Fuck Sainsbury's at Forestside

Last night sitting in in the miserable rain and Hot Baby Roy off out for Hot Baby Roy time I needed something to cheer me up.

I'd spent most of the day at the dole getting my money sorted out, the useless bastard hadn't put it through the system so I had to sit in the waiting room to get a cheque. Everyone there looked like they were waiting for Jeremy Kyle to call and offer them that one shot at stardom he so kindly offers everyone, (even his own wife).

I was pissed off. I'd seen that cute girl in the rain but it wasn't enough. I sat around thinking that I was like some kind of stalker and that maybe if she knew I'd blogged about her I'd seem like on of those pricks who blogs about his top ten anime babes OF ALL TIME!! (even though it's only been around since the 60s).

Sitting on the couch I hit upon the idea of going to Sainsbury's at Forestside to do some late night shopping. It's always cool to go there in the middle of the night, everyone else is in bed asleep but I'm up getting sustenance.

So off I popped in a taxi only to be stopped by a big metal barrier at Forestside, Sainsbury's don't open 24 hour anymore! Fuck them! I wasted nearly a tenner on my fare there and back, I'll fucking go on the rob in there someday and get my money's worth. Watch out Sainsbury's! When I leave your store next time you will have two holes!

70's Crimewatch Photofit Suspect

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Dole today was lots and lots of fun. Because we're all so fucking unemployed and destined to stay that way the fuckers behind the desk at the Connor Building were all smugging it up big style.

I've mentioned that The Albino and Mrs Puddinghead are particularly bad to get but another one who can be bad depending on whether or not he realises where he is is The 70's Crimewatch Photofit Suspect.

He sits and gives monosyllabic grunts and eventually comes to his senses with a start and gets you to sign for your cash.

Sometimes he sits and deep breathes at his desk as he stares at your shoulder and then disappears in the office for twenty minutes.

He came back and asked me who I was. I told him and he lifted my signing book off the desk in front of him and said - You've the same name as this guy.

"No, that's me." I said.

He handed me back my book and gave me a smile that nearly begged me to please like him. I didn't and still don't now over 10 hours later.

He'd better have put my claim though properly. Otherwise I might be asking the police to let me see some photofits from 40 years ago. I'm sure I could stitch him up even if none fit.

Back to the Dole

Yesterday I walked back into the Connor Building on Great Victoria St to claim my dole. I fought back tears as I took a ticket and sat down waiting to be called.

Just to kick me in the balls, I ended up getting seen to by Mrs. Puddinghead. She almost salivated to see me back. She gave me my old signing day of Tuesday, to be half nice but she snorted a few times as she made shitty remarks about me being there for the long haul because there was no jobs.

She mustened have realised she was doing it because when I snorted back at her she leapt up and shouted:

"Are you calling me a pig? Do my feet have little trotters?"

I snorted again and tried to stop a tear trickling down my cheek, this was my moment, my perfect moment, just like Martine McCutcheon.

I left the dole office as miserable as Martine's pish song about Tiffany and Grant and what could have been. What could have been?



If this is too pish hear some better music by tuning in to Queen's Radio tonight for Rowan Hudson's show.

Another Shite Day at the Dole

It's been a weird few days. It's been great sunny weather and I've been miserable as fuck. I ran out of money and had to go down the dole for a crisis loan. Nasty fuckers, say that they can't give you one unless it's an emergency so I told them that a water pipe had burst and spoiled all my food.

They asked for my landlord's number but I told them that I didn't have it on me and couldn't go home to get it. They eyed me up all suspicious. It was this fat wanker who wore a polo shirt and looked like he'd never played polo, or any sport other than "find the bags of crisps" which he's very good at, the fat crisp eating bastard.

Anyway he told me I had to wait an hour on the loan to be decided and I sat there feeling bored and pissed off. There weren't even any newspapers to read.

I looked on the job search machines and there was fuck all going. Most of the work on offer is part-time which is pish because you have to work sixteen hours a week and you come off worse than dole and housing benefit combined.

The place was bunged, loads of fuckers in looking crisis loans because unemployment and the price of stuff has went up so you have to sit there like a glum fucker and wait for your cash. Some of them had kids with them who crawled around goo-gooing a load of spidey shite.

I got a text from Fabian Wildman, the first since he's moved out, I took my phone out to read it when this wee bitch of a security guard came right over and got up in my face saying: "you can't text in here, you can't text in here."

"I'm not texting. I'm reading a text," I said.

"Same thing, same thing. You can't use phones at all."

Then I had to go outside to read it.

It was just Fabian saying that he'd left some socks and would I be in this evening for him to come and get them.

I didn't reply.

I didn't get my crisis loan either, so I just went to Tescos on the rob.

Lonely Mrs. Puddinghead - Part 2

So I've this plan to get a new job and I pop off to the job centre to find that it's full of folk wanting jobs, all the oul gang are still there but they're outnumbered by all these high fallutin types wanting work. It's not cool, except Mrs Puddinghead is well busy and really pissed off that's she's speaking to people who actually want to work for a change.

I start looking through the jobs and see there's one for a kissogram. I think this would rock for me because I could borrow Fabian Wildman's Zentai and rock out to fuck in a house full of lovely ladies all wanting kissed. I would but I remember one time spying on Mrs. Puddinghead (out of boredom) and seeing a male kissogram show up to her lonely house night after night but then one night the kissogram didn't come any more and I asked The Albino about it one time he was in a good mood and he laughed and told me that she'd been blacklisted by every kissogram company in the province because she always liked to look on their visits as dates and wanted to move their relationship to the next level but they wouldn't and how she cried and begged and bought them chocolates and expensive brandy. He laughed so much his cheeks turned a pinkish-white. Nasty bastard.

I don't like Mrs Puddinghead but that's one of the saddest stories I've ever heard. I remembered her crying the other week and I still think she's a bitch but I can't help but feel sorry for her. I think I'll just avoid her in here if I can (I was trying to do that anyway) or just recognise that her nastiness is just a reaction to the love she sees everywhere but never feels herself.