Thursday, December 14, 2006

Office party

That's right, the office party. Into my 4th week and I'm plunged into the minefield that is organised shitfaced with people you don't really know.

I think I'll be alright though, I'm quite good at drinking and chatting but more than this I have a back up plan because today is also my wedding anniversary (4th, thank you for asking).

It's the perfect get out clause and I intent to keep it up my sleeve in readiness at any second.

I've been writing documents for work all day today and unfortunately I think I've used up all my expressive powers...

I shuold have something good to write about tomorrow though eh?

Paul x

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Printed

I got printed. Published writer that's me, and how exciting it was at the time. It was 400 words of observational hilarity very well received by anyone who knows me.

However...

It's never the people you know who's praise you crave. Don't get me wrong their praise is always so gratefully appreciated and without it I don't think my fragile ego could continue to thump away, but a nod from a stranger or an anonymous thumbs up carry a raw honesty that's like striking oil.

So, while the wonderful texts and messages give me a glow, somewhere deep down, I can't help wondering how much of the support comes from a desire for me to succeed and how much is pure admiration for what I writ.

I want to be very, very clear here, I'm not de-valuing the support of friends or relatives, I'm merely suggesting that by the very nature of being a friend or a relative their beautiful desire for my success colours their objectivity.

If we therefore consider the opinion of a stranger to be weighted heavier than that of a near and dear, the derision of an unknown leaves the aforementioned fragile ego reeling.

The column I submitted to is a bit Pop Idol (the original and still the best) in that readers are asked to text a vote of "more" if they like it or "bore" if they don't.

My final score then, as printed the next day, was 50%/50% and can you imagine what that result as done to me?

On the one hand at least one person (I know, because they told me) gave a vote of "more" (thank you buddy) but on the other it means that someone I don't know was bothered to vote me a "bore", which obviously skews the result given the weighting theory.

I did my own research on the way home, vainly scanning the tube carriage for someone reading it (vain as in vanity, shame on me) and yes, in fact, there was one. She appeared to have easily digested the other content and was happily scraping the literary barrel with my nonsense, she was even smiling, which I think counts to unofficially tip the scales and means it probably wasn't her voting me off.

Elsewhere though, someone was forcing their way through it and reaching for their mobile as they scanned the final titter with a stoney face. It is then that person, the (I presume only based on the probably amount of positive votes) one person who so loathed my middle of the road writing as to spend money expressing their dislike, to whom I'd like to speak.

And I would listen, once I'd got over my hurt pride, and take note of their critique.

Well, I would if they had anything intelligent to say, which I doubt.

Monday, December 11, 2006

In a newspaper!

Friday, December 01, 2006

Sport...

I have a stag do to go on this weekend and while I'm fairly confident about the drinking bit of the day, I've been training for that for a long time, I'm slightly dreading the obligatory sober activity in the day.

This is a real shame as to most Englishmen it's a chance of a lifetime. We're going to play cricket at Lords.

Lords, the hallowed field of great cricketing achievement, the long history of bitter battles with the colonies, W.G. Grace, Bodyline and to cap it all, me.

As with most, if not all, sports I am pitched at just below average. I can get by if I'm not stretched too far or trusted with any of the important jobs.

In the Keystone Cops extravaganza of a school playtime football game, I was invariably picked as the left back for which ever team got lumped with me, even when someone actually wanted to play there.

The taking part was still a real pleasure, the camaraderie and shouting were so much fun, as was the development of my relationship with the less crap and entirely mental lad picked to be the keeper, but God help me if the ball actually landed nearby.

A flapping swipe of the foot at the ball with one eye on the clustered horde of 7 year olds bearing down on me was about as good as I got, and to my credit occasionally it went where I wanted it to go.

It's, then as now, those rare flashes of mediocre skill that put me in an even worse position because they create a very false impression, not only for my self-confidence but also the team I'm playing for.

It's usually the first move I make that creates something special meaning everything else afterwards is a disappointment and the scowling brow and sad eyes of sporting failure are among the least desirable facial features to have pointed at you.

So to tomorrows sporting feast. I have a feeling I'll be the mug sent up to bowl first and inexplicably my slow paced, minimal spin delivery, which is normally smashed to the boundary with an belittling snigger, will trickle it's way through the military defences of the batsman and tap the bails to the ground.

A moments glory and with arms raised and a howled linguistic compound I'll be crowned bowler for the day, then as the skill levels plummet and the fraud of my victory is unveiled I'll once again be faced with the disappointment of my team.

Those poor, good men whose hopes will rest on my crumbling shoulders and for whom I'll have nothing to give beyond a sorry smile and a shrug.

Still, as time goes by and I can re-tell the tales of the day I'll be able to say I took a wicket at Lords. A very lucky and very poorly delivered wicket, but a wicket none the less.