Camping Is The New Rock N Roll

First it was comedy that got lumbered with the 'new rock n roll' tag, now it's camping.

Yawn.

Where have you people been all this time? I am the O.C.B. (Original Camping Bore) - I have been camping for years - often not through choice. Probably even before rock n roll itself was invented.

Before I go on... let me bore you with this thought. What if you take your tent along to a music festival such as Glastonbury? Do two lots of rock n roll (i.e. real 'rock n roll' - music - and camping) mingling together effectively cancel each other, or do the two in tandem just enhance the overall rock n roll factor significantly, perhaps leading to a new 'new rock n roll' tag altogether?

Yes? No? "Who bloody cares, Lord Layabout?" I hear you shout.

Fair point.

Camping then...

Now, everyone, including grandparents, is suddenly at it. I looked out of my window this morning and witnessed what looked like a mass migration of wilderbeast. In fact, it was hordes of camping virgins heading down to the local Argos for their cheap-as-chips camping starter kit.

Camping has become really popular. If there was a political party with camping as part of its central manifesto, loads of people would vote for it I reckon. It has even become 'Cool'. Dreadful I know, but there you go.

The weather and recession are no doubt jointly responsible for this strange phenomenon. I am glad to report, by contrast, that caravanning remains as sexy as Margaret Thatcher wearing a beige suit. Caravanning is, and always will be, for small-minded losers with little or no libido.

Here, if you are interested, are Lord Loafer's five reasons why he (I mean me) is into camping:

• The pain/pleasure principle that underpins much of your average camping trip, gives you a tantalising glimpse of what full-blown Sadomasochism might feel like.

• You get to lie in a field surrounded by strangers who insist on belching and farting alot.

• The combination of light, noise and stifling humidity inside your tent leaves you permanently dehydrated and sleep-deprived.

• You remain unwashed for long enough to take on the resemblance of a homeless vagrant. As a result, when you visit a nearby town centre you are arrested for loitering and spend a night in the cells. It is bliss compared to the campsite.

• Camping makes you constipated. You visit the campsite toilet religiously, only to discover with depressing regularity that your bowels remain locked tight and on strike despite your obvious need to defecate. In desperation you take to trying to shit in the woods. When, at last you are successful, elation turns quickly to despair as you realise your warm, homemade log has somehow ended up inside your wellington boot.
  

For me though, the best bit about camping is the coming home. Your own bed has never felt so great, your bath/shower never such a moment of ecstasy. And to eat something other than barbequed dog... pure pleasure.

Carry on Camping as Sid James once suggested. It is so much fun.

Yak Yak Yuck.

Wimbledon Week Part 1

Andy Murray is on centre court, ready to go all the way to the final and then lose gallantly in true brit style. You heard it here first folks...

Meanwhile, us mere mortals, who should be working to pay the bills, instead chose to indulge in a spot of, "Tennis, easy game that. It's just hitting a ball over a net."

And then finding out it isn't so easy. Particular when hampered by hayfever and a dodgy stomach. Oh, and I've got a stiff back.

Yes, I am making my excuses as to my poor performance even before I go out there and hit a ball in anger. But it's hotter than hell out there. And in my local park I'm sure that not only will you be able to cut the atmosphere with a knife, the go-for-the-throat approach taken by many dogs round these parts may well be replicated by their owners on court.

Wish Lord Loafer luck, I'll need it!

A Day In The Life

Been a bit slack on the blogging front recently, haven't I?

Not that any of you bastards bother to read it anyway - yes, you lot. Slacker than a slack man's slack bits (i.e. Lord Loafer's slack bits) you are. I don't know why I bother!

Well, part of the reason I have been slack is trying to decide what I should blog about.

Do I tell you my entire life story (to date), or do I invent a story line where I tell you about my new job as an erotic film maker? It would be all booze, birds, orgies and steamed-up camera lens. Do you like the sound of that? Porntastic, you say. Exactly, I reply.

Or else... I could try and tell you about the mundane, the everyday. Me, Lord Loafy, telling it how it is, here in North London - maybe adding the odd additional fictional element to either spice it up or make it funnier.

Well, I can try can't I? Yes, and fail miserably too, no doubt.

For example, this is what actually happened yesterday - I was bored and in a shouty sort of mood, fed up with 'working' from the boxroom. I went to the job centre and closed my claim. In the evening, still plagued by the shouty bad mood, I went for a jog and - despite aching limbs - felt a lot better by the time I had finished.

Here is my slightly enhanced version, if you are interested:

My early morning mood was set off by a enticing dream of an alternative life living with a French bird who liked it up her all the time, and was not helped, upon waking, by the sight of my family.

