Smirking From Home

Turning ideas into words.

Smirking From Home

Life as a government artist has its upsides and downsides. A major benefit is you’re saved from listening to the inane chitter from the office millies about the latest reality show or how Liverpool still have won more European Cups than United from the besuited plebeians. When you work in an office environment you are dragged into these cesspits of verbal diarrhoea whether you want to or not. It’s akin to being paddled with wet towels about the head, your brain eventually resembling that of a Hollyoaks scriptwriter. There was a numbing inevitability about walking through the office doors each morning that I no longer miss, now being a recipient of governmental generosity for the foreseeable future. And yet the grass on this side of the unwashed divide isn’t exactly a whole lot better.
Yes there’s no longer the endless commute to deal with or rubbery pasta from the canteen for my savoury delectation, but there’s also the undeniable fact that daytime tv is for the challenged of many varieties. Fancy a free holiday? Then pretend you want to emigrate to Australia. Pack your shiniest synthetic clothes and head off Down Under whereupon you’ll discover that you can’t buy a new house in Oz for the price of a wigwam and that the indigenous wildlife isn’t all resident in the local petting zoo. You’ll dream about having a pool to spend your sunfilled evenings by, not realising that at some point a friendly neighbourhood kangaroo or possum will probably deposit a few faecal fancies for your cleaning pleasure. Maybe you’ve only decided to emigrate because some spiv in a suit has told you that Great Aunt Bonjella passed away and as sole heir you inherit their estate. She was a lovely lady, always willing to play with you when you were a child you’ll say, conveniently forgetting you have no idea who this person was, apart from a vague recollection that your Da had an Aunt once who smelled of catpiss and lozenges. You then find out she had no liquid assets but had an attic full of 17th century bedpans and fat porcelain figurines. One auction in a room full of retired schoolmasters and carehome daytrippers later and you’ve made a few bob and you are ready to travel. A small word of warning though. Australia isn’t Scunthorpe so any complaints about the length of time travelled will not be tolerated. Oh and here. Here’s a DVD of your family saying how much they’ll miss you and how much they want you to stay. It’s mainly the grandparents of your kids to be honest and they’re easily bought off. A free taxi to the local auction house and a packet of firelogs and they’ll say anything. No point in telling the producers that they’re delighted to see the back of your hyperactive halfwits and can now enjoy retirement in peace and tranquility. No more Yu-Gi-Oh for them. 
All of a sudden your morning’s over and you have the joys of afternoon television to feather your tickly-bits. By now, however, you’ve hyperventilated enough from shouting at the magic box in the corner, that you need a  Rich Tea or some similar sedative. After scooping the soggy biscuit from the bottom of the cup with a teaspoon you then realise you forgot to pick little Kyle or Jade up from pre-school. Luckily for me, I have until 2pm so this mistake is easily avoided. I have the pleasures of BBC Newsline to enjoy at one-thirty, a fun-filled affair proving that prostitution must now be legal in the corridors of Stormont. For now there’s no five-dollah whoors in Ulster’s corridors of power, even Ian or Gerry hasn’t mastered the pingpong special just yet. One is waiting for the great baby oil split to happen anytime soon. It’s only a matter of time.
To kill this slow crippling poison that has invaded my life, I’m going to spout, spew and speculate about stuff from the comfort of my black swivel chair. A view from the welfare state, you might say. Well it’s your taxes after all so I’d better give something back.

February 9, 2010 - Posted by | Ondatelly | ,

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