Having looked at several pseudonyms that I have made for some people, they are incredibly obvious.
Ridiculously.
Except for like one which I cannot figure out.
Like, if you only ever glanced at those people and then saw the "nickname" it would be obvious.
Therefore, I will limit even more what I talk about and not use ridiculous nicknames like other "professional" blogs.
It's just not fair. Whatever.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Working for The Man
Living my luxurious lifestyle, filled with cocaine and Crunchy Nut (c), has its costs. And I mean money, not the impoverished people that make my favourite things. Therefore, money must be gained in some way. Traditional ways include: robbery, eBay, working the stock market and prostitution, the second oldest vocation in the world. The first being eBay.
This left me to follow the untraditional. I tried to get a job. Being of a youthful generation, I couldn't just print out a CV and go round places asking for jobs. That's old fashioned, man. Such a drag. The internet would help me, as it does with nearly everything else I do. Apart from being a genius that is, that's all my failure. I searched the website, Gumtree, which was a spectacular failure, yet if you want to become a teacher, it's magnificent.
I have neither the time nor the qualifications nor the patience nor the permanent smell of booze to become a teacher. Bust.
This left me looking at corportate websites' "Careers" pages to help me out. I eventually found one at VUE Cinemas. If you've never applied online before, you usually fill in a form with lies to blag yourself into an interview. An interVUE in this case.
Ha ha.
Let's not digress. Interview was offered, I accepted wholeheartedly, as I'm a stand-up guy. Went to the interview, dressed rather formally with a shirt that had buttons and trousers which had a zip. Classy, eh? Questions were asked, examples of certain situations where I had to deal with problems or customer service and whatnot. Once again, I passed with flying colours through the gift of the gab.
I mean, yno, lying.
Let's fast forward to the induction where I learned how to pick up a box, the science behind tripping over something, fire's Latin name is Mr Sands and I'm the lowest of the low so don't ask questions. We had to pass health'n'safety tests, which were made easier by the guy giving me the answers. I'll remember the answers when I need to. It's cool.
More fast forwarding and many episodes of LOST watched in the meantime, and I started work. It was on the tills for my first shift, which led to me dealing with "the public". Lowering myself. It's disgusting. Somebody asked for a refund within the first half hour. I had to call the manager. That's not a good thing to do, considering there are more managers than other staff. And they wonder why nobody goes to the cinema anymore.
Except...they do. In Fulham, money rains from the sky and wherever else it wishes. This is why I sold over £100 worth of popcorn and drinks to one group of five people. Ridiculous. That could've bought 18 LIDL brand mosquito nets. People asked me what I thought of films and I had to lie and say "It's worth the majority of that tenner you're giving me." So many personal mentras broken to keep a job at minimum wage. I also got a complaint that my ice cream scoops were not big enough. Fuck off.
Due to my work at the till, I am being formally investigated as there was £30 extra in my till than there should have been. I really have no idea why. Will I get the sack? No. It won't happen. If it does, I'll complain about the size of their ice cream scoops.
My next shift had me working on the floor, a test of stamina which lasts nearly seven hours. One basically cleans the cinemas after films have finished and get them ready for the next audience. Picking up rubbish and cleaning floors. Real bottom rung stuff that builds character as bullshitters love to say. After cleaning 15 piles of spilled popcorn in an hour really takes its toll as you begin to forget what real life is like. I saw a bottle of Coca Cola on the street and immediately reached for a non-existant broom to clean it up.
The tramp wasn't best pleased.
Another segment of the working day is based around toilet checks. We should check them once every 15 minutes. I checked them once in two hours. Maybe. Still filled in the forms as paperwork must be done correctly. Same with the piracy checks, which I've done six, maybe. And we don't get night-vision, that's total bullshit right there.
To be clear, cinemas are filthy and you can be a pirate, because everyone is like me. Yet, I still earn money for doing this in extreme amounts of hours. Not extreme, twenty. Whatever.
And in one day on the till, I saw more money than I would make in a month. Fuck Fulham.
