One Step Too Far
The ArticleI'd like to begin by depicting my utter disgust and loath at the youth of today. Flicking through my local tabloid, the much criticized and often ridiculed Ellon Times, I came across a story that sent chills down my very spine and made me physically sick. Now I do admit that when I was young I'd partaken in misdemeanors, god forgive me, but none as frankly appalling as the one mine eyes had just witnessed in print. It seems that the youth of today have no limits, no moral conscious to speak of that would act as a restraint to these heinous crimes. For a town that boasts its own police force, it is amazing that a crime of this magnitude was carried out in front of their proverbial eyes, making a mockery of the supposedly rigid law enforcement in this small town. The press may try to play down the importance of this theft of a town monument, but behind the scenes heads will roll. I'll make damned sure of it. How a bunch of drunken, idiot youths could possibly steal and make away with a stone lion is beyond my grasp but all I know is that if a stone lion can't feel safe in his own back yard, it's a truly worrying state of affairs. This indeed was a worthy journalistic scoop, and the writer must be applauded for making light of what could have been a serious tragedy if the lion was never recovered. In my mind's eye I imagine swat teams roaming the countryside in pursuit of these malicious thieves, whispering "this is delta squad the eagle has left the nest on foot pursuit co-ords 245, 100, 98 over." However the article is sketchy about how this lion was recovered but I can only hope that those responsible are brought to justice to send out warning signals to the rest of their organized terror network. Perhaps the kingpin is still at large, no doubt plotting their next acquisition. If the Ellon police are as sharp as they were when recovering the lion, then there is good hope the leader will be brought down in good time. What makes this whole incident more deplorable is the fact that this is not an isolated incident, but instead just one in a whole speight of attacks on the vulnerable peoples of Ellon, according to the newspaper report. Apparently garden ornaments regularly go missing, and although it is assumed that the youth of Ellon are to blame, they remain completely motiveless. Why would a youngster steal a garden ornament? It is a question that is baffling the top minds at the Ellon station, and may yet prove that underage vandals are not the prime suspect, but unscrupulous neighbours. In an off-the-record chat, obtained during my brief but futile "journalistic enquiry" (I gave up when it was apparent there are no leads whatsoever), a local told me in confidence "ornaments seem to swap house every other day, it's hard to tell who's is who's." Perhaps this ornament swapping is part of a sick fascination with sharing gnomes and suchlike, an issue that I don't feel comfortable discussing further. All I will say is that is good that younger children are being shielded from this disgusting practice and keeping their innocence intact. From all this a curious paradox has emerged- how could a youth physically lift such a monument, or do it before his bedtime in broad daylight (it is afterall the height of summer)? This single strand of evidence suggests the culprits are in the 18-19 year old age bracket, being old enough to stay up after midnight and also old enough to possess a car. But what a youth can use a garden ornament for is beyond me, somewhere out there lies a garden with many, many ornaments. This had led me to call this group of kids the "magpies", for their appropriate resemblance to the thieving bird. Despite being brushed under the carpet by local police and tabloids, I am determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. Whoever is responsible cannot be allowed to terrorize locals in this manner, so help me god. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~Before I disappear again for an undisclosed amount of time (work work work), I just wanted to show the world how utterly fantastic I think Avril Lavigne's lyrics are. Her latest song, My Happy Ending, opens with: It's not like we're DEAD Was it something I did? Was it something you SAID? Don't leave me hanging In a city so DEAD Wow, what a fantastic wordsmith! Whoever said that punk rock is all about hating your mum and wishing you were dead? Boy, were they wrong! That opening stanza almost had me in tears, what beautiful imagery, fantastic use of rhyming: dead, said, dead. Brilliant.
The 19th Birthday Piss-Up
"You have to get mauled on your birthday" Dabby chimed, wagging his forefinger authoritatively. "It's an unwritten rule."
"But do I actually have to? I've been getting too wasted lately, not to mention...". I stopped talking. Emitting a low sigh, I could see that arguing with such a renowned psychopath would be fruitless.
"Fine. If I really have to."
