Unexpected achievement of the year!

Man, I come out with some seriously confused talk when I'm stoned. 

I vividly remember laying in Deane Park this past Monday night, staring at the stars and chatting utter nonsense about being in "prime position for alien abduction". And how "if anybody in Ruislip ends up getting abducted by aliens tonight, it'll probably be me lying in the middle of this field."

This on top of the confusion over why it was getting so foggy. The reason? Well, it wasn't. I just didn't realize I hadn't tipped my head up far enough - and was actually still looking at the clouds.

It's nice and refreshing to warp your mind every once in a while. I feel a lot better for the giggles that come with forgetting about everything that matters.

I'm still trying to find a balance between work, my social life and my private life. It's difficult to juggle them all at once and there's times where I'm drawn to feel guilty one way or the other. Whether it's turning down a night out with mates, not seeing my girlfriend as much as we'd like, or even just making a quick exit from the office at 5:30 while others are still busy.

I feel a lot more comfortable at work now than I did in the first couple of months, but it's still hard to blend in with the typical office banter. When I first started, I felt a big burden from being not just the new guy - but the youngest in the company by quite a margin. Everybody was welcoming, and I'm lucky enough to work for an agency where most of the people are easy to get along with - but you still feel like you're coming from completely different backgrounds.

One thing I can definitely say for sure is that I'm happier working behind the scenes than I would be face-to-face with the endless stream of financial suits that you come to expect in central London. 

I see people passing through for meetings and they all look the same, talk the same, walk the same...I bet they even lie the same. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the corporate world is hideous.

I like the work that I do, and I like the people that I work with - but Jesus Christ, I don't think I could stomach the fickle business of greeting clients, smile on my face and a "how was your weekend?" at the ready.

Anyway, the real shallow purpose of this update is to say: 50 posts and counting on Minor Disturbance!

I never expected this blog to survive the test of time. To be honest, I didn't expect it to survive the test of winter. But here I am - still - pouring all of my useless drivel in to one safely contained box - ready to be sealed in concrete and eventually de-listed from the web.

It's been an interesting ten months. I'm surprised - and remotely flattered - by just how many people have bothered to read these pages. It's always surreal when you're down the pub with your friends and somebody uses a blog entry from November 2007 against you. I've had all kinds of people mentioning my gibberish in passing conversation, some people foreseen and some not. 

Various people have taken it upon themselves to attempt to decipher just who or what I was talking about with a few of my earlier entries. I don't think it needs me to say that most of everything I write on here is grossly exaggerated and intended to confuse - and hopefully occasionally entertain.

Nothing scares me more than being taken seriously.

What really happens in a London lunch break.

What a disaster. What a day.

With just two weeks until I'm due to show my face at a music festival, it's dawned on me that I better get some ID under my belt - before I find myself queuing for Diet Pepsi at an ice cream van while my mates get sloshed on Stella and Vodka concoctions. That would break my heart.

Anyway, I printed off some application forms for my new UreLife ID card. I know, it sounds about as official as a dog tag in a nursery. Having worked out that there's not a single form of ID in the country that doesn't require a ridiculous amount of identification to apply with in the first place, I finally settled on my choice.

I now have two appointments booked in over the next couple of days. One with my doctor and one with my college headmaster. I say my college headmaster, but I'm not sure there's any "my" involved given that I've never met the bloke and haven't attended college for 18 months. But who needs details?

The point is, I'm scrambling to get my forms sent away - all for the bureaucratic joy of being verified so that yes, I'm old enough to have a drink. They should just look at my face. You can tell from the wear and tear that I've already drained enough alcohol to water a small African nation. 

As part of the application process, I had to attach two passport sized images to send away for processing. As it stands, I have no such photos. And you know why I have no such photos? I have no such photos because W.H Smiths have installed the most heinous money grabbing machine since the invention of the paid cash point.

The W.H Smiths photo booth.

Now, for any of you who've yet to experience this delightful creation, let me first say that my W.H Smiths of choice so happened to be a crowded store in the center of London. Right during the peak of a busy lunch break, I waltzed in to the shop and I could just tell it was going to go wrong.

Everybody hates having their passport picture taken. That is fact. But consider a baking hot afternoon with your work clothes sticking to your back and the sun so strong that you can't help but sweat and sweat.

I stood outside the booth for five minutes and tried to cool myself down. 

Hey, wouldn't you? This is the photo that snide little bastards are going to be sniggering at for the next ten years. I sure as hell don't want to look like a sweating greasy slime ball. Some would argue that I achieve that without the effort, but that's not the point.

The point is, by the time I flicked open the curtain and sat down to have my mug snapped, it dawned on me that I didn't actually have five pounds in change.

I should probably say at this point that as far as good shirt days go, this wasn't one of my best. I was already looking distinctly Texan with a checkered cowboy top half unbuttoned down my chest. The second I sat down and saw myself in the reflection, I thought, "Holy shit..."

"Inbred paedophile."

I should have known better really. The second I walked in to the office, I caught earshot of the first Brokeback Mountain reference.

Anyway, I shuffled quickly out of the photo booth and stroked my tenner knowing damn well that I was going to have to break it. I spent what really shouldn't have taken as much time as it did to search the store for something nice and cheap that wasn't going to put too much of a dent in my wallet.

When I got back to the office, one of my mates asked why I didn't just buy a pack of chewing gum. Good shout, but unfortunately too late considering I'd already opted for a pritstick.

It was only when I stopped cursing and fuming under my breath that I realized just how dodgy that might have looked to the till cashier.

