» Work Experience

Seven days make one weak...
From the bowels of Lincolnshire, I was the only person in my school year to get work experience down in London. Everyone was veh jealous, especially as I'd ommitted to tell them that I'd be staying with my aunt, and not in some swanky hotel.

The company shared offices based round the back of King's Cross, which has, although you may not believe me, been cleaned up significantly over the past 15 years.

Knowing nothing of London, the name "Kings Cross" meant nothing to me then, I just thought the Big Smoke was a pretty homogenous, denser, sootier version of my little village back home where they filmed Mary Poppins and Oliver - so the week's events had lasting impacts on my impressions of our fair capital.

Day 1: Arrive in King's Cross.
Mission - get to my aunt's.
"Fresh-off-the-boat", I was greeted by a charming gentleman, who offered me a place to stay, and also some money for my bottom.

Day 2: First day at work.
Mission - get back to my aunt's from work experience (which, I had soon realised, would revolve solely around a staple-gun, cooing mature PAs, and the photocopier).
A scrawnier, but rather better dressed chap than Day 1 offered me a substantial finders fee to put him back in touch with his friend Charlie, and asks me where my gear is. I don't know Charlie, and I've stashed all my gear at my aunt's, therefore really can't be of much use, and make my excuses. He wants to come with me to my aunt's, but I think it's a little forward for me, a guest myself, to bring visitors back.

Day 3:
Mission - See Day 2, minus the look of somebody offering a personalised FriendsReunited service.
A lady of limited aesthetic appeal (who seemed to have had an accident involving quite a lot of stale urine and the loss of her front teeth) offers to relieve me of a few thousand gametes in exchange for the price of a week's worth of school dinners. At this point, my gametes and their purpose built housing units retract into my abdomen, and I pray she can't run.

Day 4:
Mission - repeat Day 3, minus wee-smell exposure.
Greeted by a delightful, albeit scrawny youth, offering me his bottom in exchange for lucre. This is distinctly unappealing at a number of levels, so I politely decline, and exctract myself from the conversation after he has liberated me of 10 pence (probably needed to phone home).

Day 5:
Mission - repeat Day 3.
Two officers of the law descends upon me, enquiring into my current state of employment, address, whereabouts of family and whether I was selling premium rate access to my bottom.

Day 6: Last day of work - I swear never to work in an office again.
Mission - repeat Day 5 without attracting the attentions of the Metropolitan Transport Police.
Some chap has found the errant Charlie - so glad he's alright! I give him a full description of Charlie's other friend and hope they find each other soon - this fellow seemed really quite anxious.

Day 7: Mission - leave city, get home without re-enactments of Days 1-6.
I sit exhausted in the train that will take me home, examining my curiously black nasal discharge. As I stand up to let somebody take a seat, a rather fashionably dressed youth accidentally bumps into me.
It is only once the train has pulled away, and the ticket inspector comes calling that I realise that the youth must have accidentally knocked my wallet clean out of my pocket, seen it on the floor, and then got off the train to give it to the nice policemen at the station. However, this does render me with no money, ticket, or identification. I am collected at Peterborough station by two policemen, who spend the rest of the night on the phone with my parents.

So naturally, I moved down to an office job in London at the first opportunity and have lived here for close to 10 years now.
(Thu 10th May 2007, 12:05, More)

» Going Too Far

Flagpole Purgatory
With a glut of construction sites in my home town, our local sport was to nick the corporate flags from outside the show-rooms.

This became a bit of a cause-célèbre in the local media: Harmless fun vs. Wanton vandalism - nobody had worked out who was doing it, but assorted companies were getting fairly hacked off.

Cue evolution to flagpoles without rope and pulleys etc. or removal of flags and replacement with signposts.

In the ensuing flag drought, one of the few remaining target flags to be harvested was at a local independent car dealer.

This is when it all got a bit much.

One of our number decided that he'd have those flags, by whatever means necessary.

With no rope and pulley, this involved sawing down the flagpoles with his swiss-army knife.

The result was slightly more devastation than planned: Namely a 12m wooden pole (nigh on a telegraph pole) slamming down across the bonnets of five cars, smashing the windscreens, and generally making a rather large mess of at least two panels and bonnet of each.

Feeling tremendous guilt, we moved on to removing cats-eyes from the A1 after that.

Length/girth/cleanliness etc.
(Wed 15th Nov 2006, 10:47, More)

» Mugged

Out of frying pan, into fire...
Some girlie friends had gone en masse on holiday to Spain. After a fairly heavy 24 hours abusing Catalan hospitality they were in the process of putting faces on for the evening's festivities when one of them stepped out of the shower, slipped on the already wet marble floor, and hit their face on the corner of a stone table.

Bear with me, I did read the question.

Blood + water = usually a lot worse than it actually is, but this did need serious attention. So, half cut (sorry), they tramped off to hospital with the unhappy victim.

With nothing better to do, one of the pack decided to call the b.f. back home for emotional support: My mate Steve. Steve listened patiently for a good 5 minutes, and then against a background djin of chitter-chatter offered emotional support, constructive advice on healthcare abroad - only to then hang up abruptly. He'd obviously been out with mates, got bored, and despite his girlfriend's crisis, hung up.

Steve remained uncontactable until the girls' return a few days later. Steve was obviously out on his ear, but was going to get a good shoeing first. Steve turned up about a week later and was rather bewildered at a the savage attack he received on her front door step.

It took physical evidence in the form of stitches, hefty bruising and documented proof of an ongoing professional relationship with a neurosurgeon to make the beatings stop. At which point he had the opportunity to explain:

He later learnt from the police that the djin in the background was a group of hoodied youths walking up the platform behind him with a piece of 2X4 to relieve Steve of a few brain cells and his mobile…

…Apologies for length.
(Mon 19th Jun 2006, 10:41, More)

» Mugged

How low can you go?
Living up in Handsworth was always fun - the number 16 stopped running past ours because it got a brick through the window every time it made it through Lozells. Anyhoo.

Mate went out to get his weekly dose of grease and noticed a couple of blokes hanging outside the chip shop.
"Got any money?"
"No, sorry mate"
"Oh. OK"
Went inside, got his usual (Pukka pie, chips, peas), and stepped outside to be greeted by one of his new friends.
"No money, eh?"
"No, all I had was enough for my dinner"
Cue back of the head with a baseball bat and disappearance of dinner.

Who steals your dinner?
(Tue 20th Jun 2006, 13:27, More)