A faint smile formed on his lips. The preparations would begin that very day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Despite having resigned myself to never organizing anything ever again, I was landed with the text-round that depletes free texts and no one thanks or shows any gratitude for. Worst thing about it is that no one replies so you have no idea who's going, if any are at all. Next time I'll put "tb" at the end, to either indicate "text back" or my wishes to inflict a painful and lethal spell of tuberculosis on any fucker who doesn't reply. In fact, if you get a text from me ending in "tbufingpft" it means "text back you fucker, I'm not getting paid for this." Said out loud it sounds like "chu effing poof"... interlacing subliminal insults in texts, beautiful. So I show up at the moorings for half eight not really knowing if anyone's going to turn up and buy myself a cherry beer, taking a seat to read the paper. Wearing my guns n roses t-shirt, chain and bandana I looked the part at the moorings, only getting minor glares from the regulars at the bar. The hour turns nine and still no sign of anyone so I buy myself a pizza from the bar. Yes- a pizza. When the pizza arrived it looked like it had been processed through a blender, shook for good measure, and then digested through the stomach of a cow. The delivery boy must have crashed or something because the state it came in was nothing short of pathetic. I resisted the urge to forcefully complain, primarily because I was so god-damned hungry that to wait another hour for a pizza would cause my body to bypass the fat-breakdown stage and just enter complete shutdown. Death, although usually welcome, is an inconvenience I can do without right now. So another half hour whittles by and I prepare myself to leave and go home to get drunk in my room and listen to Tupac, when none other than Ally and Tommy show up! I could have sprayed cum all over their faces, but instead I welcomed them verbally, the moorings neither being the time nor the place for such inappropriate conduct. The banter ensued and flowed as merrily as the booze that was being served, when Dabby showed up, followed by Tete, Shaw, Beefy, Snail, Morna, Rebecca, Katie, Dave and Mike, the last two being friends from other circles. It was now that I would finally see Dabby's teeth, a rare occurrence that only happens when a devious plan is being formed. Both himself and Beefy made me something they call a turbo diesel, which among the usual ingredients (Addlestons and Budvar) had a nice shot of rocket fuel and another shot mixed in it. It smelt almost as bad as my pizza, its odor being uncannily similar to my own vomit. In Loughborough they call their diesel "nasty", but now I plan to take legal action against the Union because "nasty" doesn't even come close to how this bizarre concotion Beefy and Dabby made me tasted., In comparison, "nasty" should be re-branded "tame." For a real diesel, the moorings is surely the only way to go. A pint of budvar later and the shots were in, the worst by far being the flatline Beefy devised, because being the cock he is he put about one measure of tobasco sauce in it. Sure, it got rid of the taste of the turbo diesel, but replaced it with a burning hell that took two pints of water to finally vanquish. After a few more shots courtesy of Dabby, it was time to use the two fingers. No, not that way. They were used to force vomit, my stomach was bloated and no more liquid was coming in without a quick barf. Afterwards I faced yet more shots a revigorated man, it is surprising how much throwing up sobers you up and makes you feel better in the morning. We must have stayed at the moorings until around midnight then headed off to Exodus to take the party further. Exodus was to be the scene of one of the best nights out this summer, as it was packed and the atmosphere was awesome. The DJ- who looked like a bit of a knob- was playing the student cheese necessary for a great piss up. From this point on all the banterous stuff happened, the likes of which haven't been witnessed since... well, since we capaded Beefy's house last week!! Now I made a point of letting everyone know before I got drunk that yes, I'd be getting mauled, and yes this usually entails friendly toy-fights. I don't know what it is in my drunken psyche that makes me want to mess about with people physically, but I can't control it. I don't intend any harm whatsoever, it just happens, usually without me even being able to remember it. From what I've pieced together this is what happened, but bear in mind I had a total blackout the last hour so it might just be speculation: * While the circle had been formed I, along with other people, were throwing people into the ring to make them dance. No one I've spoken to said it pissed them off, but the bouncer apparently came over and told us to stop it. All in the name of banter! * Also, during the circle, some total random came in and started break dancing! No doubt he was sitting at the side, sipping his drink, just waiting for a circle to form so he could jump in it and impress everyone! Breakdancing used to be a novelty for me, but since going to Loughborough I've had the "pleasure" of seeing these attention-grabbing asses breakdance every friday in the middle of the dance floor. The breakdancing club at Loughborough has a lot to answer for. * Tommy said I was trying to push Snail in the middle, and he was doing the same, which resulted in me getting thrown into a bunch of glasses that smashed on the floor! Fortunately the bouncers never saw that one, or I'd surely be banned from Exodus forever more. If I instigated it, which no doubt I did, then my humblest apologies. My memory of it as you'd expect is entirely non-existent. * My only memory of this gap is being outside in the pouring rain trying to steal the giant stone lion outside Robert Gordons! If I could have moved it no doubt the intention was somehow to put it in Beefy's garden. Maybe next time... * I allegedly had a kebab, but I seriously don't remember it. * When we got to Tete's I tried to coax Dabby into playing a drinking game, but he said there was no alcohol. So I started searching Tete's living room but gave up when I couldn't find any. Then I decided we should play betting games, the reason I don't remember. * When I woke up there were two strange anomalities- the first involving my phone, the second involving my jacket. According to Tete I dropped my phone and the covers broke off, so I took the back cover and tried to put it on the front. This I did for a long time before giving up and just putting it in my pocket. I now have a replacement cover, in blue. * I didn't have my jacket. Instead, however, I had three others that don't belong to me! I must have just given up trying to find mine from the pile and just grabbed a handful of them! I gave one to Tete and one to Dabby, for the drinks they bought me. I was walking down Belmont street with a pile of jackets in my arms, luckily none of them had any valuables in them. Lucky also the bouncers didn't notice me! I went back today and got my own jacket back, in case you were wondering. So that's what I've pieced together from various sources, although no doubt other stuff happened that I probably don't want to know! An absolute classic night out, the club was awesome, we'll need to do it again soon. Thanks to everyone who bought me drinks and came out, last night was incredible. If anyone wants a spare jacket, you know who to call.
