 3 episodes a night for the last 4 nights and have found very little to fault it (and even the faults we found were counterbalanced by the superb scripts and the increasingly dark tone the series has taken).

It has been described as Heroes crossed with Skins, but that is actually damning it with faint praise. Heroes was pretty much shit and after watching Misfits, Skins is nothing like what real teenagers are like. Misfits is quite a brilliant observation of what kids are really like in today's world; Skins thinks it is, but is obviously written by older adults who think they know what its like to be an adolescent. There is so much in Misfits that makes you want to cringe or can't actually believe, but it has a ring of truth around it that, the at times far too melodramatic, Skins is missing. Robert Sheehan as the fuckwitted immortal Nathan is a revelation, while Iwan Rheon as the creepy Simon is a far better character than you imagine he's going to be. In fact, over 12 episodes, the writer has developed these characters so well it is no wonder it won a BAFTA. It's also a bit rude, both verbally and sexually and has gone from being essentially a bit of a comedy to a dark and nasty thing.

I cannot recommend it more.

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We've got a pretty busy week coming up, which is why we did our usual thing of making sure that Chez Hall is a no-go zone for the big day and the Boxing one. We have a full house on Tuesday and Thursday, we're out on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday and then we'll have a few days to recuperate before we both go back to work.

My return to work is going to be unusual; mainly because I won't know how long I'll be there before I become a victim of the austerity drive. In reality, it might be a strange return to work in many ways; for starters, I'll be in a new office with new colleagues to get to know; I have nearly 20 days holiday to take before the beginning of March, I have a staggered return to work, so I'll be part time for nearly a month and then I might be out of a job by March anyhow. So, going back to work might not be so much as going back to work, more like winding things up at work...

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I did a semi-Samaritan act on Christmas Eve. I was sitting in my office getting ready to go to bed when I heard a strange noise out front. It sounded exactly like what it was, a man blowing into his hands to warm them up. I did a sort of double take, to be honest, because the rather big man standing under the lamp post out front was wearing just a T shirt and was obviously very, very drunk. I watched him stagger down the road, slip on the ice and land on his arse, struggle to get to his feet and then lean on a car and do the same blowing into his hands as he did outside my house. He looked cold and quite worse for wear. Someone over the road, leaned out of their window and asked him if he was all right, but he waved them away and waddled down the icy street a bit more.

By this time I had gone to the spare bedroom to follow his progress as it offers a better view of the street. The guy who leant out of his window was gone and the drunk was lurching further down the street. He slipped again, this time grabbing the wing mirror of a parked white van and managed to keep himself on his feet. He blew into his hands again, shook his head and started off again. He rounded the corner at the end of our part of the road and went over again. This time he didn't get up as quick and looked in distress. I had just got out of the bath and the temperature was -8 outside. I wasn't about to go out in it, but I decided that perhaps the police should be made aware. I would have hated to discover that a frozen body was found on Christmas Day just round the corner from my house.

I called the local nick and spoke to an officer who sounded so full of seasonal good will I thought perhaps his children had all been murdered by a paedophile. "Not a lot we can do about it, sir."
"What if he dies of hypothermia?"
"That'll teach him to go out and get drunk without wearing the appropriate winter clothing."
"Well, I thought you'd better know, as I would feel guilty if his frozen body was found and no one informed you." This seemed to stir some form of humanity in the man.
"I'll inform the local patrol car, perhaps they can take a drive round your way, see if there's any sign of him."

I've not heard of anyone found dead on my road or around it.

But, spare a thought for the family of the Bristol woman, Joanna Yeates whose body was found yesterday. Even if you don't celebrate Christmas, that family, the woman's fiancée and people who knew her will probably never view Christmas in the same light ever again.

Also, Elisabeth Beresford, the creator of the Wombles, has died. Expect Mike Batt and Bernard Cribbins to lead the tributes!

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Early days, but waking up this morning to discover that England had humiliated the Aussies by bowling them out for 98 and then managing to race to 157 for 0 was a great way to kick Boxing Day off. Hopefully they will wrap this test up PDQ and retain the Ashes. Just the tonic for the end of a crap year!

My Cultural Life - Where No Blog Has Gone Before

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