FOR SALE

Inov the post-modern poet
will write for any footballing occassion.
SAMPLE:

1930- Uruguay
1934- Italy
1938- Italy
1950- Uruguay
1954- Germany
1958- Brazil
1962- Brazil
1966- England
1970- Brazil
1974- Germany
1978- Argentine
1982- Italy
1986- Argentine
1990- Germany
1994- Brazil
1998- France
2002- Brazil
2006- Palestine

I really need to get out more.

FOR SALE

Roy Castle's Pension Scheme lose those pension worries, ignore the news.

Wistful poem #812

Intimations on immortality

My Daddy's idol died today
A man he paid to watch him play
A man so blessed he could rob Banks
A man possessed, who sailed then sank
I knew this man through history
Then saw him wither in my teens
I saw the famous highlight reels
I saw him red, he swore and keeled
I never saw him green and young
But saw his son, just having fun
That daddy's face is on my wall
A man, who seemed so hard to fall
I wear his shirt, today, by luck
I'll keep it on, to give a fuck

Could this have been a different song,
If George knew where it all went wrong?
Some answers we will never know,
Still, I will text a TV show.

WANTED

New Aerial: Teletext headline: "Best- 'Coming to epp of the rond'"

FOR SALE

Working-class Mogwai. Do not give alcohol after 11am. May turn into a gremlin.

There's a hole in my buttock

Dear Kitty,
I have now scored my first hat-trick of failed job interviews. It really isn't something to be proud of. I have been the second best candidate in all of them, and am destined to be the Tony Jarrett of non-profit administrative competitions. I am also down to my last pair of trousers, since my $5 denim jeans have a hole the size of Canada in the left buttock area, just below the cusp of my underpants. Probably made when I let someone ram me up the bottom in a job interview. And my bank cards are refusing to spout money, in spite of there being a couple of morsels left in the accounts. The recruitment agencies don't have any work this week, the job centre can't meet me until tomorrow, and there is a faint smell of cheese in the kitchen that I can't locate.
The feedback from the last interview told me absolutely nothing, other than that for almost every question they wished I'd expanded on my answer a bit more, because the winning candidate had expanded. Now, I was always under the impression that when someone nods and doesn't have any questions to ask you, that you have satisifed their desire. Surely, they would ask a question if there was more to answer. I answered one question by telling them I would use mailmerge to perform their example task. This was the right answer. I got 'adequate' because I didn't explain how to perform a mailmerge in more detail. I did a fucking mailmerge in their test, what more did they need to know.

I am reminded of a job test I went to where I was given a booklet. The booklet explained that Ms. Hyndley (fictional name) would be off work for a while, and I would have to arrange cover for her tasks. There was a print-out of her week's fictional timetable, and a print-out of my fictional timetable. She was due to work on reception when I was meant to be at the dentist. In my test, I explained that I would find cover for when i was at the dentist's. I lost points for this. I told the person who failed me that I was not going to cancel a dentist's appointment while someone else got to take a whole week off. In the same test, I had to look after a work experience boy who would shadow my work for an afternoon. I scheduled for them to shadow me while I did some of Ms. Hyndley's work. This was wrong. I double-booked. The person shadowing had to watch me do nothing apparently.

Must dash. 21 seconds to go. LIbrary. I will shortly be moving into my loft to wait for the Germans.
Anne

TAKEN

Gulag Camps + Cameraman
Best not to think of Adorno, rationalisation or Final Solutions when reading the CIA prison article. But the last few paragraphs are a giggle.

REMEMBERED

Rosa Parks

Exchange

Government. Passe Mid-90's Conservatives for hip-again late 90's Labour. Will swap circa 2010. Just before their precious Olympics.

Buggered

My computer. It just wails, like a toy siren, and the screen is black. The siren resembles the one that went off in my head when paying hundreds of pounds for a computer made by some man in a shed. I ignored it then, as I must now. The manufacturer was recommended to me by my old school. Their parting shot, no doubt, and a further way of fucking someone up well into adulthood.