King's Camps
For an athletically minded youth like myself, summer jobs aren't all that hard to come by. Every summer scores of parents seek to offload their overweight offspring to have nookie/get space by carting them off to a summer sports camp, effectively killing those two problems with one stone. Kids are taken care of, they do sport all day everyday, and with some luck they emerge with new friends and a hankering for new sports. The summer camp is a wonderful idea, providing much needed short-term employment for thousands of students across the country and giving them experience of working with kids.
So it was a natural progression that I, a sporty student, would end up leading a group of 16 kids through a mirage of fun-filled sporting activities. Money in my pocket and another (wholly unnecessary but still welcome) notch on the old CV, which is starting to fill up quite nicely now. No more will I quote the Nosheen as a "previous employer", for I now have a place with a) respectability and b) someone who can actually put my name to a face, such is the short-tern nature of my previous three dishwashing jobs where I have left with almost complete anonymity and no more than six paychecks between them.
The sporting institution of choice became King's Camps, a scheme where kids play up to fifteen different sports a week and also indulge in craft-based activities. There are eight Group Coaches at the Aberdeen Camp, several Group Assistants and a plethora of Rookies- people aged 16-17 who help out the Coaches.
I was a Group Coach, which made me third in command behind Ally (Manager) and Mark (Assistant Manager), although in reality all the jobs are fairly similar. King's Camp Aberdeen is about the biggest botch job imaginable, where guidelines are only loosely adhered to or ignored altogether in the pursuit of a lazy earning. The job is hard enough without having to jump through all the hoops the King's Camp base in Sheffield have enforced, and besides, I've said this before- we're not getting paid enough to be chirpy, let's-sing-and-dance always-on motivation hawks straight out of a cheesy American advert for the Great Outdoors Summer Camp. We get the job done and have a good time, and the kids love it. Regulations just slow everything down, and we only stick strictly to the safety regulations. The idea that every extra time activity should be different can suck my bell, we just throw them some soft footballs and they'll play for an hour no problems until their parents pick them up. They know it's that or finger painting, so we have a mutual agreement.
During my 4 weeks there I have amassed a wealth of amusing stories and anecdotes, all of which are neither exaggerated nor of a bullshit variety. Because I haven't blogged during this period either, I will now breakdown my experience into many titled stories like a modern day Canterbury Tales, beginning with the most important: Nick's Story.
Nick's Story
Now, I'm all for equal opportunities, really I am. When I see a man on crutches I think "poor chap, if only someone would give him a chance." Well King's Camp is that someone. Usually disabled people are only employed as equal opportunity figureheads to show inspectors "hey, we really care!" and they also handily double up as suckers who work hard for minimum wage. Who are they going to complain to? So cheap labour is the order of the day with disabled people, stopping short of being officially classed as volunteers, they are every employers dream. Plus they can be quite funny to laugh at when you're having a shit day.
I heard on the grapevine that a 'tard called Nick was going to grace our camp, the name "Nick" being an early indication that he was to be landed with cunt-like qualities as all Nick's (beside Marr) have. I stopped smiling when I found out he was joining me, but I kept an open mind and prepared to embrace my mentally challenged chum.