This left me to follow the untraditional. I tried to get a job. Being of a youthful generation, I couldn't just print out a CV and go round places asking for jobs. That's old fashioned, man. Such a drag. The internet would help me, as it does with nearly everything else I do. Apart from being a genius that is, that's all my failure. I searched the website, Gumtree, which was a spectacular failure, yet if you want to become a teacher, it's magnificent.
I have neither the time nor the qualifications nor the patience nor the permanent smell of booze to become a teacher. Bust.
This left me looking at corportate websites' "Careers" pages to help me out. I eventually found one at VUE Cinemas. If you've never applied online before, you usually fill in a form with lies to blag yourself into an interview. An interVUE in this case.
Ha ha.
Let's not digress. Interview was offered, I accepted wholeheartedly, as I'm a stand-up guy. Went to the interview, dressed rather formally with a shirt that had buttons and trousers which had a zip. Classy, eh? Questions were asked, examples of certain situations where I had to deal with problems or customer service and whatnot. Once again, I passed with flying colours through the gift of the gab.
I mean, yno, lying.
Let's fast forward to the induction where I learned how to pick up a box, the science behind tripping over something, fire's Latin name is Mr Sands and I'm the lowest of the low so don't ask questions. We had to pass health'n'safety tests, which were made easier by the guy giving me the answers. I'll remember the answers when I need to. It's cool.
More fast forwarding and many episodes of LOST watched in the meantime, and I started work. It was on the tills for my first shift, which led to me dealing with "the public". Lowering myself. It's disgusting. Somebody asked for a refund within the first half hour. I had to call the manager. That's not a good thing to do, considering there are more managers than other staff. And they wonder why nobody goes to the cinema anymore.
Except...they do. In Fulham, money rains from the sky and wherever else it wishes. This is why I sold over £100 worth of popcorn and drinks to one group of five people. Ridiculous. That could've bought 18 LIDL brand mosquito nets. People asked me what I thought of films and I had to lie and say "It's worth the majority of that tenner you're giving me." So many personal mentras broken to keep a job at minimum wage. I also got a complaint that my ice cream scoops were not big enough. Fuck off.
Due to my work at the till, I am being formally investigated as there was £30 extra in my till than there should have been. I really have no idea why. Will I get the sack? No. It won't happen. If it does, I'll complain about the size of their ice cream scoops.
My next shift had me working on the floor, a test of stamina which lasts nearly seven hours. One basically cleans the cinemas after films have finished and get them ready for the next audience. Picking up rubbish and cleaning floors. Real bottom rung stuff that builds character as bullshitters love to say. After cleaning 15 piles of spilled popcorn in an hour really takes its toll as you begin to forget what real life is like. I saw a bottle of Coca Cola on the street and immediately reached for a non-existant broom to clean it up.
The tramp wasn't best pleased.
Another segment of the working day is based around toilet checks. We should check them once every 15 minutes. I checked them once in two hours. Maybe. Still filled in the forms as paperwork must be done correctly. Same with the piracy checks, which I've done six, maybe. And we don't get night-vision, that's total bullshit right there.
To be clear, cinemas are filthy and you can be a pirate, because everyone is like me. Yet, I still earn money for doing this in extreme amounts of hours. Not extreme, twenty. Whatever.
And in one day on the till, I saw more money than I would make in a month. Fuck Fulham.
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Manucho - 16/06/11
DISCLAIMER: This is not a film review. At least, not intentionally.
The amazing Holiblog is back (even though I still haven't talked about my homocidal trip to South France). However, we must remain topical and on topic and stuff similar to that. So let's start with the most amazing thing that has ever happened in the last week or so.
I got a car. Damn.
When I was in Aberdeen, my Dad continuously e-mailed and called to remind me to check my mail. I never did. It was just letters saying that I should get a TV license. That's not going to happen, I would rather shove a pine cone through my urethra. Imagine that, eh?
Eventually, I checked the post by accident and found quite a bulky letter, which I opened as I'm a curious little thing. It had my name on it after all (probably). There was a form that said various things about car insurance, so naturally, I assumed that I had been insured for the family car so I can go to TESCO and collect various sweatshop made items. Alas, the forms said that it was insurance for a 1994 Renault Clio. Who had a Renault Clio?