Thankfully, they left the house on time and with the minimum of fuss - they could tell it was going to be one of those days for me so left me to it.

Me and the cat had the place to ourselves. I thought I would be productive that morning, I really tried... for about 10mins.

The only things I was productive at was making music on the PC, oogling photos of nude women and 'knocking one out' (no, not knocking a woman out).

After that, my mood turned progressively more sour as self-hate kicked in with earnest.

Then, I read an article about Sudan, the tenth largest nation in the world and the latest commercial property hotspot apparently. I imagined one of my erstwhile colleagues undertaking a business trip there, researching the market. They would be sweltering in 40 degrees while observing the sights, the sounds, the smells of Africa. There would be meals out on expenses, a fancy hotel to stay in, a swim in the pool at the end of the day, while prostitutes propped up the bar.

I was insanely jealous. I wanted to experience all that, I wanted the sleep-deprivation, the adrenalin rush, the blood-vessel bursting levels of stress once more. All I had was mind-numbing boredom, loneliness and self-hate - as well as a farting cat.

After my lunch of soup and bread, I cycled over to the job centre on a bike that is so old and heavy it makes a Penny Farthing look like the latest piece of must-have kit. The ever-so-scary woman behind the counter calls me over, "Your claim has been closed," were her words of greeting, "you failed to attend an interview last week."

"Fuck you," I wanted to reply, but didn't. "I couldn't, my children were ill," I said. That was a lie, I just couldn't be bothered with the palava of claiming anymore. "I have registered myself as self-employed," I continued. That bit was true at least. Not sure what I was going to do though, apart from shout at a farting cat for several hours a day.

"So you are closing your claim. Good luck," she said, with as much sympathy as an executioner has when addressing a condemned man.

"Fuck you," I wanted to reply, but didn't.

I cycled home at a furious pace, realising my wife was due back soon and I hadn't tided up the breakfast things or watered the plants - my two main jobs that day.

Later, I finally did do some work, trying to put a website together. Html and php are difficult to understand though (more difficult to understand than French birds that like it up them all the time anyway), and that made my mood even worse.

I spoke to brother about it, he said, "Work it out for yourself."

To calm myself down I went for a run. The air was hot and humid, it could almost have been Sudan for a moment. I felt I was dying on my feet. I kept going, though, uphill, on the flat, on the downhill. I think for half the time I was running I was unable to draw breath. It was a flipping heroic effort on my part.

Somehow I made it home. I stopped running and after a cold beer I felt absolutely fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that I was nice to the wife and kids.

Actually, that version is not enhanced, it's the truth.

Sienna Miller and Me

Sienna Miller and me - both had a night out yesterday.

We were in the same place at the same time.

Our eyes ever so briefly met in the crowd as she searched for her seat in the theatre.

At least I think that's what happened - I was so busy scraping chocolate ice cream off my chin and trying to ignore the fact that I was dying for a piss that I hardly noticed her.

Honest.

That's the end of the story from me.

She will no doubt bang on about it for days in the press.

Another romance that could have been.

Sorry, love.

But maybe somewhere in a parallel universe not far from ours - who knows?

Love Action In the Supermarket

I, Lord Lazy Arse, went down to my home town yesterday.

It's called Maidenhead.

I looked this up just to be sure... the word Maidenhead has three meanings:

1. (n.) The state of being a maiden; maidenhood; virginity.
2. (n.) The hymen, or virginal membrane.
3. (n.) The state of being unused or uncontaminated; freshness; purity.

So this means that my home town should in fact be called Virgin in modern vernacular.

Great.

Sounds stupid.

I live in Virgin, Berkshire.

I was going to write fucking stupid, but... oh, just did.

So anyway...

Yesterday I was in Maidenhead - I was in Virgin. My brother and I were in the town centre killing time. We were waiting for some photocopying to be done at a printing place for our new business venture so we just wandered around aimlessly.

Believe me, there is not much to see in Maidenhead. You can do the town centre in five minutes. We had an hour to kill.

In desperation - after twice visiting Next, WH Smith and M&S - we ended up going to the supermarket. My brother needed to get himself some lunch anyway. Being the conscientious house husband that I am I remembered that back home in London we were out of both washing up liquid and washing powder.

I went off looking for both these items. I also remembered that my wife is a hopeless food shopper (it's true, she admits this herself - a confession extracted without the use of waterboarding, or any other form of torture). So I thought it best to collect up some random food items before heading for the checkout. Stir fry mix, asparagus, egg noodles, fruit juice that sort of stuff...

I was standing by the fresh juice cabinet when a man rather dubiously slides up beside me and says, "Scuse me, are you straight or single?"

