If you don't ask, you don't get.

Dear Mr  Edwards,

      

Thank you for your e-mail received 20^th May 2011, expressing your interest in applying for the Managerial vacancy.

As we are sure you are aware the position has now been fulfilled.  We would like to thank you for taking your time in writing to us and showing an interest in the Club, and we would like to retain your details on file for future reference.

May we take this opportunity of thanking you for bringing your experience to our attention and wish you every success for the future.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Kerr

HR Director

West Ham United Football Club
___________


Dear sir/madam,

I would like to formally announce my interest in your vacant position of Manager.

My name is Adam Edwards and I'm a recent graduate from the University of Liverpool. Although my degree was in Music - hardly a sporty subject, I'll admit - I've always had a tremendous enthusiasm for the wonderful, noble sport of football. I've played football since the age of 4, and now at the age of 23 my love for the game hasn't waned a bit.

Whilst I don't have any formal managing experience, I do have a healthy respect for tactics and a remarkable ability to tell whether a player is offside or not, without even looking at replays. I feel that this would be an invaluable skill for a manager to possess, as I wouldn't complain about decisions that I knew to be wrong and thus would save the club from having to pay any disciplinary fines.

I have strong motivational skills, evidenced weekly during 5-a-side sessions in which I relentlessly bark orders at my teammates. We're currently top of the league, unbeaten, after 7 games which I think speaks for itself. There is also a moment that stands out during my fledgling management career. When on my way to an event at Aintree Racecourse a few years ago, I was waiting for a bus. On the field behind the bus stop a group of 10-12 year olds were playing football. Maybe it was because I was dressed in a suit; perhaps it was the few cans of Strongbow I'd had as part of our "champagne breakfast"; but my managerial spirit took over, and I began to instinctively shout tactics at the team in claret and blue. Though at first bemused, maybe even a tad worried, they did begin to listen to me and within minutes they had scored. Though I missed the end of the game (the bus had arrived), I can almost guarantee that they won that match.

As mentioned above, I'm only 23 and although I do have a tendency to get injured at least once per season, I'd be more than willing to accept the role of player-manager. I'm a centre-half by trade and I love a good slide-tackle, though strangely I do hate heading the ball. I'll still do it though. For the team.

I'm currently a season ticket holder at Manchester United, but I'm giving that up due to ticket prices increasing so rest assured I'll be available for every West Ham match next season. My commitment will not be in question. I will also happily relocate to the East End, and even adopt a cockney accent if required; I'm very good at accents, though Northern Ireland is probably my strongest one. A video of these accents can be made available upon request.

I know that the club is going through a dark time but I'll be the breath of fresh air to reignite this wonderful footballing club. Together we can bring back that famous spirit of 1966; for Moore, Hurst and Peters read Spector, Ba and Edwards. We can do this. Together. 'mon the Irons!

I've attached my CV and I hope to hear from you regarding this, or any other opportunities you feel may be suitable.

Kind regards,
Adam Edwards

Snoop Dogg: Liverpool o2 Academy, 18/05/2011

In the week of Liverpool Sound City it can be difficult for an artist to stand out. Every venue in Liverpool City Centre had been preparing for months for the area's stand out music festival, but it was the o2 Academy on Hotham Street that seemed to be the busiest. The night before Sound City officially began, the Academy was clearly hosting something special. Two enormous tour-buses (I believe the technical term for their size is “big, fuck-off tour-buses”) blocked the road and security guards were intent on making sure no one wandered where they shouldn't. There was even a noticeable police presence – one frisking wasn't enough for entrance, you also had to shuffle past a sniffer-dog to get in, causing many a-pothead to creep past like a particularly nervous contestant on Knightmare. To say there was an atmosphere around the place would be an understatement, and few artists can generate this sort of buzz.

One man who certainly can is Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr. Or as he's better known, Snoop Dogg.

