An element of the absurd

My parents recently went on holiday and unfortunately were delayed by six and a half hours outgoing.

My Dad was very annoyed, and asked me to help him pen a letter of complaint to the airline.

I have previously blogged about my skills in writing letters of complaint, so was more than happy to help.

Well, these artful complaining abilities must be hereditary and run in our veins, as I picked up some great tips from Pops.

These two handy hints for writing letters of complaint I had not considered:

• Make it personal: my Dad pointed out to the airline, quite rightly, that he'd been delayed when he previously flew with them; but, he added that this was frustrating because he missed the Champions League final, and described himself as an "avid fan". I think here my Dad is hoping for them to supply him with tickets for this year's final, as compensation.

• Add an element of the absurd - purely to make it hard for the complainee to gauge their response to you; do they write you off as crazy? Could they think that you are not entirely serious? This way you make their job that little bit more difficult and can really lay in to them should their reply not be to your satisfaction. My Dad achieved this absurdity by finishing his letter asking if the airline had considered charging a passenger for their total weight, that is the combined total of their body- and luggage-weight...

If a well-known British airline takes up this suggestion, you know whom to thank.

Funny Running

...hee hee, ooo, ha ha. Oh dear, I still can't believe it.

On Sunday morning I participated in my first organised run. I prepared myself for it - I only smoked one cigarette on Friday night, and had a four-course meal at the amazing London House restaurant on Saturday night. Beans on toast were breakfast on Sunday (more carbs than Shreddies and amazingly, Start, which is the athlete's cereal of choice). I was ready for the 5k.

And I bloody won! Out of 31 people, I came first, with a time of 21 minutes 43 seconds.

Of course I was pleased - it was my first run and the course 'undulated', having a hardcore hill. The route was later described in a press release put out by JW Training, the people who organised the run, as "gruelling."

I am probably making my win sound far more impressive than it was.

In fact, I have a confession, and a few things to point out.

I cheated. The run was a fun run, for which people were asked to wear fancy dress. I didn't. I wore my running shoes, t shirt and shorts.

I dressed as a runner. Everyone else was wearing fancy dress. A huge shark attack outfit. A fruit machine. A monkey onesie. You name it.

So I had an advantage. Although I must admit, a couple of guys dressed as the 118 118 chaps, in vests and shorts, so I had little advantage over them.

And I was out to win. I took part in the second of the two races, and got off to a good start, running in a group with two other people.

One of these was dressed as a cheerleader. I quite easily ran past him halfway through the first lap.

I then spent the rest of the race pretty much on the shoulder of one of the 118 118 guys.

I was breathing heavily, and must've sounded like a steam train, letting 118 118 know I was there.

(Actually, I'd often dreamt of chasing the 118 118 blokes round a park, ready to clobber them.)

I then waited for the opportune moment, about 50 metres or so from the finish, and simply sprinted passed 118 118, to finish first and win by two seconds!

The poor guy had been leading the whole race.

I am really pleased to have won, but realise I am not as fit as I was two or three months ago.

I won five personal training sessions with the owner of JW Training.

He's the man-mountain dressed as Lady Ga Ga on the right. He is scary. I politely declined the offer of the five personal training sessions - my excuse was that I wanted the proceeds from the prize to go to the charity we were raising money for, Youthline.  


So all in all, an outright success. I am running further and further each week, trying to build my fitness back up, and trying to stop having cheeky fags when I'm drunk at the weekend.

What do you think?

I am frustrated. I am thankful that my three-month contract in my current Communications role was extended - by a month - but, worst case scenario, I will be unemployed again very soon.

I remain positive, but my frustration comes in here - I am considering taking an expensive intensive NCTJ diploma course to help me get a journalism job. NCTJ stands for National Council for the Training of Journalists, and it seems that most of the jobs I apply for require this qualification.

But - and this is a big but - I studied Journalism and News Media for three years at university. After that, I worked for three and a half years at a national, consumer magazine. I have written freelance articles for a local paper and several websites, on subjects such as music and travel.

After working for the magazine - as some of you may know - I went travelling for eight months, and arrived back in the UK at the end of last year.

I was unemployed until May this year.

I am frustrated because I consider myself a journalist. What do you think? Rather, am I a charlatan, a dreamer?

I feel I will already know much of what is taught on this course and would spend a large amount of money - money that I don't have - to simply get those four letters on my CV.

This is where I would like some feedback from you. Should I do the course? Should I carry on looking for work with my current qualifications? Should I get a job in Sainsbury's?

Should I carry on intermittently writing on this blog, having no one commenting on it?

I had promised an article on Spanish swearing. One will follow. And I had promised myself that I wouldn't begin this blog post by saying sorry for having not posted, but I wanted to get something written and this is what I wanted to write about.

I didn't want to start by apologising, so that's how I'll end.

Obscenity-ing in the Milk

This is atonement: I haven't posted for a while, so I'm hoping to make up for it from now on.

I posted yesterday for the first time in ages - I've been telling myself that I've been too busy writing other stuff - and had only posted once in the month of May; the last time before that was mid-April, when I mentioned I would be reading Hemingway's 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'.

I finished it a few weeks ago, and here are my thoughts.

By simple maths, you can work out how long it took me to read 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'; it didn't immediately grab me like the only other book I've read by Hemingway, 'A Farewell to Arms'.

I found the first part of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' fairly hard-going - I guess I didn't feel as much for the characters or care about their fate - initially - as I did with those in 'A Farewell to Arms'.

This may be because you're introduced to more characters in 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', and they have more dimensions to them, so it is harder to form quick opinions on them - although you would think this would have the opposite effect, of drawing you into the book, with the characters being more fleshed out.

I have heard Hemingway's prose described as "masculine", and, based on 'A Farewell to Arms', didn't understand this - however, having read 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', I now do.

The main character, Robert Jordan, whose mission, during the Spanish Civil War, it is to blow up a bridge, soon establishes himself as the alpha male in the guerilla gang tasked with helping him.

Robert Jordan is masculine, perhaps even hyper-masculine; he is more machine than man - throughout the book he is constantly referred to as 'Robert Jordan', labelled like a Lee-Enfield rifle, or a M4 Sherman tank. I cannot remember one occasion on which he is called anything but Robert Jordan.

This shows the dehumanising effects of war.

In 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', there are obvious parallels between Robert Jordan and Hemingway - even to my basic knowledge of the writer's life - in that we know Robert Jordan's father committed suicide, as did Hemingway's, leaving Robert Jordan feeling that his father is a coward. I am unsure if Hemingway felt the same.

On a more positive note, 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' introduced me to some mind-blowing swearing.

In the book, Hemingway uses archaic English language, such as 'thou', to show that the characters are actually speaking Spanish - which could be another reason why it took me a while to get into the story. He translates a famous, bizarre Spanish profanity, "Me cago en la leche", as "I obscenity in the milk" - obviously sparing some blushes, as it actually means, "I shit in the milk".