I was a bit slow on the uptake, I thought it might be some sort of market research exercise. So I said, "Sorry, say again?"

He indulged me. "Are you straight," he repeated, "if not, are you single?"

"Er," I said. The fog I found myself in was thick, it was taking time to clear.

"Because you are very handsome and attractive."

Handsome AND attractive. Note the use, please, of the term 'very'.

Wow! Lucky me. SUCH a NICE thing to say. But why these compliments from a man and not a woman? Because I know which side I like my bread buttered and it isn't on the guy side - certainly not the side this guy seemed to be obsequiously suggesting.

"I'm straight and not single," I said, before adding, a consolatory, "Sorry."

Not sure why I was sorry, though. I'm happy being straight and not single (even if it means I do all the food shopping).

Even if I was into men I wouldn't be into him and I certainly wouldn't want him being into me - Away nasty, nasty mental images!

He looked like a wino, or some sort of mythical creature from Middle Earth. He was stooped, had greasy hair and dirty nails. I was surprised he was allowed out during daylight hours.

Still, a compliment is a compliment, isn't it? Even if it's a wino troll saying it.

So, everyone, if you are desperate for some love action you know where to go - head down to the fresh juices chilled section of a certain well-known supermarket in Maidenhead, and wait for the trolls to appear.

The juices may be chilled but the action could well be HOT (and greasy and dirty).

If You're Sad I'm Happy

At last, I have one of those immovable deadlines - it's almost like being in a real job again.

Sort of shit but exciting at the same time, a bit like having an exciting shit. (I'm sure you have had one of those in your time, they're GREEEEEEEAAT! as the tiger from the Frosties ad used to say.)

No?

Only me then.

Thankfully, this is a job that is free from any contact with London Underground - so commuting is a breeze (today my underpants are of the blue and white variety if you are interested - same as yesterday and the day before... eek!!!).

I have ranted on about London Underground in the past and I don't intend to do the same again - not good for the old hypertension according to Dr Makeyoubetter.

Suffice to say that there is a Tube strike at the moment which for some reason is causing me to grin a lot. I'm like a Cheshire Cat on uppers.

You poor, poor bastards.

You poor, poor commuters.

I've got myself some serious schaudenfreude here!



Here is your morning:

You are stressed when you wake up, knowing it's going to be hell on the streets today. You know the tube station you normally hate but today love with all of your heart will be gated and shut.

The tube strike couldn't have come at a worse time. A very exacting but important Middle-Eastern client who is always extremely punctual is in town and wants a 9am meeting with you.

You leave the car at home because there is total gridlock. Instead you queue at 7.30am for a bus that fails to turn up, or when it does it's the wrong bus, and anyway there is no room left for you to get on even if it was the right bus.

The people on the bus are smug, they have seats, they will get to work on time. They laugh at the people stuck outside. They laugh at you.

You grit your teeth, so hard that one of them breaks. It's agony and blood spurts from your mouth onto your white shirt. You look like something out of a Quentin Tarrantino movie - there's claret everywhere.

The people on the bus look at you and laugh some more. One of them laughs so much they wet themselves, so everyone on the bus turns and laughs at them instead.

The bus disappears and there is no other in sight. You resort to walking with a handkerchief covering your mouth, just when those big nasty rainclouds appear. As the umbrellas go up around you, some guy in a suit inadvertently jabs the corner of his ridiculously large umbrella - more a mobile gazebo than anything else - into your eye. He moves on, dragged down the street by the tide of humanity, whereas you are left with blood and gore gushing from your eye.

You panic and half-swallow your handkerchief. You are now badly injured. You stagger, partially blinded and fighting for breath, through a sea of uncaring grey people living uncaring grey lives.

As the oxygen deprivation to your brain kicks in in earnest you realise that your 9am meeting is starting in less than 5mins time and you still have 10 miles to travel to your office. Your client is unlikely to be impressed. Just before the lack of oxygen to your brain - caused by the swallowed handkerchief - brings about the coma you will slip into for the next eight years you pull out your blackberry to type your letter of resignation.

And here is my morning:

Relaxed.

Stressfree.

I've just been round the shops.

Met someone for coffee.

The gym later maybe.

Or the cinema.

Can't decide.

The sun's out.

Maybe I'll just hang out in the garden for a bit.

Have a swim or a beer.

Still got the deadline though.

You know, one of those immovable deadlines.

OH SHIT!!!!

I Support The Clichéd Mum Society

Not far from where I live must reside the world's greatest concentration of clichéd mums. I'm surprised coachloads of tourists don't regularly turn up to gawpe and take photographs.

