This is the modern way?

We recently acquired the Kaiser Chiefs album 'Employment' and I'm learning to like it very much. There's one tune in particular "I Predict A Riot" that I feel provides a quite precise viewpoint into a small town life in the UK. I'm about to engage in a minor analysis of how I feel about the things referred to in the song so please do not lynch me for becoming (once again) a grumpy old man.

Chavs - or as the song portraits: 'the man in the tracksuit attacks me'. This is a phenomenon that really seems to have lifted off in many towns in the UK during the past two or three years. Teenagers in sports clothes, caps, trainers and pierced with enough stainless steel to build an automobile. Cheapo jewellery, lager and cigarettes are also integral parts of a self-respecting chav and the real hardcore ones are decorated with an 'ASBO' - an Anti-Social Behavior Order.

As I recall, youth subcultures are often counterreactions to dominant society's changes but also ways of identifying oneself in relation to the others. The question burning in my mind is really all that simple: why? Why would you want to identify yourself with one of these thugs whose highest achievement ever was to scare their grannies' poodles. Beats me...

Another rather poignant line of the tune refers to girls wearing next to nothing on the streets and that 'without chip fat they'd be freezing'. Hear hear! I have nothing against nice looking young girls dressed up for the occasion but when the chip fat is, indeed, revealed to such extents that is impossible to see the belt-sized miniskirt under their out-hanging lard, it is not a sight that I wish to see, less pay any attention to at all. That must be the ultimate reason for such sense of dress as well - attention seeking as we all know...

Phew. This was much harder than I figured. Maybe deep inside I'm scared of the chavs and hence meet their expectations of people like me. Maybe I also secretly take a peek at the fat ladies showing their flesh and meet their expectations of me as well. Really, if that's what they want they can have it. I will not, let me repeat just to make sure, will not understand that these things need to be done for such purposes and I can assure you, I can not be so badly scared by the chav population and even less intrigued by the fat ladies' lard that it would give anyone any sense of achievement whatsoever. Period.

"This is the modern way, faking it everyday..."

Man, I really am turning into a grumpy old man and actually feel rather proud of it!

Breaking News!

The latest evidence reveals that there was, in fact, a fifth suicide bomber involved in the 07/07 attacks on London...

Here, there, everywhere: to state or not to state

The next is a quote I copied from the Guardian's article: "Evangelist tells 7m TV viewers: US should kill Venezuela's president ":

"I think the gradual erosion of the consensus that's held our country together is probably more serious than a few bearded terrorists who fly into buildings." by Pat Robertson, 75, founder of the Christian Coalition and a former Republican in his Christian Broadcasting Network in the blessed land of USA.

This, along with other of the many comments this mad man has made are appalling, yet he is lucky for living in the USA and not in the UK. If he would have said so here and if he would have been muslim, etc. he would have been kicked out and labeled under certain terminology that the discipline of terrorism highly developed by the Bush and some EU's administrations after the events from the last four years, offers to us. But no, oh lord no, this man is lucky enough to be (as i imagine) so white and filthy rich that he is one of those untouchable religious extremists who do and say as they please and who also do not take responsibility of their acts. He might not be better or worse than those few bearded terrorists flying into buildings. He might be of the sort of fearless creatures who hold either the flag of christianity or of islam, to harm others because of their own view of the world.

Yes, I am upset at this moment, yet this post is not impulsive. It only mirrors a tiny bit of the ideas and emotions that experiencing and witnessing some of the many terrible statements, as well as actions, by christian leaders, in specific, Mexicans, Spaniards and Americans (that i can remembered at this point). Although those people and their statements might be alien, harmless, and meaningless, to you; we should bear in mind that those are people with enough power (of different sorts) to harm others and/or to make others simply hurt others. It is a pretty scary shit because we live in times when it has become dangerous to make statements that represent our minds, but still is unfair because some are threatened more than others, For example, there will be this new law here in the UK that will banned religious intolerance and, if I understood well, even the tell of religious jokes. They must be kidding if they think that will stop radicalism, which is much more complex. I think that this 'anti-religious-extremist's laws' are not fair for all because one does not necessarily need to make a religious joke or make a religious comment to hurt others, one only needs the power the entitlement that religion provides.

