Job Search Day

Here is a remarkable blog post. Glenn Sacks, who I'm ambivalent about. Jail for masturbating. Jail for masturbating in jail, in fact. Indecent exposure, they say, victimising the female guard who was spying on him through a camera connection.


Half day at the New Deal Office today, due to staff training.


It's interesting the things you hear in a New Deal office. And the things you see. Today I was overhearing a nice little story about why one of the attendees was late, something to do with a riot at the KFC, when he pulled the front of his hoodie up at the neck to form a face-protecting balaclava, which attaches to the hood section making the wearer look like either a terrorist, a bank robber or a member of the SAS. I also heard the word "scutterpig", not something I hear everyday. Don't use it on Radio 4, they don't.

I think I've pointed out how little I like the sound of human voices. Like a grater on my nerves, it is. I have trouble deciphering them, which doesn't help. There is someone sitting next to me in the library who talks far too much, with one of his little friends. He's the one who seems to be wearing perfume. He's always arseing about at the library, talking very loudly in an annoying voice with one of his band of homosexual followers. At least, I assume they're homosexual. They're extraordinarily camp, anyway. The sleeveless T-shirts and wristbands, the single earing (a well known gay code of dress before being adopted by effeminate youngsters), the bristly pseudo-military haircuts. The lisp. The perfume. They're whinging about the iniquities of someone called "Dane", who I believe I met at the New Deal office. They're arguing about going to see the Transformers movie. Ooh, must be straight, then. They could just be camp, mind. They were talking about a Kit, which could be a man or the car from camp 80s TV programme "Night Rider", but I think is probably the Kit who is an occasional volunteer at the charity shop.

It seems difficult to understand why finding a job would be so hard. Even in a meritocratic society where everything is based on certificates and experience and the shiny clothing you wear. There was a Panorama a bit back where a couple of undercover reporters just walked in off the street and were straight away hired as professional fishmongers and butchers, in which they had previously had minimal expertise. That's never happened to me. Of course, they're RP speaking and with the weight of the BBC behind them acting like MI6 providing fake references and all that sort of thing. FW Demara had no problems, though. He became a monk, although he was sacked, he tried again and ended up stealing the monastic car. He became a teacher, although he had no relevant qualifications, and became a Naval surgeon although he had neither qualifications, nor experience and was, in fact, a deserter from the armed forces of his own country.

Oscar the death cat, I notice, appears on both Football365 and on the rigint message board.