Welcome to the blog party.
One of the few things in life that is more upsetting than getting a kitten for Christmas, only to find that mummy forgot to drill air holes in the box (but remember, a cat isn't a cat until you look inside, so don't open any more presents again... EVER) is that feeling of being chucked out of the other end of the festive season, like some glitter coated rectal jewel, and suddenly it is the first day of January.
Truly, this is the time of year when the spectre of harsh reality rears its head like an evil darkhearted spring, arriving to kick you awake from the hibernation of winter by chucking a pale of water over your head and ushering you into the bathroom for a good scrubbing with a Brillo Pad.
Everyone is furious and howling like toddlers on the first day back at work, glimpsing the gazillion or so emails awaiting petty attentions and staring wistfully at the clock when it reaches noon, remembering the good old days of being sat on the sofa in three day old pants eating cheese twists from the packet and scratching themselves until the 6th re-run of Celebrity Come Dine With Me comes on. And God only knows what the men would be thinking (ohhhhhh, a joke based on genders doing something slightly different from what you would expect!!! That is so amusing I literally prolapsed with glee. All over the kitchen chair.... mmmm, sticky).
At least, that is how it should be unless you are a jobless bum like me. Nowadays, spending my afternoons eating cheesy snacks would actually be an upgrade. I've moved backwards from eating foods out of the packet because that seemed like a lot of hard work and so have taken to smearing golden syrup over my lips first thing in the morning and lying in wait in front of the TV in case flies land on them and become entrapped in the syrupy coating. I'm then free to use my tongue to flick them into my slobbering, retched mouth hole before chewing them to a slimy, but sugar enriched, paste.
I've even got to the point where lifting my arms to use the remote seems like a ridiculous expenditure of effort, so have instead placed it on a small table in front of me so that I can lean forwards and pound my face into the numbers whenever Diagnosis Murder gets a bit dull (i.e. when it starts) until I become concussed.
Today, I was able to look outside my window at the pwetty ickle skyice that was falling from the heavens and learnt that if you squint a bit, the world looks like it's piped into your head from a badly tuned TV. Unemployment means that everything I see is being mediated in some form or other: my news is gathered from TV or Internet, my culture is reviewed online, my relationships are texted or imagined (actually, mostly imagined).
In short, to get the best from unemployment one has two choices: you either go mad (it's cheap, leads to affordable housing, makes you a hoot at dinner parties when you start eating candles or accusing the mirrors of sleeping with your wife) or you go outside.
Tomorrow I'm supposed to be heading to Londonsville for a knees up with some old pals, but something tells me that if I try that, I had better bring a shovel - and this time it's not for the creation of shallow graves while fleeing several authorities; it'll be to dig me out of the snowbound hellhole that this country is likely to become.
The news is making an unreasonable amount of fuss about why we can't seem to deal with snow. Moaning about trivial things like keeping trains and buses running or gritting the roads and not nearly enough time preventing those awful pictures of snowmen that 'ordinary members of the public' send in. Everyone I know secretly loves a bit of snow and the fact that it causes chaos is one of the big reasons. It's a little dose of anarchy in our otherwise predicable lives that makes it great; a day off work, a day off school, pretty streets and houses.
The only people it seems to affect are those people we see caught up in the 'chaos on the roads' that is reported back to us by the news outlets like we're witnessing an apocalyptic social catastrophe threatening to pull apart the fabric of time and space and suck us into a sort of white hell, where only those with shovels and a working water tank will survive, and not just a few pictures of some frozen precipitation and a bunch of pinhole eyed, workaholic, slack brained marionettes weeping over the dents in their Audi Twatbadgers. Which, by the way, could have been easily avoided if they weren't too stupid to stay at home, put the kettle on and get on the sofa.
Unless, of course, they had somewhere to get to. Like a job. Bastards.
Loveyourfacexx
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