Stories from 1996 Chapter 33 A Britpop Journal


Chapter 33

16th October 1996

It has been getting harder and harder to get up for this awful, soul destroying, vom inducing job.  The whole Americanised group hug ethos of the company is really starting to grate.  I feel my intelligence, culture and character being steadily sucked down the line by the clients (we are not allowed to use the word customer as the office poster kindly reminds us with the hilarious strapline – Our clients’ priorities are put to the front but you must not call them a c**tomer.)

The mornings are such a struggle, it’s so dark and the cold is unbearable. My clock radio has been positioned at the other side of my Siberian temperatured room so that when Chris Evans’ smug shouting becomes too much I am forced out of the warmth of my bed to turn the bastard off.  It also doesn’t help that we are still trying to maintain the going out every night student lifestyle whilst facing reality during the day. I am exhausted.

Last night I had made the wise decision to have a night in. I had endured a full day on the phone talking to c**tomers and was still able to maintain a relatively high ‘Cheerful factor’ (little do the management know that I am still meticulously planning several murderous workplace scenarios in my head. The first to go – my new line manager, with eyes like a dead fish and an uncontrollable tongue, who keeps telling me to ‘Shake it up Baby’ like some wannabe porn director.)

So, I spent the whole evening in the house, in front of the TV, which was a huge novelty after endless nights of Faux Fresher Fun. My liver had started to throb and I was getting daily shakes by midday so I desperately needed at least one night off the beer.

I was tucked up in bed listening to Shed Seven by 1030. An admirable attempt to undo all the recent evils.

Unfortunately, in the middle of the night I was rudely awoken by a terrifying amount of crashing and banging somewhere in the house. I sat up in bed numbed by fear as my heart pounded.  After what felt like hours, enough time for my legs to become numb,  I heard voices shouting in the distance and decided, that after all that, it must only have been Harry’s latest man stumbling in for some drunken fumbles after drinking with his rugby mates. Selfish bastard.

I was just snuggling back under my duvet when there was a knock on my bedroom door. Before I had a chance to be abusive in walked f**king Elvis! Like some zombie in tiger print, wearing purple glitter and stumbling towards my bed and me. Thankfully he was so drunk I managed to dodge him and run out on the landing, to the awaiting scowls of my housemates whose doors he had tried first I later found out. We then heard another huge crash before silence. Myself and Harry peered around the door and saw that he had tripped over my boots and was face down on my bed snoring his stupid, drunken glittery head off.

We concurred that there was no way we could move him now and that we would deal with him in the morning. I retired to Ruth’s empty room, locked the door and slept. We have all just thrown out the very hungover, smudge faced chancer out on his backside. He insisted on leaving  his phone number. I will enjoy scrawling it on toilet walls in some dodgy establishments around Cardiff.


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