New Year

I'm afraid nothing puts me in an unspeakably foul mood like New Year's Eve. Pay a tenner to get into a pub I usually get into for free? Be forced into sharing physical contact with people at midnight? "Organised fun"? The pressure to pretend to be happy and/or hopeful? No ta very much. I think I used up all my cheer and optimism over Christmas and despite the fact that this has been a relatively good year, I find myself plagued today with the savage depression that usually accompanies this special time of year. So, in order to get myself into the party mood for when Bloke and I go to see some of his friends later, I'm going to tell you some of the things that have got on my tits recently. That'll cheer me right up nice.

Up first, the phrase "food baby". I see this on Facebook status updates all the time, as in, "Ooh, I've got a turkey food baby," and it makes me feel sick. I might have a overly visual imagination but when I read that I imagine an actual baby made of turkey trying to force its way out of a human body. Someone used this beautiful expression with regards to lasagne the other day and the thought of the mess involved made me want to vomit. What is wrong with saying you feel full, sated, replete, glutted even? I just thought of those off the top of my head and I'm so off my face on painkillers that I realised a few minutes ago I'd been wearing my cardigan inside out all day, so surely it can't be that hard?

Next, American Apparel. It's not the thick fug of smugness that surrounds the customers as they are assured that their unisex wool beret has been ethically made. It's not the tasteless adverts that all appear to use semi-naked 14 year olds. It's not that tedious art students now think they have a unique style simply because they shop at the outlet on Carnaby Street. It's not even that the CEO, Dov Charney, is a fucking sex offender. No, what really irritates me about American Apparel is that it's instrumental in bringing leggings back into fashion. I've noted the re-emergence of leggings with a sinking feeling over the past couple of years but they seemed to be restricted to wear under skirts or shorts. That's until American Apparel came over here brashly encouraging people to face their fears! Wear the leggings as "pants"! Why not buy a unisex stretchy tee while you're at it?! All ethically made! Show us your tits love! I was forced to sit on the tube the other day averting my eyes even more than usual due to someone wearing a pair of metallic leggings that were, let's say, tight and baggy in all the wrong places. I know who I blame.

And finally, enough of this already. How many more years will we have to suffer this eponymous boot?

What's wound you up this year?

Learning Resource Centre

At my college the library isn't called the library, it's called the Learning Resource Centre. It's an amusing contrast with the libraries in Cambridge. Unlike the University Library's austere corridors, it's open plan and I keep getting caught up in the graphic novel section on my way to Social Policy. The Divinity Faculty Library thought itself terribly forward thinking and liberal because it allowed you to whisper "excuse me" or "have you finished with that?" without the head librarian belting you round the head with Cruden's Concordance. The other day I was sitting in the Learning Resource Centre and two young gentlemen began playing the rap music of a popular beat combo very loudly on YouTube. This would be a sending down offence in the UL but in the Learning Resource Centre, after about five minutes, a librarian scurried over and said, with the utmost politeness, "Boys, this is a library, could you turn that down a bit please."

I like that it's practically the polar opposite of the Cambridge libraries. It means that even if it's never quiet due to ESOL lessons going on in cordened off areas ("Used to is pronounced useter. Repeat after me 'useter, useter, useter'") or teenagers much cooler than me shrieking with laughter, I can spend time there getting work done without the panicked and tearful feelings that the DivFac and the UL useter inspire in me. I've noticed over the past few weeks, however, that the relaxed atmosphere has lead to something I've found common in public libraries: nutters distracting you when you're busy.


My favourite nutter of the past term has to be Christine the Christian. I first met Christine when she asked a friend from my class to help her understand a sociology question. It transpired that she had the same teacher for Sociology as us. Later that afternoon, as I was diligently working away, I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Christine. She asked if I could help her with something and, naively believing that that something would be to do with sociology, I agreed.

Christine the Christian: I wonder if you could help me understand this, "I am coming soon. Hold on to what you have, so that no one will take your crown. Him who overcomes I will make a pillar in the temple of my God."
OGH: Erm...
CtC: What do you think it means by crown?
OGH: Um, which book is it from?
CtC: Revelation.
OGH: Well, I'm not too sure that anything from Revelation should be taken literally given that it's most probably an allegory for the fall of the Roman Emp...
CtC: [louder] What does it mean "so that no one will take your crown"? What crown?
OGH: [wearily] Er, I expect it means your belief in God. That people will try to persuade you away from your faith.
CtC: [with a big smile and wide eyes] Yes! That's a very good interpretation! You know your scriptures! Thank you!

At that point I should have pointed out that although I'd spent a good few years studying Theology, I was in fact an atheist and not interested in joining her God club. However she was already walking across the library with a beatific grin on her face so I left it. Big mistake. Now whenever Christine sees me in the library I'm greeted with a cheery smile and a bible verse. Or worse.

OGH is sitting working. ENTER CtC.
CtC: Hello!
OGH: Oh, er, hello.
CtC: You are working hard as usual.
OGH: [Nods while trying not to look up and make eye contact]
CtC: Do you like my hat? [Brandishes a hideous woollen pink and purple number] I got it from Fat Face, you know Fat Face?
OGH: [Looks up, resigned to the inevitable conversation] Yes, yes, very nice.
CtC: [Grins maniacally] I love it, it's a present from Jesus.
OGH: [Looks away very quickly to avoid a laughter incident]
CtC: What are you studying?
OGH: Sociology.
CtC: Ah, yes. I gave that up.
OGH: Really? Why?
CtC: I found it too difficult to think about. And the scriptures say that you shall call no one father except God but we were being taught about the founding fathers of sociology. It was confusing.
OGH: I can imagine. But that's just a figure of speech, surely.
CtC: What do you mean, a figure of speech?
OGH: Right, erm, you know in the Bible, when Jesus talks about the sower of the seed?
CtC: [nods enthusiastically]
OGH: Well, he's not talking about an actual person sowing actual seed is he? He's talking about the different ways of coming to belief in God. So when we say 'founding fathers' we're not saying that they are physical fathers, just that they were the first people with certain ideas.
CtC: Oh. Well I spend so much time studying the scriptures that I don't have time for it.
OGH: [looks at CtC's notepad and sees that it is full of painstakingly written out bible verses in a carefully constructed chart, rather than college work.]

See? Nutters. I feel slightly sullied by engaging on her level but I honestly don't think she's all there. Her course? Access to Teaching. Next week on Lizzie's Loons: the African plumber that keeps asking me to go out with him, despite the fact that I'm a snorting, wheezing snot-monster at the moment.

Political correctness gone mad

I don't know if it's a peculiarly British thing but I think most of us secretly like being a bit offended or angered. There's a sign on platform 6 at London Bridge that proudly proclaims, "90% of South Eastern Trains run on time!" and when I'm waiting for a train I take a perverse enjoyment in standing in front of it seething, muttering like an enraged Gollum, "90%! 90%! South Eastern have the temerity, the audacity, the gall to say that when I am late at least twice a week!" It's like a pressure valve, or something.

I would, however, hate to turn into the wrong sort of offended. The sort of person who rants into the comment boxes on newspaper websites. The sort of person who, when presented with a harmless, if banal, question on the BBC Have Your Say website, such as, "Are you bracing yourself for the cold weather?", rather than scrolling on by is gripped by rage and feels compelled to give answers such as these:

The worlds most sophisticated weather system exists in Britain.
it's called sticking your head out of the window!
Why are we so obsessed with the weather? It's winter, it's going to be cold and snow. Get over it.
Harry James, Warwick, United Kingdom

To be honest, we may as well throw our bodies out of the window too as we'll never be as enlightened as Harry James. Except maybe this next commenter, both called Harry, separated at birth?

The BBC have been telling me that the planet is getting warmer for years, and now ITV now inform me that the polar bears are dying of heatstroke, so I will be breaking out the deck chairs and tee shirts this weekend.

Why does the British weather, which is exceedingly agreeable and temperate by any measure, animate the British so much ?

Its the weather, not the apocalypse. Get a life.
[Potty_Harry], Coventry, United Kingdom

Before the Harries get too animated, here's Dave to calm it all down:

The weather in this country is NEVER cold in world terms.

How do you think people cope in Canada, Finland or Russia cope? Or what about Central Europe where it is consistently colder than this for three months every single year?

Slow news day, BBC?

Davie Hay

Glad we cleared that up. And finally:

Hello? It's late November; what are people expecting, a heatwave? I wouldn't trust the BBC to tell me what the weather's going to be like anyway. A couple of weeks ago in work, we all had a good laugh at the current weather map on this site, which showed a cloudless sky over the whole of Wales. It was chucking it down outside!

[BrimfulOfAshes], Cardiff

Hello? Can I be your friend Brimful? Please? I bet Comic Relief at your work is hilarious.

I worry when I find myself almost tutting at someone standing on the wrong side of the escalator that I might be turning into someone like this. Is noting spelling mistakes on signs with amusement the start of the slippery slope to writing into supermarkets informing them that it should be "Eight items or fewer" rather than "Eight items or less"? Will my irritation with South Eastern trains grow until it leads me down the dark and sullying path of writing a letter of complaint to The Metro? Do you secretly like being angry or offended? What apparantly trivial things anger or offend you?