I shit in the milk. I hope to write more about Spanish swearing in a later post.

The narrative in 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' really begins to pick up as the day of the bridge bombing nears. I truly believed in the passion of the characters, as the day they fear they will die approaches, and especially in that between Robert Jordan and Maria, the young Spaniard with whom he falls in love.

The pair dream of life together after the war. Without giving too much away, I was absolutely heartbroken at the book's end.

'For Whom the Bell Tolls' has a very ambiguous ending - finishing with the narrative device often used since, of the story just cutting off. I don't know if the book was the first to do this, but would be interested

Meet Phil

I've not posted anything for a very long time - sorry! - but wanted to show off a picture of Phil, the campervan in which we travelled around Europe and Morocco last year.

I have talked of our trip on this blog, without actually introducing you to our van.

So here is Phil, in all his glory. (If you're wondering about the name, look at his reg!)

Status Update

Dear Readers,

Apologies for the recent inactivity on this blog and my Twitter account.

There are a number of reasons for this (so it's not because I'm lazy).

Firstly, I'm concentrating on writing an article based on my trip around Europe and Morocco for a travel website. 

Secondly, I've been thinking about carrying on writing up the journal I kept whilst I was travelling. I showed the 4,000 words or so I've written to my girlfriend, Shannon, who travelled with me, and she actually laughed.

I was buoyed by this; but then again, she has to laugh at what I write.

I hope it's because I intend to make her laugh.

So I've been really spurred on to carry on writing up my journal, although I haven't for at least a month (probably because of this blog).

Thirdly, I've taken up running - well, actually, I took up running in January.

Since then I've been gradually building up how far I run, and am up to 5.75 miles, to be precise, which takes me around 55 minutes.

I plan to keep increasing the distances I'm running, and am contemplating, contemplating, a marathon.

I'm becoming more serious; yesterday I bought myself a pair of New Balance 880 running shoes, from Sports Direct, which cost £50.

These same trainers cost £80 in the shop I visited yesterday, where they "measured my gait", by filming me running on a treadmill. Apparently I'm a neutral runner.

This shop (called Sweatshop - negative connotations, anyone?) offers this service in the hope that people will buy the trainers they recommend there and then - but you would have to be pretty silly to not shop around and pay £30 over the odds.

And I'm really chuffed, because I ordered the trainers yesterday, paid the cheapest price for standard delivery, and they arrived today. Bo!

Here are the beauties:

I do have some bad news, however - I'm still smoking (a little bit).

I have quit in the week - and haven't smoked from Monday to Friday for around two months - but still smoke if I have a drink, which is every weekend.

This means that last weekend I smoked around 25 cigarettes across two days of drinking, but the weekend before I only smoked four, on two days of drinking.

I'm still working to cut down, but it is blooming difficult after a few tipples and losing my inhibitions.

I always try to see the positive, though, and suppose this isn't half as bad as the 35 cigarettes I would have a week when I did smoke 'full time', even before taking into account those I smoked when drinking.

I guess I see myself at the moment as an old school footballer, dumb to the dangers of smoking, who is 'fit as a fiddle', ahem, but still indulges in a fag/cigar/pint every now and then.

I've heard even Wayne Rooney, or the pinnacle of physical fitness, enjoys a ciggie once in a while.

And there are other English stars too...

The Sound of Silence

Now, 'Dead Air', by Iain Banks.

I was very excited at the prospect of this novel, because I'd really enjoyed the other three books I'd read by Banks: 'The Wasp Factory', 'The Crow Road' and 'The Steep Approach to Garbadale'.

'Dead Air' left me very disappointed.

If memory serves, the openings to the other three books I've read by Banks are fantastically gripping and inventive; 'The Crow Road', for example, begins, 'It was the day my grandmother exploded...'

'Dead Air' opens with the protagonist, Ken Nott, a militant left-wing radio DJ, taking drugs at a party in the East End, before throwing fruit off a roof, and encouraging others to do the same.

Rock 'n' roll.   

Ken was one of the first problems I had with the book. I really disliked him. He is a know-it-all who goes off on rants at every opportunity. He regularly cheats on his partners, and even sleeps with his best friend's wife.

I'm sure this is intentional, however (not Ken sleeping with his best friend's wife - that would be very hard to do unintentionally); I mean that Banks intentionally makes Ken dislikeable. 

I'm not exactly sure why Banks would do this - probably to toy with the reader's emotions as the plot develops.

What worries me about my disliking of Ken, is that a lot of what he says, what he rants about, is actually Banks' ranting, not Ken's.

Ken's left-wing political views are far too well-developed to be anything but Banks's own views.

'Dead Air' was published in 2002; two years later, Banks campaigned to have Tony Blair impeached, and cut up his passport and sent it to the then PM, in protest against the 2003 invasion of Iraq.

Obviously by doing this Banks would find it a tad harder to escape the country whose leader he so despised. 

He told the Guardian, "I was so angry about the illegality and immorality of the war. And this was me - a comfortably off, white Caucasian atheist from a vaguely Protestant background.

"If I thought it was a disgusting, what would Muslims think about how their co-religionists were being treated?"

The trouble is, 'Dead Air' feels very much like it was written simply as a vehicle for Banks to air his political views.

Another problem I had with 'Dead Air' is the very Bad Sex in the novel.

I cringed and found it very hard to read; not because I'm a prude, but because of the knowledge that it was written by the bearded, middle-aged Banks, who looks out of the book's inside back cover, with a sly, knowing glint in his eye.

One Guardian review of 'Dead Air' wonders whether the loss of quality in Banks's mainstream novels is to the gain of his science fiction books, published under the moniker Iain M. Banks. I've yet to read one to find out.

Despite all of this, 'Dead Air' features Banks' usual wit; there are parts that will make you laugh, and there is a fantastic chapter, 'Extended Panic Functionality', towards the end of the novel, in which Banks ramps up such incredible tension, of almost Hitchcockian standards, that I had to continue reading until the end of the book, in the same sitting, to find out the conclusion.

I'm now reading Hemingway's 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'.

The Joys of Spring

I had planned for this post to be a high-brow review of 'Dead Air' by Iain Banks.

But something so funny happened yesterday that I had to share it with you.

My dog, Robbie, came out.

Not in the way you'd imagine: there was no leather, no pink feather boas.

It was all quite understated, quite... closeted?!

Regular readers of my blog (a few Russians, hello!) will know that I spent eight months away travelling last year.

Upon my return, I noticed quite a change in our family dog, Robbie.

Whilst out walking, he seemed a lot more interested in other dogs. Normally he would just happily carry his ball along, but now he was so excited by his fellow canines that he would run off across the field to eagerly greet one, and would be obsessed by other dogs' scent markings.

At first I thought it was because I walk him more regularly, as I'm unemployed, and so observe his behaviour more often.

Next I thought it may have been because recently I haven't taken out his ball much, to distract him.

Now I know it's because he's a sex pest.

