Dull Again

Work is dull, it's repetitive, it's safe, it's dull and grey. I went to the canteen to buy some fruit pastels from the vending machine, hoping to inject a little colour into my afternoon but the machine ate my money and chuckled as it kept the fruit pastels from me. A tear the size of my balls rolled down my face but it was see-through and as colourless as my job.

How to Make The Tastiest Pancakes

This morning I was coughing up chunks of green stuff. It's all the walking about drunk in the cold, Wino Jo says, he says he's an expert in this stuff. It seems his being back on the drink was a temporary thing as he's not been drunk since that night.

There were streaks of red in the coughed stuff and I'm not sure if it's blood or colouring from the pink champaigne. Either way none of the others in the house seemed too bothered and I just struggled out of bed and made my way to work via the off-licence and custom house square. I'd hoped that some pink champaigne would give me strength to get through the day but I've been sitting shivering in the disabled bogs since I came in.

No fucking pancakes. Book Boy says it's just a commercial holiday and that the marketting ploy that starts every year after Valentines Day is sickening. He was near in tears when he said it but I think that's because he doesn't have a sweetheart or anyone to make him pancakes either.

I FUCKING HATE MY JOB

Things are bad in the call centre, there's talk of the client pulling out, and much as I'm wanting to leave anyway I'm starting to suss that there's not much else out there.

It's shitting all over me. I'm due in next on Saturday and I'm ringing in sick because this is just fucking horrible. Today was horrible, fucking asshole the Huffy Tortoise came down and sat with us because he wants to see how we're working. He started with our team and of course Little My was making points here and there about how everyone was doing stuff fucking wrong the wee bitch. The Huffy Tortoise just sat and made all these bullshit points that futtered away up his own arse about all the little things people were doing wrong. I wanted to ask him if he'd like to speak to someone screaming down the phone at him but I couldn't. He'd fire me on the spot and I'd be back on the scummy dole. I can't be arsed. WOULD SOMEONE GIVE ME A JOB WHERE THE BOSS ISN'T AN ARSEHOLE!

I'm not Crying, It's just Raining

Work is pure balls today, it's pissing down outside and all anyone seems to want to talk about is Alex and Jordan. I said that Alex and Jordan were no Peter and Jordan and Little My said that it was time to move on. She has a point, the only person who's been here longer than us now is Book Boy and I don't know how he even ended up here in the first place.

We've some new starts today and Hoors Bastard is among them, seems he came back and fought the good fight and has earned a prize job (balls). He keeps talking about this guy who was in training with him called Captain Cool Bastard. Apparently Captain Cool Bastard is pure lethal craic and he's going to get up to all sorts while he's here. Hoors Bastard compared him to Bolton from Heartbreak High and Little My left a wee wet patch on her seat. I asked Whoors Bastard who Bolton was and Little My said:

"Away you back to sleep."

This is apparently some craic when she says it when she's out with her millie friends. Speaking of millies, neither Hot Baby Roy nor Wino Jo caught on that they've as much chance of pulling the Leotard Girls as they do of pulling my bar.

They both secretly blame me for putting them off the Anfield Rap and they say they're going to bring it out at the next party. They'll lose more teeth than Rock and Roll Stephen if they do, who by all accounts is now a gummy bastard.

The Disabled Bogs Are Flooded

The disabled bogs in work is where most people go for humping and pumping or self congratulations, but not today.

When we all got in this morning the disabled bogs were flooded, crying because Kissy Boy had left, Little My said, but everyone looked at the floor embarrased for her when she said this.

Truffle Shuffle and The Huffy Tortoise (who owns the building) were all parading about outside looking angry as fuck. The Uselss Arm Pit (the owner's brother and all round building handy man) was salivating and kept shouting "DON'T CALL THE POLICE!" They did of course and we were all ushered into our work cubicles. Here speculation was rife that Kissy Boy had fucked them up majorly when he went, no one could be sure but London Girl came in with a face like her heart was breaking and said:

"Kissy Boy flooded the disabled toilets," as if he'd done a turd on her living room carpet and rubbed her face in it, which he couldn't because London Girl is ex-TA and could put his head through a wall if she wanted.

Everyone was saying I told you so, and though it probably was him it could just as likely have been everyone else who hates working here. They've no more proof that Kissy Boy flooded the bogs than they do that he licks his own balls, and he's a lucky bastard if he can.

I think The Useless Arm Pit was wanting to go round his house and beat him up but I don't think he could bear himself in a came of Who Comes First?

Bye Bye Kissy Boy

Today was Kissy Boy's last day at work. He said he was fed up with the place and that we should try to get the fuck out of there. Call centres are a dying profession he said. In the future robots would do the work for us and we'd lay around all day getting suntans and working on our beer guts.

Then with a quick fuck you to Truffle Shuffle, he said he was going to say it to his face but he only said it under his breath, Kissy Boy was away, breaking the hearts of every girl on the floor. Kissy Boy said he didn't care because they all looked like they'd been born here and would, hopefully, he nodded at Little My, die here too.

She snuffled a laugh like she thought he was joking but he was dead serious. He has a point, not really about Little My, but about getting the fuck out of here. I don't want to be call centre cannon fodder. Our job is basically a buffer zone. No one ringing in to complain can actually get to speak to anyone who will do anything for them and we are expected to get them off the phone as quickly as possible. It stinks.

