Thursday, 10 September 2009

Jug fines. The bane of my life.

I was driving back to work on a balmy Tuesday evening when my phone bleeped with a message from a colleague. It simply said "Asshole". Another bleep, another message from a colleague, again it just said "Asshole". Nothing else. Another bleep, this time a number I don't even recognise. Upon opening the message I am greeted by "Asshole". One more, from Boss this time. It reads: "That's ok, she is cute and funny. And you are old and you smell like cat pee. Burn in shame Johnsteele".
This was the second message I had from him. The first simply read, of course, "Asshole".
I had replied to him, almost pleading for forgiveness for my latest crime, which prompted the above text informing me of my general aroma of feline urine. Actually that may not be true. The "she" in question was the one who had informed Boss of my latest crime, and I was cowardly and exceptionally spinelessly trying to take the heat off myself by texting him to say she had crashed the work van into a wall earlier in the day.
Clearly my offence was worse than the near destruction of company property. (Again, that may be a slight exaggeration. It was more of a minor ding). What was my offence? What could possibly be worse than this?? What did "she" stitch me up to Boss about? Brace yourselves, it's a biggie.....
One of the daily tasks is to take all the clean ski pants and jackets, and hang them on the clothing rails. Whilst I was doing this one day, I found myself with one spare jacket, and no coat hangers. It's not like I didn't try. I searched everywhere for that last coat hanger. On the racks, out in the back room, at our shop 3 doors down, but there was no spare hangers to be found. So I did what any sane industrious individual would do. I put the clean jacket into the dirty laundry basket. This was the reason behind all the bile and vitriol I was receiving via text, as Boss had sent a text to everyone I know, and a lot of people I don't, explaining the situation and requesting they call me an Asshole. It also resulted in getting me jug fined. And I am still getting "Asshole" texts.
Jug fines are accumulated during the season. You do something wrong, you get fined a jug of beer. It's pretty Ronseal really. However I can't help but bitch about the fines I have had during the season.
My iPod was used at work on shuffle. The first song to come on was by Tom Jones. I got fined for having Tom Jones on my iPod. I have S Club 7 on there. And B*Witched. I would happily accept a jug for that.
I had my hair cut, and decided to spend the day without a beanie. I got fined for looking like an old Will Young.
Boss said something funny whilst I was holding a fart in. It came out. Jugged.
We are not allowed to poo in our toilet. It stinks out the shop. And I had a nasty incident with the auto-locking public toilets out the back of the store when it auto-unlocked itself mid-wipe and refused to lock again resulting in me awkwardly holding onto the door handle at least 2 foot away with one hand, trying to finish off with other. So I went to our new shop, which has a window, and air freshener, and had a poo there. Jugged.
After both of the above incidents, I joked that I was highly likely to get fined for getting a hard-on in public. I was fined for that. Boss then phoned the store later in the day to jug me again as he had just recalled the conversation.
I went to a colleagues party where the theme was gayness. I dressed like a gayer. I exposed my buttocks for the camera. Boss was shown this photo and jugged me for it. Then again for making him feel sick so he had to go home early.
And most recently, I was jugged for the story which I recounted above. And instead of my name on the schedule, it now simply reads; Asshole.

So Friday night was the night when the jug fines were spent. I had accumulated 9 since the last one a few months back. This was immediately crossed out and increased to 10 by Boss for no other reason than he just can. Needless to say it was a drunken night of which the details will be spared. You have all been drunk before, you know the score. But my buttocks and nipples did not make an appearance this time round.

This was after a group of us at work went Heli-Rafting. For the uninitiated, those who have asked, and any of you having problems working out what it is, I'll break it down for you. You get in a helicopter (the "Heli" part) and get taken to the rafts up the river. You then get out of the helicopter, get in the rafts , and go rafting down the river (the "Rafting" part). It was amazing. As one who, as I have previously stated, has never been into watersports it was an experience I loved. I was unsure at first, as I thought I would freak out like a little girl if my face got wet, but at one point when the river was calmer a few of us got out and went for a swim. The rapids were a rush to ride down, and by the end I was facing a further dilemma. I have previously stated that I was thinking of sticking around for the summer. Before Friday, I had swayed back to returning to Canada for another winter season. Now, after discovering that I could quite get into watersports, I am back to staying. I can only assume that I will go back and forth over this matter a number of times before the decision is made for me. So will someone please make that decision?

I would also be grateful for some advice from anyone that bothers to read this crap. The end of season party is a fancy dress party where the theme is a letter. The letters are S, K, and I. So we have to turn up dressed as something beginning with one of those letters.
Anyone that knows me will know I have a penchant to either offend, get naked, or wear some kind of revealing, possibly women's clothing. So like young Nazi Prince Harry (without the questionable parentage), I will be turning up in something outrageous. Some ideas I have been playing with so far include Stephen Hawking (if I can get a wheelchair), Michael Jackson (work it out, it begins with "K"), Slutty Schoolgirl, or KKK member (probably not a great idea). I know for a fact that half of you reading this are as twisted as me, so please, throw some suggestions my way.

That little bit at the bottom again: I am filled with shame today after snowboarding into a young child resulting in the child having to be taken off the mountain in the blood wagon. He turned out to be okay, but more importantly so did I.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

Packing - probably worse than shaving.