Yesterday we were happily walking along the canal, watching the ducks glide and the moorhens skim across the water, when Robbie spotted a small black dog he obviously liked the look of.

Off he went, intent on getting to the dog, 100 or so yards away.

I called Robbie and he didn't come (there's a joke in there somewhere...) but I was confident he wouldn't harm the dog, whose owner looked calm.

Robbie and his new friend began sniffing and playing; the play became more boisterous, until they were both squabbling, up on their hind legs, brushing at each other with their front legs.

Next thing you knew Robbie had climbed aboard the dog's rear and, well...

By this time I was close to the owner. "Is yours a bitch?" I nervously asked.

"No," was his reply - before adding, "I think yours must be bent."

Now, I can imagine some people taking offence to a stranger suggesting that their dog is a homosexual.

Me, I was still in shock. But then I realised that, yes, Robbie is trying to hump a male dog, so the other owner's diagnosis is probably correct.

Thankfully, amidst much nervous laughter, I managed to break up the whole affair.

"I think it's the time of year," I said to the owner as we headed off, walking our dogs in separate directions.

Truth be told, I had actually caught Robbie in the act about a month ago, trying to have sex with our cat.

My girlfriend Shannon and I had returned from the pub on a Friday night and were drinking red wine in the kitchen, when Robbie pounced.

I managed to stop him before there was any significant damage, but was left wondering what went on late at night, when the dog and cat are left alone, down in the dark kitchen.

Then I stopped worrying: Robbie usually sleeps, away from our cat Tilly, in his own little den. 

And I realised that Tilly's been spayed.

Thinking of England

I have just finished reading an article on the Lonely Planet website entitled 'An Insider's Guide to Driving in Italy.'

It raises some important points.

But having spent a lot of time driving in Italy last year, with my girlfriend Shannon in a VW campervan, I feel I could've written a much more concise piece.

We crisscrossed the north of the country; drove from Bari on the very top of the 'heel' to Villa San Giovanni, at the tip of the 'toe' - a distance of 266 miles, which we completed in one day; then we scrambled onto the ferry to Sicily, which we circumnavigated; and next covered the entire length of the country from south to north, with Shannon driving us along the Amalfi Coast, and tearing it a new one.

So here's my far more succinct advice for driving in Italy:

CLOSE YOUR BLOODY EYES AND THINK OF ENGLAND!

Only joking. But be aware.

On a similar note, two very good friends of mine left the UK on Wednesday to go on their own worldwide expedition.

Matthew 'Paddy' McPadmore and David 'Digger' Barnes flew to Moscow to climb aboard the Trans-Mongolian Express.

They aim to stay with a Mongolian family in a yurt or ger, and drink some yaks' milk.

Later Paddy and Dave head to China and on to southeast Asia.

In Cambodia they hope to take part in the popular tourist activity of firing a rocket launcher at a cow.

After Australia, India - where I hope to catch up with them.

(I'm not sure if they'd agree with blowing up cows in India.)

I wish Paddy and Dave all the best with their travels and hope they have a truly amazing time.

If you'd like to keep up-to-date with their progress, see here.

Over and out!

Kicking Up A Stink

The UK has been experiencing ever-freaky weather conditions.

Yesterday six inches of snow fell in Scottish town Aboyne, where, last week, the temperature soared to 23.6C, making it the hottest March day in Scotland on record.

The Environment Agency has confirmed that south and east Yorkshire have joined East Anglia and southeast England as areas affected by drought; seven water companies are enforcing water restrictions, such as hosepipe bans, from Thursday the 5th of April.

To make the most of our hosepipe, I forsook a shower today, and was instead hosed down in the garden.

And to presumably prevent a petrol- or pasty-style panic, the BBC has published some water-saving tips, one of which is 'Wash cars using a bucket, or just keep headlights, mirrors and windows clean.'

Okay...

Today we actually had some rain. I was caught out in it, whilst walking my dog, and experienced something I'd totally forgotten - the strange smell that appears after it's rained for the first time in a while.

You know that distinctive odour; it's similar to the smell of tarmac, or Wellington boots - or is that me just making an association?

But it has a name: petrichor.

And apparently it's caused in a number of ways. Firstly, rainwater causes spores of the bacteria actinomycetes, which grow in soil, to launch into the air, which are then diffused in the moist post-rain atmosphere. Actinomycetes prefer damp soil, so often reside in woodland, and produce a sweet smell sensation.

Secondly, rain can be acidic, as we know, especially so because of chemicals in the atmosphere particularly above urban areas. High acidity in rainfall can smudge up soil, causing the release of minerals, and can react with petrol and other chemicals on the ground, causing a stink not quite as pleasant as the first smell described.

The third cause of petrichor is the release of oils by trees and plants during dry periods, oils which are absorbed by soil and rocks, and then mixed with rainwater and the organic compound geosmin, which translates as 'earth smell', and also gives beetroot its earthy flavour. 

This smell is so nice it supposedly has been bottled, and is akin to the first described.

Bottled beetroot. You learn something new everyday.

Bang on Trend

I understand that 'Marrakesh' is a latest trend according to a well-known high street fashion retailer.

Take a look at the pics here.

Now, I spent some time in and around Marrakesh at the end of last year, and I certainly didn't see anyone looking like that.

And if there were anyone looking like that in Marrakesh, I don't believe they would've made it from one side of the Djemaa el Fna - the city's main square, alternately meaning 'assembly of the dead' or 'the mosque of nothing' - to the next.

The description of the trend reads, "Colours are muted, pinks and browns are washed into rich blues of the ocean."

Marrakesh, being a landlocked Moroccan city.

The djellaba robe would describe Marrakesh much more accurately. It is full- or half-length, similar to that worn by Obi Wan Kenobi, with a large pointed hood.

My girlfriend Shannon and I spent six weeks in Morocco, and for much of that I thought I was on the set of a Star Wars film.
 
The djellaba is as quintessentially Moroccan as mint tea and tagines, and so cool I had to have one, so I bought a half length cream affair, which I was sure I would wear into town on a Friday night back at home.

I haven't.

So maybe this proves I'm a slave to fashion. But a trend, based on Marrakesh, with clothes like that... come on.

And as a sign of fashion's fickleness, the trend runs from March to April.

A new trend then, perhaps, for April Fool's - Timbuktu, anyone?

Keep Smiling

Last Thursday's post on the Conservatives was very timely, given the revelations in a Sunday newspaper that Tory treasurer Peter Cruddas was secretly filmed allegedly offering access to David Cameron and George Osborne in exchange for a donation of £250,000 a year.

The Conservatives truly can do no right.

And earlier this month one of their own, Tory MP Nadine Dorries, told the Financial Times: "The problem is that policy is being run by two public-school boys [Cameron and Osborne] who don’t know what it’s like to go to the supermarket and have to put things back on the shelves because they can’t afford it for their children’s lunchboxes. What’s worse, they don’t care either."

Ouch.

How did we get into this mess?

