Friday, November 17, 2006


The Misreading

Anyway so like I’m in this new job yeah, and Brenda the social worker says it’s like a good opportunity but it’s well boring right, but if I stick with it for six months they’ll forget about that shoplifting offence which wasn’t even my fault anyway yeah.

So anyway like in this job I have to go to this office in this building with all these gates and walls and guards with dogs and I have to be there at half eight in the morning which well pisses me off yeah and my solicitor reckons it’s against my human rights to have to get up so early and she’s looking into it. The first day I go there in my hoodie and these well wicked trackie bums and trainers which are real Nike though my mate Kez said they wasn’t so I decked him. Anyway I’m there at the gate in my well hard get-up right, and they won’t let me in and I have to go away and come back in this well gay shirt and tie and trousers like someone posh off the telly.

Like so anyway in this job I have to take messages from one part of the building to another, and the messages are like so secret they can’t phone or email them to each other right, but the messages get put in this suitcase and it gets chained to my wrist, it looks well gay like a handbag. The other people who work here are all like well old yeah, thirty at least, and there are a few right posh old farts in gay suits and waistcoats who never even look at me when I go past them. My boss is this old bird but quite fit, but she walks round like she’s got a broom up her arse and never smiles, she needs a good seeing to yeah. The guards at the front gates look well hard like Vin Diesel with their uniforms and guns, but they never say anything when I talk to them either right.

So like anyway one day I’ve got nothing to do and I’ve got my Gameboy out and then there’s this big panic on and people running everywhere and my boss calls me and she’s looking shit scared even though she’s not supposed to show it yeah, and she chains the message bag to my wrist and sends me underground to some bloke I’ve never delivered to before. And I go down there yeah, and there’s all these wicked steel doors I have to go through and then I get to this bloke’s room and he’s well old, like sixty, and I give him the bag and he opens it and says can I read the message inside because he’s forgotten his glasses, and I’m like shit, nobody ever said I had to read in this job, reading is so gay, but I read it out best I can and he’s well scared and shaking and he sends me away.

Anyway like so I’m playing on the Gameboy later and my boss comes over and she’s still shit scared and well pissed off yeah and holding a piece of paper. She says what does it say here, and I look at the paper and it’s the one I read out to the old fart right, and I say it says select nuclear response and she says no it doesn’t it says reject nuclear response.

Like whatever yeah. Maybe they’ll sack me now. This job is so gay anyway.

Reminiscent of a certain Ms V Pollard there.

Oh and Nike is well gay.
"I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places..."
I didn't know Haden got a new job.
Chhhhheeeeeeeeaaaavvvv. Go on then show us yer rings.
I knew the English gene pool was weak and inbred but this bad?

Mr Eater your offspring are doing you proud.
I likes me a strong man with wits and a casual, bad assitude. Obviously a real man's man single, luv? I think stuffs ghey too, lots of stuff, most stuff actually, I say it all the time, ask anyone.
You all seem to have missed the point and read this as some sort of exercise in mocking a certain sector of British society, when it's really a thoughtful and cautionary piece on how forcing people to read when they don't want to can lead to nuclear catastrophe.
You must be a war monger.
Yeah, Footie, Like FMC said, show us your ring.
Who'd win in a barefist boxing match - knacker or chav?
Knacker! Jesus Christ a chav would be so busy 'frontin' he have his 'gold' teeth handed back to him before he even knew what hit him.
By the by, is it beer o'clock yet?
That does explain Haden's absence though.

The same thing used to almost happen when they used to use the old Naval semiphore system of communication.

Nelson...defeated... - at this point the villagers think fuck, lets burn our houses so the French can't take them - ...Enemy. Oh bugger.
This post appears to be a cheap British remake of The Misunderstanding. I know the blogosphere in general has a predilection for quasi-incestuous self-absorption, but this is the first time I've seen a single weblog doing it to itself. Even the practice of disappearing up one's own arse isn't what it used to be, it seems.
I didn't read it as a remake, Philip, but another chunk of the same story... Could be wrong though. Wouldn't put it past Footsie to regurgitate.
"This post appears to be a cheap British remake of The Misunderstanding."

Well, I wasn't going to say anything.
Clever, eh, Philip and Fat Sparrow? But you're wrong. In The Misunderstanding, the narrator misheard an instruction; here, he misread it. Completely different idea.
Okay, so it's a cheap inept British remake.
Well, thst's it then.
I'm off to find something to have sex with for the last 45 minutes of my life. I've got as much as 40 minutes to land something...
Any offers yet? I haven't yet christened the stationary cupboard.
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