What to do if your boss won't pay you

So in this shitty economic climate where some complete wankers think the solution is to lower minimum wage (go fuck yourselves, seriously) it seems a boy like me farting through silk to get his bills paid needs to be a suave mutherfucker.

I've been working part time and temping to top my wages up. One company I temp for (or temped for) are particularly bad and often send me to jobs that turn out not to be booked, and even when I do the work pay arrives late. One particular job I did, I waited three weeks for pay but without it appearing in my bank account.

At the end of the second week I told my handler (MI5 joke) that I needed this money to pay bills and that I did the work and it was only right that they paid me. My handler told me that she'd talk to someone in the office to sort something out and blah blah blah but most importantly she'd ring me back in five minutes. By the end of the day I hadn't heard anything (this was Friday two weeks in). I called on Tuesday, the payroll day wanting to know the status of my payment. I was again told that I'd be called later and it would all be sorted out. No call came. I knew I was being passed on, especially when I called back and wasn't able to speak to my handler (who was out of the office/on the phone to another client/dancing round the office to inane pop music while lighting a cigar for satan with the money that should be coming my way). I told the guy who answered the phone that I wanted that money paid to me on Friday and he started doing all the polite job agency crap of mispronouncing my name (who the fuck mispronounces Tuesday Kid?), and saying thinks like 'how many hours do you think you've worked?' So I told him that it wasn't a case of thinking. I knew what I worked and I wasn't going to let his company fuck me around. At this point he said that my language was unacceptable. I told him that waiting three weeks without pay was unacceptable, at which point he started to repeat that my language was unaccep-'FUCK YOU.' I shouted down the phone at him and hung up.

The next day when I called I was put on to my handler who told me that if I called into the office they'd pay me my money in cash. Which I did and they did.

While I was there I was told that they wouldn't be able to use me again after the way I'd spoke to the guy.

I told them that I didn't want to work for them again because I couldn't be sure I'd get my money next time.

Then I rode off into the sunset and all that cowboy shit.

The thing is, I tried to be nice and follow procedure and be polite to all parties and generally just be a good guy, and hope that everyone else would be good to me back. No such luck, only when I ring them up and hurl abuse does everyone stop acting like an asshole.

They were lucky they gave in before I started throwing headbutts.

Sammy Wilson Wants to Bring Back the Death Penalty...Of Course He Does

I was reading the BBC news this morning when I came across an article saying five Northern Irish MPs want to bring back the death penalty. My first thought was I bet that daemonic bastard Sammy Wilson is among them.

Those of you who've been reading my blog for a while will know that when I was high on crack I was sometimes visited by a daemon who I suspected was Sammy Wilson. Turns out I was right! This motion may be some ritual dressed up as parliamentary proceedure and even a basic knowledge of satanism suggests that the other four represent the cardinal points!

It makes sense that a satanic idol would want the death penalty brought back, but what about his four cronies: David Simpson, Jim Shannon, Jefferey Donaldson and Gregory Campbell (soupy!).

Jim Shannon - Embarrassed Northern Ireland by speaking Ulster Scots in parlament. David Cameron even told him to 'catch himself on'.
Gregory Campbell - Hard faced old bastard.
David Simpson - Who's he?
Jeffery Donaldson - Said in an interview that he doesn't mind getting mistook for Daniel O'Donnell 'We've been friends for years. If someone asks me to sign one of his albums or something I just write Dan and they go off smiling.'

Sweaty Heavy Metal Rock and Roll Vomit Party Memory

I think the only other thing I have in common with Kurt Cobain is that I was in a band (briefly). A sweaty rock and roll heavy metal one. I was pish at singing. I was really in it for the metal pussy, because there were lots of heavy metal vomit parties.

I remember one in the Four Winds where there were mudwrestling ladies. The whole house was getting down to slippery mudwrestling fun and dope smoking, when a stone came through the front window. I suggested sending the wrestling ladies out to some break legs but the guy throwing the party said that he had to call the cops about it, or his insurance company wouldn’t pay to get the windows fixed. It all sounded very unmetal.

We burnt loads of toast to try to cover the smell of dope and sat in the living room waiting for the peelers. The place was a mess. The mud from the makeshift wrestling arena in the centre of the room had spilled out all over the white carpet. With all the mud plus the roaches and red wine that had been thrown on it, there was nothing you could have done with it but throw it out. Most of us were covered in mud, a few of the guys had black eyes from the mudwrestling. I caught a look at myself in the mirror. I was stoned out of my boat. My face was so pale I could have blended in with the radiators.

‘Hey, it’s the peelers,’ said a stoned guy with black eyes in a stoned drawl, as the door swung open and some cops came walking in.
‘Been making some toast?’ one of them said. He could have said more. It didn’t help that the guy who just spoke gave the peeler a stoned in-on-it grin.
The guy who owned the house was sweating like a horse during sex and making nervous jokes, while trying to take the police out into another room.

‘I’m going to write a song about this,’ I said, half joking, but one of the metal girls gave me such a look, like this was the coolest thing she’d ever heard anyone say, that I started enlarging on it, talking about a riff I had that would suit it and this cool drum break and all that sort of shit. And yes, with the peelers still in the house, I got me some metal pussy.

Homeless, Like Kurt, who was deep

I'm in the house watching the Nirvana night on BBC4, or to be honest I've only just turned it on. Right at the point where they're saying that Kurt Cobain used to be homeless. Something I never knew.

I've been homeless myself, but never for long, never more than a few weeks before I found somewhere to stay. If I had to spend a few nights under a bridge or in a park or even in a casualty waiting room (like Cobain did) I always managed to get myself a sofa in someone's house, or crash out in a cupboard at a party.

The first time I spent a night out was during some shitty rioting that happens in Northern Ireland from time to time. I was coming home from a party at a friends house (I was only a teenager at the time by the way) when I heard more noise than I should have heard at that time of night in that area. I turned a corner where I could see a lot better a crowd of angry bastards charging up the street in my direction. That was my cue to turn and run like a mutherfucker, not in the opposite direction, back the way I came (at a right angle to the rioters route). I managed to get to a bridge that I had to cross on my way to school. It was in a remote part of town, and not lit, so I tucked myself under it to sleep. It was stupid for a lot of reasons. It's a bad idea to put yourself in an obscure area far the fuck away from anyone, but since the town was getting fucked up it was the best of nothing but bad options.

It wasn't the last time I slept under a bridge, or that bridge, but I hope that part of my life is over with, unless the economy sends everything to shit again, and in that case there's always cat burgling and crack.