But before considering giving Tory MP Dorries a slap on the back, remember that she proposed moves last year to make it harder for British women to have an abortion, by stopping abortion charities from offering counselling to women.

Dorries has also voted moderately against the gays getting equal rights.

Is there anyone we can trust?

Well, it seems that the public's faith in Labour is being restored: in a poll by ComRes for the Independent, Labour are 10 points ahead of the Conservatives, who, according to the same survey, two-thirds of people believe are the "party of the rich."

At least someone will be smiling...

Crack out the Cake

I won't paint a cruel caricature of the Conservatives - they do that just fine by themselves.

Just off the top of my head:

- George Osborne's Granny-bashing Budget, which will leave 4.41 million pensioners worse off by an average of £83 in 2013-14. Sales in Werther's Originals are expected to plummet.

- The drop in the top rate of tax from 50p to 45p in the Chancellor's Budget will grant earners of £500,000 a year an extra £1,431 a month - that's an additional £17,172 a year. Sales of bottles of Bolly are expected to skyrocket. 

- I need not mention the molestation of the NHS, but I will.

- David Cameron cosying up to Charlie Brooks, the horse-training husband of Rebekah Brooks, ex-News of the World and -Sun editor and -News International chief exec, who was recently arrested alongside her husband about alleged corrupt payments made by journalists to Ministry of Defence officials; Rebekah Brooks, who was loaned a horse by the Metropolitan Police; a horse on which David Cameron himself has trotted about. Reports that he described the horse as a "fine filly" remain unconfirmed.

- Similarly, the close links between Education Secretary Michael Gove and bum chum Rupert Murdoch, for whom Gove used to work, and whom he used to meet on the regular.

- The same Michael Gove who used special powers - not the flying or invisibility kind, sadly - to sack all the governors of a struggling London school, against parents' wishes, to be replaced with a board of his own choosing. One parent described the move as a "dawn raid you'd expect in an Eastern Bloc country."

- By the way, Gove labelled these parents as "Trots" and claimed they were politically motivated, rather than the outlandish idea that they might be concerned about their children's future.

- It was recently revealed that Cameron's, Osborne's and Gove's wet dream, Iron Lady Margaret Thatcher, also met Rupert Murdoch, a fact hidden from the public for 30 years.

All in all, the Conservatives do an excellent job of making themselves look very bad indeed.

But the true horror of their time in power has to be the ironing out in the Budget of "loopholes and anomalies" in the VAT system, meaning hot takeaway food from the supermarket - such as rotisserie chicken and pies - will now have VAT applied, as will bacon- and sausage-rolls.

Greggs has taken a stand, speaking out strongly against the decision, blurting, "We do not believe that our freshly baked savoury products should be subject to VAT and we will be making strong representations to the government regarding the proposed changes."

Paddy McGuinness was said to be inconsolable at the news.

Also, VAT will be imposed on chocolate-covered biscuits, considered a luxury - but, to finish on a positive, would not be put on cakes, considered a necessity.

Bring out the fruitcake! 

You Can Do It!

Today I found myself holding my breath in a room with six other grown adults, who each held theirs too. No it wasn't some strange sex game - it was a careers advice workshop!

And it was actually quite helpful. Well, more helpful than the automatons at the Jobcentre, who organised today's 'jolly'.

We discussed securing jobs, our CVs, and preparing for an interview, and how the way we view ourselves can differ from how we are seen by others.

We looked at examples of how this relates to people in the public eye. My partner and I were given Labour leader Ed Miliband.

These are the ways in which we thought Ed would describe himself:

- Powerful
- Capable
- A Born Leader
- A Man of the People
- A Family Man
- A Good Communicator

These are the ways in which we thought of Ed:

- A Joke
- A Nerd
- Weak/Wet
- Privileged
- Boring/Bland
- A Poor Communicator
- Manufactured
- Pampered
- He Lives in the Shadow of his Brother

... not all good then.

We also looked at potential interview questions - such as the killer 'What's your favourite animal?' followed by the slightly tamer 'What's your second favourite animal?'

My answer to question number one was 'Dog', and my answer to number two was 'Military Dolphin'.

The best piece of advice I heard today, however, was a technique to get your CV to stand out during recruiters' keyword searches: to fill the white - or empty - space on your CV with particular keywords - but, and here's the clever bit, CHANGE THE FONT COLOUR OF THOSE KEYWORDS TO WHITE!

So these keywords won't be seen by the naked eye, yet they'll be picked up by computers during keyword searches. Genius!

I would shake the hand of whoever thought of that.

All in all, there was a lot today to keep us positive. Although when I need some motivation, I just imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger saying, in his thick Austrian accent, "You can do it!"

Or I watch this video.

Lonesome Traveler Blues

Since returning from travelling I am really struggling to adapt to normal life. I'd described it as feeling like a caged bird, when once I was a wild beast, carving up continents in my campervan.

I spent almost every second of seven-and-a-half amazingly happy months with my girlfriend, Shannon - now I cannot afford to see her more than two nights a week. I signed on at the Jobcentre at the end of January and haven't received a penny of Jobseeker's Allowance.

Then I had Shannon and a van and we could go anywhere we pleased in Europe and Morocco - now I have a room and an internet connection (at my parents' house, for which I am very thankful).

I wonder if this is something other people have experienced on coming back from travelling?

I remain positive, however: the memories I have from our trip are still fresh and make me incredibly happy.

My current reading material too, Jack Kerouac's 'Lonesome Traveler', adds real colour to the snapshot memories in my mind.

Originally I struggled to get into it - I'd previously read Hemingway's 'A Farewell to Arms' in a week or two, and certainly wasn't drawn back to 'Lonesome Traveler' like I was with that book.

This may be because 'Lonesome Traveler' is a collection of short stories about Kerouac's various expeditions, some of which I've vastly enjoyed, some of which I haven't.

The book has had very little editing - there's little punctuation and all spelling mistakes are kept in, as are Kerouac's fantastically funny made-up words (sometimes onomatopoeic, such as the "sudden sprram of freights ramming together"). The 50s slang, too, makes me want to break out into some scat, hepcat.

Kerouac's 'spontaneous prose' - itself very much like scat singing - was, of course, made famous in 'On The Road', but in 'Lonesome Traveler' it's completely let loose. Once you get your head around it, the spontaneous prose in 'Lonesome Traveler' propels you forward at great speed and pages fly by.

Of special interest to me is the 'Big Trip to Europe' short story, which I haven't quite finished, about Kerouac's time in Tangier, Morocco, and Paris; places Shannon and I called home shortly before returning to the UK with our tails between our legs.

Another excellent short story is 'Alone on a Mountaintop', where Kerouac details a two-month stint he spent as a fire lookout, completely alone, high up in Mount Baker National Forest in the Cascade mountain range "of the Great Northwest".

It was here he wrote:

What is a rainbow,
Lord? - a hoop
For the lowly

As would happen to anyone who spent two months in solitude, Kerouac goes a little crazy by the end of it - but none more so than he already was.