The words made by a man like Robertson may be taken as words only, but not everybody has the capability to take them as such. Words of hatred can turn into seeds for ideologies of hatred. I will try not to be to serious in forthcoming posts.

Office gossip

Shit truly happens especially at work. But this time I'm sure that it has also required a considerable amount of good effort and hard work to put together...

I've never been too keen to spend time with my colleagues outside of the office. Don't really know why as they all seem to be quite ok and relatively normal at work. So, this gone Saturday I gathered up my courage and accepted an invitation to attend one of these boys nights with beer and playstation.

As a result, I think my perception of the people I work with needs some rethinking, as it appears that all this bunch was thinking about was whom they would if they could and whom they either had or were about to. To my knowledge, there's nothing inherently wrong about this either but considering that most of the people in the office are either married or at least cohabiting (as the term goes) with their partners, it was somewhat revealing to me. Too revealing.

I'm not exactly a stranger to good old in-out-in-out myself (hell, I'm a married man!) but somehow I found this evenings conversations to be either total bull or just some macho-male-chauvinism. Whether or not any of these alleged sexual encounters have taken place that I can not say, but I've certainly received a proper dosis of office gossip for a good while now. Looks like I won't be going out with this bunch in a while, hopefully...

In sum, a boring, testosterone-stenched evening with crap company. Come to think of it, I did not even manage to meet any Swedish-speaking dinosaurs during my evening out with the colleagues as Mick did. Makes me kinda wish that I had. At least there would have been something more interesting to write about.

It all makesch perfect shensche! Dammit!

It’s not everyday you meet a dinosaur, certainly not one that lives on a printer and is called Björn. The experience may well leave both parties of the encounter somewhat baffled. In a situation like this the proper etiquette requires that man and dinosaur go to the nearest bar together and try to contemplate the encounter over a glass of the strongest stuff that the barman can find. The process of finding the true significance and meaning of what happened may well take some time, and thus lead to another drink, and so on.

Before long the bar will be closing, just as the profound insight into human-dinosaur relations is about to take shape in man’s head (dinosaurs, of course, have this all worked out. For them these encounters are just an excuse for a piss up. And, man, they can drink, I tell you!).

After a hard night of trying to understand the ramblings of a drunken dinosaur (“Do you understand what it’s like… You know… You can’t understand, you’re just a human…” [Glug, glug, glug]) man finally makes it home without being too late for the last bus. His mind elevated by the stimulating conversation with a dinosaur - who stayed in the bar when man went home, so who’s the bad guy really, huh? – man tries to share this once-in-a-lifetime-experience with his partner, but only meets ignorant disbelief and rejection.

Now that’s enough for anybody, so man decides to counter attack with a brilliant scheme of talking rubbish about alcohol-induced things in things, or whatever. After a bit of incoherent ranting he finally falls into a drunken stupor, and before he knows, he’s in a place where things in things make perfect sense, his views are appreciated and held in high value, maybe even debated in academic circles as examples of the Ultimate Truth…

It’s just a bloody shame about the next morning, isn’t it!

Bjorn the Dinosaur - The Official Mascot of Electric Vihta

First I need to welcome our new contributors. More the merrier, welcome and let's hope that we would all find time to post something quite regularly.

Today, I've been mostly writing and enjoying probably the last summery day. jULES' post, however, brings back some memories from what some people would refer to as the 'good old days'. These things happen to all of us every now and then and should be treated as minor misconducts for otherwise perfectly behaving men. Well, mostly anyway.

Now then, I hear you mention Bjorn the dinosaur and think to myself that we don't have a blog mascot. Problem solved, thank you Rex Ethyl and Mick.

We should make some things clear about Bjorn the dinosaur (and now the official blog mascot). Firstly, if he (or she? Bjorn refers to a Swedish-speaking male, yuck!) lives on top of the printer I would like to know if this is in Mick's office or in his flat? Second, if Bjorn is a full grown dinosaur, we might have a slight problem in our hands (or in its very existence at least). We also need to establish if he's carnivorous or a peaceful vegetarian and in particular, what kind of fodder does he consume. I'm not much of a paleontologist myself but I've seen enough episodes of Friends and read my share of Calvin and Hobbes to know that these things can be dangerous, especially the carnivorous ones. Well, at least we can all hold the image of drunken Mick explicating the existence of Bjorn to jULES and build our own images of Bjorn...

