October 2008 Archives

I see John Lydon (ex-rebel who used to front the Sex Pistols) is now advertising butter on television - because when you hear the words 'punk' and 'anarchy' you immediately think Ah, butter don't you. Piers Morgan (egotistical ex-editor of the Daily Mirror) has also jumped on the bandwagon by advertising M&S food - though why anyone would trust anything Mr Morgan recommends is beyond me.

In the quest for easy money, and in exchange for my soul and any semblance of pride, I would like to offer my services to marketing agencies as their Front Line Woman - the 'woman on the street' so to speak:

* Woman in kitchen full of smoke, cremating food. Cries as she pulls a black object from the oven and tosses it into pan-filled sink. In the distance, cheerful husband cries, "Hi, honey, I'm home." Husband comes into kitchen, views the chaos, hugs sobbing wife, and smiles. "Don't worry, love," he says, holding up a leaflet, "That's what takeaways are for."

Tagline: Wah Hung Chinese Takeaway, for those who can't (and shouldn't) cook.

* Woman sitting on sofa, wailing hysterically. "I've got so much work to do and so many bills to pay, I can't cope, really I can't. I just can't. I can't - ". "Here," says a manly voice, as a hand holding a tumbler comes into view, "Have some of this."

Tagline: Jack Daniels, softens the edges of a harsh life.

* Woman striding cheerfully in front of camera wearing a full-length padded coat. "See this," she smiles, pulling the huge collar up around her face, "Waterproof. Thermal lined. Can withstand gale force winds, hailstorms and blizzards. Perfect outdoor wear for..." Woman joins large group of people standing outside a pub and takes something from one of them, "...smoking outside."

Tagline: Thermal Mountain Wear, to stop you freezing your nuts off.

* Man and woman arguing in a grey room, throwing things, shouting. Close up shots of angry faces. Woman suddenly cries, "I've had enough!" and picks up a phone. "Hello?" she says, as the man paces angrily behind her, "Is this Hit Men Anonymous? Yes, I'd like to place an order please."

Tagline: Hit Men Anonymous, when divorce lawyers just won't do.

* Trinny and Suzanna rush up to unsuspecting woman in the street. "Now if we could just raise the hemline," says Trinny, lifting up the woman's skirt. "And move these boobs around a bit," says Suzanna, reaching down the woman's cleavage. Woman calls a policeman over and says, "Yes, officer, they're doing it again, the perverts. Take them away."

Tagline: The New Trinny and Susanna Show - When Victims Fight Back

Last shot of Trinny crying. "S'up?" asks Susanna. Trinny wails, "They've put me in a Primark dress!"

Tagline: Primark - Sponsors of the victims.

* Woman rushes into chemist, violently pushing all other customers aside. Slams fists down on counter and shrieks, "Give me hormone replacement patches! Give them to me now! I swear to God if I don't get those patches in the next 10 seconds I'm going to cause some serious damage around here, do you hear me? Do you have any concept whatsoever of what I'm going through right now? DO YOU?"

Tagline (weary male voice): Hormone replacement patches. Use them, 'cos we're tired of your shit.

Advertisers: Get in touch, we'll talk

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Giving up the city - the well paid job, the designer suits (Primark is designer isn't it?), the girlie lunches and the general fisticuffs of normal office life - wasn't a conscious decision. I didn't sit down over a period of weeks/months/years and work out my finances or embark on a specific plan of action or anything like that.

I'm a spontaneous type of person, a free-flyer, a 'go with the flow' sort - which is another way of saying I couldn't organised a piss up in a brewery if my life depended on it.

No, leaving the city was more a case of screaming 'I can't stand this any more!' and legging it, literally sprinting across Victoria Square vowing never to return. I think I flipped the bird at some point, possibly hissed 'Bar stewards!' a few times, quite loudly I think.

It was a combination of things that brought about this hasty and impromptu departure. If you were drowning, you'd reach a point where you'd think Hmm, suspect I'm about to die. If you were running towards a cliff edge at full pelt, there would be a moment when you'd realise you weren't going to be able to stop in time. It was that sort of thing.

And my age too. I never admit to my age because women don't do they, so when I say 37 you can go ahead and laugh your socks off and I won't care, I've said 37 and I'm sticking to it. Having got through a couple of husbands, a few motorbikes and three offspring of the male variety, I was a bit worn out. Knackered in fact. I had no incentive to gossip relentlessly around the photocopying machine, indulge in office politics (yawn) or fight with/off colleagues and bosses. It all got... well it got a bit tedious to be honest. Office life isn't real life is it, it's more like Big Brother without the cameras (and Louise is in the mail room throttling Karen from accounts).

It was the daily commute into the city that finally swung it. I live 3 miles from the city centre, but traffic jams and gridlocks meant I'd be sitting on the top deck of a bus for the best part of an hour or more twice a day. I'd walk to work if the bus broke down, and walk home if the snow got too deep.

It was a form of torture. You can only listen to someone else's pounding ipod for so long before the urge to shove it up their posterior becomes almost irresistible. I'm only surprised there's not more Bus Rage, with passengers 'losing it' big time on the top deck of the number nine.

I told my boss I was going into meltdown and it seriously wasn't worth it, waved at my less psychotic colleagues, and left. Permanently. Just like that. Epiphany had arrived.