Sounds a bit like some recipe, doesn't it? "Would you like a slice of Clichéd Mum, dear - succulent and slow-cooked she is?"

There seems to be an infinite variety of clichéd mums, of different age categories.

The most important category, I reckon, is the 30-45 year old middle-class clichéd mum.

This exclusive little club - from which all men are permanently excluded (best we can hope for is to occasionally earn ourselves the odd guest/visitor pass when we are very well-behaved) - secretly rules the planet. It's not the Politicians, not the Captains of Industry, no, it's the Clichéd Mum Society.

The Clichéd Mum Society are the real powerbrokers in the world today. You see them meeting and planning their next move in cafés, in gyms, in parks, in playgrounds, outside schools, on the phone, in libraries, at after-school clubs, in supermarkets, on the bus, while out walking or jogging, at garden centres, at work, in hairdressers... everywhere.

The Clichéd Mum Society decides on the big things and the little things in life. They decide public opinion regarding who the country should next be going to war with, as well as apparently trivial matters such as who should be invited to the next dinner party, or what colour socks young Jimmy should be wearing for football.

The Clichéd Mum Society talks in code, idle gossip disguising the importance of what is actually being said. It's more difficult to crack than the Enigma Code sometimes.

The Clichéd Mum Society are ruthless and hierarchical; show weakness or step out of line while a member of The Clichéd Mum Society and you are out, ostracised - your life turned into such a living hell that you and your family may well be forced to sell up and leave the area.

As I travel to and from school, dropping the kids off and picking them up again (the school run a similar process to weightlifting perhaps) the Clichéd Mum Society are all around me. Some turn and look my way. I might even be lucky enough to get a hello before members of the Clichéd Mum Society return to their vitally important gossiping.

I don't mind. In fact, I breathe a sigh of relief.

It's reassuring to see the fate of the world in such safe hands rather than Politicians who lie, or Captains of Industry who are interested only in lining their own nests.

A real comfort.

Long live The Clichéd Mum Society.

Do Not Panic, I Repeat, Do Not Panic!

'ello.

This is a test.

Not an exam.

Just checking it all works okay here.

I'm not talking about my bodily functions either.

Me? Would never do something as disgusting as that.

It's more to do with the blog itself.

A few technical issues to deal with, you see.

Even Lord Cleverclogs here couldn't suss it. But I think it's all wine and roses once more.

Lovely.

Normal service will soon be resuming in other words.

More laughter and merriment soon.

Goodbye.

For now.

PS - Jokes (not good ones, I do warn you):

Why did the teacher wear sunglasses?

Because his class was so bright!

Did you hear about the cross eyed teacher ?

He couldn't control his pupils!

This isn't the laughter and merriment I was promising by the way.

Oh no.

You'll just have to wait for that, won't you?

Yeah.

Recession, Redundancy and Reinvention

I was reading The Economist at the weekend when...

"Hey Lord Loafy", I hear you cry, rather rudely interrupting, "What a shit start to your blog, how about lying and pretending you were drooling at some particularly explicit photos in Playboy magazine instead?"

Ok. Fair point.

I was drooling at some particularly explicit photos in Playboy Magazine at the weekend when a thought broke through and interrupted my mounting sexual excitement. The thought was to do with the current state of the Labour (as in Employment) Market.

Try as I might to concentrate on the gratuitous content in front of me, I couldn't ignore the thought - annoying but true. That thought was that men have been the greatest victims in this recession so far. In terms of jobs lost that is.

Revolutionary thinking from an ex-corporate 'droid, huh? Lord 'Marx' Loafer - that's me!

Look, think about the sectors worst-hit - finance, property, construction, manufacturing. These are sectors where men make up the bulk of the workforce. I should know, I used to work in one of these sectors until my unceremonious ejection three months ago.

Most men got jobs in these sectors thinking that there was a job for life just waiting for them there. All they had to do was turn up to work every day, work reasonably hard and they, and their income would be safe until retirement.

But before these guys knew what was going on, the mood music changed: Boom! Shake The Room suddenly became Bust! Another One Bites the Dust.

Thousands of job losses later, those still employed wonder when it will be their turn. Because although the recession might not be getting any worse, job cuts will continue. I reckon so anyway and so does The Econ-, I mean Playboy magazine.

Men are now having to do what women have had to do for years - learn flexibility. There is no such thing as a career, just a series of jobs to bring in enough money to keep Mr Wolf from the door.

The positive side of all this upheaval is supposed to be that newly-redundant men are able to show off their entrepreneurial acumen and finally do the thing they had always been itching to do, but because they have been a wage slave in an office these last 15-20 years they have never had the chance.

Now, with time on their hands, these men have the chance.

All fine in principle but how many people are truly entrepreneurial?

