The Story So Far
Here it goes.
Since last blogging, admittedly a fair length of time ago, much has happened in your humble author's life. In this space I have entertained two separate jobs, cleared my room out from top to bottom and moved approximately five hundred miles away to the quiet student town of Loughborough. And this is all I've done during the day, the evenings I could write separately and title them "The Chronicles Of Star At Night- The Unabridged Version." However such a volume of literature would take months, if not years, to compile and quite frankly I have higher priorities right now, so I'll keep this as concise as I can without simplifying it to something a casual Aberdeen fan could finish in one sitting.
After leaving the camp that is King's I received a fairly sharpish call from my insider contact from the council. He spoke of "manual labours", the likes that would have me daydreaming of twelve Herculean efforts from the Taming Of The Wayward Motor, to the Befriending Of The Violent Ned, to the most feared labour of the lot- The Tolerance Of The Rambling Choochter. These images still instilled in my head, I accepted, and sent my long sword to the local masonry to have it suitably sharpened in leui of my tasks. I stopped short of entering the depot with sandals and torn gladiator like garments only during a chance conversation with pa Wales, who dashed all my misconceptions and detailed the living hell I would endure.
Leaning back in his chair, pa told horror stories that would later transpire to be more than mere fable; stories of angry neds, forever with a down turned smile, walking time bombs just waiting for the merest breath their direction to explode and cry "aye fit ye sayin? Say 'at tae ma face!" Paranoia rages amongst this, how shall I put it, "lesser" community where a lifelong friend could just as easily cripple you for life just for the slightest insinuation that he's less than scrupulous. To compensate for their horrendous lack of qualifications the council, or as I like to call them "the local rehab centre for stupid fucks", employs their staff in a manner that they are only visible to the general public for the minimal amount of time permissible by law. This is great news if you work a 9-5, for when you leave the workplace these vile, dirty scaffs are already in the pub getting boats with schoolchildren. But for me working there, it meant a healthy 5am rise at work for 6. At least the council recognises it has a duty to minimalise any exposure to the real scum of Britain, but for four brief days I could unproudly say "I am one of them."
Let me reiterate- not anymore. Please, the associations with the lowest underclass even below asylum seekers has to end. I had to do it, and when you hear my harrowing tale, you will surely sympathise with me.
Arriving at work not a minute before 6am, I sought after the "gaffer"- a man who has had to work up the ranks some forty years to earn a one metre by three metre office space that is largely taken up by an Archimedes computer and stacks of assorted work tools. He said I'd be working with Scott Calderwood (the only person I recognised), some guy called Mike or something and a grimey, disgusting tatoo-laden nose-ringed mink who I'll call Selma just so she doesn't hunt me down and set Chappy on me or something. Our first words, mildly paraphrased for dramatic effect, occurred during my induction to the lawn mower:
"Ye break the motor, I'll chin ya. Ye put grass on the pavement, an ah'll chin ya. Ye look at me funny, an ah'll chin ya. Ye look at Scottie funny... that's a chinning."
I couldn't make out if she was joking or not, because this evolved function unique to humans seems to have been lost amongst those with the scientifically proven "stupid gene." I'd relate her more to a Carp than a human, as she walks about with a gormless look and has the intelligence to match our aquatic pal. I wondered how anyone could be satisfied cutting the same patches of grass every two week cycle, but didn't let the puzzle get to me, because these people seem to have a tireless need to have something in their hand. If it vibrates, all the better. They're like kids who need a pacifier, unless they've got something in their hands- be it a strimmer, sandwich or brick bound for a school's window- they're visible agitated, and you'll observe them picking up litter or anything with substance just to keep their cravings under control.
Usually the high light of any working day is lunchtime, but once again these intolerable choochter-ned hybrids have managed to make it almost as unpleasant as hearing the sound of a mower screeching for hours on end. When you're not hearing "ghrnnn brrrrrrrr" from the motor hour after hour you're hearing about the "Turra" show, or the Tractor 3000 or how Sandy down the lane's son broke a toe in a freak churning accident and then punched the doctor in the face for suggesting the dismembered phalange was irreparable. To make matters worse, it's only the old people who talk there, so it's like listening to your grandad except they've spent a lifetime away from normal civilisation and live a semi-homish lifestyle that eliminates any topic of conversation that couldn't have been spoken about since Christianity began.
Have you ever spent half an hour hearing about wheat? I thought not. As incapable as they are of showing any strong emotion that isn't anger, they enthuse about crap that you don't care about without looking like they themselves care, if you get that. It's a dour enthusiasm, the only time I saw any real emotion or passion was from the younger crew, and every sentence either began or ended with "Fandangos" or "schmack", until the conversation quickly reverted to EU Ploughing regulations.