Even fewer artists can get away with taking the piss over stage-times as much as Snoop either. Whilst his DJ stretched out the minutes by inviting on stage the easier female members of the Liverpool crowd (who no doubt got the chance to make a “film” with Snoop backstage later on), the crowd gleaned with an anticipatory sweat; not helped by the Krazyhouse-levels of humidity in the Academy. After two hefty bodyguards lined the stage to discourage any would-be invaders, the Doggfather himself finally arrived to a tremendous reception. Pigtails, shades and ridiculously oversized gold microphone in hand, Snoop dove straight in to the set.

As this tour was primarily to promote new album Doggumentary, there may have been some trepidation from those in attendance that he would focus on his newer songs while ignoring the classics; thankfully this was not to be the case*. Standards such as “Who Am I (What's My Name)” and “Tha Shiznit” rested comfortably alongside later hits like “Drop It Like It's Hot” and new single, “Wet (David Guetta remix)”. A setlist spanning three decades highlights a remarkable career for a man who is not yet 40 but has remained near-enough at the top of the rap game since his 1993 début – and it was a song from that début LP which stood out as the peak of the night, “Gin n Juice” bringing together the rapper on stage and the predominantly white, scouse crowd; many of whom were not even born when the song was first released.

Fans of Snoop's numerous collaborations were not to be disappointed either - “The Next Episode” kicked off the whole gig to an ecstatic crowd, and “I Wanna Fuck You” followed later on, as well as Snoop's version of 50 Cent's “P.I.M.P.”. The inclusion of a few musical tributes to fallen friends was a nice touch too , with covers of songs by House of Pain, Eazy-E, Tupac and Notorious B.I.G. - the sing-a-long chorus of the latter's “Hypnotise” going down particularly well with the crowd. There was also a touching moment of respect for his close friend, collaborator and cousin, Nate Dogg, who passed away earlier this year.

Though there was a surprising lack of guests joining him on stage, Snoop admirably held the crowd alone and performed for near an hour; more than one might expect for a rap gig these days. The setlist contained more than enough hits to keep most happy, with a few nice surprises along the way. For someone whose reputation almost certainly precedes him, it might have been hard for Snoop Dogg to live up to the high expectations of the Academy's capacity crowd. But he did it with aplomb, showing no sign of letting up and engaging in a nice level of interaction with the audience; even when potentially alienating half of the crowd by coming back on stage with a Liverpool FC shirt on, Snoop enhanced his reputation as a fan-favourite.  Even when a brief power-shortage caused the beats to drop he wasn't thrown off stride and remained in good spirits.

Snoop certainly has his critics, especially outside of music, but for rap fans he does not disappoint. It would have been easy for Snoop Dogg to phone in this sort of gig and simply play the tracks from his latest album, but the setlist was almost everything a fan could want and he performed with gusto, and perhaps most importantly, looked like he was enjoying it himself.

Hopefully next time he'll do it without the Liverpool shirt.

*Murder was tha case

A tribute, in spandex

I went to my first concert, as a wide-eyed 13 year old, when I went to see The Offspring back in January 2001. I remember being amazed at the scale of it – a reported 20,000 were crammed in to the M.E.N. Arena. A, the first support group, were to be the first of thousands of bands I'd be fortunate enough to see over the next ten years, and the gig as a whole remains a favourite of mine.

Since then other concerts stand out for varying reasons. Muse and their batshit-mental light-show, playing outdoors during one of the worst thunderstorms I've ever been caught in (Leeds, 2006); Snoop Dogg and his entourage performing to 30,000 pilled-up Europeans in a Serbian castle (EXIT, 2007); and Andrew WK, simply being Andrew WK in a tiny room to about 200 people (Manchester Academy 3, 2003). Right up there amongst those illustrious names*, though, is a band you may have never heard of before: Carousel Cartel.

Carousel Cartel – formerly known as Halagoogoo – are a three-piece from Bristol/London-ways, with a blues/rock sound that would not have gone amiss in 1972. Capable of a lot more noise than you'd perhaps expect from three short southerners, the group assuredly wear their influences on their spandex sleeves; from tight, Zeppelin II-esque guitar licks and pounding drums to the funky excitement of Ram Jam, Carousel Cartel clearly have the enthusiasm for classic rock and fortunately have the talent to match. Indeed, both the latter group's “Black Betty” and Zep's “Moby Dick” often make appearances in their live sets. And their live sets are really what this band is about.