Probably about 3.5% of the population at best.

But with unemployment sure to hit 10% before things get better, that means that a load (a scientific term for millions) of unemployed people are pretending to be an entrepreneur when in fact they have a silent horror of ever being one - "Entrepreneur? Involves work that, don't it? Can't be arsed with that."

There are lots of ways to dress up redundancy into something more socially acceptable:

"I chose to become a consultant... (although I don't have any contacts)."
"I have this really good idea for a company... (I just can't remember what it is)."
"I wanted to spend more time with the kids... (I'm also a member of a secret masochistic cult)."
"I needed to find myself... (I'm so boring no one else can be bothered with me)."

And I've used them all.

I'm not the only one.

Ask any newly-redundant man how it's going and it's normally, "It's going really, really well. I do a quick workout every morning, then I'm round to the mistress for a sweaty session of kinkiness. Then I check my emails, meet the lads for a liquid lunch before I head down to my trendy start-up office where I employ a blonde nymphomaniac with a pneumatic front. Sometimes I have a threesome there - you know, me, her and the mistress. Business is great too!"

But it's a lie. All of it.

Apart from the checking of the emails.

Nothing doing there apart from Spam, Viagra Ads and Penis Extension offers. Yawn.

So it's back to Playboy Magazine.

Reinvention? Flexibility? Entrepreneurship?

Funk that.

(Final thing - the woman who is featured at the top of blog has lopsided 'body eyes', doesn't she? I don't think I have ever seen that before! I know about lopsided bollocks but body eyes...?

So the reason she is featured is nothing to do with me being even vaguely related to Sid The Sexist, it is that, I am, cough, an investigative journalist and, er, this fact - about the lopsided body eyes - seemed highly newsworthy. Ok?!)

Rain Rain Go The FCUK Away!

It's June, it's summer, it's the weekend and it's raining.

I shouldn't sound so surprised really.

There was going to be a school sports day fundraiser thing today - now there isn't due to an oversupply of wet stuff contravening numerous Health and Safety clauses and sub-clauses.

As a result I'm very happy, stupidly so. Probably means I'm a passively aggressive sociopath, or something.

The weather reminds me of a trip I once took to Wales, a place where it rains 99.99% of the time.


Q: Do you want to hear about?

A:
1) YES PLEASE, MR LORD LOAFER SIR - YOU ARE, AFTER ALL, THE GOD OF ALL STORYTELLERS!!

2) NO, PISS OFF YOU BORING KNOBHEAD

Pick number one pick number one pick number one pick number one Pick number one pick number one pick number one pick number onePick number one pick number one pick number one pick number onePick number one pick number one pick number one pick number bloody one!!!!

I know I have slagged off the aesthetic appearance of the locals in Wales, but the countryside there can not be faulted. Apart the existence of Merthyr Tydfil that is. Which should be demolished in it's entirety. It would be a mercy killing.

It's one of those places that is not only completely crap to look at and no doubt crap to live in it is also a place that is difficult to spell. While checking the spelling just now I came across the Merthyr Tydfil County Borough website. Thoughtfully, (although what the thought was I don't know exactly) they have installed a link to a webcam on the site. I had a quick peek and yes, to my utter lack of surprise, the webcam showed that it was raining. And generally looking like crap.

Check the link if you don't believe me - http://www.merthyr.gov.uk/home/Community/Webcam/

Clouds, rain and unremitting grimness.

John Betjeman was wrong...

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Merthyr, not Slough
It isn't fit for humans now... or ever.

Bastard... just been disturbed by some Italian speaking Jehovah Witness Weirdos.

So anyway...

My trip to Wales. Very funny. Beats my trip to West Africa hands down.

Sod it, I will tell you about it next time I blog.

Give you something to live for.

I'm nice like that.

Enjoy the rain, I'm off to feed the cat.

The Pros And Cons of Commuting In My Underpants

So Lord Loafychops, what is it really like working from home I don't hear you ask.

I will tell you anyway.

I imagine that if you did ask such a question you might say, "It can't be all coffee, cigarettes and daytime TV, right?"

You're are right, because for one thing I don't smoke.

As for daytime TV, it's shite. I don't go near to it as it is medically proven to rot your brain.

As for coffee, ever since I stopped smoking I can't stand the stuff.

It's tea or soup in a cup for me - yep, rock n roll all day and all night round these parts.

The best way, I reckon, to highlight five pros and five cons of working from home is to list them. How very 'corporate' of me.

Pros (blogger - why can't I underline!?):

• You are never late for work so never get a bollocking from the boss.

• There are no colleagues sitting close to you who piss you off with their mere existence.