And I'll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats

Carol had short brown hair and "ethnic" dangly earrings. She was wearing elastic waisted trousers, probably made from fair trade cotton, and had the sort of gold cross around her neck that is supposed to be discreet yet managed to be the first thing I noticed about her. Her smile dripped with so much pity that I wanted to punch her. Instead I sat down opposite her, next to an ailing spider plant probably being slowly choked to death with fake empathy, and waited for her to start. "So," she sighed, "how are you today?" I was in the Cambridge counselling service beginning my second (and last) session.

The previous week I'd sat in the waiting room staring at a poster proclaiming, "Depression feels the same in any language!" with a picture of several people of various creeds and colours standing united in an act of multicultural misery and wondering what I was doing there. This feeling only increased throughout my session and reached a peak during the second session where I was subjected to a barrage of sub-Freudian techniques. Regard:

THE OEDIPUS COMPLEX
Carol: Now last week you said you don't get on with your father...
OGH: No, I said we weren't close. That's not the same.
Carol: You see him as a distant figure?
OGH: I see him as someone who is busy working hard for his family.
Carol: [disappointed] Oh.


FREE ASSOCIATION
Carol: [Stares at me with a gormless expression mirroring that of the Jesus in the icon of the crucifixion on her wall]
OGH: [Stares back]
Carol: [Sighs]
OGH: [Stares]
Carol: Why all the silence?
OGH: Er, you haven't asked me a question yet.
Carol: [sighs with what sounds like the tiniest bit of irritation]

THE ELECTRA COMPLEX
Carol: How about your mother?
OGH: Really, my parents aren't to blame for the fact that I'm a miserable cow.
Carol: You're being rather obstructive to the therapy process.

LAST DITCH ATTEMPT AT ANALYSIS
Carol: You're all dressed in black, with black hair and black make up. It's as if you're in mourning and I wonder what you're in mourning for?
OGH: The lost minutes of my life spent with you dear.

The other day I was watching Bad Girls with the wife (shh, I only watch it for the lesbians). The story line was tackling a particularly gritty subject with its usual rigour when I interjected, "For god's sake, they'd have got a social worker in by now," and then a smile crept accross my face. It finally hit home that I'm going to be a social worker. (Well, in about four years' time if I can find the money to fund another go at university.) And I've got Carol to thank for that. I walked out of her room in 2004 and have spent a fair part of the years since then in the throes of drooling mentalism. After that bad experience it was a year before I sought help again and by that point it was too late for me to remain at Cambridge, but that help was good. I was diagnosed bipolar and have CBTed myself back to functionality and along the way I decided that I wanted to make sure people got the same help I had. That sounds vomitously trite and I do apologise but I could tell you horror stories, there's a lot worse than Carol.


So I've just done the first half term of an access to social care course, with a view to becoming a mental health social worker, and it seems to be going well. Leaving Cambridge was hard, it was so mentally shattering that until quite recently the mere sight of an academic book had me reaching for the whiskey but now I'm actively enjoying using my brain for more than counting out change. I appear to be living up to the potential that I thought I'd comprehensibly pissed up against a wall. It's nice. And it will be even nicer not to be on the receiving end of the social care for once.

Nowt so queer as folk

My first crush, at the age of about eight, was on Kenneth Williams. I'm not telling you this to carry on the theme of humiliation, although it is quite embarrassing, but because it appears to be the first sign of what has become quite a pattern in my life.



When I was in my first year at secondary school, various popular and influential people in my class coerced my best friend George and I to "go out". All this involved was going about our normal business with added hugging when they told us to. Apparently this was "sweet" as we were both short, speccy and swotty. I believe this relationship came to an end when we completely failed to call each other over half-term. Neither of us was in the slightest bit upset and quickly got back to being best friends without the irritation of constant demands from other people to touch each other. Time passed and by Year 11 I'd blossomed, if that's the right word, into a moody, sulking goth. George, on the other hand, had grown into a rather flamboyant personality, "camp George" as he was affectionately referred to throughout the school. So it was absolutely no surprise when he came to my goth friends and me, who wore eyeliner and fishnets and pretended to be wordly, to confide that he thought he might be gay. Looking back on it, I'm quite proud of the emotional maturity with which the fifteen year old me and friends dealt with the situation. By the beginning of the next school year he was happily out to most people and a much more relaxed person for it. But it stands that my first "boyfriend" turned out to be a homosexual. A portent of things to come?

As a seventeen year old I had self-hatred down to a fine art. I was consumed by it. The years of being told I was fat and ugly had paid off and it became fact, it was burnt into my retinas so that that's all I saw when I looked at myself. It's pathetic really but I want to cry when I see one of the very few pictures that I allowed to be taken from this period. I looked nothing like the hideous monster I envisioned myself as, yet I spent hours scribbling Placebo lyrics into black notebooks and ineffectually attempting to carve "ugly" into my arm with a compass. Emo before emo was invented. That's how cool I am. I've got my razor on the pulse of modern trends. But anyway, you can imagine that Valentine's day wasn't a joyous occasion for me as a permanently single lump of self-loathing. Imagine my surprise, then, on seeing a very attractive man obviously eyeing me up from across the pub my friends had dragged me to in order to "celebrate" the day of cheap cards and insincerity. I couldn't believe it when he came over to speak to me, and only me. His name was Pratesh and he was all gorgeous brown eyes and long black hair. I was still in a state of shock when, after talking for a while, he leaned in to kiss me. I couldn't believe my luck when after a fair bit of snogging (including an unfortunate face-biting incident that I glossed over at the time but really, bloody goths and their vampire obsessions) Pratesh decided to accompany my friends and me to the club we were moving on to from the pub.

So I was on the dance floor at my favourite club with a handsome young gentleman making inept attempts to put his hands down my corset and I was thinking, "Gosh, this didn't turn out too horrendously after all," when he whispered in my ear that he needed to tell me something. I followed him to a table in the corner and he took my hands and said, "I'm really sorry but I'm gay. I thought I could do this but I can't. You're the only girl I've ever felt anything like this for but it's still not going to work. I'm so sorry." I stared at him, gobsmacked, then proceeded to cry in the corner for the rest of the evening, convinced that I was so hideous I'd forced him to make up this outlandish excuse, while my best friend got off with the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Or, as a friend summarised on being informed of the night's events at a later date, "It was Valentine's, Alice pulled fit James and you turned someone gay? Wow!" Wow indeed.

And so we come to Travis. Yes, that Travis. I'd fancied Travis for quite a while before we got it together and when it happened I was pretty happy. That might be an understatement. Travis had charisma and big, piercing blue eyes. He also had an alcohol problem and mental health issues but that was by the by as didn't I too? He and I had drunken conversations late into the night about Issues and Art and we discovered a lot in common. He had a fierce talent for writing and observation and could make me laugh about absolutely anything. I fell for him hard and fast and, miracle of miracles, he seemed to feel the same way. Travis identified as bisexual when we got together, although his past had been swathed with confusion. That was fine, as I too believe that variety is the spice of life. After a while he stopped identifying as bisexual though. "You're the only woman I fancy," he said. And I liked that. I'd refer to him as my gay boyfriend and we'd go to gay clubs where I'd watch him tarting about in skinny jeans with a faux-hawk, happy in the knowledge that this gorgeous creature was coming home with me.

We were together two years all told and towards the end of that I was stupid enough to relax, to look forward to years of what I had at that point, we 'd got each other through some difficult times and just seemed to be coming out of the other side. And so it was as inevitable as Shakespearian tragedy that it would all come crashing down. It was during a perfectly innocuous phone call that he dropped in that he'd decided he was gay. I think he may have said that the idea of being with a woman made him feel panicky and deftly delivered an enormous kick directly to my self-esteem. To add insult to injury, at the time this happened an almost identical storyline was running on Hollyoaks. So it was like living in the most ludicrous of teen soaps, only with less facially gifted people, and in certain cases worse acting. So, despite my love for the sexually ambiguous, I've been confining myself to red-blooded heterosexuals ever since in an attempt to break the pattern. I'm sure the gay community are devastated but it's all fun and games until someone breaks a heart.

Wardrobe Malfunctions

I believe that anyone can look attractive if they dress well and clothing is something I've learnt to use to my advantage. Corsetry, stilettos and seamed stockings, fascinators, red lipstick and jewellery help me pretend that I'm not just plump and plain, help me create an illusion, a glamour. I love glamour. Every time someone tells me that I make them feel underdressed, every time a stranger comments on my outfit, it makes my whole day. But while what you wear can turn you from a little bown bird into a peacock, it can also just make you look a bit of a cock. I'm talking about Judy Finnegan's hammock-like bra making a bid for freedom at an awards ceremony, or Janet Jackson's bizarrely spiky nipple fighting its way out on stage. The wardrobe malfunction is one of the cruellest forms of humiliation and as I'm in a confessional mood, here are my top five most embarrassing instances.

