Special relationships

I’ll level with you here, back home my Lincolnshire accent has never really opened many doors in the ladies department. But over here in the Land of the Free, not only has my accent opened a few doors, it’s taken me by the hand and led me upstairs to the bedroom. Now I know what the Beach Boys were singing about when they said “I wish they all could be Californian”.

You could say I’ve been doing my own bit for Anglo-American relations this week . ;-)

After the Secret Seed Society binned my mung bean story I was pretty miffed, even though, as my very excellent follower Mr ee Hemingway pointed out, rejection is part and parcel of the life of the struggling writer. There’s an awful lot of romance around the notion of the struggling writer, but sometimes I think I’d rather be a Ken Follet or Jilly Cooper, rather than a Franz Kafka. (Jeesh, readers, I had a crack at The Trial after I went to Prague on Steve's stag do a few years back. Never mind struggling writer, I was a struggling reader!!!).

Anyway, In an effort to cheer myself up, I decided to do what many great writers have done in the past. I sought solace at the end of a bottle. Americans don't have the same great drinking culture as us Brtis, but one of the great things about America is the fact that you can nip out to bars and just get chatting with the locals. Honestly, you can just pop yourself on a bar stool and strike up conversation. It really is just like in the movies!

(WARNING: Dear American readers, if you find yourself in Chelsea looking for a boozer, you can't go far wrong with the Imperial. But if you try and start up a conversation at the bar, don't be surprised if you're verbally or possibly physically abused. Keep yourself to yourself and DO NOT make eye contact with the regulars.)

One of the other great things about America (and significantly better than the Imperial) is the fact that the birds go absolutely crackers over the English accent. Dave had told me about this after his recent trip to Edmonton Alberta (which is in Canada and not America, although it is in the Americas - Canadians get pissy (that's American for pissed off) when you call them Americans, but Americans don't really care if you call them Canadians - it's not unlike the relationship we English have with the Scotch).

With Dave's observations about the old accent I did kind of ham it up a bit. And it paid dividends in spades. I got chatting to a slightly mature woman. But mature in a very sexy American Woman sort of way. One of the dangerous things about American bar culture though, is the fact that the bartender (that's American for barman) keeps an eye on your glass and when you've got a few mouthfuls left comes over and offers up the opportunity of a refill. So even though the local beer tastes like cold piss you can still get drunk quite quickly.

The more I drunk the more my lady friend seemed to grow in sexiness. She had a great figure and I think that's because she was some sort of local athlete, when she went to the restroom (that's American for toilet) one of the locals and the bartender told me that she was one of the best Cougars they'd ever seen! I think they're probably the local soccer team. Women's soccer is a much bigger business in America than England.

I must confess I did tell a few porkies to impress Samantha. And if you ever find yourself reading this blog, Sam, I don't really know Prince William, I don't live in a castle, I am not related to Oliver Cromwell (although you don't know who Cromwell was, so that lie was a bit of a waste of time), I am not (yet) a highly acclaimed author, and I'm a little bit older than I told you I was (although, I strongly suspect you might have been lying that one right back at me).

Still, all's fair in love and war. I won't go into too much detail readers, what goes on tour, stays on tour, but I like to think the Newsdesk magic went down well. Although, one thing that differs greatly between American woman and the English roses that I have bedded in the past. They know what they want and they aren't afraid to be up front and demand. I found it a little bit intimidating in all honesty and I have never seen such a wide variety of sexual aids, most of which were utilized at one stage or another throughout the night. And not necessarily with my direct involvement. I didn't sleep a bloody wink actually, and I'm totally shattered. And quite sore.

I'm off home on the red eye later today, so might not get another chance to blog before next week. But as the governor of California so famously said.....I'll be back.

Word out

Baz

First day nerves

I won't lie to you readers, it's just not in my nature, for some reason I'm really nervous about tomorrow and my first day in the new job. Sounds silly really, but I've been out of the rat-race of office life now for over six months, and the 15 years of media sales I racked up before I was made redundant might as well have been 15 minutes.

You see, the thing is, I wasn't entirely upfront with Dan Bantam, I've never really worked at the coal face, as it were, of media sales. My specialism was in something known as Newspaper Communication Insertion and Distribution Logistics. I basically worked hand-in-hand with the Marketing Collateral Division to ensure the seamless, timely, delivery of High Level Corporate Sales Information Leaflets and Brochures.

I'm probably confusing you with all my technical terms. Basically, I was responsible for chasing down the invoices of companies that had flyers inserted into the Daily Mail. Bingo, Scratchcards, Perfumery. I've seen it all. Still, it was only a small white lie, I mean how difficult can selling adverts be? Surely you just phone up the peoople who placed adverts last time and book them in next month!!

The trouble is, I don't really know that much about the subject of personnel. Personnel, like a number of other terms has been businessified up, mainly by Americans, and is now known more commonly as Human Resources.

Personnel and Human Resources are one and the same. But if you tell a Human Resources Professional this they tend to get quite precious. I know this from very personal experience. As regular readers or readers that have recently started following and have bothered to read the backstory will know, my recently ex-d girlfriend Gill Nelson is a Human Resources Professional.

I once made her cry by calling it personnel. Not on purpose mind, I think she's made some people redundant that morning and she said she was feeling a bit low, I told her in no uncertain terms that in today's cutthroat world of trade and commerce there are no people, there are just employees. I'd had a few Cobras and kinded of hammered home my views. In full fairness to me, the last people to leave a sinking firm the personnel department, I said.