So I now know that I should stay positive, watch for rainbows, and keep on thinking about travelling - there's always a next time!

This pic was taken in Berlin and is subject to copyright.

Unemployable

This just in: I've received a reply to my letter of complaint sent to the Jobcentre, after they treated me like a dog.

This reply came not from the Chief Executive, to whom I sent my letter, but from the District Case Manager of my local branch. For ease, we'll call the District Case Manager from my local branch 'Ronald'.

It seems I'd gone over Ronald's head with my complaint - I'd asked the Jobcentre receptionist exactly how to complain, and she told me of a leaflet, on which I got my grubby mitts, that described the complaint process in very plain English (basically written as if an 'editorial' from the Sun newspaper).

That process is:

Stage 1. Tell the Jobcentre your complaint.

Check.

Stage 2. Get in touch with the District Manager.

Now, I'd already vented my spleen and other internal organs to two Jobcentre staff, neither of whom had offered to put me in touch with Ronald, nor told me to write to him.

Given this, I skipped straight to:

Stage 3. Writing to the Chief Exec.

Anyway, I received a reply from Ronald. He did apologise, but in the kind of forced way kids do when they've been caught monkeying around putting chewing gum in each other's hair.

Ronald's reply spends far too much time apologising for rescheduling a meeting without informing me (leaving me on the Jobcentre's doorstep, something I'm very much over), and not enough time apologising for one of his member of staff's unprofessional and juvenile comments. 

(I love calling someone who works at the Jobcentre "unprofessional", when I'm unemployed, it just feels right.)

Ronald agreed that these comments "could have been phrased more appropriately" and he apologised "that they were not".

I've been down the Jobcentre today, for an interview with my 'Personal Adviser', Caroline, who is lucky enough to have been already mentioned on this blog.

Caroline is tasked with helping me get back into work. This is the first meeting I've had of this kind, over a month since first signing on, and in fact, I haven't received any monies yet.

She told me that actually there is very little she can advise me on with regards to finding a job - I guess because I'm so very good at looking for work, despite not actually bloody finding any.

Maybe I am good at jobseeking - I did do some research this morning into finding the perfect font for my CV. I've stuck with Times New Roman - not because I'm a boring everyman, but because I came to the conclusion that I couldn't give a fuck what font my CV's in.

At the Jobcentre we scrolled through a list of jobs and stopped at one which I thought sounded fun: News Editor for the Halal Food Foundation - which I now need to contact, because I showed an interest in the job. Somehow I don't think it's for me, though; they're probably looking for someone who at least eats halal food, not someone who simply realises that halal food exists. 

Caroline has also organised for me to attend a 'career management workshop' next week, where I'll learn how to get the right hair, when to smile and make eye contact, and how to project my voice. I'll also get to network - with other unemployed people. Hurrah!

Man V. Food

Man V. Food is amazing television; sadly, I've only just been introduced to it. The programme consists of actor Adam Richman visiting America's 'pig out joints' and attempting their various food 'challenges': burgers the size of tyres, barn-sized barbecues, and chillies so hot the challenger is left looking like they've traversed the Sahara.

It is pure excess. America on a plate. The size of this food is unbelievable, and Adam is a genius of the gut - I've seen him fail only one challenge.

This is amazing - not just because of the sheer size of the smorgasbords served up - but because of the huge crowds that always encircle Adam, cheering his name, shouting and whooping off calories as he piles them on. To be fair, Adam does whip them up into a frenzy, and "rides the wave of their energy" when he's struggling.

Let's face it: we all overindulge once in a while, and when I've had a bit too much curry and a few too many beers, and I'm about to slip into a food coma, the very last thing I would want is a room full of excited Americans behind me.

Vegetarians should look away now: there is more meat and blood on show than in the entire, terrible 'Saw' film franchise. It's possible to have a heart attack just watching Man V. Food.

One of the main things I've noticed since returning from travelling, when my girlfriend Shannon and I went on an eight-month adventure around Europe and Morocco in a VW campervan, was just how much food we have at my family home.

I lost weight whilst away - not because I ate poorly, but because food was not as readily available in the large quantities it is at home.

And when you've experienced non-Western cultures, in any capacity, where food may be scarce, or even if you haven't experienced non-Western cultures and simply have a super-strict food budget, it becomes difficult to enjoy a programme in which a man stuffs his fucking face.

Having said that, Adam is an entertaining presenter and it's sometimes hard not to laugh at the ridiculous scale of the food and the enjoyment the Americans take in it - they are being ironic, right?

But it is really difficult to reconcile having a chuckle at the show with the knowledge that so many people struggle to feed themselves properly, especially when low rainfall, rising food prices, poor harvests and a lack of pasture mean millions are at risk of severe food shortages in West Africa in 2012.

In fact, in a lecture broadcast on BBC One last night, leading geneticist and Nobel laureate Sir Paul Nurse highlighted food security as a problem as pressing as climate change and the current economic situation.

He described how the Green Revolution increased agricultural production in the 1960s and is credited with saving the lives of 1 billion people worldwide, and how science will help us tackle the challenges ahead.

The Art of Complaining

Oh, how to fill these long days of unemployment! Well, I've been writing lots of angry letters. It's a pastime I've enjoyed for a while, but something I can really now focus on, as I've so much time on my hands. 

It has been said that the British don't like to complain - I'm trying to redress the balance. I'm getting pretty good at it - I'd say I've pretty much mastered the medium of the angry letter.

A couple of weeks ago I earned £33 in one day - for doing nothing... except complaining. One of these complaints was justified and fairly serious, the other was not very serious at all.

I realised on a Sunday evening when trying to access my internet banking that my debit card was locked, so the following morning I called my bank to find out why. This led ultimately to a complaint and an angry email, which I've just re-read, littered with words like 'flabbergasted' and 'laughable'.

I explained my problem over the phone and was told how to unlock my card at an ATM. I asked how my card had become locked and was told that the only way it could happen was if my pin was entered incorrectly three times. 

At this point I became concerned; I hadn't used a cash point for some time - I'm unemployed and have no money - and, because I know my pin, definitely hadn't entered it incorrectly three times. 

I raised my concerns and was put through to someone in online banking. 

This person then explained how to unlock the card at an ATM. Yep, you've guessed it: I'd already been told how to unlock the card. That wasn't the problem. I was concerned my card had been compromised. These concerns were not taken seriously. In fact, I don't think anyone I spoke to even realised why I was concerned. 

I asked to be put through to a security team and was put through to Martha... in Customer Service. She told me to unlock my card. I knew I had to unlock my card; I wanted to know how my card had been locked. 

All three people I spoke to told me that the only way it could happen is by entering the pin incorrectly three times. I hadn't entered the pin incorrectly three times. I asked at which cash point this had happened. Martha couldn't tell. Much later on in the phone call she told me the date the card was locked on - I hadn't left the house that day. I asked Martha if she thought she should've disclosed the information about the date my card was locked when I originally asked at which cash point it was locked. She didn't know. The resolution of all this was that, basically, should my card be accessed fraudulently, then I should call them again. How's that for security?!