As fate would have it, the party I had at my house on the thursday rendered me completely incapable of movement the following day, so I pulled a trademark sickie. I seriously couldn't have cared less, and my withdrawal from this truly shite line of work was met with a more pleasant but still utterly painful hangover. For these four days I learned the true nature of the repetitive work-by-numbers vocation that the most mentally challeged of people around us to day in day out for the entire duration if their insignificant lives. Sure they change my bins when I need it, and yes I'm indebted to them for kindly cutting the grass in my estate, but unless I'm paralysed from the neck down in a driving accident you'll never see me at a council depot again- unless I'm throwing my garbage into the skip. And even then I'll still be wide-eyed, watching from afar as the drones get about their daily menial duties, faces stale like zombies with no single definable emotion pertained from their neutral faces and demeanour. I'll watch in awe as they shuffle from grass patch to grass patch, repeating the same one step forumla until it's time to retreat back to their council houses and hide themselves from civilised society as the rush hour of true hard working gents engulf the town, returning from a real day's labour at the offices. That's where I'll be, if you're wondering, and although I may only live a mile from the depot itself- I can guarantee you, my life couldn't be any further away from their miserable, disagreeable lifestyles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~Like a saving grace, the next day I recieved a phone call from a certain Mr Riddoch regarding future employment at the new running shop in Aberdeen. The timing couldn't have been better, as I was seriously contemplating swallowing every last ounce of dignity and returning to the pit that is council work. I'd already been interviewed for the job so could start on the monday with immediate effect.
As the shop had only just been acquired, I spent the first week helping renovate and turning the place from ailing fabric shop to top class athletic goods shop. This entailled several brutal shifts, one of which was a cool 15 hour shift that broke the previous personal record by a clear five hours. Without going into unnecessary detail, the shop opened and work there was good, but the days were long.
I'll never forget the intense loathing, however, I developed for this single noise:
"De-de-de-de-de-de!! De-de-de-de-de-de!!"
That's my text version of the superlatively annoying and grating Nokia alarm, one that would cut through my dreams at precisely 6:50 every morning. Those mornings were hell. After a while I actually began to
anticipate the alarm, and found myself waking up at 6:45 naturally. It was a scary phenomenon, and one that I've never began to fully understand. As I'd drag myself out of my still glowing toast-warm bed, the harsh reality of a Scottish summer tingled the feet first and would then encompass my whole shivering body with its freezer cold temperature. I soon learned not to shower in the morning, for as good a fix as jumping into a hot shower is, you always have to face the fact that as soon as you step out of the heat you'll be confronted with an even more biting cold than previously (due to heat being taken from the body). It's like a second coming, and after putting yourself through it once, it's nigh on impossible to find the mental strength to do it again.
The rush hour traffic is also a bitch of the highest order, commissioned especially by the Third Reich to turn sane drivers to madness. Due to some historical oversight, Aberdeen- like every self-respecting city- simply grinds to a halt between the hours of 7:30 and 8:30. You can't alter it, if you work at Garthdee coming from Ellon you'd better set aside one hour and a half, according to my mum. She wasn't kidding. That first morning of work I was a clear half hour late of work, due to that cunt of design the Exhibition roundabout. Every morning I'd hear on the radio an initiative called "Stepchange", which aims to get us to stop using cars and get on buses to slow congestion.
Oh, I concurr.
One morning when the Saxo was in for servicing I had to brave the bus in all it's ugliness of character. I've hear about a dozen rants from Tom about Aberdeen buses, all which I can now confirm and reaffirm. A return from Ellon to Aberdeen as an astonishing five pounds, quite ridiculous for a student let alone any human being. It works out cheaper driving, and quicker because I don't get stopped at the bus stop about a mile walk from work. Also at this time of the morning all the Robert Gordon private school bell ends are on the bus, talking nay shouting and screaming loudly, pulling each other's hair and throwing lunch box itenary around. It's enough to make anyone snap. No one else talks on the bus either, it is every bit as welcoming as Fandangos with all the repulsiveness to boot. DON'T EVER get on a bus if you don't have to- it's not worth the hassle. If this Stepchange is ever to be taken seriously, the buses need to be sorted out big style.
I left run-4-it amicably last thursday, vowing to return at Christmas. Perhaps a job I can finally uphold? Well, we'll see.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~Having spent friday packing my belongings, it was time to go to the booth for one last time before leaving. The congregation didn't disappoint, although it was left until the very last minute for the banter to reach the epic proportions we so expect of this mighty fine establishment. Parked in the library, bantering with beef after just finishing my last Ellon made kebab for three months, Drew, Kara, Barry and Manson were heading up to Kara's car to head home. They stood behind it for a while, probably debating as to who should drive (j/k!). Seizing the opportunity, I whispered "watch this beef..." and in a flash the engine roared and the car was immediately reversing towards Drew. Braking to a halt about 1cm before knocking the poor boy down, I wound down the window just in time to find Drew catching his breath, the fear marked clearly on his face. Much high quality banter ensued, the likes which would be broadcast on British TV if it wasn't so funny and cleverly moulded, before saying farewells and tucking home.
The next day and the 8 hour journey to Loughborough was completed, where I would step inside this mansion of a house for only the third time. It truly is the cream of the crop, as the photos I will later upload when the internet is set up will testify. These first few days have been spent lazing in the (admittedly huge) living room and drinking beers from the fridge in the living room. Decked out on the balcony, in the back garden and cruising in Jibba's fantastic Suzuki Vitara are already firmly embedded rituals mere days into this Uni life. Fresher's week begins this thursday, and the parties are already in the pipeline to kick it all off. Sleeping in a double bed is a luxury I'm beginning to love, the set up here is utopian. Off to Riley's now to shoot some pool, this account of my working days is now over for now. I'll see if I can summon the strength to detail the fantastic nights out and fresher's in Aberdeen, but don't count on it. There are four sofas down stairs, two tvs, a fridge full of beer, and a phone with Mario's Kebab on speed dial, and this computer is all the way up one flight of stairs.
I really don't know if I'll find the will to do it ;-)