Number Five: Picture the scene, I'm at the Leipzig goth festival, I'm with my boyfriend of the time and his band are playing the festival so I have a special access all areas wristband, I'm at the main venue and it's heaving with goths but with my magic wristband I can jump queues, I'm eyeing up other people's outfits and feeling pretty pleased with myself, I'm standing swigging mead with people from bands and feeling pretty damned cool. But what's this? Are these German goths staring in wonder at my amazing dress sense or has the zip on my skirt broken exposing my bum crack to anyone who cares to look? Yeah.

I've written before about the Hancock incident at the cinema that, along with the surfeit of bodily fluids, pushed me to resignation. What I didn't mention was wardrobe malfunction Number Four. So, I arrived at work having had to clean up shit the previous day to be presented with a costume to wear. That was quite bad. The costume consisted of a woolly hat and sunglasses in the middle of summer to be worn whilst standing in front of a hot dog grill. That was fairly awful. I hadn't put my contacts in so I was forced to wear the sunglasses perched above my normal glasses, looking like a mental who couldn't dress themselves properly. That was pretty appauling. Just before going down to my till I bent down to get my name badge and the seam on the inner thigh of my trousers split right up to the gusset meaning I had to spend the entire shift shuffling around concessions like a demented penguin with my legs together so as not to flash anyone. That was the icing on the cake of humiliation.

I try my very hardest to present an elegant exterior even if, as many people have told me, it only lasts until I open my mouth. Unfortunately events often conspire to rid me of any such illusions before I've even managed to do that, such as in incident Number Three. I realise that the tinned foods isle in Asda isn't the classiest of locations but you never know who you'll bump into at the supermarket and I was wearing a new pair of holdups. Has ever such a misnomer been applied to an item of hosiery? I was walking down frozen foods when I felt the right "holdup" come loose. I prayed it would stay put but by the time I'd reached baked goods the rubber top was flapping around my ankle like a bell around a clapper. Class, poise and elegance is not having to dive into the George changing room to peel off an errant stocking, then being forced to walk home in the rain one stocking on, one stocking off.

Class, poise and elegance were exactly what I wanted to present to the gentleman I went on a date with, who was instead confronted with clothing disaster Number Two. I met him for a drink and quite wanted to impress him. Unfortunate then that within the hour I'd gone arse over tit with a full pint in each hand. However, like the trooper I am, I picked myself up, resigned myself to smelling like a brewery and continued in my attempt to charm him. As I got up to go out for a cigarette I noticed him eyeing me up. I raised an eyebrow quizzically, "Just enjoying the view," he smirked. I felt pleased that he fancied me depite my enormous clumsiness and general ineptitude. It was only when I got home, via several modes of public transport, that I realised that when I fell over I'd split my pencil skirt right up the vent, exposing stocking tops, suspenders and far too much thigh to half of London.

Here we are at my Number One most embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. It has crossed my mind that most people probably haven't even had five, never mind enough to make a chart from but that's part of the exciting life I lead, I suppose. Anyway, when I was in my second year at Cambridge I was a member of a society whose entire purpose was to dress up as goths and get drunk. As you can imagine that was quite a stretch for me. On this occasion we were attending the formal dinner at Kings College. I was wearing a new corset and was somewhat over-excited and showing off, therefore managed to drink all of my wine but somehow not to eat anything. We'd hired out the Kings Cellar after the meal for playing of cheesy music and dancing. Among said cheesy music was the Timewarp from Rocky Horror. I think it might have been played twice. Both times I was there enthusiastically stepping to the right etc. to much encouragement. So much encouragement that I did it again in the bar once the cellar was shut. And possibly again another time after that. I may even have got home and done a bit of timewarping in the mirror. Where I discovered that when my arms were raised above my head they pulled my breasts out of the corset, making my nipples visible to everyone. Suddenly most of the applause made sense.

So, come on, what's your most embarrassing wardrobe malfunction?

SHAME!

I discovered Bête de Jour's blog a few months ago and it's become a firm favourite. It's well written, funny, and at all times painfully honest. Today he asked his readers, "What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?" and as I have an internet crush on him am so good at humiliating myself, I thought I'd (over) share.

As with many of the incidents that sneak up on me when I'm trying to go to sleep, filling me with so much horror as I remember them that I have to stuff my duvet into my mouth to stop myself from screaming, I was very drunk when this occurred. I'd just started sleeping with a bloke in my friendship group that I'd fancied for ages, we'll call him Travis, and was in the pub with him and some others. I'd been drinking all afternoon on an empty stomach and was already about six pints of snakebite and black down before my mate, who we'll call Dan, got the evil glint in his eye that means he's about to suggest some sort of heinous drinking game. Dan's drinking games are always completely incomprehensible, involving all sorts of 'international drinking rules' to catch you out. I know hardened alcoholics who pale at the thought of Dan's drinking games, yet out of some sort of pathetic need to prove myself in front of Travis I decided to join in. Cue me having to down two pints in quick succession and half the pub watching as myself and a friend attempted to recite a ridiculous rhyme with added actions. Pretty embarrassing already, to be honest.

Alcohol can lift you up and make you feel like the king of the world but it can also be an insidious bastard. And so it was only when I stood up and got out into the fresh air after kicking out time that I realised exactly how fucked I was. But by then it was too late and I'd already agreed to go home with Travis. As I began to walk back to Travis's it became increasingly apparent that I was going to have to be sick very soon. In an attempt to retain what was left of my dignity, I asked him to walk ahead of me and told him I'd catch up with him in a minute. As soon as he was suitably far away I began to vomit purple froth into the gutter. Unfortunately I was so utterly bollocksed that the mere act of bending over was enough to cause me to suffer a lack of composure and topple into the gutter, landing in a pool of my own second hand snakebite. I was hauled out by a concerned pair of passing students, while Travis ran back down the road wondering what the hell was going on. Explaining that was pretty fucking humiliating but it does not end there, for I am an adept in the art of self-abasement, an expert in embarrassment.

I continued back to Travis's house, feeling better for the fresh air. I obviously felt so much better on arriving that I thought it would be a good idea to engage in a sex act. Only there are certain sex acts that really shouldn't be attempted when the gag reflex is still quivering and sensitive from a recent regurgitation. Nothing like coating your partner's crotch in emesis to kill the passionate mood. Cue Travis frantically trying to clean himself up and change the bedclothes around me as I sat on the end of the bed sobbing. To Travis's credit, he took it in his stride and we dated for two years. Until he dumped me because he'd decided he was gay. On positive days, I like to think the two incidents aren't connected.

Running the gauntlet

Some weeks ago I went to enroll in college where I was told by a charismatic man of a certain age and attractiveness that, as I'd be leaving my job at [cinema] before I started my course, I should sign on and come back in to enroll when in receipt of benefits as I'd then get the course for free rather than paying the hefty £950 fee. "Sign on, even if it's just for a week. I'm a tax payer and I don't have a problem with you doing that. I just want my students to get the best deal," he said, sweeping his hair out of his eyes with a rolled-up-shirt-sleeved arm. I nodded, trying not to let my mouth hang open. Not paying £950 sounded good to me but little did I know I was about to face an ordeal worse than exam term at Cambridge, worse than vomit on a ten hour shift at [cinema]. We hear about people that make a living by scamming the government, claiming benefits in different cities and I say let them keep the money. It's a full time job trying to extract one payment from them, I can only imagine the effort and patience required for four or five.

College gave me a form to be filled in and stamped at the Jobcentre. So when I went to sign on for the first time I brought it with me. After signing on:
Mavis: Miss F?
OGH: [goes and sits down at the table]
Mavis: [sighs in a loud and protracted manner] Book?
OGH: [hands over book]
Mavis: Sign here. NEXT!
I went downstairs and asked about getting my form stamped. I was shown immediately to a table where a nice young man called Tristan filled out my form quickly whilst making polite conversation and then I was on my way within the hour. I felt surprised and pleased that everything had gone so smoothly. However at this point I had no idea that I was already undergoing ORDEAL BY INCOMPETENCE. I took the form to my college, which is on the other side of South London to my home and the Jobcentre, and proudly handed over the form to the fee assesment lady. "Oh no," she shook her head, "Oh no, they've put an end date!" she prodded at the relevant part of the form with a fingernail manicured in hot pink, "Can't take it with an end date! The benefits have to be ongoing, look." She pointed to another part of the form where this was clearly stated. I inwardly cursed Tristan and his friendly conversation and complete lack of concentration. I had to wait for half an hour to see a smiley woman who confirmed that, yes, the form was useless. "I'm really sorry, you'll have to get another one filled in. God, it's in Woolwich! I'm sorry hun."