Martha asked - twice! - if I was satisfied with the service she'd provided. I definitely wasn't, and told her I felt I was hitting my head against a brick wall. All three people I spoke to didn't understand my concerns, and had the attitude that if my account was accessed illegally, well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. 

It was pure comedy - and not in a good way.

The outcome of this debacle was that I would simply have to wait to see if anyone other than myself accessed my account. I was confident this wouldn't happen, as whoever had tried to access it obviously didn't know my pin, or they wouldn't have locked my card. 

I eventually received a call back from another lady who told me that not many people - even the telephone banking staff I spoke to - realise that a card can become locked if its pin is entered incorrectly at a number of different cash machines. I then remembered that I had put my pin number in incorrectly once, when I first got back from travelling, and that I'd let my friend use it to buy drinks when I was too drunk to do it myself - the night we met Bramble and her owner. He could've entered it incorrectly too.

Case closed, and for my trouble, the bank put £30 in my account, "to cover the cost of the call" - and their arses. 

The other £3 I earned came from the yoghurt company Muller. I was shocked and appalled to discover that a multipack that should've contained three different flavoured yoghurts, only contained two. I promptly sent an angry email off and received £3 vouchers in the post. Yes!

The upshot of all of this is that, now well practised in the art of the complaint, I've targeted a bigger fish - the Department of Work and Pensions. After the way I was treated recently at the Jobcentre, I've sent an angry letter of complaint to the Chief Executive, asking for an apology. 

Watch this space as to the outcome!

Jumping through hoops at the Jobcentre

I'm still unemployed. Today I turned up at the Jobcentre for an appointment at 9.30am, to be met with a sign saying: "As of 13/02/12, the Jobcentre will not open until 10am on a Wednesday."

As my friend would say, I flipped a shit. No one had bothered to tell me the time had changed: no phone call to landline or mobile, no letter, no email. The news obviously hadn't reached an Eastern European lady, too, who stood outside looking as confused as I was. I demonstrated my fine grasp of the English language by unleashing a succession of expletives. She looked impressed.

I wasn't prepared to wait around for half an hour, so tried to get the attention of the security guard inside. He ignored me. Soon several Jobcentre staff descended the stairs; they'd patently just had a meeting. I got the attention of a chap in a suit, who held up all his fingers and mouthed "10".

Being able to read, this was slightly galling. I flapped the piece of paper which detailed my attendance arrangements; he came over and asked if I could post it through a tiny gap between the doors. "It would be easier to open them," I said, struggling to squeeze the paper inside. "I can't," came his uneasy reply. I felt like a zoo animal - except I was locked out, not in.

After checking my details he returned to say my appointment was at 4.20pm. That was it - I made the international sign of being finished - crossing my hands and drawing a horizontal line from the middle outwards - and left. I'd now have to spend another half an hour on a bus to get home.

By the time I did I was furious. I rang the Jobcentre to speak to a lady, we'll call her Caroline, whom I was meant to be meeting, but of course, she wasn't around, so I spoke to a lady we'll refer to as 'Ivy'. I expressed my disappointment to Ivy, who was very nice and said she'd ask Caroline to call me.

Later someone rang from the Jobcentre we'll label Jane. Jane tried her best, bless her. She said that she couldn't tell me why no one had notified me of the time change until I came in a 4.20pm and she could see my attendance arrangements.

I had two seperate pieces of paper which listed today's non-appointment at 9.30am, but Jane wouldn't take my word for it. She wanted to see them. I told her I was annoyed that I'd had to get the bus into town just to come home again. "We'll reimburse the bus fare," Jane said nonchalantly. "It's not about money," I said, "what about my time?"

To which Jane sensitively replied, "To be fair, you are a Jobseeker; time shouldn't matter."

I flipped a shit. Again.

How dare Jane, a representative of the Jobcentre, say this to me? As if my time didn't matter - because I'm unemployed. My time on this planet is not worth as much as someone's who works. At the very least I could've spent two hours LOOKING FOR A FUCKING JOB!

(This doesn't mean I'm looking for work in the porn industry, by the way, but I'm close to considering anything).

Jane had to terminate the call. I rang back, complained to Ivy again, who was very nice again, then finally, Caroline rung.

By this time it was damage limitation. Caroline apologised twice for the original balls-up and once on Jane's behalf.

I still wasn't sure whether to attend the 4.20pm appointment, at first feeling like I would be returning with my tail between my legs, but after consideration did, and was as charming and smiley as I could be.

An example of the bureaucracy of the Jobcentre: I have to fill out three forms because I did a few hours' work writing an online guide for a website for £20.

The Jobcentre has paid me no respect or regard whatsoever. I was made to feel very small, and what I was told by Jane was cruel and completely unprofessional.

I feel confident enough to bite back when I've been wronged, but I bet many people on Jobseeker's don't. I'm concerned that a lot of Jobseeker's are made to feel this way.

At a time when the Department for Work and Pensions is causing controversy, Jobcentre staff should be inspiring confidence in Jobseeker's to get out there and find work, not making them flip a shit.

How to legally steal music

Do you remember libraries? You know, those big, quiet rooms where books were kept. Usually in town? What's that you say... what's a book?!

I remember libraries, and was greatly annoyed to see that my local library has closed down. That once noble red-brick building has been plastered all over and made up to look like some kind of Mediterranean villa, sitting awkwardly in a dreary satellite town. I don't know whether they're flats or offices or what, but the library's gone.

I used to go to my library a lot... to get CDs. In the library, the CDs were the first things you saw, right at the front. Books were already old news.

You could rent a CD for a week for £3, which seemed a good deal. The first CD I rented - which would soon be the last - was, I think, Steps' sophomore effort 'Steptacular'.

Upon leaving the library with my musical bounty I realised that for £9 I could actually buy a copy of Steptacular, that would be mine to keep for ever. I could eagerly listen to the magic of Claire, H and the gang ad infinitum.

So I returned Steptacular to the library, bought a copy from the record megastore, went home for a listen... and took it back the next day, for a full refund. Steptacular was crap - but, importantly, I'd given it a listen and had 'owned' it for a whole evening - for free.

This was the point where I hit upon my amazing idea. I'd recently started downloading music using peer-to-peer websites such as Kazaa, which were fantastic for finding music better than Steps, but had completely destroyed several of my family's poor PCs.

I had also started using iTunes to store my music, and discovered that I could buy CDs from that certain record megastore, take them home and 'burn' them so I had a permanent digital copy, then take them back to the shop for a refund.

Of course, it wasn't long before the shop staff figured me out, and stopped giving me my money back, and instead said I could exchange my CD for something else in the store. This was even more perfect - I had an everlasting voucher that allowed me to constantly borrow new CDs 'on repeat'!

The staff eventually became even wiser to me, and wouldn't let me in the shop - I just sent different family members and friends in to swap CDs for me.