Anyone who has read my previous posts will know about my shaving phobia. In fact, scrap that. I'm not scared of shaving, I just detest it. If you haven't read that blog entry, waste a tiny bit more of your life now so that you know about the only people I hate more than shaving. Done? Good. I shall continue.

Where to start though?

I've always been a last minute kind of guy. During my A-Levels I found myself in the college library one Monday morning, the day after my 18th birthday, with a hangover of gargantuan proportions having to write an entire 3000 word extended essay from scratch by the end of the day otherwise I would fail Media Studies (What? It's a valid subject!). I handed my work in and eventually got a grade E for my efforts, which I wasn't unpleased with as I was predicted a grade N (essentially the grading equivalent of patronisingly patting you on the head and saying "bless you for trying"), and I had spent most of the day staring at the ceiling, popping out for a smoke every five minutes, and playing Scorched Earth on the college computers.
This aspect of my personality, as I am sure most of you can empathise with, carries on into things like packing. However, I figure that leaving it until the last minute is the best thing you can do. If I pack well in advance, I will spend days worrying that I have forgotten something. If I do it mere hours before I leave, if I forget anything I can just buy it when I get there.
But I never seem to get it right. I have been for weekends away where I have packed 7 T-shirts and four pairs of shoes, and no underwear at all. For 2 nights. Packing in my slightly more reckless youth was much simpler, it all fit into two pockets. One pocket for showering (1 can of deodorant), and one pocket for oral hygiene (1 packet of chewing gum).
I spent the first few weeks of being in New Zealand living out of a bag moving between hostels. And sometimes between rooms in hostels, from a perfectly good room to a room with a masturbating Israeli. Obviously this means re-packing multiple times over or not being able to find anything I need, which eventually leads to just throwing everything in making the next packing incident a trillion times worse.
For me, planning leads to disaster. When I left New Zealand in 2007, I packed well in advance to ensure everything was in the right bag. I was then charged $250 at the airport for being approximately 2kg's over the baggage allowance. Upon my arrival home I found that a folder full of DVD's had been surreptitiously removed by a thieving scrote baggage handler, which probably meant that when my bags were loaded onto the aircraft, they were more than likely well within baggage weight limits, so I got stung twice in one swift manouevre there.
And unpacking and re-packing bags is like unwrapping an Easter Egg and then trying to get the foil back on again.

These are just a few of the reasons I despise it so much.

And don't get me started on Summer either. The last summer I had was 2008 in England, and as is the case with most English summers, the heat to falling water ratio was akin to a quick fart in the shower.

You see, my fear of summer and hot weather stems from the fact that I used to be really fat. I mean, REALLY fat. And as all fatties know, the slightest exertion even in the coldest of weather leads to gallons of sweat and embarrassment. As soon as the sun comes out, just standing still results in a torso wetter than the front row of a Jonas Brothers concert.
My problem stemmed from an unhealthy diet and lack of exercise. It wasn't glandular, or big bones like a lot of fatties try and claim. I ate shit and did nothing. We had a local takeaway called the Spice Boys. They delivered every type of junk food under the sun. Kebabs, burgers, curries, everything a fatty could ever want delivered with one click of the mouse. I shared a house at the time with one of my closest friends, so most nights were spent drinking lager, ordering Spice Boys food and watching lesbian porn on the internet. Which in turn led to one of the delivery guys who looked a bit like Limahl from the '80s (look him up kids), constantly trying to muscle his way into the house to see what filth was on the screen this time round. Honestly, they were great (until you tried to search for their website, trust me, don't do it).
Then a local pizza house began to create legendary pizzas. Bacon cheeseburger and chips, full English breakfast, donor kebab (a personal favourite), the only way their pizzas could get any unhealthier is if they were deep fried. Which is one reason I don't go to Scotland too often.
Sweating leads to smelling. Bad. And wet patches. Have you ever tried to spend the night drinking while keeping your arms by your side so no-one can see the oceans of sweat under your pits? I tried everything. Strong deodorant, shaving the hair off, wearing white (bad - it accentuates your moobs in a big way), wearing black (worse - hotter). Nothing worked apart from fixing the diet, exercising, and just not being morbidly obese.
Other side-effects include not wanting to take clothes off in front of people. Which means most summer activities such as swimming, or water sports are ruled out for fear of people pointing, laughing, and visibly trying to count the rolls of fat preventing you from ever seeing your penis. Not getting laid is a big one too. Fat chicks always score at the end of the night, as men we are actually that shallow. Fat guys have to work twice as hard, even to score with a fat chick. It seems even they have standards.
But now, I am not quite as close to a massive coronary as I once was, I am thinking I might actually enjoy summer. It's been years since I have seen a real one. Sure, my body hasn't seen the sun since I was 11, which means after 5 minutes I would probably end up looking like a ginger who's been in the sun for 3 minutes. And who knows? I may enjoy water sports after a while. Not German water sports, obviously. I'm pretty sure since missing the toilet while drunk and pissing on my feet that I wouldn't like that.

So weighing up between knowing I hate packing, and just thinking I might not like summer, I have pretty much convinced myself to stick around NZ for the summer season. Mum, Dad, if you are reading this, and have been getting weird comments from people over the past few days about when I am coming back, this could explain it. And please can you send some clothes?

Another little bit at the bottom: Please accept my apologies for fat chicks creeping in to my blog once more. It will not happen again. At least not until the next entry.