• You don't ever need to wear a suit that costs a small fortune to dry clean - nor a tie (wearing a custom-made tie bearing a photo of your kids is unlikely to get you a promotion anyway).

• You work at your own pace and at your own time - incredibly fast when you suddenly realise there is an immovable deadline in 15mins time.
  

• You can pop out to Tesco, Ladbrokes or your local knocking shop whenever you want.

• You get to see a lot more of your wife and family.

Cons:

• You get to see a lot more of your wife and family.

• Due to reduced social interaction with the world around you, you lose the ability to make innane social chit-chat.

• You risk getting lonely and with that risk comes the risk of talking to the cat, the hamster, the postman, the shopkeeper, the bus conductor, the librarian, even the mums at your kids' school.

• The selection of fine and not-so-fine wines you have stored in your kitchen look increasingly enticing.

• The aforementioned selection of fine and not-so-fine wines look increasingly enticing a little bit earlier in the day as each day of working at home passes.

It's about 9.50 in the morning.

Sod the cup-a-soup.

Cheers!

Keep it real?

The word seems to be spreading - like Swine Flu - about my blog.

That is both good and bad.

I have tried to write novels in the past.

I even managed to finish one. Yes, me Lord Lardy Arse.

I used to go to writing classes as well.

So people might expect something wordy and clever from me and my blog.

Sorry folks, but Lord Fickwit ain't into them high flautin' ways.

No art w*nk present here.

I just want to write whatever the funk comes into my head.

The word zebra, for example.

Imagine a Zebra coming into your head. Perhaps via your ear?

Er, perhaps best not.

Perhaps I shouldn't be keeping this thing too real!

The Laughing Spy

I've just had a near fatal incident when I almost ran out of toilet paper.

I tell you, now would not have been a good time to run out of toilet paper.

Sheeeeet.

The smell... worse than my cat's breath after munching down a bowlful of bbq meat.

So anyway...

I have been fired twice.

Probably even three times if you include the time I was fired from my Saturday job on suspicion of stealing.

Actually let's make that four times.

I got fired from my paper round for non-delivery of papers. Took them about six months to realise though.

I used to dump the free papers I was supposed to deliver and piss off into my local town centre for an hour or two of hanging out in music stores, or staring at the front covers of porn mags - too embarrassed to reach up and take them down off the shelf.

The newspaper distribution company were paying me a penny a paper - which even back in 1984 was some way below the International Minimum Wage. Slave labour it was and I, young Lord Lazy Arse, was having none of it.

My last job was slave labour also.

I was working 80 hours a week on average. That's twice the number of hours I was being paid for.

One night I worked until 5.30am the following day, then slept for one hour and a half before returning to the office for a full ten-hour day. I was off my head from exhaustion and stress even before I got to go down the pub.

The travel was interesting though.

Emerging markets - Eastern Europe, the Middle East and West Africa.

Part of my job involved Fieldwork, no not working in a field. That's something different.

Fieldwork research.

Primary research.

On-the-ground research.

Basically it was lots of running around (actually me being Lord Loafer it mainly involved being driven around) wide-eyed with stress - desperately trying to find someone who might be willing to talk to me even if they are mad and haven't got a clue about the types of questions I needed to find answers for.

Questions included - how much demand is their for new housing in the area? How much supply is coming through and when will it be completed? Who is buying? How much rent are people willing to pay? Can you name a good place to pick up prostitutes that won't kill you with their diseases?


One encounter I had while in Africa involved driving out to an industrial zone which looked like it had been repeatedly nuked. The driver did raise an eyebrow and give me a look when I first suggested we go out there.

On our way we passed a lot of people standing around on the sides of roads. Most of them lacked limbs or teeth, some lacked both. There were lots of rusting trucks and cars littering the place also.

When it came to finding the location for an interview, I was always the one having to do the phoning. The people I was interviewing didn't seem to want to talk and give directions to the driver, a silly status thing.

But the drivers knew the city several million times better than Lord Loafer, so a lot of time wasted and a lot of confusion caused by this silly status thing. My UK phone couldn't get through to most local numbers anyway, so a local mobile phone chip was bought from a street hawker.

That afternoon, me and my driver eventually found the place we were looking for. It was called A.A.R.S.Y. Holdings or something similar. Unintentionally hilarious but very difficult to ask with a straight face, "Excuse me, is this AARSY Holdings". Thank Christ it wasn't AARSY Wholesale.

A very understated African guy sort of introduced himself to me. African men have quite low voices and mumble a fair bit so it can be very difficult to understand what they are saying. You end up having to say, "Pardon","Sorry", "What did you say?" quite a lot.

