Being Ryan Giggs’ lawyer must be about the worst job in the world. After lots of effort to suppress the story that his client, a Welsh footballer, allegedly had an affair with a beauty queen, he then sees it announced all over the internet and newspapers. Being Gigg’s publicity guy must be the second worst job as he had to spin the story that, actually, we’d all just misunderstood. What Manchester based Ryan had said was “from time to time I do miss Wales”, not “from time to time I do Miss Wales.”
This week I came across various jobs that might join the Giggs camp and qualify to be in the top ten worst professions in the world. I’ve just had five days on the beach in Portugal, raising my head only to buy fresh doughnuts from a cake seller who strolled the beach all day in blistering heat trying to lighten his load as quickly as possible while dripping sweat all over his cookies – and shame on you and your dirty mind if you sniggered at that last scenario! That guy must have one of the worst jobs ever, tho’ I think the gastroenterologist at Faro hospital may have an even worse one as he cleaned up the aftermath of those sweaty, sand covered, doughnuts.
How about the poor bloke I saw on Wednesday who stood on a high box outside toy store Hamleys dressed as a pirate and shouting “Arrrr, Jim Lad” to entice kids in while blowing bubbles? He has a rubbish job and I passed him again four hours later as he still stood now sounding hoarse, sweating like an engine stoker’s bum crease, with washing up liquid dribbling out of his mouth and looking like a skirmish at sea with the British navy might be more enjoyable.
One of the worst jobs in the world might be something we all assume is actually quite easy. I’m thinking here of the job of a psychoanalyst. Imagine how boring it must be having to sit for hours listening to other people talk about their real and imagined problems while constantly wanting to jump in with “sort yourself out you big girl’s blouse. You think YOU’VE got problems, well let me tell you about ME.”
Being a soldier in conflict is a pretty bad job. New figures show American soldiers need therapy afterwards – ten times more than British soldiers - because they’re brought up to expect that analysis can give you anything and everything, except of course a good job. I once went to a psychotherapist who asked me one question and then sat back for an hour leaving big silences that I was supposed to fill. Pardon me, but for £120 an hour I’m expecting her to do the talking, not me. It wasn’t until I told her I wouldn’t be coming back, or indeed paying her bill, that she suddenly found her voice. I think she found the shouting and swearing quite therapeutic.
Having a job as the voice of the speaking clock must be a rubbish way of earning a living. Every time you open your mouth in a supermarket people smile with recognition and ask the time. I just hope and pray the current bloke has a sense of humour and answers with “the time sponsored by Accurist is...”. If you want to know the time, by the way, and also annoy an MP at the same time, ask Chris Huhne the Liberal Democrat who is hogging the political news with claims he made his wife take driving penalty points for him. Huhne’s mum, Ann Murray, was the voice of the speaking clock for years. Pity she didn’t do it live as she wouldn’t have had the spare time to get pregnant.
My daughter had her belly button pierced this week and going with her to offer support I realised that being a tattoo artist is a pretty rubbish job too. Apart from punching holes in people all day like a secretary ploughing through binding, you have to be a walking advert for your profession and show off that it’s not painful by having graffiti on your arms, piercings across your ears, and studs through your nostrils giving you a permanent sniff.
But perhaps the worst job in the world is designing web sites. I’d like to thank John for redesigning mine and listening to my ideas and moans for months. I hope you like it. If you do, it was all my idea. If you don’t, blame John.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
I Belong To Glasgow
I spent last weekend in Glasgow watching tourists climb my parents’ mountains of Easter Eggs. I think the Easter bunny must at least have a holiday home in my mum and dad’s garden along with all the baby Easter bunnies, and their cousins, aunties, uncles and step children twice removed. Mum’s lounge resembles Willy Wonka’s present cupboard.
She has no discipline whatsoever when it comes to chocolate so eats her Easter eggs straight away while dad usually leaves his for a few weeks till she’s finished and then teases her by eating his very slowly in front of her. She got her own back last year by eating his eggs from the back, apart from the small visible bit that pokes through the cardboard at the front. She had glued that in place so that he wouldn’t suspect.
The Scots have a tradition I haven’t seen in England of rolling hard bloiled eggs down a hill on Easter Monday and then eating them, and I’m surprised it hasn’t become a delicacy in Scottish restaurants to remind us all of childhood – Bolied Eggs Froid served with Grass and Broken Shell and the odd bit of Dog Poo.
There’s something strange about going home to the area where you grew up and remembering long forgotten traditions. Football pitches where I kicked a ball, and trees where I once climbed, now look much smaller of course, buildings have sprung up and roads appeared that weren’t there before. But what I really noticed this time was the pace of life was so much slower and more relaxed. London, without warning, seems to have turned me in to a speed freak where actually just doing nothing hasn’t been an option for a long time.
Sure, people drive more slowly in Glasgow, but I think there might be a reason for that. The roads there resemble the floor of a badly maintained quarry that has been bombed and then attacked by an army of tarmac eating ants with pickaxes and hungry bellies. Forget going to Alton Towers or Disneyland. You want a bumpy, screaming, rollercoaster ride? Drive on any main road in Glasgow. You can make it more exciting by flying the flag of England and weaving in and out of traffic shouting “Bring Back Maggie”.