I first saw CC/Halagoogoo back around 2007 at The Magnet in Liverpool. I was there to see my friend's band, a fine act in their own right, but it was hard not to notice the three people sitting by the stage waiting for their time to shine. Despite having had no idea who they were, if you see a band dressed in leopard-print leotards, fur coats and platform boots then you simply have to stay and watch – and I'm glad I did. While it was the outfits that drew us in, it was immediately obvious that this was a very talented, very tight band.

Simon Frost handles the tricky combination of lead vocals and lead guitar superbly – no easy task when you consider the Page-esque riffs he's expertly playing whilst maintaining strong - but not overbearing - vocals. Bassist Chris Neagle also provides backing vocals, furnishing the songs with some nice harmonies that complement his pounding, driving basslines. However it's drummer Ryan Woodland that invariably ends up as the centre of attention. Not because of his drumming – and he's certainly more-than-adequate, thumping but also capable of a subtle, jazzier style on songs like “Black Bryan”, for example, that provides an extra dimension to the group's rhythm – but because he seems to be on a one-man mission to avenge every drummer who has ever been roundly ignored, forgotten behind his kit.

Bounding across the stage, off the stage, into the audience and onto the audience at any opportunity, Woodland's energy and sense of (more than a little unhinged) fun is Carousel Cartel in a microcosm. Despite playing to about 25 people in the aforementioned Magnet gig, he was a dynamo; at one point he was in the crowd and miming performing fellatio on my friend Pete whilst playing a cowbell between his legs. Stood next to Pete, I couldn't help but wonder if I had had a close call or a missed opportunity.

Faux-homoeroticism aside, it's a shame that the band hasn't been given the wider opportunities their music, and especially their live shows, deserve. Considering the current nadir of British rock music, the energy and enthusiasm of Carousel Cartel would be a refreshing, entertaining change to the soulless guitar music that's widespread recently. Would you rather go and watch Snow Patrol croon through another forgettable rock-ballad or watch 3 men in headbands and leotards play – perform – out of their skin no matter the size of the audience?

For the last few years I've hugely overplayed my three-disc sampler (kindly given out for free at their 2009 Bumper gig, such nice boys) and tried to recommend them to anyone who would listen, converting a few friends along the way. Over the years their relentless touring has sure enough won them fans nationwide – to see them live is to more-than-likely love them. But sadly the band have decided to call it a day, and their last gig is Saturday the 28th in their HQ of Putney. I urge anyone nearby to call in for what will surely be a brilliant, worthy send-off. Disappointingly I can't make it but I feel privileged that I got to see them live, if only a couple of times, before they packed up for good.

And I haven't been able to look at a cowbell properly since.

Carousel Cartel are on Myspace, and are over here on Facebook.

*“and Andrew WK”, yeah yeah, you were thinking it. The man is a misunderstood genius

Hot-a Sowuss

For most bands a gap of seven years between (non-instrumental) albums would probably be regarded as lazy. With the Beastie Boys, though, it usually seems to be worth the wait; and considering they've released seven strong albums since their 1979 punk début - along with founding member MCA thankfully taming cancer over the last 18 months - it seems fine to cut them a little bit of slack. However as with any extended wait, the anticipation for the release has grown disproportionately – can Hot Sauce Committee Part 2 live up to the expectations placed upon it by anxious fans?

Opening with the single “Make Some Noise”, there's immediate signs that this is a Beastie Boys record. The track is loaded with synthesizers and scratches, setting the tone for a lot of the album, but is thankfully not overly saturated with them. Instead the synths complement the vocals and head-tapping backbeat and it's a positive opener to welcome the Boys back.