At first he was alright. But then, a mere five minutes into our 'relationship', and I wanted to fucking smash his skull in and feed his granulated mortal-and-pestle beground remains to my pet hedgehog. Nick was a retard of the soft-spoken variety, bent on undermining my unquestioned authority and conducting himself in the most childish manner imaginable. Less of a helper but more of a kid, Nick never did grasp his role on camp.
Exactly like a kid, he would ask me if he could go to the toilet. Seriously. Each game we played would be christened by Nick rushing over to the bat/ball/playing device and crying "me first! Everyone behind me!" I swear, even the kids were embarrassed by him. Every time someone on his own fucking team gained possession, he would run right up to them and say "give me the ball! You don't know what to do! Give it to me! Give it to me" and they would, reluctantly but expectedly, hand over the ball rather sheepishly and witness Nick charge up the field on his fiftieth solo endeavor of the afternoon. Being about two feet taller than the tallest child, Nick dominated play time and again, to the point where I had to 'send him off' just so the kids could get a shot. By the second day he was really starting to piss me off.
Worst of all was his countless flaunting of the rules. During a game of rounders the kids told me, on the very first day, that he was flipping them off and saying obscenities. Needless to say actions like this cannot be tolerated from the kids, let alone the supposed adults! Frequently I would catch him swearing, and just like a kid, I had to take him aside to tell him off. I don't know who was more embarrassed- me or him. But yet, despite numerous tellings off, he continued like the nutter he is.
But what really started to grate at me was how great he thought he was skinning a lazy bunch of 9 year olds with only the very basic Dabby-like grasp of sport. There's no finesse in play, they follow the ball round the park like sheep, and there's certainly no class or forward planning associated with juvenile sporthood at this age. Yet regardless of this fact, Nick would big himself up each time he scored a point, running with his shirt over his head whooping like Zoidberg. No goal celebration could ever be too elaborate or uncalled for, as Nick would effectively stop play for five minutes as he flexed barely-existent muscle and posed for non-existent cameras. In the face of all this I continued to let him play in the games and neglect his role of watching and learning for idle play, all because he's such a fucking pain to sit beside.
Once, while playing badminton, I heard him say right in front of me to one of the kids "you're a fenion! It should say 'ginger pubes' on the back of your celtic strip! Go back to Ireland you fucking fenion!"
I don't know where to begin to tell you why you shouldn't tell a kid that.
So I took him aside, balled at him some more, and made him sit out for the rest of the session. Would he be quiet? Would he try to regain some dignity? Oh no, not Nick! Imagine the much re-used and loved scene where kids in the back cry "are we nearly there yet?!" ad finum, but replace it with near endless recitations of "can I play Alan please can I play Alan I promise I'll be good please Alan why can't I play I paid money for this can I play Alan please can I play why won't you let me play...".
For the record, yes he did pay- all rookies pay money to do work, another ingenious scheme by King's to squeeze further money out of their camps by 'rewarding' rookie work with relatively inexpensive certificates. So I let Nick play, only cos he was really starting to bother my with his soft Michael Jackson voice.
He even managed to embarrass me at lunchtimes, where instead of sitting with the staff and rookies at the staff table, he would sit amongst the kids. He would come over to me and say "Cameron is calling me names, tell him to stop!" Affronted, I'd call them both over and tell them both off in front of the sniggering rookies, who had by now completely disassociated themselves with him.
Nick's stupidity and childishness knew no boundaries, as he continued to show me and himself up by slagging off the children and bullying them despite numerous warnings. Eventually the group started a mini-revolt against him, tired of watching his completely dominate games and even piss them off to the nth degree. On the friday I found out that Nick had finally been told not to come back by the manager, because on the thursday he started rubbing a 10-year olds back and whispering "meet me in the toilets" to her. Ally told me that she started crying in the car home and her mum phoned him immediately and that sealed Nick's fate. She didn't come on the friday, and nor did Nick, who was mercifully fired 4 days into his 28 day scheduled work.
Good riddance.
Erik's Story
Ah Erik, where to begin? Erik is a 10-year old Spanish boy who, by no coincidence, only speaks Spanish and not a word of English and was put into my group, because apparently having to handle Nick wasn't enough shit for me. Erik would have been ok if he understood the rules of camp, or in fact, understood any rules of decorum around children and adults.
So while there was a clear language barrier, it meant great Fawlty Towers styled laughs all at Erik's expense. He soon became known as "Manuel", and after a day or two responded to that name. "Manuel!" I'd cry, Mark trying to hide the smirk from his face. "Shake my hand if you owe me ten pounds?" I'd ask, extending my hand. Shaking it, Erik looked puzzled as I thumbed around his bag looking for money. His only form of communication was to shake his head or waggle his finger, which took place periodically.