It wasn't long before this guy starts getting a bit AARSY with me, saying, "Don't you understand English then. Why? Your country invented it!"

At least I think that is what he said.

Anyway, I tried to do the interview with him, but the milk had been well and truly soured. He was very suspicious of my questions, wanting to know why I needed the information I was asking for. He suggested I might be a spy engaged in some sort of industrial espionage.

That made me laugh out loud. Me, a spy?!

Then the power cut happened.

They happen a lot in West Africa. Usually when you are travelling between floors in a lift.

This power cut was at just as awkward a moment.

We were sat in a windowless room and then the lights went out.

Just after I had laughed at this slightly scary, suspicious man.

My laughter bounced back at me from walls that were suddenly very dark.

The whole building went quiet.

In the middle of this darkness, I heard the leather on his chair creak as he got up out of it. He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was walking around the side of his desk towards me.

I was sure then he was going to do me some harm. My bottom emitted the same smell then as it did earlier this morning.

He was going to strangle me or stab me with his stapler while yelling, "Do you understand this then?!"

Instead, he walked past me and opened the door.

A shaft of African sunlight poured in from the corridor outside.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and my bottom squeaked gratefully.

"Hey William," he said to one of the many thousands of people loitering outside, "Can you get me and Lord Loafer some tea please."

From somewhere nearby the back-up generator could be heard whirring and clanking into life and all the lights reluctantly came back on.

I needed something stronger to drink than tea.

Why Are There No Mirrors In Wales?

Here's a random thought to share with you while I wait for the bath to fill.

I recently went camping in South Wales, in the Black Mountains.

More on that another time. Bet you can't wait, eh?

But I have to say every toilet I went into while I was there didn't have a mirror.

I reckon it is a local government ploy... to avoid scaring the locals.

Because mirrors and some of the people I saw while walking to Tesco in Abergavenny (only to find it shut) should definitely be kept as far away from each other as possible.

Abergavenny may well be the traditional gateway to South Wales and, to the incomparable beauty of Brecon Beacons National Park - but it is also the gateway to the Vale of Ugliness I reckon.

Harsh but fair.

Scary and quite hairy them locals are.

And that was just the women.


This one is Wales's answer to Rachael Weitz.

Guaranteed to put lead in one's pencil every time?

Don't get me wrong, the Welsh are all right.

They are friendly, into beer, rugby and singing.

But.

Yes.

Exactly.

Job Ads And Elections

I was going to call this rant number two, but I'm not sure I feel like ranting right now.

Feeling a little delicate, you see.

Late night last night.

It's too early in the morning still - London GST - to be ranting (despite what blogger says the time is- you're wrong blogger baby!)

Anyway, job ads.

Don't you just loathe 'em. Must be a horrendous job to have to write about all those horrendous jobs out there.

"Here is an interesting opportunity - A global management consultancy is looking to recruit. Ideal candidates will have a background in consultancy, competition economics, litigation support and sticking their tongues as far up management arses as they can go."

How can that be an interesting opportunity!?

Having sex with Rachael Weitz is what I would call an interesting opportunity.

(Cracking photo isn't it? Thank you very much for taking it, Naomi.)

I have done a job similar to the one quoted (even the tongue thing, but not very well hence why I am here writing to you) and I can tell you it was not interesting (or tasty).

"If you have the high level secretariat experience we require and if you are looking for a challenging role where your multi-tasking skills will be fully utilised and you will never, ever get to go home (not even at weekends), we would love to hear from you."

Do these people really think they will recruit someone?

Truth be told they probably will.

To stop all this nonsense I reckon I should start a revolution or something.

Workers and non-workers should unite to overcome the tyranny of office life.

So, vote for me Lord Loafer at the local and European elections tomorrow.

I will free every one of you so that we can all loaf together!

Remember vote for me - Even if you can't see my name on the ballot paper.

Vote with your mind, if not your pen.

Freedom to loaf, play this game (http://www.gamesgames.com/game/Crush-the-Castle.html) and dream about getting up close and personal with Rachael Weitz.

Sigh.

Lightning Strikes

Today is one of those rare times when I am feeling productive so I may as well make the most of it.

I'll let my fingers do the talking.

In the non-biblical sense. Sorry, you are just not my type.

You feel embarrassed when it happens. Premature eja-, er, no, I mean get made redundant.


You don't want to tell people. You don't want them to find out. You want to brush it under the carpet.

"How are you?"
"Good thanks"
"How is the job?"
"Job? Er..."

Being made redundant suggests you might have been crap at your job. If you hadn't been crap then you might have avoided the cut.

Well folks, I must be really crap as it has happened to me twice in the last 12 months.

Yep. Twice.