This was how I learnt to legally steal music - and I didn't even need the internet and websites so unsafe they forced unsuspecting computers into meltdown.

The ironic thing about all this is that, like our friends the libraries, music megastores are going the way of the woolly mammoth.  

But fear not - as we know, music is available all over the shop online, and can be downloaded legally and illegally, so I shed no tears for music megastores.

It is the humble old library - to which I raise a metaphorical glass with this blog post - that I well and truly miss.  

Equality Street

Manchester United manager Alex Ferguson has aired his thoughts on the issue of racism in British football, today affirming, "We should do something about it if it's surfacing again, and be really hard and firm on any form or shape of racism."

Referring to the recent war of (naughty) words involving John Terry vs Anton Ferdinand and Luis Suarez vs Patrice Evra, Ferguson said, "There have been a couple of examples recently, which is not good. In 2012, you can't believe it. It was obvious maybe 20 years ago and the improvements have been for everyone to see."

Ferguson's comments echoed those spoken by Alan Hansen in December, when the Match of the Day pundit said, "Twenty-five, thirty years ago, it was probably in a bad way, not as bad as some of the nations on the Continent, but certainly there's always room for improvement."

Hansen had just been asked if he thought racism was rife in English football, to which he replied, live on air, "No it's not. If you played twenty-five… I think it's better, not only with the players, but with the supporters. I think there's a lot of coloured players in all the teams, all the major teams, and there's a lot of coloured players that are probably the best in the Premier League."

Whoops.

Obviously the Twittersphere 'did one' - with footballers - black and white - and fans alike all giving their two-penneth worth. Former Spurs player Rohan Ricketts tweeted how Hansen was "part of the problem when using that word."

It's a strange situation we now find ourselves in - Alan Hansen, in the midst of a spiel about how racism is a terrible, terrible thing, foolishly says a politically-incorrect word, and the knives come flying out.

Although to say that Hansen is part of a racism 'problem' is another thing altogether: he didn't use the word in a derogatory way, as Terry did when abusing Ferdinand.

Alan Hansen undoubtedly didn't mean to cause offence - but certainly did - and apologised, saying, "I unreservedly apologise for any offence caused. This was never my intention and I deeply regret the use of the word."

There - are you happy now, Twittersphere? The point is, most civilised people understand what language is acceptable, yet if someone does slip up (especially a person of the older generation... sorry, Alan), more attention should be paid to the context in which the comment is said. These things aren't always black and white... (apologies again).

It is slightly worrying, also, how issues like this can be blown up instantly on websites such as Twitter, with great swathes of sweaty-palmed and self-appointed experts clambering onto ever-more tenuous bandwagons.

The instantaneous of Twitter is brilliant - breaking news stories revealed on the site feel positively prehistoric by the time TV news channels and papers can report them - but perhaps more people should sit back, take a minute, maybe have a cup of tea, before letting their under-ripe and under-nourished thoughts go spilling out across their computer screens.    

Now Fabio Capello, who publicly expressed his unhappiness at the FA's decision to strip John Terry of the England captaincy - which happened, remember, because Terry racially abused Anton Ferdinand - has quit as England manager.

Job Update:

Unfortunately I'm still unemployed, and have been applying to as many relevant jobs as possible. Today I attended my first scheduled interview at the Jobcentre. I was asked for my form detailing the jobs I've applied for - you have to take three 'steps' to finding a job every fortnight (basically, you have to apply to three jobs in 14 days) - so I proudly showed my record of jobs I've applied for, which I've updated since December, long before I applied for Jobseeker's Allowance. The chap glanced at it, asked me to sign something, then said we were done. I was in there five minutes. They didn't even look at my CV. Completely pointless. I very much hope the Jobcentre bucks its ideas up for my next appointment in two weeks.

Just Say No

Today the Welsh government launched a campaign to stop people smoking in cars in which children are also travelling. This makes complete sense - children should not be exposed to cigarettes in smoky cars - or "hot boxes" - and hopefully most responsible parents realise this.

The Welsh Government will consider a complete ban depending on the campaign's success in lowering the number of smokers in the country. But a ban of this kind would be difficult to enforce and so less of a deterrent; using a mobile when driving has been banned in the UK since 2003, yet how many people do you still see at the wheel engrossed in conversation on their phones?

Simon Clark, director of the brilliantly-named tobacco lobby group Forest - Freedom Organisation for the Right to Enjoy Smoking Tobacco - said he supported the campaign, but added, "I think it's outrageous at the way they're treating smokers considering there are 10m smokers throughout the United Kingdom, who contribute a massive amount to tobacco taxation - over £10bn a year."

The Forest website is superb: the group describes itself as the 'Voice and friend of the smoker' (albeit a husky, phlegmy voice, followed by hacking cough) and the pages are full of photos of supporters all enjoying a quick fag.

Unfortunately I am a bit obsessed with smoking; you see, I'm trying to quit. And it seems that absolutely everywhere I turn smoking or quitting smoking are there. The government has recently run TV adverts for free 'Quit Kits', which I did consider, before realising that nothing would be included in them to actually help me quit, except leaflets saying, "Go on - you can do it!" like an overzealous dad on sports' day, leaflets which I would've probably ended up trying to smoke anyway, upon running out of Rizla.

Seemingly everyone is anti-smoking too, which is obviously a good thing, especially when you're trying to quit - though these people don't tell you about the side effects. Sure, I feel a lot better for cutting down, but I didn't expect the thumping headaches, dry throat and constipation. I've reached points where instead of wanting a cigarette to suppress my crushing nicotine cravings, I've wanted one just to help me go to the toilet. I feel very much like my cat when it snows; she can't go outside and go and has to sit around gurning.

Although it hasn't been as difficult as I thought to cut down: I have found it is as easy to say no to a cigarette as it is to say yes. I've been steadily breaking the routine of smoking since Christmas. Last week I hit an all time high and didn't smoke Sunday through to Friday night, when I ruined it all by going out for a drink and lighting up. I knew I would smoke when drinking, and so having survived a few beers early on without sparking up, I was on edge, delaying the inevitable. I did feel relieved when I had a cigarette, and afterwards felt guilty, but I always knew that the true test would come when drinking, and this is the reason I can't say I've truly quit. (Status update: no cigarettes since Friday night.)

In December I returned from an eight-month adventure around Europe and North Africa with my girlfriend, in a VW campervan. Having gone from being outside everyday for eight months to being stuck inside with the central heating on - I've gone from being a wild beast to a caged bird - I have wondered whether actually this is the reason for my dry throat and headaches, this, coupled with blankly staring at my laptop screen for hours on end. This wouldn't explain my constipation though - it could be my diet, although that normally has the opposite effect.

Whilst we were away my girlfriend and I smoked like Dot Cotton and I decided to quit. This was partly because I have smoked for ten years, but mainly because I wanted my mum to quit and always felt a hypocrite for complaining about her smoking.