"Manuel!" I said as he walked towards me, "why don't you just go fuck off or stay here and suck my bell?" Looking puzzled, he just kind of wandered off. "Right's right- go fuck off!" I said to him, wishing I could say a similar thing to a few choice trouble makers in my group. Erik was a great stress reliever, and kind of reminded me of Goldie in his early years. You could say "Erik" and follow it with anything seeing as he wouldn't comprehend it anyway, so Erik Clapton, Erik Morillo and other famous Erik's replaced Manuel for a few days.
No one really connected to Erik and he became somewhat of a loner, but for the week he was here he was the perfect camper- willing to accept large amounts of abuse and never answered back. Maybe I should go to a camp in Spain next time? Now there's a thought.
The Saint Margaret's Story
By some bizarre coincidence, three rookies and one coach were taught at St.Margaret's school for horny lesbians, which helped me affirm and (sadly) dismiss some common misconceptions about Aberdeen's joint favourite school (alongside Albines). As Ally pointed out "St. Margaret's for books, Albines for looks"- and he wasn't wrong. The three rookies were either of the lower rungs of popularity (popularity gauged usually by appearance) or they're all undoable munters.
But as they told stories of orgies in the bathroom, weekend Ann Summer parties and corporal punishment I began to suspect that they were playing up the stereotype. If they spoke but an ounce of truth, then perhaps only 50% of the St.Margaret's demographic are the hot, slutty, skirt-wear lesbians that will use anything with a circular head to wank off in between classes. I feel denied that I'd never even been given the opportunity to study there- parents, feel my scorn!
Connor's Story
Connor came to prominence during Easter as the spoilt rich kid who really can throw the toys out the pram when upset. Connor's volatile personality means that something as trivial as an injustice of refereeing against his favour or being involved in a minor routine scuffle can set him off, like a ticking bomb just ready to blow he walks around looking settled enough but can explode at any given moment.
Although I never caught much of a glimpse of Connor this year, being in Andy's group, I remember fondly the fun-packed Easter we had. The first time I saw Connor throw a wobbly was during a game of benchball and he thought the score was 2-1 when in fact his team was level at 2-2. "It's not fair!" he screamed, throwing his bib to the ground and pushing someone to the floor so he could sulk in the corner. Red-faced and clearly strained with upset, he continued to sit and face the wall huffing to himself as the game resumed. During football he once got harshly tackled and got up to kick the supposed aggressor, before I hauled him off and he really got pissed off. He started shouting before calming down and kicking the ground, muttering to himself as he wandered off towards the fence. I still remember him walk towards the fence muttering to himself until the distance made his rants inaudible.
So two weeks ago my group was mixed with Andy's and I caught sight of Connor, waiting with almost childish glee hoping he would fire up again. Then, predictably, Connor lost the plot over something I forget now and started lashing out at people around him. Andy immediately went over to calm him down and made him sit out, which only seemed to enrage him further. Ten minutes later he was caught fly-kicking someone and trying to punch them! I laughed, although I shouldn't, and watched with trepidation as Andy walked him to see the Manager. Clearly distraught I heard those characteristic mumbles and the crowd fell silent, watching the comedy unfold until Connor finally left.
Truly Connor is one disturbed rich kid, but his famous tantrums could somehow make my day as I watched the comedy routine air itself on a daily basis. If he wasn't so rich I'd reckon he'd become a ned, it'll be interesting to see what becomes of volatile old Connor.
Harriet's Story
Not much to tell here, on our last night out Ryan pulled 15-year old rookie Harriet. To be fair she did get into the clubs and looks maybe 17, but Ryan has no defense- he knew she was 15 in May! The next day at camp and Ally made every kid chant "Ryan pulled Harriet, aged 15 years young!" That whole day was marked as a free for all take the piss out of Ryan day, which we capitalized on beautifully! The best one came from one of the other rookies at lunch, who replied to my question "why's no one coming back next year?" with "I don't know, I mean you get to meet girls like Harriet eh Ryan!" It earned him a throw in the pool, but it was all comedy on the last day at Ryan's expense. Oh Harriet, if only you were legal!
Aladdin's Story
Anyone notice how fucking hot Jasmine is in Disney's Aladdin? Hottest cartoon character of all time, and I got to watch that film twice during my time at King's. The kids just don't realize how good they have it, truly they don't.