So was I, very sorry to be trailing yet again into Woolwich Jobcentre with a new form clasped between my fingers. I was a bit better prepared this time but there's no real preparation for ORDEAL BY OBSTRUCTION. First I was told that in order to see someone I'd have to make an appointment. Obviously the most natural way to do this is to sit on a jobcentre phone on hold for fifteen minutes before getting through to the main call centre in Belfast where you give them your NI number and they then put you through to the jobcentre you are sitting in where you are finally given an appointment for an hour and a half's time. An ingenious system. I'd been waiting about for over two hours when I finally saw Don, a flamboyant gentleman who waved me over in a manner that wouldn't have been out of place directing air traffic.
Don: Now what can we do for you?
OGH: Well, I've got my P45 to be faxed over...
Don: Oh gawd! I don't know if I'm supposed to be doing that! Oh gawd! Where do I send it...
OGH: New Claims.
Don: Oh Gaw... Really? New Claims? Oh right, I'll just fax that over then! Right. Anything else?
OGH: Yeah, could you just stamp this form for me? I've brought it in before but it was filled out incorrectly.
Don: Oh gawd! I can't do that! I'm not authorised! We're short staffed today and I'm not authorised! What's you NI number?
[types it in and presses return repeatedly while the computer beeps angrily]
Don: See? I'm not authorised! Bring it in tomorrow morning and Linda will do it for you. NEXT!

Linda sat in front of me the next morning looking apologetic. "I can't stamp that for you as the claim isn't coming up as live on the system." She typed my NI number in again and the computer beeped another emphatic "NO!". I showed her that I had, in fact, had the form filled in before. She looked over it and tutted, "Tristan!". My patience was running extremely thin. It seemed that this was ORDEAL BY MISCOMMUNICATION. "I have been here three times with this form," I said, my anger barely controlled, "I need it to enroll in college, if I still have a place after all this incompetent faffing." She called head office for me. Apparently the person handling my claim was away from their desk but would give me a call that afternoon and when they called I should make sure that they'd put my claim live on the system, then come in the next morning to get my form stamped. Of course I got no such call. I spent the evening near to tears through frustration, melodramatically flinging myself onto soft furnishings demanding, "Why won't they just stamp my fucking form? All I want is to better myself! Another chance at education!"

So, Wednesday morning, day three, I awoke with a steely determination. I gathered numbers and stepped into ORDEAL BY CALL CENTRE. This determination didn't falter when, having been on the phone to him for half an hour, the first man I spoke to told me my claim would probably take four to five days, too late for me to enroll, before realising that I'd been given the wrong number by the website and his call centre didn't cover Woolwich. The next number told me that my claim should have gone through but I'd have to call my local Jobcentre to get them to enter my last signing on date. I called Woolwich and was put through to a rather confused man.
Confused Man: What do you want?
OGH: Er, I need my last signing on date entered onto the system so my claim can be processed.
CM: Right. Are you on New Deal?
OGH: No...
CM: Well you shouldn't be talking to me then, who gave you this number?
OGH: I was put through by Woolwich jobcentre.
CM: Give me your NI number... right... you can't sign on today, you sign on on Fridays.
OGH: Yes, I know, I just need my last sign on date put...
CM: You come in on Friday to sign on, you can't have money today.
After hanging up I decided it was probably best to take direct action and went into Woolwich again. At the Jobcentre I waved at Don, smiled at Linda, realised I was probably in there more than some of the staff.

At the front desk I explained that I needed my sign on date inputted so that my claim could be processed and was given a number to ring and shown to a phone. At [cinema] we were taught to use the "Talking to a Brick Wall Technique" on very difficult customers, essentially just repeating yourself over and over again. I decided that this would be my tactic.
Callcentre Employee: Hello, NI number please... right, how can I help you?
OGH: Could you put my last sign on date on the system so my claim can go live please?
CE: Right... just doing that now... Right, you sign in on Fri...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: Well, I'll put a note...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: If you come in on Fri...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: Yes!
OGH: Right. Thank you.
And so I went and had my form stamped and filled in correctly by Linda, then had a trouble-free enrollment at College. VICTORY. Still haven't got any money though.

Why this is hell, nor am I out of it

Nine thirty on a Saturday morning is for being in bed. It's for reaching groggily for pain killers to numb the hangover before turning over and going back to sleep. If you're a particularly enthusiastic type, it might be for fucking. But what it's emphatically not for is standing in the grim lobby of Woolwich Job Centre Plus. I was greeted by two security guards, and a man with his shirt hanging out who handed me a sheaf of papers and pointed me towards a chair. There I studiously checked over the details that I'd given over the phone (she'd misheard my phone number and apparently not even made an attempt to hear my last work dates). I painstakingly signed and dated every correction and then turned my attention to a form I had to fill in. The first question read, "Do you have any problems with English or Math's that would prevent you getting work?" Yep, "math's". This was a portent of things to come.

When I was finished I was called over to see Julie (not real name obviously, especially not with my memory).
Julie: Hello Miss F. [shuffles papers] Now I see here that you've studied at university.
Our Glamorous Heroine: Well, I...
J: Oh! Sian! I thought you weren't in today!
Sian: I was feeling a bit sick but I thought I may as well come in... Dave, fuck off out of my chair! Did you hear that Darren walked out yesterday?
J: Really?
S: Yeah, he had to be escorted off the premises!
J: [Realises that half of the job centre are looking up from their forms, listening with rapt attention] Sian! That's company business! Don't talk about it in front of customers! Yes Miss F?
OGH: Well, I actually dropped out after two years due to illness.
J: Right, have you got the letter from your university stating that you no longer attend?
OGH: Er, no, the woman on the phone didn't mention having to bring one.
J: Tchuh. They don't make our job any easier for us!

After that little chat I was asked to take a seat again ("No, not that seat Miss F, the completely indistinguishable one directly next to it.") where I waited to see another 'adviser'.
Claire: Right, I just need to ask you a few more questions Miss F... just one minute... Sandra! Sandra!
Sandra: [comes over leaving her own client] Yeah? Oh, right, what you do is you just click yes or no for each question and then it comes up red or green at the end, then you just delete it and put successful or unsuccessful.
C: So you have to do it even though you just delete it straight after? That's stupid! [sticks tongue under bottom lip and gurns making an "uuh" noise]
[Enter manager, a bloke about my age who could have done with a shave, from behind a glass partition having noticed the conflab.]
Dale: Everything all right ladies? You're remembering to do the [incomprehensible jargon procedure]?
C: Yeah, yeah.
[Exit manager Dale.]
S: Hahahaha, he asked me if I was doing that earlier and I was like, "Of course I am," but I didn't have a clue what he was on about!

Having finally got through the questions (Claire: Any qualifications? OGH: Yeah, 10 GCSEs, 5 AS levels, 3 A levels Claire: AS levels? Never heard of them! OGH: Just put 3 A levels...) I was informed that yes, I was eligible for JSA (green, successful) and asked if I had any questions.
OGH: Er, yes, I have to bring in proof that I left university due to illness. Where shall I bring it in to?
C: One minute... Dale! Dale! This lady needs to bring in proof that she's left uni because she was ill. Where does she give it in to?
Dale: [comes out from behind his partition again] Er, that would have to be Procedures.
C: But the public can't give stuff to Procedures.
D: Oh, right, yeah, I guess she'd have to give it to New Claims then. Yeah, just come in and go upstairs to New Claims...
C: But she won't be allowed without an appointment
D: Nah, she can just tell reception that she needs to hand some stuff in and it'll be okay.
C: Right, so what you need to do is come in and ask for New Claims
OGH: Oh really?

I have to go in to sign on tomorrow. I haven't filled in my form stating what I've been doing to look for work this week yet. Somehow I don't think "read article in the paper about the phone sex trade" is going to cut it either. Sigh. Wish me luck.

I've been framed

Last week I was wrenched from my slumber by a mad figure careering around my room shouting obscenities. I sat up in bed with a start and realised that I was in my room at my parents' house and the figure was my mother.

Mummy Dearest: ...want to know what the fuck you've done to my fucking laptop...
Our Glamorous Heroine: Wuh? Laptop?
MD: I can't fucking turn it on and I don't know how to wake your brother to deal with it!

And it dawned on me. I'd used my mother's laptop the previous evening as I hadn't brought mine from Cambridge. I searched my still sleep-addled brain for any clues as to what I could possibly have done to it.

Now, my mother is a writer and so her laptop is understandably extremely important to her. That is why, once I'd finished on it, I asked her how it should be shut down. Just how you normally shut down a computer? I asked and she said yes. So I went to the start menu and pressed the familiar red button. Mistake.

MD: You've shut it down wrong and I can't fucking get into it. I need to do my fucking work.
OGH: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do anything to it, I just...
MD: The only fucking constant I need in my life is being able to get into my fucking laptop...

Information swam back to me as I regained consciousness. She had an imminent deadline with her agent. I probably wasn't as clear as I could have been when asking how I should shut it down. Nothing makes a writer more angry than not being able to write. That scene in The Shining when Jack Nicholson has a go at his wife for interrupting him when he's working at the type writer ("Whenever l'm in here. . . and you hear me typing. . . or whatever the fuck you hear me doing in here. . . when l'm in here, that means l am working. That means don't come in. Do you think you can handle that? Fine. Why don't you start right now and get the fuck out of here?") could be documentary fact as far as my experience with writers goes. I'd fucked up big time. I decided to duck and cover and weather out the storm.