My girlfriend Shannon also said she'd quit with me - and hasn't! - so now I am quitting, I can complain to Shannon and my mum about quitting and really get on their wicks. And I can tell you, there is no one more self-righteous and preachy than an ex-smoker!

The Old Man and the SEO

In the midst of job hunting I have discovered that many companies now look for journalists who have knowledge of SEO. I didn't - so endeavoured to find out more. SEO stands for Search Engine Optimization, basically the process by which websites improve their rankings in search engine results. For example, when you type 'Search Engine Optimization' into Google, the first listing is the Wikipedia page on SEO. When you enter the name or URL of this blog into Google - Other Search Engines Are Available - the first listing links to an article on the top 100 alternative search engines; my blog doesn't figure in the first five pages of results - it's probably the 87,199,999th result out of 87,200,000. But hold on - the top 100 alternative search engines? I couldn't name 10 conventional search engines! 

Actually, I had heard of SEO - my understanding was that in order to list high in search engine results, a website should include as many keywords on a particular subject as possible. So, a website about funny-looking cats should have the words 'funny-looking cats' plastered all over the page. Given this, SEO SEO SEO. That should boost this blog's ratings. 

There is a particular factor of SEO that has concerned me, however. Whilst looking for jobs, I found websites looking for journalists with knowledge of writing for SEO; particularly, news websites. Now, I'm not the font of all journalism knowledge - I am unemployed! - but I always thought that writers should be as economical and concise with their writing as they can be, and not repeat words unnecessarily. (I once thought I'd invented a word, 'concision', as in, "the writer used concision", although apparently it exists.)

I have always tried to be as economical with words as possible (apart from that gratuitous last sentence on inventing words; oops, and this sentence). Most people don't associate journalists with ethics, but I think ethically I would struggle to purposely litter my writing with excessive words, even if I was just writing news on this month's funniest-looking cats. Funniest-looking cats.

I can think of only one writer who embodies concise use of language and that is Ernest Hemingway. What would that great man make of deliberately repeating words and phrases in reportage? I wonder.
Hemingway is a writer to whom I have only just been introduced; I have read one of his books, 'A Farewell to Arms'. I was surprised by his style and enjoyed the narrative and was pretty heartbroken by the book's end. It is semi-autobiographical, and I was left thinking, wow, either WW1 was pretty horrible or Hemingway loved a drink, or both. Probably both.

But having said what I have about repetition, Hemingway did use the technique in 'A Farewell to Arms' (and I guess in his other novels), repeating words willy nilly. Take this random excerpt:

'As we moved out through the town it was empty in the rain and the dark except for columns of troops and guns that were going through the main street. There were many trucks too and some carts going through on other streets and converging on the main road. When we were out past the tanneries onto the main road the troops, the motor trucks, the horse-drawn carts and the guns were in one wide slow-moving column.'

The lesson here I suppose is that repeating words can be used for effect, especially when describing a busy scene with lots of interacting characters. But personally I would never adapt my writing style to suit SEO SEO SEO and certainly wouldn't repeat words all over the shop.

Give Us A Job

I am currently unemployed. It is rubbish being unemployed. I have been unemployed since the start of the year, and having applied to around 30 jobs, have heard back from just three of them.
This is annoying - not so much the fact that after a month I still don't have a job - but that very few of the employers I've contacted have even bothered to reply. Surely any response is a courtesy, even if it were to say, "I'm very sorry, but you're not what we're looking for"?

Almost three million people in the UK are unemployed - and in this respect I feel a mere stray pube in an overgrown bikini zone, that David Cameron and his government have the unenviable task of trimming back. This means that lots of people are applying for most jobs, but in an age of email and cutting and pasting, employers could at least send out a basic generic reply to people who may have spent hours applying for a job.  

Meanwhile it seems the Daily Mail is peeved that UK bosses are recruiting thousands from Romania, tattling that 2,400 vacancies are being advertised in Bucharest, vacancies that, crucially, are being advertised, not filled. And presumably by "UK bosses" the paper means it is "British bosses" who are searching for cheap labour from overseas? It's always those bloody British.

Today I telephoned Jobcentre Plus to apply for Jobseeker's Allowance and spent 25 minutes being interrogated by a man who had all the charm of an SS guard. He had a real twisted indignation - he was in work and good, and so I, being out of work, was bad. By the end of the call I felt like I'd been questioned in the Nuremburg Trials.

So off to the Jobcentre I went - an appointment was organised with real efficiency for myself to attend an hour after the phone call - and upon arriving I felt a strange sense of excitement. I'd never been in the Jobcentre before. There was a burly security guard, who wouldn't have looked out of place outside Yate's or guarding a prison, which, I suppose, it a bit what being a bouncer at Yate's is like. But why does the Jobcentre need to employ a burly security guard? There must be people fighting over jobs!

The Jobcentre was full of people who were busy doing nothing, but my interviews went well and the two ladies I spoke to were actually very nice. Given my journalism background, and that I would be happy to work in the retail sector or behind a bar, I was recommended one job: a film extra in a production of Les Misérables. I think I'll give this a miss.

I will finish with a plea: does anyone have a job for me? Are there any jobs out there? Is there anyone out there?!

Brambling On

Today I resolved to do two things: start a blog and tell my girlfriend that she is beautiful. I lay in bed with a monumental hangover, which, after a headache poo, has only just cleared. A headache poo is a poo when you're hungover and your headache comes out your bum. The words "strong continental lager" had been crashing about my skull all morning.

Last night I went out for a drink with my friend Dave and, in the last pub we went to, we met a lovely young black Labrador Retriever called Bramble. I think her owner said she was nine months old. Her owner was noticeably a lot posher than the pub's usual clientele. He told us that Bramble was a "gun dog". "Gun dog" sounded like "gap year". You could tell that Bramble was his first dog: she was completely well behaved but the owner and his partner seemed slightly on edge, as if they thought she was going to start humping the bar flies' legs or ordering really expensive drinks. Dave and I said hello to Bramble and let her smell our trousers; we both own dogs and Bramble was checking them out.

Dave and I went outside so we could smoke, although I am trying to quit. I had been fighting the urge to have a cigarette for most of the evening but by this point had crumbled and lit up. The cigarettes made my head spin and I didn't feel capable of going to the bar to order more beer. Dave went to buy drinks on my behalf as Bramble and her owner came outside.

The owner was trying to get a bit of training in whilst letting Bramble have a toilet break. He had her lead out. I could tell he was struggling and decided to try to help.

"Tell her she's beautiful," I said to the owner, "she'll respond well to that. And when you're walking her and she's on a short lead, say, 'Heel', say 'Heel' and she'll soon associate the word with walking quite close to you." The owner looked confused. Bramble looked away.

So lying in bed this morning, I thought, if I'm telling someone to tell their dog it's beautiful, then I should tell my girlfriend that she is. Miraculously, my phone rang. It was my girlfriend, Shannon. "You look beautiful today," I told her.