I'd also like to ask Mick how much alcohol did he manage to consume that evening. It is obvious that a vivid imagination and formidable amounts of liquid ethyl can, indeed, be an entertainingly creative combination. We salute you Mick for bringing us Bjorn, the blog dinosaur!

Also, what comes to the perfectly draughty housing on this oh-not-so-breezy-and-rainy-island, it is a disgrace. according to the UK energy commission or something like that, 50% of household energy consumption goes to heating living spaces. Surely it has come time to do something about it and I am not talking only about double-glazed windows nor will I start selling them myself, but there must be a way of doing something about it. Not only because we are running out of energy resources but mostly because all this waste contributes to the much-ranted about global warming. No, I haven't turned into a treehugger but it is certainly time to start thinking about this too if we want to live on this oh-so-beautiful-but-equipped-with-not-so-well-insulated-houses-island. Cometh the ice age and exodus, I'll be the first one to flee to the Caribbean with Xinola and our hammock.

Hot water bottles? I'd like to swear and laugh here very loudly but this sentence must suffice.

Oijoijoi!

Men and alcohol

I was meaning to write something here for some time and was sort of inspired by a previous post in this blog. My topic: Drunken men from the sober persons perspective. (Don’t get me wrong, im not a crazy feminist type who’s about to start ranting on about how useless men are, how they drink too much, how they don’t do anything around the house… no, really I’m not!) Seriously, I thought I’d share this because it’s too funny to let the opportunity pass by.
To set the scene, I was having a quiet Friday evening in by myself, watching a fairly decent film, while my other half (on this occasion I am somewhat reluctant to call him my ‘better’ half) was out galavanting with his colleagues.
Ten minutes before the end of the film I hear the door open, followed by the clatter of keys being dropped on the floor, an incomprehensible but angry-sounding exchange of words between boyfriend and keys, a burp, a fart, and ten seconds later he appears before me, grinning like a Cheshire cat and stinking like a brewery. It is apparent that he is very, very drunk. He tells me a story about a dinosaur he met during the day. “Uh-uh?” I say. He accuses me of not listening to anything he says, and that I am being disrespectful. I realise my attempts to understand anything more of the film are futile so I switch off the TV and try to appear interested. If anyone was watching this spectacle they would see that in the space of five minutes a drunken boyfriend has the ability to reduce me from sophisticaticated, wine-drinking, arty-film-watching intellectual to complete raving lunatic in less than five minutes. I’m asking ridiculous questions so that he won’t get upset with me. ME: “What’s the dinosaur’s name?” HIM: “Bjorn!” ME: “Where does he live?” HIM: “On top of the printer!.”

“Do we have food?” he asks, after a while.
“No”, I reply. “We are going shopping tomorrow, remember?”
He disappears into the kitchen and I hear the fridge door squeak open.
“We don’t have any food!”
“No”, I repeat. “We are going shopping tomorrow”
He staggers to the bathroom, shedding his clothes in various locations en route, then proceeds to stare at himself for a long time in the mirror, and asks “Am I more yellow than usual?”
I tell him he is not, he seems reassured by this, and then makes a naked trip into the kitchen to check that the fridge hasn’t replenished itself during his momentary absence. Surprisingly it has not. “We should do some shopping sometime” he says. “Maybe tomorrow, darling?” I reply. But sarcasm is wasted at this point.

He finally comes to bed, and talks more utter nonsense for a while. Bjorn the dinosaur, it seems, is more than just a ‘regular’ dinosaur; he is also a symbol of power and a lesson to people to stand up. I never found out why, because my dear boyfriend finally dropped into a state of unconsciousness. But not before he delivered this final speech which will leave me pondering for the rest of my life.

HIM: So… there’s no… alcohol-induced… acceptance of responsibility here, is there?

ME: Where?
HIM: Oh, come on… EVERYWHERE!

ME: Responsibility for what?
HIM: The fake stuff. And… the things that people put in the things… but they actually don’t.


Go figure
Until the next time!

There is a hell of a lot of tradition behind this!