Collaborations are relatively rare for the Beastie Boys (reissues and remixes aside) but there are two on HSCP2. The first, featuring Nas, is “Too Many Rappers [new reactionaries version]”. This mix is slightly different to the versions that have appeared on various demos over the last few years, with a more bombastic drumline that wouldn't be out of place in the era of Licensed To Ill. As to be expected from the Beasties and Nas the rapping is tight and though there are flangers and wah-wah effects everywhere the vocals stay strong enough to make this track a decent enough collaboration. 3 MCs and One More MC, if you will.

The second, however - “Don't Play No Game That I Can't Win” with Santigold – is one of the higher peaks of the album and already feels like it could be a huge summer song this year. Santigold and the Boys toast over the chilled snare-and-hi-hat backbeat and reggae horns, and the typically laid-back lilt of the ex-Stiffed singer for the chorus adds up to a beach-friendly, barbecue-scoring feet tapper of a song. It might not quite make you skank but don't be surprised if this emerges as a big crossover hit.

With such a varied back catalogue it's easy to recognise aspects of their previous records in this one; there are several moments, such as “Non-Stop Disco Powerpack” and “Say It”, that could slot right in on Check Your Head while “Long Burn The Fire” is reminiscent of the darker mood from To The 5 Boroughs, albeit crossed with Deltron3030 and the Dr. Who theme tune. More recently, The Mix-Up's instrumental groove influence is clearly felt on “Multilateral Nuclear Disarmament”, another song that showcases the talents of the Beastie Boys when they pick up their instruments.

In that vein, one of the highlights of the album is the Descendents-meets-filthy-synths track “Lee Majors Come Again”. Previously released as a remix versus Daft Punk's “Da Funk”, the album version is a punk-rock song driven by a gloriously simple bassline that suggests that despite what the Beastie Boys have given as such eclectic musicians over the years, they can still do punk-rock as well as anyone and it's a shame we're not treated to it more often.

Hot Sauce Committee Part 2 isn't as littered with samples as you may expect from a Beastie Boys album. There are a few noted ones, such as dropping Bob Dylan and U2 loops here and there (and I'm almost certain there's a sample of the Batman soundtrack from the Nintendo GameBoy game, but that's possibly because that's been stuck in my head since about 1989) but for the most part the album sticks to multi-instrumental sounds and songs; and from steel drums to cowbells to clavinovas galore there should certainly be enough for musos to muse over.

One thing that stands out is the consistently high level of vocals throughout the record. Rap-centric songs such as “Long Burn The Fire” and “Here's A Little Something For Ya” show that each member remains a great MC in their own right, alternately toasting themselves in the time-honoured tradition of rap and delivering couplets with a sense of fun that the Beastie Boys are so renowned for. There are few rappers apart from the King Ad-Rock that could get away with “The proof is in the pudding and the pudding's in my pants/Now watch me rap and watch me dance”, but he does it with aplomb.

Admittedly on first listen the album can seem a tad over-produced – a lot of the songs initially present you with a wall of noise and can seem overwhelming and tracks can blend together in a bit of a sonic mess. However with each subsequent listen the tracks, as heavily-layered as they are (and some are very heavily layered indeed), stand out better. Hot Sauce Committee Part 2 is certainly an album that deserves to be listened to with good speakers – tinny laptop speakers will be about as useful as Michigan J. Frog when faced with the multiple, finely-tuned levels of each song.

It's unlikely to win a great deal of new fans in the way that Hello Nasty did, but lest we forget that was 13 years ago – and this is an album that is littered with new, diverse influences and innovations that most groups wouldn't dare to try. For existing Beastie Boys fans, though, it's good to have them back and the more you listen to the album, the better it becomes – a worthy addition to the already great canon of the group. And thankfully we only have to wait a year for another album; the chronologically-challenged Hot Sauce Committee Part 1 should be out in 2012.