My mother finally left my room with a slam of the door and a shout of, "And don't ever go near my laptop ever again!" No fear of that, thought I, and very definitely remembered to bring my laptop down with me when I came back at the weekend. So, when this morning I heard a scream that Grendel's mother would have been proud of emanating from my mother's room I ignored it. Nothing to do with me, I thought. Mistake. I've written before about how technology has conspired against me and it appears that it has happened again. As my mother was leaving the house she gave me a steely glare.

MD: You've fucked up my laptop up again.
OGH: I haven't been anywhere near it.
MD: Well it wouldn't turn on, exactly the same way as last time, and then it said that you were logged on.
OGH: I don't know why that is because I really haven't been on it. I've got my laptop so why would I want to use yours?
MD: Well it says Elizabeth is logged on and I don't know any other Elizabeths who would be on it.
OGH: I promise I haven't been on it, seriously.
MD: Well you were on it last week and that's started all this. Just don't fucking break other peoples' stuff. You obviously left bad seeds on it.
OGH:...

I didn't ask if that was a technical term or if Nick Cave had been there with the 'bad seeds'. I just resigned myself to the fact that the laptop had planted my finger prints all over a crime I didn't commit and so I must endure another dose of writers' wrath. I bloody hate technology.

Coda

Something worrying happened this morning. I found myself getting nostalgic about work. I miss my cinema friends, it was always the fantastic people that made the job bearable and I probably laughed as much as I seethed with rage. However certain things bear remembering.

Just before I left, Mamma Mia came out. I thought Sex & The City was bad for rude harridans with entitlement compexes ("I have to queue? But I've booked tickets and paid for a babysitter!" "Why can't you tell me exactly how much fat there is in the low fat natural yoghurt?") but Mamma Mia brought them all flooding back in with the added bonus of a song they could sing endlessly and off-key. It was always the small things that made working at the cinema that bit more difficult. When new members of staff join they have to undergo training. One of the training modules is entitled "Tools of the Trade" in which new Guest Assistants are informed that the tools of their trade are the wheelie bin, the pick up, and the slop bucket. Inspiring stuff.

So Mamma Mia had just come out meaning that several screens were sold out and there was more mess than a reception classroom after an "art" lesson. The ushering team reach for the tools of their trade, only what the training didn't tell us was that we'd run out of bin bags on every busy weekend and there would only ever be three pickups between five. Three pick ups: one with the stick attatched to the bucket broken in half, one with the stick attatched to the brush broken in half, and one where the minute the bucket became full it flew off the stick disgorging its contents all over the floor. But we did our best stooping and periodically swearing only to realise that we were being subjected to yet another cruel and unusual punishment.

In order to celebrate the release of Mamma fucking Mia [cinema] was sent a tape by head office to be played in all the screens between showings. This involved the same seven Abba songs being played over and over again with some "advertising" in between songs. Said "advertising" was obviously being read out by Dave from accounts whose uncle had once done a brief turn on hospital radio and was therefore the best man for the job. The terrible American accent was embarrassing enough but the puns were unspeakable. As "Take A Chance On Me" faded out we hear, "But don't take a chance on seeing the sold out sign and book tickets from a member of staff". Pretty cringe-worthy. But it was after "Voulez-Vous" when Dave-from-accounts intoned, "And don't forget to view les Vue listings at myvue.com," that I seriously considered committing suicide with the sharp end of a broken pick up.

Truth be told, I was getting pretty intolerant by the end. Woe betide the customer that annoyed me. For example the woman who ran up to me in the box office shouting, "I need a student ticket for this girl for Kung Fu Panda now!"
Our Glamourous Heroine: Does she have a student card?
Posh Harpy: No! She's an international student. She's staying with me over the summer!
OGH: I'm afraid it's company policy that I can't sell a student ticket without a valid student card.
PH: Well you either believe me or you don't.
OGH: I'm afraid I...
PH: [banging the counter with her hand] Could you just hurry up! The film's about to start! Just give me a ticket!
OGH: Right, here's an adult ticket and some manners wouldn't go amiss. That'll be £7.10 please.
PH: Oh, er, thank you.
I suspect it was best for everyone that I left before there was a murder.

An amusing post script to my time at the cinema is that there was a visit by a mystery shopper on my last shift. "Guess who got 100% at box office? Gave a voucher, was helpful, and smiled?" asked my best work mate Stephen over a drink recently. That's right bitches, it was me. I have some really good suggestions as to what management can do with that information.

Getting over it

It's a typical British summer holiday. I'm trying to eat a fish cake with one of those wooden forks before the seagulls notice what I've got, and watching the grey sky blend seamlessly into the grey sea. People are huddled on the beach wrapped in multi-coloured towels and ponies trudge up and down the sand. It's nearly 20 years since my family came here for the first time and there are memories everywhere. Up the sea front is the Sea Life Centre where Middle Brother would stare at the seals for hours and we'd eat jelly snakes. To my right is the funfair with the wiggly slides which we used to visit for a treat in the evening. I remember fondly the first time I publicly humiliated myself, going down them in a dress which I was convinced made me look very grown up, only for my skirt to blow up exposing my underwear to all and causing the man taking the money to exclaim loudly in case anyone had failed to notice, "Look, she's showing her frillies!" I remember the game my father used to set for us, to see who could spot the most tattoos on people walking along the front. One point for an inked arm, five for a neck. I have my own now and god knows how many points that's lost me in his eyes. And I can see Littlest Brother, now 19 and six foot, standing on the beach aged four trying to get his mouth round a gobstopper bigger than his head.

I'm losing myself in these memories, digging deeper and deeper. The first meal I ever had here was fish shapes, chips, and beans. The first grumpy pony I rode along the beach was called Minnie. The first time we came we made a scrapbook, my mother painstakingly helping me to stick shells into it every evening before we ate, Middle Brother doing detailed scribbles on the blank pages. I'm losing myself on purpose so I won't have to think about the most recent time I've visited. The time in freezing, windy January when the fish and chip stands were boarded up and the front was empty save for a few birdwatchers huddled in the only tea room open out of season. The time when I was so desperate that I packed up and ran away fom Cambridge on the spur of the moment. I was stuck in a labyrinth of unfinished work, depression, failed potential, and panic. Some psychiatrists say that 'home' is reliving your childhood and so perhaps unconsciously I sought safety in the place of my childhood holidays. At a time in my life when I could have felt so utterly alone he came with me.

I don't know how long you're allowed to feel heartbroken for before it becomes horribly self-indulgent. I suspect at nearly a year since he dropped his bombshell I'm pushing the bounds of sympathy when I get maudlin like this. It's not the searing pain of the first weeks, pain that I was too terrified to look straight at in case I couldn't take it. It's just an ache that nags me occasionally. He came with me and we ate chips in the cold and he was sober then but he sat patiently and watched me drink it all away and we giggled in the prissy guest house and stared at penguins in the Sea Life Centre. And even though the sun almost came out earlier and I'm on my way to getting my life back on track, it hurts that I'll never have that with him again.

We went to a film the other day, I say we, he brought his new partner with him, and as I was saying goodbye, he dropped another bombshell. He's going away for six weeks and by the time he gets back I'll be in London starting college. As I walked home I wondered if this wasn't for the best. Detach yourself! I mentally yelled. Later, at the goth night I organised a goodbye coffee for the next day. An old song came on and I walked to the dance floor and danced alone, hair in my face, balanced on my 6" heels. I saw him across the floor and lifted my head to sing the chorus. "I take back my trust in you." I wanted it to be an exorcism, I spat the words trying to forget the times we danced together to songs he now pulls his boyfriend onto the dance floor for. And the next day I was calm. We talked about nothing and politely caught up on each other's lives. We hugged goodbye and he said he'd come to visit in London and I nodded knowing that if he did it wouldn't be for me and nor should it be, I suppose. And then we went our separate ways and that was it. Not with a bang but a whimper, I thought. And just maybe I'm slowly getting over it.

Only three more shifts to go...

By now you've probably seen these slightly vomitous offerings: Discovery Channel and XKCD. All I can say is I'm very sorry, my brain is obviously turning on me due to prolonged inactivity.

I hate the popcorn,
I hate the Fanta Freeze,
I hate the nachos,
I hate the nacho cheese,
I hate the hotdogs, shrivelled on the grill for hours.
Boom de yada etc.

I hate the weekends,
I hate the lengthy queues,
I hate the mess made,
I hate mopping the loos,
I hate the children's noise and stupidity.

I hate the public,
I hate being polite,
I hate the rudeness,
The customer's not always right,
I hate the nutjobs with all their mad complaints.

I hate the wages,
I hate the sick kits,
I hate the Big Boss,
I hate cleaning up shit,
I hate the whole goddamn fucking company.

Why I Don't Do Exercise Or "Look at the state of that!"