I just want to add something to the previous story because there was something missing in it. I recall that in my Xmas in Geordiesland I went through a traditional experience of sleeping with a soft and hot water bottle on my feet. With that classic stuff I would not feel that cold in the night.

Hum, when I saw that bottle I remembered that when I was a very young child and sometimes had high body temperature or fever (many years ago the medicine options for babies and toddlers were not so safe as now), my mom used one of those bottles full of icy water for the opposite effect (in the tropics the water from the shower does not get too cold in the hottest months of the year). Yet, as in third world countries, we did not enjoy the sophistication of those bottles, since we only have them in the most rustic of its presentations: rubber.

Yet, here, oh lord, there are all sorts of choices for all tastes! The sophitication ranges from, for example, the monkey or the fish tank option for the little girls or teenagers.

But wait, there is more. For the bold there are options such as the leopard...

Yet, for the simple minded there are the classic designs,



For more information see http://www.fashionhot.com/

If anyone knows more about how to cope with the cold, the draught, and humidity, please do not hesitate in offering help. Any suggestion is welcome. Autumn and winter are approaching us.

Once upon a time, not so far away…

It was a dark and stormy night. All decent people had long since rushed into their cold, draughty homes, and did their best to keep warm around electric fires. Not that they really minded, though. They had accepted that in a country that is situated in the windy shores of civilisation, most nights were dark and stormy (although not often indoors). In fact, they were quite pleased that this provided them with a chance of putting on their new Burberry caps and Adidas tops in their own homes, without having to go out to show off their new clothes.

People also felt happy that they lived in a country where the flow of conversation never run dry, there was always the Weather to talk about. The weather also provided the most industrious segments of the nation with blinding possibilities in gaining social status: Those lucky enough to have accumulated funds, would pay good money for a double glazed conservatories, where they could admire the Elements without the inconvenience of walls, naked if you will, as God had intended to.

A happy nation they were, shivering in their beds, even in the middle of summer. They knew that no matter how much the draught made their curtains fly around, there would always be a thicker duvet in the store waiting for them. Sometimes rumours from overseas had told that in countries far away people insulate their houses to stop the draught and keep the warmth inside. These rumours were met with careful suspicion and humour. To have a properly insulated house was not only considered cheating, but it was also a sign of bad taste to ruin a perfectly decent draught.

To show their respect to the Weather the good people abandoned most of their clothes when they left their houses. Wearing as little as possible without being arrested for soliciting, they proudly stood in neat lines outside the public houses, waiting to be let in by less respectful characters in bomber jackets and varying states of brain damage.

Sometimes the weather turned nice and the people panicked a little, but soon enough everything returned to normal, and they lived draughtily ever after.

the summer is back...just came to say goodbye

The last week was miserable here in England, nothing better than this...yet warm. How is one suppose to enjoy a summer when is warmer outside than inside one's home? Sometimes i wear more clothes indoors than outdoors. Of course is nice to have a fresh flat, but it is not nice to have a cold, humid and draughty dwelling. The worst part of this protest is its inadequacy for the English who enjoy without complaints the buildings of their homes. This is so strange to me, even in winter they expect you to have some flow of air in the house for freshness' sake!

Now, today and as it is expected for the rest of the week, the weather would be nice and summery, and I hope with all my heart that my house feels warm too. I rather enjoy turning on the fan in the evening than wearing a bloody sweater in a summer night when i am indoors!

Random Tasks and Odd Jobs

Today, I've been mostly feeling busy with a series of random tasks. Don't really want to get too deep into that but it suffices to say that the day's gone past rather quickly in stark contrast to most of my time here (which is obviously a great thing).

That's probably why I really haven't got anything interesting to report today. In fact, this link is pretty much the only even slightly amusing thing found today and even this is not really that funny, unless you're about 20 years old, live on university campus and consider the smell of human excrement amusing. Those were the days.... why didn't we have this kinda stuff availble then?

I think I'll keep it short today as I really have nothing to say. Back to my odd jobs it is then.

Where’s My Sausage?

There’s nothing like a nice cup of coffee in the morning before work. Unfortunately I never have time for it. I wake up, rush around aimlessly in an attempt to wash and feed self, and before I have achieved either properly I’m out of the door already. That’s just how it goes.