I was probably feeling a little bitter at the time, bitter but realistic. I said she was a pretty canny operator, leaving school with an English and History degree, which basically qualifies you for nothing, and somehow engineering herself into an unsackable job, "a job for life" I called it, I think this is what started her off to be honest. Her Mum had recently passed on and she was a school teacher so never really undestood what it was Gill did all day. Dreaming up pointless courses and making people redundant in the main, I'd said.

Anyway, I figured enough water has passed under the bridge since we split up, so I thought I'd give Gill a call to pick her brains regarding some of the latest development in the industry. If I can turn up tomorrow morning with a few words of jargon and some general industry knowledge, it'll help me settle in no end.

I thought she'd be pleased with me, pleased so have someone to talk to about Human Resources. Jesus, how wrong can you be? Don't answer that. She just scoffed that I didn't know anything about the subject and with my track record of staying power I'd be lucky to last the first day.

It must be the hormones, I thought, so I asked her how she was getting on with Dave the roofer. Not surprisingly Dave the roofer has thus far failed to step up to the plate and do the decent thing. But, GET THIS, Gill isn't even bothered about being married. I questioned the wisdom of bringing a bastard child into the world. She didn't respond to this, I think I touched a nerve. Seems Dave, the roofer, has already set up a fund for his progeny. Ten grand he's put into it?! And Gill says he's going to put in £1000 every month INDEFINITELY!!!

No wonder she's so bloody chirpy. Selfish cow. If I didn't know better I'd assume she tricked my best friend Dave the roofer into the whole thing.

Now that's Human Resources.

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine…

Not just a feature of the worst Beatles song ever (the White Album? Come on Paul, Ringo George and John, you could have done better than that. After all, you wrote Love Me Do) but now the number of my newest follower. Welcome Cathy!

'Booze, shoes and tattoos' sounds like the blog of a hell’s angel with a foot fetish. But it isn’t, readers, it’s the blog of ‘Cathy’ my latest follower. Six foot three and 16 stone, bald, with bushy whiskers and a huge beer belly, that’s what your average Hell’s Angel looks like. Cathy, on the other hand, well it’s difficult to tell exactly what she looks like. But she’s flicking the V at the camera in her profile picture so we can assume that she’s a bit feisty.

We can also assume that she has tattoos and shoes and that she likes booze. The final assumption is more than borne out by her blog. She appears to drink a lot. Stella, in particular. Now you know me, readers, I’m pretty up to the minute with my views about things like womens’ lib. Like on the tube, I never give up my seat to a woman, because it’s condescending. If they ask, then that’s fine. They can have it. Especially if they’re pregnant, for example. Or crying.

Speaking of which, the other day I saw an advert on the tube for something called a Mooncup. This, it turns out, is an alternative to tampons or sanitary towels. At school these were called ‘mice’ and ‘crash-mats’ by the girls. Anyway, the mooncup is a flexible rubber cone that the woman pops up her unmentionable when she’s a maiden of the moon. It works on the same principle as when you have a leak in the roof and you put a bucket underneath it.

Anyway apparently it’s more ecological than the alternatives because it’s re-usable and I understand that it’s more comfortable too. As with the bucket, though, you just have to remember to empty it.

Sticking on the tube for a minute, I saw a woman with a badge on the tube the other day. The badge said “I’m pregnant, not fat”. I don’t know about you, readers, but I thought this woman was being harsh to people who are overweight. That’s prejudice all on its own. Who does she think she is? Some fat people might need a seat. It might be their glands, for example. Like my cat, Matthew. So I didn’t give her my seat. She could have dropped her kid right in front of me for all I cared, and I wouldn’t have moved. You SHOULDN’T be fat-ist. I felt like saying to her: “You’re ugly, too.” She had a hell of a hooter on her, I’ll tell you that much.

Anyway, like I was saying, I’m right up there with womens’ lib but I do believe in traditional things here and there. Like girls drinking pints of Stella? Do you have to? Couldn’t you just have a bottle, or a half? Or a glass of medium white wine? It’s just more ladylike, that’s all. I’m not saying you can’t play football, or be one of the police that’s allowed to carry a gun, or even be prime minister if you really want to. But do you really have to drink pints?

Anyway, I was supposed to be welcoming Cathy, who works in PR. That’s Press Relations. I have my first professional press relations lady following my citizen journalism blog. Tiny steps, readers, tiny steps.

Women!

Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, apparently. I don't think I'll ever truly understand the fairer sex.

I told Gill about what Richard had said to me at Blockbusters, and about Leigh. She gave me a really hard time, I couldn't believe it. I'm just trying to put food on the table. I thought she'd be proud of the stand I'd taken, she knows that Leigh and I had become close, but I blew the whistle, and that takes real integrity!

Then after having a massive go, she wanted me to go out to the cinema, it's Orange Wednesday two for the price of one and she wanted to see some damn romcom, I wasn't really in the mood to be honest. Sometimes social obligations can be a little bit complex.

Then she kept going on about how I'd beomce distant, and commitment and moving in. I know it makes sense financially, but I can't be tied down, I seriously think that Amber and I have connected. I made the mistake of telling Gill that Amber reminded me of Mum.

Gill knows I love Mum, to be honest I think she's jealous (Gill, not Mum - Mum never gets jealous, despite what Dad used to say. I've not told you about Dad yet, readers, maybe I'll get around to it one of these days).

Anyway, Gill goes off on one completely about how I'm wasting my time with Blockbusters, and why can't I get back into media sales, and Citizen Journalism is a waste of time. I think it might be moon time :@ her emotions are so unpredictable. I shouldn't be blaming Mother Nature for her outbursts and criticism though, she's only got herself to blame.

In the end she went home in a huff. Didn't even finish her chardoney.

I called up Mum, and you won't believe this, she took Gill's side!!!

I told you that you wouldn't beleieve it, WOMEN!