Good Song, This #001

I'm tempted to claim Art Brut are a Marmite band that one either loves or hates but I don't think that's particularly fair; it's probably better to describe them as a band you either love or simply feel you don't 'get'.
Though the band's lyrics have always been poignant, hilarious and instantly relatable to most, it's understandable that people may be initially put off by singer Eddie Argos' vocal style - best described as a brash (yet always well-meaning), one-way conversation being loudly aimed in your direction.  However this hasn't stopped the group from amassing an ever-growing fan-base (including several of their peers - We Are Scientists and Frank Black are vocal supporters) and continuing to record great music, and showing that the only thing to 'get' is a band making enjoyable pop music.
May 23rd of this year marks the release their fourth album, Brilliant! Tragic!,  and lead single "Lost Weekend" is online now.  Instantly noticeable is that Argos is now singing along to the band rather than communicating over them - and his breathy style adds to this traditionally self-deprecating tale about (yet another) a lost love.  Though it'd be a shame if Argos was to relinquish his trademark style permanently (and thankfully I doubt that will ever happen), this track showcases a pleasant alternative that works for this particular song.
 "Lost Weekend" seems to hint at a more complete Art Brut - a much tighter sounding group than their previous three studio albums, as each instrument seems to complement the rest rather than vying for your attention as they've occasionally been guilty of in the past.
Though they may never be everyone's cup of tea, the song certainly points towards yet another inherently listenable Art Brut record.

Another Death of Autotune

Technology, here in 2011, really is at a magnificent level.  Every single day people like you and I* traverse both the current limits of outer space (up there) and our own vast oceans (down there).  A seemingly infinite wealth of knowledge awaits those who dare to have a gander, and the almost-daily advances in technology only help this cause.

And of course, most people couldn't give a shit - technological advances that people care about in 2011 seem to range only from iPhone apps to Oyster cards.  Unless the grandfatherly David Attenborough is explaining the luminescent Angler fish or the hunky Prof. Brian Cox is chatting breeze about the birth of stars, the general public's understanding and usage of available technology seems only to stretch to shit YouTube videos and texting in to support idiots on talent contests on ITV.

Now I generally don't have a problem with this (I am of course using remarkably advanced technology to write a blog that no one will actually read), and it would be hugely hypocritical of me to judge how other people use the tools available to them.

HOWEVER.  That was before I saw this:

"Sunday", by Sadie B.  I would give up every Sunday to cancel out the very concept of this video being born

We've all heard Rebecca Black's seminal "Friday" and marvelled at its innocent, if hugely shit, video.  We all had a chuckle as she pondered over the differences between a car's seating options, and sat open-mouthed when that rap started.  It was never going to stand alongside Revolver and Blonde on Blonde in the canon of rock history, and it never tried to.

But this, THIS is a different animal. Setting its stall out early by putting "Rebecca Black Parody" in the title of the video, "Sunday" by Sadie B presents quite the convincing argument for casting aside our current technology and regressing rapidly back to the Stone Age so 'parodies' like this cannot take place.  The main problem is that for a parody it is remarkably, almost impressively, completely not funny.

The crux of the humour seems to be replacing "Friday" with "Sunday" and giving it a religious angle.  And that's pretty much it.  Using two white rappers (an argument can be made they have better flow than Patrice Wilson in the original, to be fair) adds a dose of wacky, pre-watershed humour whilst Sadie B ponders "which service can we make?"  Hopefully one led by Jim Jones, if there's to be a happy ending to this horrible, bastard journey.

My first thought was that I was overreacting to this and a stupid video shouldn't get me angry - but I then realised the anger was in fact sheer frustration that someone - nay, some people, a group of sentient beings that reached a unanimous decision over this - sat down and decided the video would be a good (hilarious, even!) idea.  Then actually went through with it.  Then unleashed it on the rest of the universe, culminating with me viewing it and writing hundreds of words about it.  The joke is almost certainly on me right now, but at least that's still funnier than this car-crash** attempt at comedy. 

The Christian angle makes the awful idea even worse and paints non-evangalist, non-bellend churchgoers in a bad light merely by association.  Namedropping the big JC in your song does not make it a positive Christian message, in my opinion.  Unless the ditty in question is Supergrass' steeped-in-science-fact "Jesus Came From Outta Space"*** -  a song that would certainly do more for the Christian church than Sadie B.