Luckily my co-blogger Nygard has the answer in the shape of a caffeinated soap (see the entry below). You can have your coffee and wash in one go. But why stop there? If you are having your coffee in the shower then surely you need a bit grub as well? I reckon a full English breakfast with tea flavoured soap could be a hit. Nothing like rubbing beans to your face first thing in the morning, is there? And you have a diet version for the sporty ones. And one for vegetarians, and, and… the possibilities are mind-boggling.

If you want to move on from food, you could also have your Prozac, Viagra or what ever it is you are on, while you are washing yourself. I think this potential has been missed by pharmaceutical industry.

I think there are some serious research and development possibilities here. If you are a major player in the soap-enriching game, give me ring and we’ll have chat about it…

Espresso

Today, I've been mostly feeling sleepy. It's amazing how three cups of rather potent Italian espresso in the morning can't keep me awake all day in the office. Previously, I have mentioned drinking coffee here in the office with weekly changing temps who talk crap. Now, I've got a confession to make. I don't actually drink coffee with them. I don't even drink tea here, but I do suffer from the f-list syndrome and I really don't care what Posh and Becks are up to.

The reason why I dont drink coffee here is quite simple. I hate the reciprocal system that these people have implemented. "Anyone for hot drinks?" "Sure", I say, only to find that I'm then actually expected to make coffee/tea to EVERYBODY as I go to the staff room next time to satisfy my cravings. Man, this really bugs me. It bugs me to such extent that I have stopped drinking coffee in the office full stop. Not that I greatly miss the bloody instant crap anyway but I still seem to be irreversibly hooked on that substance found in abundance from the black liquid in question.

So, what do I do. Try to drown myself in caffeine in the mornings? Exactly, but it doesn't seem to work on me. This is what I need. Could I wait until xmas or should I buy it now? Unless they come up with caffeinated chewing gum, I'm bound to waste some good money on this excellent product and even bring it with me to the office. I don't see any problem with washing my hands and face ten times a day, providing there's enough moisturizer available (don't start, I know...).

To finish up for today - this is quite funny! Poor bloke's about to get caught

Boredom's gone - long live freedom!

Today, I've been mostly feeling bored. Bet that did not suprise anyone. Definitely it seems that this is a recurrent theme in our writings. To make my first point of exit from the realm of boredom, I thought that I'd just simply post quickly a summary of the last days events and... hell, now I've got it!

So, since my last post, Mick has been busy getting wasted with his colleagues, my wife's been busy writing and me, well I've been less than busy at work. For Mick's realization that we all handle the rex ethyl with variable success, there's not much to be said about that. It just is so. Some people have no frigging idea how to enjoy (yes, ENJOY) the drink. Sad, but true.

Nevertheless, I actually started to enjoy this newly found freedom at the office for a change. There's nobody to hover over me to check what I'm doing and there's definitely no one telling me what to do. Hey, I've even managed to actually do some things that nobody would never expect me to do here! So, and as promised, boredom shall give way to this beautiful and productive freedom and I will not return to complaining in the instant future (hopefully).

Freedom. That's it. We bought a car some time ago (my first ever and I'm almost 30!) and the feeling of freedom has ever since grown to new extents. I can now tell you that sitting in a traffic coming home from work, paying £0.90/litre for gas, is wayyy better than standing on the bus stop in the rain waiting for a bus that infamously is always late. It even gives me time to listen to all those CDs that I never listen to at home. Even better, I've started to listen to BBC Radio 4. Good stuff, believe me. This makes me look like I'm becoming worryingly middle-class(ized). Must be the age I guess. Damn it! You shall never take this freedom away from me bu I promise to fight against being middle-class. It's like being mediocre and I can't handle that!

Personal freedom actually feels nice every now and then. Last week, I had three days to myself in the flat and to some perverse extent, I really enjoyed it. It's not that we are having marital problems or anything like that but sometimes it's just so nice to do things exactly the way I want them to be done. You know, leave the toilet seat up (not really), not doing the dishes and the laundry when there are still plenty of clean plates and clothes left.... Makes it helluva lot easier to adjust to all the little things required living in a relationship.

