2005-01-24

I hope I didn�t harsh any of you out with my last entry (I�m all cocky towards the yanks now that I�m out of firing range, huh). I realize, of course, that half of America (or more than half, I would suspect) hates Georgie Boy even more than I do, did not vote for him, and is angry and ashamed to have a subhuman fascist automaton representing their country before the world. I know this. But on the off chance that anyone out there reading this willingly, knowingly, consciously voted for George W. Bush (I assume that my readers on the whole would have superior judgment and taste): YOU ARE A FUCKING TWAT. Come over to England and I�ll say that to your face.

File under Unfair: I have a hangover from two pints. To be realistic, though, I think it�s too little sleep rather than too much alcohol that is causing my misery this morning. It has become a ritual for cutie-patootie colleague Phil and I to head to the casino after closing up the bar: not because we like to gamble (though watching other people piss away their money is anthropologically intriguing), but because it�s the only decent place in Gunwharf Quays to have a drink after 11 PM. It�s either that or Tiger Tiger, and yeah, sorry, a misspelled reference to William Blake does not a tolerable watering hole make. (Tiger Tiger, serving shite! Blaring Britney through the night!) Anyway, pints until 1 AM and sleep until a paltry 7 AM are not doing me any favours.

First bit of news for the day: I have a start date for my new job in Basingstoke (one week today!). Fine. Whatev. Looking forward to getting a LOT of reading done during my two hours of commuting every day. Drawback: getting to Basingstoke is expensive, and in the two weeks before my first paycheque, I will be skint. Upshot: I have agreed to stay on and work weekends at the bar. This means I�ll be working seven days a week. Fucking hell! My life sucks! and so forth. Some of my friends are unemployed: I envy them. I am overemployed (and yet, underpaid). Compensatory measures: tonight we drink! I am rounding up my mates for a hearty liquid farewell to my social life.

Surreal bit of news for the day: remember Home Invader? In a recent conversation with my sister, I asked sarcastically how he was doing, since she insists on continuing their retarded on-again off-again stormy adulterous non-relationship. �He knocked me up,� said my sister casually. Yes, it seems even his spermatozoa barge in where they�re not wanted. My sister is very blas� about the whole affair. She�s got an appointment to, erm, take care of it, although she�s considering all her options: �If I kept it I could take a year off work and still get paid!� Her maternal longings touch my heart, they really do. So, at this moment, I am technically an aunt to a doomed microscopic zygote. Bit of a sobering thought, really. Although not literally. Pints ahoy!