I don't like the summer much. The sun serves only to make me pink through sun burn or eczema and, being the self-absorbed person that I am, the sight of pretty young things gallavanting about in next to nothing leaves me beset with a pathetic self-loathing. The other day at work a tanned and long-legged, scantily clad goddess walked into the foyer, causing an awed silence to fall across every male present. I bitterly muttered something to Female Colleague about forgetting to put any clothes on that morning, or something equally hackneyed, whilst inside wishing desperately that I had slim, toned thighs of polished mahogany rather than hideous limbs with the appearance of a poorly-set blancmange. It's at times like these that I start to have dangerous thoughts. Thoughts about exercise. Thoughts that need quashing immediately. I don't do exercise and it's for very good reasons.

GPs have often suggested to me that a bit of "gentle exercise" will help with depression. I've always dismissed it as a completely ludicrous idea. To me, there's no such thing as "gentle exercise". Being fat and rubbish at sport taught me that physical exercise is nothing but brutal torment. Games at school was ritual humiliation for me and as soon as I had the werewithall I bunked off, hiding smoking in the junior school changing rooms, like every other sensible person.

However, I did entertain the idea while at university that perhaps not all physical exercise had to be quite as traumatic as what I'd experienced at school. Surely in the Real World there weren't games teachers who hit you on the arse with a hockey stick if you didn't run fast enough or people who howled, "fucking fat idiot" when you failed to do something as trivial as catching a rounders ball?

I went through a phase in my second year where I was very fond of having the sort of fun that makes you dance a lot and eat nothing. I stopped this due to the realisation that it may not actually be all that good for my, precarious at best, mental state. Having laid off the appetite suppressants, I realised I was putting weight on and decided to do something about it. I considered my options and immediately ruled out jogging. If I was going to embarrass myself I was at least going to do it somewhere where everyone else was in the same boat as me. I still have no idea why people would choose to huff and puff around in hideous sports wear in broad daylight where it's perfectly possible that you'll bump into an ex or an enemy looking perfectly dressed and cool as a cucumber. You may as well park an exercise bike in the middle of the supermarket as far as I'm concerned.

So, having never been into public humiliation, jogging was out. I didn't even give a minute's thought to the gym, convinced that if there were the types in the Real World to hit bums with hockey sticks and yell insults, it was there that they would lurk. That left me with one viable option: swimming. So I rallied some friends to come with me for my first foray into the world of exercise since school. I was even looking forward to it a bit. There wouldn't be teachers, I wouldn't have to do anything I didn't want to. Surely it couldn't be that bad?

When optimistically planning my swimming trip there were several factors that I failed to take into account. The first of which conspired to humiliate me before I'd even left the changing rooms. Without the aid of glasses or contact lenses I'm really quite blind and unfortunately swimming pretty much precludes both. So, having wrestled my way into my swimming costume, I groped my way towards the lockers where I saw a girl whom I took to be my friend. It was only after I'd rushed up to her, grabbed her arm and asked, "Can we go in together?" that I realised she was in fact a complete stranger. A stranger who now thinks I'm some form of sex pest who's escaped her carer. Embarrassment number one.

The second factor was that the fitness pool is at the opposite side of the building from the changing rooms, and to get to it involves walking past the baby pool and the leisure pool. This in itself isn't that bad, I'm not quite self-absorbed enough to believe that everyone in the entire leisure centre will simultaneously stop what they're doing and stare at me, like in that horrible Boots suncream ad. And even if they did, if you go out looking like me you know that a swimming costume is hardly the worst thing you could be wearing for a walk of shame. Try having to ask a cab driver where you are at seven in the morning while wearing a corset, ripped stockings, one false eyelash and carrying a pair of six inch heels in your hand. No, it was only when combined with factor number three that this became a problem.

The third thing I'd failed to take into consideration was that it would be horribly busy on a Sunday morning. The so-called leisure pool was teeming with the type of adolescents usually found skulking around shopping centres in baseball caps. They'd managed to turn the entire pool into a warzone and were engaged in divebombing and spitting pool water at each other. By now I'd found my friends and was walking arm in arm with a girl who was well endowed, to put it mildly. Unfortunately this got the attention of the ASBO kids and they stopped fighting, coming together in a momentary truce to shout, "Look at the tits on that!" Friend and I sped up, ignoring them, hoping that was it but before the echo of the last comment had finished bouncing off the water, came another shout, "But look at the state of her friend!" Keeping my eyes fixed firmly forward I carried on to the fitness pool with the jeer ringing in my ears. Embarrassment number two.

By the time I got into the water, I didn't care that my friends hadn't really meant it when they'd said they were really unfit and had gone straight into the middle lane, leaving me in the remedial lane. After the previous incidents, I was swimming with a grim determination and was almost considering moving up a lane and attempting to swim faster through sheer bloody-mindedness when I was barged into by a man over taking me. He managed to kick me in the side, causing my head to go under and me to flounder about spluttering in an utterly undignified manner. When I got to the side he apologised to me and I realised that, third and final embarrassment, he only had one arm. I had been over taken by someone with one arm.

It was then that I decided that nothing really changes and I vowed never to do any form of sport or training ever again, blancmange thighs be damned.

This paint by numbers life is fucking with my head

Big Boss has taken to telling me to "Smile!" every time he sees me at work, whilst gesticulating and pulling a face in the manner of a childless uncle attempting to get a toddler to look happy in a birthday photo. It's almost enough to make me wish he was refusing to speak to me again. But I have to admit, I may well be walking around with a bit of a face on. When it comes to [cinema], I have of late, wherefore I know exactly, lost all my mirth. To be honest, I think this job is sending me loopy.

Case in point, at [cinema] whenever someone buys a ticket they get given a voucher which gets them an amount of money off the next time they come to see a film. When we are handed these vouchers we have to void them, tear off half of the customer's ticket and staple that to them. I must fold the vouchers a certain way and staple the ticket vertically on the left side. If by some appalling oversight I manage to do this the wrong way, I have been known to unpick the staple and do it again. And if someone offers to do my stapling for me while they have custody of the company stapler I refuse in no uncertain terms to let them. After all, they might do it wrong and I just couldn't live with that. See, loopy.

Worse is the ridiculous situation I've got myself into with the straws. If someone orders a fanta I can only give them a yellow or a red straw. With coke, coke zero, and diet coke, it can be a blue or a red straw. I prefer a red for coke and a blue for diet coke, coke zero is still a bit of an unknown quantity. Sprite is the easiest as it can have a blue, green, or yellow straw. Even more ludicrously, if a customer annoys me I give them the wrong colour straw for their drink, green for coke for example, as if that would affect their mental equilibrium in the same way it does mine. Fucking nuts.

I'm not entirely surprised that this job is sending me a few jelly sweets short of a kids' combo. Through the gossip mill I've found out that a couple of people on management consider me to have an attitude problem. Fair enough, I'm not a mindless retail drone and I am a bit (read very) mouthy. Plus when it comes to Big Boss, it's all a bit attitude problem/personality, tomayto/tomahto. However, despite appearances, I don't actually enjoy being hated and this has lead to me doing some things in the name of getting on at work that are more insane than my popcorn-addled brain could conjure on its own.

Last week the dreaded call came over the radio, "Usher on the radio, someone's had a very nasty accident in t'downstairs disabled toilet. Needs someone with a good gut to clear that up immediately". And what did I do? I volunteered to deal with it. To be fair, the other Guest Assistant turned white at the mere thought of it, and I do possess a strong stomach. Plus I'm hoping to work in social care and need to get used to dealing with this sort of shit. So, yes, shit. I found myself cleaning up a sizeable amount of it armed only with a sick kit. I'll leave that to your imaginations. What never ceases to amaze me about [cinema], though, is that there is always something worse. As Nice Manager thanked me he told me about the time he opened the cinema in the morning to find that the drains had backed up and flooded the entirety of the bottom floor with liquid human waste. Head office helpfully had him wading about in it trying to stem the flow with blue roll.

The final indignity was thrust upon me at the weekend in the form of a woolly hat and some sun glasses. "Just put your Hancock stuff on", said Team Leader, "it's in the office". There sat Big Boss surrounded by the instruments of my humiliation and there was no way I could refuse. I'm loathe to admit that I've almost got used to my baseball cap but this was something else. The combination of an oversized beanie hat and sunglasses on my round head left me looking like someone whose carer had let them get dressed by themselves for the first time. Add to this that it was a very warm day and our tills are directly in front of the hotdog grill and you have an itchy, hot and definitely cruel and unusual punishment. Give me excrement but not this.

So I'm handing in my notice. I have well and truly had enough and need to leave before I find myself up to my neck in raw sewage. Literally and metaphorically.

In which our glamorous heroine goes for a quiet pint after work and ends up in the police station

It was half term last week and work kindly scheduled me seven shifts in a row, most of them lasting 10 hours. As I crawled into work for midday on Saturday, having finished at midnight the previous night, I saw Big Boss waiting for me and realised I was a couple of minutes late. Again. Big Boss has an extremely thinly veiled contempt for me at the best of times and is a real stickler for rules. As far as he's concerned, two minutes late may as well be two hours. It's all a jolly good excuse for him to throw his (not inconsiderable) weight around.