Strikes me also, that maybe I shouldn't abuse my freedom too much. Maybe I'll start finding it boring too eventually. Hell no! For freedom I shall fight for until the sweet and sour end! Shit, today's 1 hour of freedom to indulge into my supper's almost gone. Back to daydreaming.

Thou Shalt Not Drink With Your Colleagues!

Horrible, horrible, horrible. There are few things worse than dragging yourself to work on Monday. And it doesn't help if you have spent most of the weekend drunk and miserable.

I suppose it all started to go wrong on Friday when I went out with some colleagues. That was the first mistake, right there. A powerful argument for the non-existence of God is that there was no mention of not drinking with people you work with in the Ten Commandments.

Anyway, there I was, drinking with people I have worked with for a year, but so far not spent any amount of time with outside work. After a couple of drinks it still seemed like it could all be relatively painless, but that's always the case isn't it, that's why you stay longer. Before you know it you are talking rubbish that you would never think of saying if you were sober. To make things worse you will probably not remember what it was. This is the sort of stuff that paranoia is made of.

When you finally realise that it’s time to go home, you are already late. You have been talking to people about what at the time seemed like intelligent and serious issues (and getting very drunk in the process) so it is very difficult to see that instead of humorous and opinionated, you are actually a complete twat. This is almost guaranteed to cause an argument when you return home. The only hope is that your better half is already asleep and you pass out in the hall.

The next day is no better. When the headache starts to calm down and you start to remember what took place last night the moral hangover is ready to set in. This will take all Saturday, if you are even a half decent human being. It can be a painful experience to listen to people telling you what you have been doing and saying the night before (this doesn’t get easier with practise), so unplugging your phone may be wise.

On Sunday it is possible to have some short periods when you are feeling normal but pretty soon you realise that tomorrow you have to see the people you work with again. How can you act normal after last Friday? And it's not just the next day, if you’re really unlucky you will spend the next 30 years or more working with the same people. Realising this will bring you very near to a mental break down.

But the true climax is always Monday morning when you return to work. Horrible enough after a nice relaxing weekend but even more agonizing after you have spent the whole weekend hating yourself.

So, enjoy the beginning of the week, and don’t forget to get drunk again on Friday! Get your boss to come out too, that’s even more fun!

Alone, ill and bored - again

Yesterday evening and today I've felt like my head's filled with play-doh. It appears to be be greenish/yellowish in colour and rather flexible in consistency. I've read from somewhere that this 'thing' coming out of my sinuses is just dead white blood cells. Hopefully I won't run out too soon because the same publication claimed that they are supposed to be quite essential for my well-being.

As I mentioned yesterday, I've also been particularly bored at work recently. This made me wonder if this play-doh like goo could be used for boredom relief. Obviously that's not very practical, unless you want to smear your keyboard/rat/screen combo in snot and I guess that I should think of my colleagues health as well. I'm sure they wouldn't appreciate having this very same feeling tomorrow morning. Not that I care too much really, it's the cleaning operation of the means of production that I'm worried about...

To make things even worse when I'll reach home after work, I've been left on my own. My better half jetted to Oxbridge world to deliver a speech about 'quadripartite nature of strong structuration' and 'Mexican indigeneous people', or something like that. Sounds so fancy, doesn't it? What it is really about and how those two very remotely sounding entities come together, I shall leave to those who hold the knowledge to decide.

Anyway, it's quite nasty to be home alone and semi-ill. I'm also expecting this feeling to develop into full-grown flue shortly. My head is already showing signs of that. Few days on the sofa watching sports? Nah, I guess I'd rather go to work...

I better stop whining before I get told to shut up. Maybe the play-doh will change colour later so that I could try to create more varied things from it.

Return to Routines

Now that I'm actually in the office and bored as hell, this post serves the purpose of keeping me looking busy. Don't expect any clever comments or ingenius use of the beautiful language, I'll just say what I have to say and I'm off for the seventh coffee of the day with another temp that will be in the office for a week or so and whom I'll never see again but am still forced to smile at and even exchange comments about some f-list celebrities that she adores...