It can't be too often that you're left to serve a sweating, ragged Texan-London crossbreed who only wants to buy a pritstick. God knows what she thought my intentions were. Bad day at the office, I presume.

Back to the photo booth I went, this time with a pile of coins in my hand and the religious determination that through hell or high water, I was walking away from Farringdon with valid passport photographs under my belt.

I slotted in the coins and sat back with my eyes shell-shocked wide open. Have you heard how loud the instructions are on these machines?

Jesus Lucifer Christ, the entire DVD section of the store could hear the exact instructions that were being relayed to me. All the while, my feet are shuffling in plain view under the waist height curtain that offers my one and only privacy from this highly personal chore.

"When you are ready, place your chin in line with the screen and press the button"

I swat at my hair and wipe the beading sweat from my brow, desperately trying not to go all criminal eyed as I so often do when confronted with a forced lens.

The machine makes that false camera shutting sound - loud enough for the entire magazine row to wonder where the squeakiness is coming from. 

A few seconds later, my face flashes up on the screen and you don't need me to tell you that it wasn't pretty. I know this isn't going to be acceptable as a passport, so let me take another photo and lets keep my little cross eyes a secret. But no no no.

"I'm sorry. Your pose is not valid and is not acceptable as a passport photo. Please try again or press Print to continue."

I literally flinched and shot backwards as this fiendish piece of technology relayed my personal battles to everybody in the surrounding area. And let's face it. W.H.Smiths isn't exactly the loudest of stores. You get the odd flick of a page being turned and the occasional till sounding. But I could actually hear the sniggers as this machine effectively told me; "FAIL!".

For the briefest moment, my hand reached for the eject change button. Sod this, I thought. I'll go somewhere busy without a running commentary of my failures ejected over the airwaves for all to listen in on.

But no, I had another shot at it. The second photo was even worse. I was nervous. I was tensing up. I looked more and more like that Texan rapist and I damn well knew it.

"I'm sorry. Your pose is not valid and is not acceptable as a passport photo. You have one photo opportunity remaining. Please try again or press Print to continue."

More sniggers.

Listen, there's only one reason why they chose to have audio commentary on these machines. And there's absolutely no excuse for turning the volume up to the max - except for turning the screws on a poor paying customer who has one more shot at justifying the £5 he's spent.

By this point, it was a lost cause. I tried again, but I'd accepted that even if it had been a valid picture, that wouldn't hide the fact that I looked absolutely hideous. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights with death written in his eyes, I looked more resigned to my elastic face than anything.

I shuffled out of the booth and walked away downtrodden with my hands in my pockets.

In the distance I could still hear, "It appears that your photo does not fill the requirements for a passport picture..."

Why is that necessary? I know I've fucked up. You know I've fucked up.

The whole of W.H.Smiths is aware that I've fucked up.

Let's just forget about it.

Just a bunch of yesterdays

I was sitting at work today, with my nose pressed to the screen of another soul breaking print design, when it struck me just how hideous the corporate world really is. "If you never settle for second best, you will never be second best." This being the bold and emblazoned slogan that another Canary Wharf based bank had chosen as their flavour of the month.

Caught between yawning, sighing and mouse clicking my way to an early lunch, I did what I so often do at work; switched off and let everything pass me by on autopilot. If last year was a reckless rampage from bed to bed via my bleary eyed day job, this year is a timid bubble of muted expectations and forever spiraling career ladders.

That's not to say I dislike my job, because I'm lucky to be paid so well to do something that I find mildly interesting. But I hate the business talk and politics that go with being in the city. My office is actually a quiet retreat away from your average money mongering Moorgate suit, but you only have to glance out of the window to see life being sucked from botoxed faces.

I'm kicking my heels in the sand pit making dramas out of something we all have to deal with, and it's creating a detachment effect in my private life. I'm rarely switched on, I rarely have energy and I'm rarely inclined to do much with my evenings. Hell, I'm hardly even drawn to post to this blog anymore - and that's saying something. I'd like to think I've mastered the art of writing about sweet jack all.

It makes me feel a bit bad for my girlfriend that she has to deal with my being distant and disconnected emotionally. I've been told of a few things I do which make her feel bad, and I didn't even realize I was doing them. Normally I fight accusations stubbornly but I know full well that I've been a lousy lover. It's hard to deal with because once you realize what you've been doing, you begin to question whether their opinion of you has lowered. And once that happens, its a long way back. 

So much has changed recently. I have friends that are settling down, engaged, moving in together and starting new paths. I'm still trying to work out where my own choices are taking me. It's quite scary.

I've been talking to the girl who used to crop up on these pages all too often for her own liking. It's amazing how far apart things are now from six months ago. She's moved in with her boyfriend and seems to be really happy, which is great. Having seen a picture of them together, I can safely say that I'd feel like a complete and utter outsider even harbouring those thoughts again. They look right for each other. Not to mention, I'm a completely different mould.

Back during my heavy crushing, I secretly wished that he'd be some schizophrenic toss-faced bum of the west country, but I can now see how I lost out in the stud muffin stakes! Besides, obsessing as I was at the time, just ain't cool and I regret it like I knew I would.

It's a little different talking to her now. She's happy with her guy, and I'm happy with my girlfriend...if anything, I've realized how temporary everything is. That intimidates me, and like a stockbroker facing the crunch, I'm putting my faith where there's little risk or danger.

London is the best recluse city in the world for those who need it to be. If you want to give your soul to a 9-5, Monday-Friday, there will always be opportunities to do just that. I'm getting my head down and working hard. Two years from now, I want to be self-employed and chasing goals that are more appealing than a life of semi-serving pay cheques and yearly appraisals.

And everything except my salary is a hazy blur.