But this slower pace of life thing is more than just speed on side streets. People take time to talk to each other, even strangers.
Beside me at the supermarket, the checkout girl looked at the woman behind me and said “That’s a load of stuff you’ve got there. Having a party?”. The answer was “No, it’s pie day.” Now pie day was not a tradition I remembered at all but it seemed a great idea – every one gets a shortcrust treat for their dinner, maybe a nice steak and kidney followed by an apple and blackcurrant? As I listened closely it turned out that I simply hadn’t adjusted to the dialect yet. This woman confessed she gets “pied every Friday as Friday is pie day”, and it was then I realised she meant “pay day”. But I still think pie day is a better idea.
As my mum and dad are a bit hard of hearing, their TV has the subtitles on permanently and whoever invented speech recognition software for television certainly wasn’t a Scotsman. As one Glasgow reporter with a broad accent asked the Prime Minister if the election was all about “the cuts”, the subtitles informed us it was “all about the cats” which, again, seems a great idea. Watching football on Sunday the commentator shouted “Celtic and Rangers are desperate for goals” but the subtitles told us they were “desperate for golf”. And the accent is catching. I have come back to London sounding like the love child of Susan Boyle and Kenny Dalglish.
While my garden in London basked in tropically hot, sunny weather over the weekend, I was enjoying the tradition of cloud and a bit of rain in Glasgow, and it may sound that with the clapped out roads and the rotten weather I wish I’d stayed home in London. But no.
For all its faults Glasgow will always be home, and if I eventually move back there I’m going to set myself up in business as a road repairer. That way I’ll have enough millions in the bank not just to escape to somewhere warm on holiday, I will be able to buy the sun outright and rent it out.
She has no discipline whatsoever when it comes to chocolate so eats her Easter eggs straight away while dad usually leaves his for a few weeks till she’s finished and then teases her by eating his very slowly in front of her. She got her own back last year by eating his eggs from the back, apart from the small visible bit that pokes through the cardboard at the front. She had glued that in place so that he wouldn’t suspect.
The Scots have a tradition I haven’t seen in England of rolling hard bloiled eggs down a hill on Easter Monday and then eating them, and I’m surprised it hasn’t become a delicacy in Scottish restaurants to remind us all of childhood – Bolied Eggs Froid served with Grass and Broken Shell and the odd bit of Dog Poo.
There’s something strange about going home to the area where you grew up and remembering long forgotten traditions. Football pitches where I kicked a ball, and trees where I once climbed, now look much smaller of course, buildings have sprung up and roads appeared that weren’t there before. But what I really noticed this time was the pace of life was so much slower and more relaxed. London, without warning, seems to have turned me in to a speed freak where actually just doing nothing hasn’t been an option for a long time.
Sure, people drive more slowly in Glasgow, but I think there might be a reason for that. The roads there resemble the floor of a badly maintained quarry that has been bombed and then attacked by an army of tarmac eating ants with pickaxes and hungry bellies. Forget going to Alton Towers or Disneyland. You want a bumpy, screaming, rollercoaster ride? Drive on any main road in Glasgow. You can make it more exciting by flying the flag of England and weaving in and out of traffic shouting “Bring Back Maggie”.
But this slower pace of life thing is more than just speed on side streets. People take time to talk to each other, even strangers.
Beside me at the supermarket, the checkout girl looked at the woman behind me and said “That’s a load of stuff you’ve got there. Having a party?”. The answer was “No, it’s pie day.” Now pie day was not a tradition I remembered at all but it seemed a great idea – every one gets a shortcrust treat for their dinner, maybe a nice steak and kidney followed by an apple and blackcurrant? As I listened closely it turned out that I simply hadn’t adjusted to the dialect yet. This woman confessed she gets “pied every Friday as Friday is pie day”, and it was then I realised she meant “pay day”. But I still think pie day is a better idea.
As my mum and dad are a bit hard of hearing, their TV has the subtitles on permanently and whoever invented speech recognition software for television certainly wasn’t a Scotsman. As one Glasgow reporter with a broad accent asked the Prime Minister if the election was all about “the cuts”, the subtitles informed us it was “all about the cats” which, again, seems a great idea. Watching football on Sunday the commentator shouted “Celtic and Rangers are desperate for goals” but the subtitles told us they were “desperate for golf”. And the accent is catching. I have come back to London sounding like the love child of Susan Boyle and Kenny Dalglish.
While my garden in London basked in tropically hot, sunny weather over the weekend, I was enjoying the tradition of cloud and a bit of rain in Glasgow, and it may sound that with the clapped out roads and the rotten weather I wish I’d stayed home in London. But no.
For all its faults Glasgow will always be home, and if I eventually move back there I’m going to set myself up in business as a road repairer. That way I’ll have enough millions in the bank not just to escape to somewhere warm on holiday, I will be able to buy the sun outright and rent it out.
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