This is the second day at work after my week's break. I can't describe vividly enough the feeling of waking up on Monday morning waiting to switch the bloody kettle on to have my daily dosis of cheap English tea (aka 'monkey' to some) and to get to work. Words such as frustration, boredom, laziness etc all sprang to mind at once, albeit my mind was working on idle and probably was too numb to even put as many letters together to form such words...

Even worse, however, was the day and the afternoon before returning to my way-too-deeply-embedded routines of the working life. Some people call it the 'Sunday Syndrome' and I've also heard it being referred to as the 'fuck work, let's get drunk' day. However, it's not only when returning from holidays that I feel totally unmotivated, lazy and bored whilst expecting to thrust my head through that office door and putting my fake smile on before greeting everybody doing the exact same. I guess though, that returning from holiday must make this feeling grow exponentially.

Well, is there anything that could remove this somewhat sour feeling? So far, I've noticed that it just remains there, regardless of my ludicrous efforts to dispell it by doing something 'creative'. There is no cure, let me repeat, no cure for the Sunday Syndrome. It will prevail as long as I keep working for the 'man'.

Ok, maybe I'm bitter that I have a shitty job that keeps me unentertained most of my time and should be grateful that I even have one. Herein lies, actually, the second dilemma of the working life; not only hating to return to work but of being bored at work. As Mick mentioned below, this is the fundamental problem that many of us face. One week you work like a slave feeling the whip of the bossman on your sweaty back, the next you're playing the part of a "busy-looking-fella-who-actually-has-shit-all-to-do" in an everyday play of "make-your-living-with-a-job-that-you-hate".

I hate my job. Period. Hopefully this week's temp has better topics to talk about than just who went out from Big Brother last week...

Anyway, if anyone out there has a cure for feeling like a piece of excrement on Sundays, please let me know. Hell, I'd even pay for that.
N

Trains – Going Downhill

I used to like traveling by train. When I was little a train ride was a special treat, enjoyed only rarely when my mum took us to see some relatives far away. Those days trains were big, dirty, and terribly noisy monsters that you could hear and see miles away. Just the sort of things that kids like.

Even in my teens when I was ready to denounce most things (regardless of whether I understood them or not) I still liked trains. Not in that geeky way, though. I never owned a miniature railway or bed sheets with pictures of trains on them - I had brown bunnies on my sheets, thank you very much. But I liked to travel by train. I am a veteran of two InterRail trips around Europe, and I enjoyed every minute of them. There’s nothing quite like getting out of the train at six in the morning in Bucharest with a killer hangover. You just know that those days will be interesting. And so was the drunken conversation with a couple Romanian guys I met in the train the night before. We had no common language so we just drank their home made booze, named footballers and gave them thumbs up or down. More elaborate signs were needed when we tried to agree that certain English midfielder was indeed greatly overrated, although he did have a decent right foot and a pretty face.

These days, however, I find myself enjoying travel by train less and less. And it’s not just because they are always late. In fact, that hardly bothers me at all. I certainly don’t care about a few minutes here and there. The people that have nothing else to talk about than trains being late, they bother me. Give me a couple of drunken Romanians and a football magazine, and I will have much better time. Ok, I might need the booze as well.

What bothers me is that trains are becoming more and more boring all the time. It used to be great to go to the restaurant car and have a drink and a chat with a complete stranger. You could find yourself in the most bizarre conversations – and company. Restaurant cars used to be naturally sociable places, where you could escape the smelly man in the seat next to yours.

But that’s history now. In some trains they don’t have restaurant cars at all, only those little trolleys that are always squeaking next to you if you try to sleep but are never there when you want a drink. Where they still have restaurant cars they have made sure that the visitors want to leave as soon as they have scoffed their over-priced sandwiches: the seats make stone slabs feel soft and comfortable, everything costs more than it does in the trolley, and the queues are ridiculously long.

Taking a train these days is like flying (another form of transport I’m not so keen on). You sit in your seat throughout the trip, you don’t talk to anyone, and you sure as hell don’t feel like this is a place where you are expected to enjoy yourself. I realize that this is the way that most things work these days: restaurant cars are more expensive to build and maintain than the bloody trolleys, hard seats last longer than the nice old soft ones, and as always, profits are determining what we get for our money.

But after all the rationalisation, cost effectiveness, and service improvements, what do we really get – dull train rides, that’s what!