...Oh.
IT WAS ME! (Hopefully, you noticed the intellectual way I spaced out those sentences to show my actual excitement. I have a GCSE in English, you see.)
Fast forward some time and I was at home in London. Driving my car named Manucho, after the failed Man Utd player with whom I sympathised. No idea why. I do not support Man Utd or Angola. Whatever. However, after a year of no driving, I had become rusty. As rusty as my car. Yeah, check the year again.
Back? Good.
Driving with my Dad was an experience. Him telling me to speed up and then slow down reminded me of the time he tried to teach me how to put. The shots were always too hard or too soft. Whatever. Basic knowledge really. My handicap is still like 400. I could win the US Open with that handicap...if it's sunny, but not too sunny. I was sweating like a pig crossing the border illegally, that's my level of nervousness in that car. We were even pulled over by the police once, due to my car being registered in Aberdeen. There's a handy tip to get cheaper insurance.
My dad drives to work and used my car when I at university. Now that I'm back and remembered how to drive, he uses the family car and I drop my Mum off to work. A passing of the torch as she used to drop me and my brother off to school. I wanted to surprise her with a little treat, as I'm great like that, so I went and got her McDonalds, but the drink didn't come with a cupholder.
So this is how I nearly died. To avoid spilling the drink, I held it with one hand, using the other for the wheel. Genius. Unless you want to change gears that is. Or turn or signal or whatever. So, I drove like that around a couple of roundabouts before I realised that it was a pretty stupid thing to do.
Eventually, I arrived at my mother's place of work and gave her the food, which she enjoyed. She did notice the ONE DROP that I had spilled though.
Never be nice, that's the moral.
The amazing Holiblog is back (even though I still haven't talked about my homocidal trip to South France). However, we must remain topical and on topic and stuff similar to that. So let's start with the most amazing thing that has ever happened in the last week or so.
I got a car. Damn.
When I was in Aberdeen, my Dad continuously e-mailed and called to remind me to check my mail. I never did. It was just letters saying that I should get a TV license. That's not going to happen, I would rather shove a pine cone through my urethra. Imagine that, eh?
Eventually, I checked the post by accident and found quite a bulky letter, which I opened as I'm a curious little thing. It had my name on it after all (probably). There was a form that said various things about car insurance, so naturally, I assumed that I had been insured for the family car so I can go to TESCO and collect various sweatshop made items. Alas, the forms said that it was insurance for a 1994 Renault Clio. Who had a Renault Clio?
...Oh.
IT WAS ME! (Hopefully, you noticed the intellectual way I spaced out those sentences to show my actual excitement. I have a GCSE in English, you see.)
Fast forward some time and I was at home in London. Driving my car named Manucho, after the failed Man Utd player with whom I sympathised. No idea why. I do not support Man Utd or Angola. Whatever. However, after a year of no driving, I had become rusty. As rusty as my car. Yeah, check the year again.
Back? Good.
Driving with my Dad was an experience. Him telling me to speed up and then slow down reminded me of the time he tried to teach me how to put. The shots were always too hard or too soft. Whatever. Basic knowledge really. My handicap is still like 400. I could win the US Open with that handicap...if it's sunny, but not too sunny. I was sweating like a pig crossing the border illegally, that's my level of nervousness in that car. We were even pulled over by the police once, due to my car being registered in Aberdeen. There's a handy tip to get cheaper insurance.
My dad drives to work and used my car when I at university. Now that I'm back and remembered how to drive, he uses the family car and I drop my Mum off to work. A passing of the torch as she used to drop me and my brother off to school. I wanted to surprise her with a little treat, as I'm great like that, so I went and got her McDonalds, but the drink didn't come with a cupholder.
So this is how I nearly died. To avoid spilling the drink, I held it with one hand, using the other for the wheel. Genius. Unless you want to change gears that is. Or turn or signal or whatever. So, I drove like that around a couple of roundabouts before I realised that it was a pretty stupid thing to do.
Eventually, I arrived at my mother's place of work and gave her the food, which she enjoyed. She did notice the ONE DROP that I had spilled though.
Never be nice, that's the moral.
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