Of course, Epiphany wasn't much use when I got home (it rushed off with some lame excuse about a doctor's appointment). Euphoria quickly turned into Abject Panic, and then the screaming started.

"Whatcha gonna do now then?" chanted Common Sense as it sat filing its nails with a smug look on its face. (Yeah, where was it when I walked out of my job, eh? Nowhere to be seen then was it!)

In the end I started up my own business because (a) I couldn't stand the thought of getting on another bus; (b) I couldn't stand to watch any more amateur dramatics over the filing cabinets; (c) it seemed simple enough (naïve beyond belief in retrospect); and (b) I'd always wanted to work at home because I am, at heart, idle.

I've been self-employed a while now, and there's nothing like the adrenalin rush of finding enough work every day to keep a roof over my head. Jack Osborne, Adrenaline Junkie? Pah! Bungee jumping off a mountain is nothing compared to the horror of opening up a final demand for national insurance (which I forgot to pay... again). Give him a keyboard and a list of bills to pay and see how tough he thinks he is then.

In my quest for an 'easy life' (cue hysterical laughter) I've learned a few things:

• If you don't take regular exercise you start to look like the Michelin Man rather quickly. Found a dog that didn't look like it would chew my leg off given half a chance, and started walking every day. Fighting off other dogs who seem intent on killing my dog is great exercise for both upper and lower body toning.

• Once word gets out that you're 'at home all day', friends and relatives will happily pop in for coffee and a chat at any time, and be quite put out when you push them out the door muttering wildly about deadlines.

• Doorstep and telephone salesmen only respond to expletives and strong threats of violence.

• Filling in any tax form is worse than having teeth pulled with rusty pliers whilst having pins inserted into your eyeballs and your intestines removed without the aid of anaesthetic all at the same time. Paying someone else to do it is worth Every Single Penny.

• Even with an accountant, the thieving Inland Revenue will strip you of all your clothes and leave you cold and naked while they help themselves to the contents of your bank account.

• Regardless of what your inner Slob Monster tells you, it is not alright to watch Jeremy Kyle all afternoon, play Mahjong for a couple of hours, or sit twiddling your hair and munching through a box of chocolates whilst talking to mates on the phone all day. I've always found the prospect of Crippling Poverty to be a great motivator.

• Maintain links with the outside world - snarling at doorstop salesman doesn't count as social interaction. Do lunch, do dinner, do the Girls Night Out that ends with you falling through the door at 3am covered in melted makeup and dog poo.

Being a self-employed home worker is fine if you don't mind reclusive isolation or skipping around the edges of insanity once in a while - but then, who says insanity is a bad thing?

Off now to chat to the Keyboard People and the talking cacti.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.

Shoes don't do it for me. I have one pair of shoes (yep, one), some trainers, and boots which are falling to pieces.

Clothes don't do it for me either. Nor does jewellery, makeup, hairstyles or Heat magazine.

What does it for me in the Biggest Way is books. If my home insurance company saw how much bound paper I have stashed in the house, they'd cancel my policy on the grounds of it being a fire hazard.

As a chronic and incurable bibliophile, I often grab people fiercely by the arm and holler, "You must read this! It's brilliant!" Terrifies the life out of them, but I can't stop myself. I think people who read a book and then throw it away are heathens and philistines who should be given a damn good thrashing. The scariest film I've ever seen is Farenheit 451.

Rubbish books are usually tossed across the room with a frustrated cry of anguish (half an hour of my life wasted on drivel), but the good ones are cherished and stroked and reverently taken care of.

I'm reading a good one at the moment, and in true bibliophile manner I feel obliged to grab you by the arm and rave about it in a really hysterical and slightly demented way. I bought it at the airport thinking it was a bit of holiday fluff. It's had me howling with laughter.

"I returned from the local nightclub at 3am to find a fracas erupting in the snooker room. A group of German bankers had several of my executives up against a wall and were threatening to punch their lights out. I regret to say that when one of the bankers shouted, 'You started zis!' I shouted back, "No ve didn't - you invaded Poland!"

Can you guess what it is yet? How about this, which had me rolling around on the carpet wiping the tears from my eyes and gasping for air:

"Martin Dunn, former No.2 on The Sun, once ran a story about Boy George buying a new house. Unfortunately they pictured the wrong property and the owner rang Kelvin in a fury, demanding to know what he was going to do about the fact that 2,000 screaming transvestites were outside his home. 'Dunn!' he screamed.

Martin sloped into Kelvin's office, his shoulders slunk back in anticipation of the impending thrashing. He saw Kelvin's bulging neck veins, mad staring eyes and half-clenched fist, and decided there was no course of action left to him other than to pretend to faint. So he collapsed face down on to the floor, falling convincingly flat and hard. Kelvin ran over, picked Martin up by his left ear, and said calmly, 'You'd better be dead, Dunn, because if you're not you f***ing soon will be."

The Insider - Private Diaries of a Scandalous Decade by Piers Morgan. If you work in the city centre, go out at lunchtime and Buy This Book. If you're at home, order it off t'internet. Just get it and read it, it's good.

[No bribery was taken in the writing of this post, but bribes willingly accepted if someone's willing to offer me one. Next week, why I love Toshiba laptops so much - Toshiba, get in touch.]

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time