Would You Fuck Iris Robinson?

We sat round in work today discussing who'd fuck Iris Robinson. It turned out no one would apart from Kissy Boy, and it wasn't because he was a big DUP fan but more that he said she had a certain way with her, a sparkle in her smile, but when the girls were away he said that she was a dirt bird and he wouldn't touch her, even for £50000, even if he'd a few bottles of champaigne in him that she bought for him and she was wearing "proper gear" underneath one of her tacky overpriced Lisburn Road "boutique" affairs (no pun intended).

He was getting a bit worked up about it, and I started to suspect he'd only been telling a half truth about not wanting her, but he was saved by an interuption from another member of staff Fat Mo. Fat Mo doesn't say much but he had plenty to say about us slagging off The First Lady. He said that she was the third most important woman in the UK after The Queen and Sarah Brown.

No would could argue against this because no one could be arsed explaining politics to Fat Mo. He went on to say that to think about Iris Robinson was a woman not to be thought of in a sexual way and only a scumbag like Kirk McCambly would do something as outrageous as this. His eyes went all fucked up when he said this like he could almost not comprehend how the guttersnipe had dared to even speak to her.

Little My said that McCambly was a cutie and Book Boy says he looked like the sort of kid people slagged off at school for fucking citrus fruits. Probably, none of us could be sure.

Little My is Boring as Fuck

In work today Little My has been boasting like fuck all about what her boyfriend bought her for Christmas and more importantly how much it all cost and how she checked the price of it in the shops and her man isn't cheap. They've only been going out a few weeks so he might be an arsehole. Kissy Boy says he's definitely an arsehole, not just for the money he spent but for going out with Little My in the first place.

He asked her what did she buy him and Little My said that it was the man's place to splash the cash.

It'll all end in tears, hopefully hers.

She told a story all about how her man told some guy in a pub to "fuck aff" and it was some craic and how her and all her mates have some craic slagging the pish out of each other.

It sounds like a San and Tray appreciation society.

Little My's ma Big My sits in the bar and tells dickheads to shut up and she hit someone a dig in the face and it was all too much to listen to. I looked round to see that no one else was listening either.

As Little My finished her story no one laughed in the right place so she told it again, louder with more cursing.

No one laughed this time either.

She said, "there's something wrong with you folk, no one here's any craic."

I nearly bought some crack when we got out wages but I didn't want to tell anyone. There were fuck all calls coming in so I'm just waiting for Little My to shut up or the shift to end.

Hungry for Love and Crack

So this morning I called in sick to work. I'm not enjoying it and I spend the weekends doing everything that I had to put off during the week. Plus with working Monday to Friday (my training lot are going to be put on shift patterns next week so that we'll be working some weekends and some late nights, with weekdays and mornings off) I've missed out on things like going to the bank to scrounge money. I want an overdraft and a credit card that I'm going to max out and change address when they ask for the money back.

Hot Baby Roy was all twitchy this morning and asked me if I ever fancied going back on crack. I told him no, even though I get tempted (now more than in the past). I told him that all I needed was a few felt tips once in a while and just enough whiskey to make me boke in my mouth and leave that smokey aftertaste.

He said he gets tempted, though what he really wants is true love. I told him that true love doesn't exist outside of his DVDs. He pulled a face like a child who has been told they're not getting that gift you promised them.

Then he said he had something in his eye and ran upstairs to the bathroom. I heard some sobbing through the door and he had a big red face when he came out.

He asked me if we could have a party and invite the Leotard Girls. I told him maybe. He smiled a bit but he'd big bloodshot eyes and a look that said he was hungry for love.

Ice Cold in the Face of the Truffle Shuffle

This morning I was called into the manager's office. Not London Girl's wee cubicle but the big head honcho guy. He's a big English squadie whose face wobbles when he gets angry. He was bloody fuming at me today and his face was getting on lick chunks belly when he does the truffle shuffle.



There, that's his fat fucker face. I sat there like Corey Feldman trying to keep ice cold (like Andre 3000) but big chunks of Truffle Shuffle's spit went all over my face. He also can't say his fs and launches into them like an exhausted hurdler smashing himself and the hurdle into shite as he misjudges the jump or his energy or both. Using this technique Truffle Shuffle can throw his breath in the same way a ventriloquist can throw a dummy.

Anyways it was about my being a bad mawfucka on the phones. I'm not getting the sack but I am on a final warning.

Kissy Boy gave me the thumbs up when I told everyone. Ice Cold.

Party Down and Go Fuck Yourself

Welcome to Party Down and Go Fuck Yourself. It's a story of love, life and licking the bowl. If you're interested in crack addiction, satanism, shoplifting, heavy metal, tight spandex, Hermione Granger, smoking hot guitar solos, call centres, millies and spides, pink champagne, cross dressing, the lessons of the street, big violent dogs, cute puppies, boiled eggs, oral sex, indie music, the Lagan Meadows, Belfast, Northern Ireland, Northern Ireland's tallest building (The Obel Tower) or the possibility that Sammy Wilson MP is actually a shapeshifting demon then there's something in here for you.

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