"I'm sorry I'm late, I..." "Lizzie, I don't want to hear it. You're always late and you always have a story. I'm not saying I don't believe you but you must lead a very eventful life." This was said with the sort of half-smirk, half-sneer on his face that meant I couldn't answer back as he was being 'funny' rather than rude, 'joshing' rather than having a go, so I stood there trying to keep the sort of insolent look off my face that used to get me into trouble at school. Not only do I actually lead an eventful life, but I wasn't about to be offended by such an accusation from a man who appears to spend all his time when not in work making photo manipulations of himself in various famous films to put on his Facebook page. Hurray for having no need to recourse to photoshop to make myself seem intertesting. I'll take my eventful life over yours any day, you pathetic cunt! However, such smug internal crowings were to have proved foolish by the end of the day.

When it comes to my life, 'eventful' is one way of putting it. I often say that I 'just get myself' into situations. Situations like finding myself locked out of my college and having to ask my famous-academic-ex-director-of-studies to let me in whilst paralytic to the point of incoherence. Or like finding myself by some cruel trick of fate seeing two men at the same time who turn out to be housemates. The thing about these situations is there's usually no 'just get' about it, it's all entirely my fault. And I'm now starting to wonder if what happened on Saturday night might be exactly the same.

Saturday's shift contained the usual mixture of grinding menial tasks and abject stupidity, with added hysterical, idiotic women thronging in for Sex & The City. Come the end of my shift, I'd planned to go straight home and get some well-earned sleep however some how, as is the way of things with me, I ended up going for a 'quick pint' after work with colleagues that turned into me staggering out of WT's Snooker Club at 3.30 am, pretty fucking drunk. This, perhaps, was error number one.

Error number two occurred when I decided to go with a work friend to get some food from the kebab shop next door. On entering the shop I noticed two men sitting at a table in the corner. They were drunk and rowdy and as I was comitting the crimes of being female and fat, I was an ideal target for their drunken arseholishness. This isn't an unusual situation for me. If I had a penny for every time some man decided to inform me that I was fat I could buy another packet of biscuits. Usually I ignore it but drink had been taken and I was generally at the end of my tether due to work. So I gave the guy who insulted me (Skinny Rat Face) a mouthful in return. Words were exchanged and I could tell that Skinny Rat Face was a bit taken aback that I was standing up for myself. He got up from the table and squared up to me against the counter, "You're a gobby bitch. You wanna shut up, you fat cow. You wanna be careful, I've got people waiting outside." I informed him that if he was threatening me I would call the police. I might have given him a few choice words as to what I thought of men that threatened women, too.

Skinny Rat Face sat back down at this point but continued to shout abuse. Enter Stocky Skin 'Ed, drawn to the aggro like a really thick, football-shirt-wearing moth to a flame. Stocky Skin 'Ed assessed the situation, realised it was only a girl that his mate was engaged with and decided to attempt to change the subject by opining to Skinny Rat Face, and the kebab shop at large, that he was going to "Stab those fucking pakis" whilst motioning next door to WT's. Here comes error number three. Riled up from the previous confrontation I asked Stocky Skin 'Ed not to use racist language and threats. He didn't exactly see my point of view and yelled at me before going back to threatening to "stab up the pakis". At this point I phoned the police to report racist and threatening behaviour.

The owner of the shop got the men out but they stood outside shouting yet more extremely original and funny abuse about my weight into the shop and threatening to 'have us' (me and my colleague) when we left. Eventually my work friend snapped ad shouted something back at them in my defence. This caused four of them (Skinny Rat Face and his Lackeys) to pile back into the shop, corner him, hit him in the face and hold him by the neck up against the wall. I called the police again, causing Stocky Skin 'Ed, who must have been at least 45, to come in and attempt to intimidate me, a young girl, by squaring up to me and shouting in my face that I was a stupid gobby bitch and calling the police wasn't going to do anything as he'd dealt with them before and could wrap them around his little finger. I'm afraid I let him know what sort of person I thought he was with his racist threats and picking on girls. I don't think this helped calm down the situation.

Eventually the police turned up and arrested the men, not before I heard Stocky Skin 'Ed say to the shop owner that he was going to "burn his fucking shop down". What a charmer. I made sure I told the police immediately. The shop owner thanked me for calling the police. He said the men had been causing trouble all night and had been racially abusing some asian gentlemen earlier and being generally intimidating. I went to the station to give a statement and the men were kept in over night. Hopefully this will count against them next time they choose to spend their Saturday night being racist oiks. But I can't quite shake the feeling that I bring drama like this upon myself.

It was when I was leaving the police station at 7am with work mere hours away that I realised that perhaps 'eventful' wasn't always the best way of life. WHilst trudging home through the grey dawn, carrying my now stone cold chips I decided that for the next couple of weeks I'd try for positively boring. I might even attempt to 'keep my fucking fat gob shut'. Except when it comes to challenging racist threats and giving good excuses as to why I'm late for work. I have principles after all.

Cinema Usher II: Return of the Sick Kit

Recently [cinema] has been involved in promoting Dr Pepper. This has meant we've all been issued with fetching Dr Pepper t-shirts with, "What's the worst that could happen?" boldly emblazoned across the back. I think that this is a frankly naive question to be asking in the circumstances.

As fate would have it, I'd chosen to wear said Dr Pepper t-shirt on my ten hour ushering shift last week. I'd just emerged from cleaning a screen so comprehensibly covered in rubbish that it had caused a customer on her way out to blush and apologise for humanity at large, when a colleague approached me with a grin all over his face, "I've got a special job for you, a little girl's just been sick in screen 8." Music to my ears. Since the previous sick incident I'd learnt a bit more about the procedure involved and knew that a manager had to be present during the clear up for health and safety reasons, so I marched away to phone the upstairs office. With a manager's help surely it would be bearable. I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

[ring ring! ring ring!]
Manager: Hello?
Our Glamorous Heroine: Hi, I need some help, someone's been sick in a screen.
M: Oh, ah, er... can't Other Usher help you?
OGH: Yes, he can, but in training we were told we need a manager present.
M: Erm... well technically you do but really all it means is that you can refuse to do it without a manager present and, er... I think it would show great strength of character on your part if you just got on with it
OGH: Right. Fine. [Puts phone down with rather more force than strictly necessary.]

Luckily on this occasion there was a sick kit in the ushers' cupboard and, clutching it to me like a comfort blanket, I made my way to screen 8. I'd been told that the vomiter was a little girl so, foolishly, I was hoping there wouldn't be too much mess, I mean, what's the worst that could happen? The pile that greeted me looked like it could comfortably have been made by a large adult after a junk food binge. Floating in the pool, I could make out semi-digested popcorn and pick & mix. Once again the solidifying crystals were rendered useless by the sheer volume. And so I found myself shovelling rancid smelling excreta into a bin bag, this time to the fitting soundtrack of 'When Will I Be Famous?' by Bros.

As soon as I'd finished my unsavoury task, Manager appeared downstairs. "All done?" he asked too cheerfully, "Could you do a toilet check then, please?" As I trudged down to the ladies' I comforted myself with the fact that I must have fulfilled my gruesome clear up quota for the day, nothing could be as bad as what I'd just dealt with. I mean, (all together now) what's the worst that could happen? It was upon peering into the third cubicle that I got my answer. I pulled the door to and hurried out.
Manager: Everything alright?
OGH: Er, no. What should be used to clean blood off a toilet seat?
Manager: [turns white] Oh God!
And no, there isn't a menstrual blood kit either.

Irritating Customers: A Study

Working in customer services, sometimes you can tell when someone is going to be a difficult customer before they open their mouth. For example, the ugly and rather effeminate man who approached my till with his face screwed up into the sort of permanent grimace that suggests the universe has left a bad taste in his mouth. I sold him a ticket with the utmost politeness and helpfully told him the time when he asked. However, this was not good enough, for this customer was of The Complainer variety. The Complainer has not had a fulfilling day unless they've found themselves inconvenienced in some way and had an opportunity to moan about it. So for this man good service just wasn't enough.
Ugly man: [In an irritated manner] Erm, could you get a clock in here please?
Our Glamorous Heroine: Er, pardon?
UM: A clock, a clock! So we can tell the time?
OGH: Oh, I see ah...
UM: There's no clock in here, no clock in the Grafton Centre and I don't wear a watch so I've no way of telling what time it is
OGH: ...
UM: and you're running to a schedule so surely it would be convenient if you actually had a clock
OGH: Do you own a mobile phone?
UM: ...yes.
OGH: You can tell the time on that.
UM: [Glares for a minute, then flounces off]
Work Colleague: I hope that wasn't a mystery shopper.