Andy's Story
Andy is a 35 year old unemployed man who reminds you of your grandfather in that he always tells stories of the tallest order- things so fantastically unbelievable that it's hard to keep track of why he hasn't got a knighthood. Seeing as I always got the short end of the stick on camp, I was landed with Andy for three out of the four weeks. Now while Andy's a pretty reasonable bloke, he comes out with so much bullshit that even the rookies stopped being impressed and started to think he was being a twat. The kids lapped it all up though, having a Tom Banks like gullibility.
If you believe Andy then he's played Ray Barneveld at darts and only narrowly lost to the multiple world champion, he's played in goals for five professional teams, he's qualified for pretty much every sport ever invented and even some not invented, and he had a spell as pope in the Vatican. Only the last and part of the second last in that list have been fabricated by myself, but the rest are what he's actually said to me word for word. Everyone in staff hates being landed with him, which I will try to explain to you why.
Only Tete can rightfully back me up as none of you have seen him, but even speaking to him for ten minutes made him turn to me in the pub and whisper "is that the guy with all the stories?" Andy fancies himself as the greatest unsigned goalkeeper of the twenty first century, and considers himself a master at always every sport he's tried his hand at. I took him on 1-1 at basketball and thrashed him 10-5 despite not having played basketball for several years. So much for a man apparently overqualified in the field.
Playing football I tried to slot a slot in at the near post and practically hit the ball off him. Walking back to midfield, I hear him jibe "aye, I'm too old in the tooth to let one like that go in!" Yeah ok. Another time and my group had taken to shouting "cheesecake!" every time someone went to shoot, an inspired psyche-out move used in the cult classic Baseketball. I took the piss and in a weedy voice said "tcheasecake!!" before the opposition went to shoot and Andy, who let it be known is also Group Coach like I, turns to me and says:
"Now, if an inspector came by today you would be fired for not showing good sportsmanship."
Andy being Andy, I couldn't be fucked arguing. I couldn't be fucked telling him that saying cheesecake is not a sackable offence, that no inspector would be coming round on the fly standing behind me on the basketball court, that King's Camp is such a loose botch job that they'd be more worried about our shockingly low standards of workmanship, or any of the other numerous reasons why he's wrong. Then, of all the things, he says "you look after them for the remaining 15 minutes- I'm going to sleep on the grass." As he left I said,
"Now, if an inspector came by today you would be fired for not doing your job."
He never replied. I'm not going to bore you with the countless other pieces of shite he came out with, but leave you with the conclusion that Andy is either the biggest bullshitter or has accomplished more than my entire family dating back to my great grandfather.
My Story
I had a very good 4 weeks, and even though I had to deal with Nick and a few problem children like Neil, it's all been good banter and I'm better off for it. The nights out were class and I'd definitely do it again next year, even though many of them said they'd be looking for a more long-term summer job.
Working at King's Camp is very tiring but very rewarding, financially that is. Working until 4 is great but getting up at 7 sucks donkey balls, and it doesn't get any better- I'm now starting a new job on monday for the council getting up at 6 each morning and finishing at 4 for a week, then a two week lay off, and then working right the way through to October. I'll have more time to blog but even working for King's I've still found plenty of time to go out and see people, so that's not going to change, not even with a 6am rise.
Working for King's made me realize how much I know about sport and how much enjoyment I get out of it. Despite not having played basketball, badminton, rounders or tennis for years I can still hold my own and put on a competitive game against other coaches, which surprised me. Stuff like that doesn't go or deteriorate over time, which is comforting. What hasn't changed for the better however is my drawing ability, which hasn't improved since I was eight years old. My drawing skills are pitiful, and I'm not exaggerating when I say I couldn't draw better than the majority of nine year olds on camp. It's an area that I know I will never improve, simply because I refuse to draw.
So that's what I learned about myself over those 4 weeks- good at sports, now good with kids, can't draw for shit. What will I learn from this upcoming council job? At a guess, it'll be how fortunate I am have qualifications. Hard manual labour, working at 7:30am each day is going to be a hell that hopefully I'll only have to endure as a student. The money I get from it will hopefully counterbalance and make my second year at University paradise, at least that's what I'm hoping.
That's my motivation for getting up in the morning, and that's what got my through working with retards, tempered kids, old farts and irate parents. Exactly two full months until University restarts, it's time to earn some hard cash down at the council depot! Nedville Ellon- here I come!
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