Impressed? Well, I'm not called Lord Loafer for nothing.

Lord Lazy Arse might be more appropriate.

The Ides Of March

The Ides of March.

March 15th.

In Roman times it was a festive day featuring a military parade.

In 44BC, it was Julius Caesar's assassination day.

So beware! Be-bloody-ware!!

My Ides of March occurred a week or so earlier on the 6th March.

That's was the date I was made redundant.

Didn't really feel like an assassination I must admit, although one of the people who got rid of me I have likened to a smiling assassin - friendly enough to your face but ready to plunge the knife into your back when given a chance.

It was more like a mugging, where I played the perfect victim.

The managing director, the one who ultimately had the power - well, the less said about them the better... Poisonous, evil, a bully, their life so empty that they are happy for work to entirely dominate their life (and everyone else's). Sad, bad and more than ever so slightly mad.

So redundancy, when it happened, was a relief.

It was like being released from prison.

After the meeting with HR, (a Show Trial if ever there was one - the MD being judge, jury and executioner) I remember wandering around the streets of London in a numb daze. A pale-faced, sleep-deprived, over-worked, suddenly out-of-work individual blindly walking around the West End in the late afternoon sunshine.

I left a two word message on someone's voice mail, "I'm out".

Not out of the closet. It's always been women for me. Just out.

As in outside, no longer inside. No longer a wage slave, no longer an organization man heading to an early grave.

6th of March - Ghana's independence day. And mine.

No more spreadsheets for a while. And no more festering in a crap office.

I went home and slept.

A lot.

But not before checking myself for knife wounds.

Rant Number One - London Underground

I have just got back from a night out in Central London. What a horror show!

Now I realise how great working - if you can call what I do working - from home is.

It's loafing from home really.

Home is a place where all the best loafing takes place.

Anyway, Central London. Not great for loafing.

Great for loathing perhaps, but not loafing.

Particularly the Underground system - London Underground - as bad, if not worse, than London Aboveground.

Here is rant number one out of an indefinite, perhaps infinite, number of rants from yours truely - Lord 'Ranty' Loafer:

Three things I dislike (in fact hate) about London Underground AKA The Tube.

Took quite some time to narrow it down to three. Three thousand things, even three hundred things... but three. That was tougher than sitting through a series of Britain's Got Talent (Talent? Don't make me larf!).

1 - London Underground might want people to keep feet off seats but I want London Underground to keep people off trains altogether.

Not much to ask considering the amount of money I pay to travel on this extremely shit public transport system. No fellow passengers please when I, Lord Rantypants, next rides into town if it's not too much to ask.

All my fellow passengers seem to be miserable self-hating gits.

2 - London Underground is not only shit but smelly and greasy too.

Similar to a smelly greasy shit in many ways. For a start, both are overrated and require tubes to function properly.

This evening I had to put up with smelly fast food being eaten in front of me by greasy, miserable, self-hating commuter gits.

Enough to put you on permanent hunger strike.

Which isn't a bad idea considering I'm not earning a penny at the moment.

3 - The only smiles you get to see while on the Underground (other than from very drunk or very mad people) are the fake smiles in adverts.

'Little break, big difference... 2hrs 15mins to the heart of Paris' - a couple pissing themselves laughing while drinking garlic-flavoured coffee outside a crap-looking Parisian café.

"I'm no angel," beams another fake smile, "the mistake is I have the hair of one."

With adverts as bad as this, I think I suddenly understand why everyone on The Tube looks so miserable and self-hating.

Thank god I have loafing at home to look forward to and not the daily horror ride into the office.

Sorry to sound so smug... but.

I was feeling a bit rubbish about being stuck at home before I went out.

Now...

I feel a lot better.


...Not sure whether that makes me very drunk or very mad.

Lord Who?

Hello Lord Loafer here.

Lord Who?

Lord What?

I know what you are thinking... but I'm not.

I'm not a member of the English Peerage system.

And I have nothing at all to do with a certain type of bread product. Although I do like a slice or two of Polish bread on occasion. It makes great toast I find. Especially with blue cheese. Lovely.

Nor do I have anything to do with a low leather step-in shoe that resembles a moccasin.

I am Lord of my own manor. That much is true. Although the mortgage company still owns most of it.

Since March I have been spending an increasing amount of time - too much time - kicking around this manor (1930s house actually) doing very little.

Hence the self-imposed Loafer label.

Loafer as in idler, layabout, non-worker, clock watcher, couch potato, laggard, dawdler, lazybones, slacker, trifler.

I suppose I might look like this but with less facial hair. I'll leave that to the wife. Ouch. I can feel the punches raining down on me already.

Viva Zapata!