Or the man who accosted me on gate and asked me about the films we had on the other day. He was a perfect example of The Lonely Old Person. The Lonely Old Person likes to come in during the day, when it's not too busy, to use their senior discount and have a good natter with people who are trying to do their job. This particular man was enormously tall, wearing an ill-fitting woolly hat and smelled a bit like a wood pile. I humoured him, tried not to mind his constant use of my name and semi-personal questions, recommended him In Bruges and thought that was the end of it. Unfortunately the very next day he came lumbering up to my till.
Jolly Green Giant: Hello! I came in yesterday.
OGH: Yes, you did.
JGG: You recommended me a film and the acting was terrible.
OGH: Oh, I'm sorry. I really enjoyed it.
JGG: That's okay. I can see why you recommended it. I suppose it's the best of a bad bunch. Ranulph Fiennes was good in it though.
OGH: Er, I think you mean Ralph Fiennes, Ranulph Fiennes is an explorer.
JGG: Oh yes. I'm old you see. I make mistakes like that. You see, I'm old, I just want to see a film with characters in it. Not a film for children. I'm too old for that.
OGH: To be honest, you might consider going to another cinema with a selection more to your taste.
JGG: But this cinema is so convenient. What about this film? Does it have characters? Real emotions? Integrity?
OGH: Er, Forgetting Sarah Marshall? I don't really think...
JGG: Oh never mind, I'll take a ticket to it.
OGH: [Dreads to think what he'll have to say about that next time he comes in.]

Then there's The Downright Stupid. A fine example of this customer group was the large gaggle of American students that came to concessions the other weekend.
Group Leader: Hey, five tickets please.
OGH: Which film would you like to see?
GL: Uh, that film, y'know the one with the American actor dude.
OGH: You might have to be a bit more specific.
GL: Uh, Bruce Willis, that's it, Bruce Willis.
OGH: There isn't a film with Bruce Willis out at the moment.
GL: There isn't? Are you sure?
OGH: Yes, do you mean Kevin Spacey? George Clooney?
GL: Yeah, that's it! George Clooney!

And finally there's The Unlucky. The Unlucky have the misfortune to be served by me after a day of dealing with The Complainer, The Lonely Old Person, and The Downright Stupid and committing a minor indiscretion. For example the youth who came up to me and demanded "Popcorn!" to which I snapped back, before I could stop myself, "Please!". Or the unfortunate pair of Cambridge students who came to my till at the end of a long day.
Cambridge Student 1: Two students for 27 Dresses.
OGH: Could I see your student cards please?
[CS1 and CS2 get their cards out]
CS2: [to CS1] Oh my god, look at your photo!
CS1: You should see my driving license, I look awful! I look like a lesbian!
OGH: [With eyebrow raised] Because being a lesbian is the worst thing in the world.
[CS1 and CS2 blush embarrassedly and hurry off with their tickets].

The curse of the drinking classes

It was never going to be a good day. I'd spent the previous day assigned to the most hated of all the positions at [cinema], the ice cream stand, for 10 hours. It's on the other side of the foyer from the gate and concessions so opportunities for chatting and mucking about are severely minimised. It also gets the least custom of any sales point in the cinema. So you spend most of the day so bored that you consider gouging your eyes out with a spoon just to break the tedium, except for two frantic periods when everyone wants their ice cream at once and no one has the patience to wait while you try and sculpt the perfect company-regulated scoop from rock hard ice cream with a rapidly-freezing implement.

That particular day, at the height of busy period number two, a group of six tourists were at the front of the queue. A group of six tourists that all wanted sundaes, the most difficult thing to make. A group of six tourists that hadn't made their minds up as to what they wanted by the time they got to the stand. A group of six tourists that only included one English speaker. My fury was only slightly abated by being able to ask them agressively if they wanted crushed nuts only to be enthusiastically answered by two of the girls with a chorus of 'Crushed nuts! Crushed nuts!'. I'm a simple creature.

10 hours of ice cream scooping take their toll. By the end of the day my arm felt like that of a teenaged boy who'd just spent the weekend indulging in the pleasures of the palm. And however careful you are, you can't help but get ice cream all over your hand and arm. The chocolate ice cream is particularly bad for this and I didn't realise until I got a funny look whilst standing outside smoking that it had clung to me making me look like I'd just finished fisting a tramp.

So, after that ordeal, I was hoping for a quiet and uneventful stint ushering the next day. This was not to be. Before I started working for [cinema], a cinema usher conjured up images of a pin up girl with a torch and refreshment tray, probably wearing an apron that almost covered her stocking tops and drawn by Gil Elvgren. Unfortunately this couldn't be further from the truth. An usher's job is to clean the rubbish from the screens between film showings (on school holidays this is no simple job, I've seen farmyard muck heaps more clean and presentable than Screen 4 after a packed out showing of Step Up 2: The Streets) and field idiotic enquiries from the public on the gate. As my first customer approached me I braced myself and heard the worst, "Er, I think someone's been sick in Screen 8".

I ran to get a manager who appeared bizarrely chirpy about the potential pile of puke awaiting us. "It'll be fine, we've got sick kits that have gloves and disinfectant and a chemical that you pour onto the sick and it turns it to crystals that you can easily pick up," she explained. Great. Only on arriving at the ushers' cupboard we discovered a distinct lack of sick kits. Manager's chirp level lessened. And so we proceeded to screen 8 armed only with a bucket of disinfectant, a role of blue roll and a bin bag. When the customer said someone had been sick she wasn't lying, my god had someone been sick.

Immediately upon opening the doors we found a small pile covered in napkins. That was quickly followed by the discovery of a trail leading all the way up the gangway. This was all on the carpet and so we set to disinfecting and scrubbing it. The question, "Do you think that's it?", was barely out of my mouth when I saw something at the end of one of the rows of seats. It looked like Vesuvius had erupted, it was a volcano of vomit. Popcorn boxes lay around the chair empty while effluvia seeped into every nook and cranny around the seat. This was too much. Manager's chirp ran out of the room holding its nose. We called for back up. After far too many minutes spent in the stench, Grafton Security came through with a sick kit. Such was the volume of bodily fluid that the special crystallising chemical was rendered ineffective, merely turning it into an even gloopier mess. The special shovel broke under the pressure. Half a bin bag appeared to be filled by the end.

Occasionally I have cause to step back from a situation and assess my life. And so it was that I saw myself in a baseball cap, passing blue roll to my manager as she stalwartly shovelled sick into a see-through bin bag while 'Pray' by Take That played in the cinema and an advert for discounts proclaimed loudly across the screen, "You'll wish you could be a student all your life". Truly, at that point I knew I had reached the dizzy heights. However, apparently anything is possible at the cinema and things could have been worse. "This is the worst case of sick I've ever seen," said manager, "but at least it's not as bad as when there was shit on the mirror". I stared at her aghast as I was shown a picture on her mobile of the gents' toilets' mirror smeared with excrement. So I suppose it could have been worse. And no, there isn't a shit kit.

Falling at the first hurdle

Technology and I have never really got on. I joke that I struggle with using a cash point but that isn't really that far from the truth, as anyone who has had the misfortune to witness me drunkenly entreating an ATM to, "Just spit out the card, bitch," will verify. An acquaintance of my mother's once had us all in hysterics by claiming that she couldn't use the new vending machines at the leisure centre as they had "a computer" on them. What she meant, of course, was that they had a simple keyboard and display and this was enough to send her into a confused panic. I laughed, but really I'm only one step above her in the technologically-ignorant ladder.

Growing up with a computer genius for a brother, I was never allowed near the family computer if it showed even the smallest sign of doing something untoward. Rather than learning important skills by idly poking around until an error message went away, I was whisked from the room while Robert typed and muttered. And, as is the way with computer geeks, when I asked what he'd done I either got a string of incomprehensible (to the idiot like me) jargon or a shug of the shoulders and a curt "nothing much".

My attitude to computers and technology has become not dissimilar to what I imagine people's attitude towards the world was pre-science. Technology is a confusing force that I must rely on yet will never fully understand. My version of the rain dance is holding the off button down, removing the laptop battery or resetting the wireless router. When none of this works I am an absolute nightmare for anyone with any computer know-how. In a blind panic I gabble, "My laptop, it's done a thing, the thing won't work, it's making a noise!"

I think the cruel god technology senses my inherent weakness and uses it to mock me. The night before last, my laptop abruptly turned itself off and refused to turn back on. When the usual rituals failed, I summoned the high priest, Robert. He sighed at my gibbering, poked about a bit and pronounced it unfixable by human hand. It would need to be taken to the PC World shrine. It smelled like something had blown and was making a worrying internal clicking sound. The next morning, having left it to cool down, there was still no joy. Visions of expensive repairals and lost work swam through my head. I carried it despondently to Bloke's house, sure he was going to look at it and tell me it was gone forever. He took the back off to have a preliminary look and saw nothing immediately wrong. He then tried turning it on. "Beep", the machine greeted him merrily and on it came. The XP logo sneered at me, "What do you mean I won't work?"

So, I have internet again, although I'm typing this on one of Bloke's computers as I'm not talking to the laptop. We may later come to some form of detente but for now I'm taking it personally.