Sadly and inevitably, this has already spread like the fucking T-Virus and at the time of writing over 23,000 people have watched it, due to the ease of recording, editing and hosting technology today. My only hope now is that we see a nuclear winter sooner rather than later, and any evidence of this on YouTube is destroyed before the 2211 version of Brian Cox can explain that society 200 years previous actually spent precious time creating Sadie B's "Sunday (A Rebecca Black Parody)".  Because that would just be embarrassing for us all - they'd think that were were in on this from the beginning.

Now this, on the other hand, is a cover I can get behind

* Better people than you and I.
** Coincidentally one of the few things that would have made this video worth watching.
*** Other songs considered for this sentence to make the same point:  "Jesus Shootin' Heroin" by The Flaming Lips; Cake's "Jesus Wrote A Blank Check"; and the Ramones' "I'm Not Jesus".

“Parents just don’t understand.” Fresh Prince, The. (1988)

Had a smashing chat with Big Al yesterday.  We were on the subject of cars - by that I mean I was trying to get the conversation to a point where he’d agree to buy me a car - and ended up talking about what he did when he was my age.

Whereas I’ve gotten quite good at moping about and playing Championship Manager far too much, at my age (maybe even younger, actually) my parents had already sold everything they owned and sodded off to Cornwall for a few months.  It transpires that they were pyaar hippies, signing on once a week (you could sign on anywhere in the country, apparently) and spending the rest of the time camping on the beach.  My dad recalls people “queueing up in the dole office on a Monday in shorts with their surfboards propped up outside”.  Living.  The.  Dream.

I’m quite jealous of that, to be honest.  Back in the 70’s it seems there was a lot more freedom to up sticks and sit off somewhere else for a bit.  Nowadays everything is tied up in bureaucratic nonsense leaving you rooted to the one place.  The one place that HAS NO JOBS.

Of course, another noticeable difference is that by my age my parents had already been married for over 3 years.  Even setting aside my huge aversion to any form of commitment, my only positive female contact these days is when the fit woman in the Jobcentre calls my name every two weeks.  Still, it definitely counts.

Another smashing Big Al revelation was that he bought and drove his first car (one of these bad boys) without having a licence (there’s that 1970’s freedom for you again) and had to wait for his uncle to drive him home from the showroom the first day he had it.  He also, whilst teaching himself to drive afterwards, struggled as his knees were really pressed up high - due to his choice of platform shoes as footwear.

Well played, my parents.  They’re good eggs.

An artist’s impression of my parents, circa 1976

(Bonus story:  on more than one occasion my dad received a knock on the door to inform him that local youths had picked up and moved his car into the middle of the road and, at one point, even tipped it on to its side.  Fibreglass cars, eh?  Brill)

Let me check my diary.

I’ve never really hidden the fact that, for a 23 year old, I’m remarkably immature and /or naive occasionally.  My relationship with the phrase “I’ll have to check my diary first” is an example of this.

For me, this has always been just another idiom that people say but don’t actually act out - such as “pulling your leg” (rarely performed), “taking a rain check” (rendered superfulous with the advent of umbrellas) and my personal favourite, “I’m wearing a condom it’s ok”.

But recently I’ve begun to acknowledge that people - mature, grown-up people, often referred to as ‘my peers’ - do tend to be organised enough to keep an actual diaryand manage to keep it to date.  That is completely and utterly beyond me.  The last time I attempted to remain organised (for more than the immediately forthcoming 20 minutes) was in my final year of uni when I had about 6 essays due over the same fortnight.  No light task, and to help accomplish it I took the sophisticated leap of writing “DO ESSAYS” on my arm more over the 3 days I’d allocated to living in the library typing with the enthusiasm of a toddler given a Fisher Price typewriter.

Actually I’m selling myself short, it wasn’t just that - I’d also set “DO ESSAYS” as a reminder on my phone.  I’m nothing without phone reminders, to be honest; perhaps the most pertinent one that I apparently set at 2.35am on a Thursday night to go off in the middle of the following day’s inevitable hangover, reminding me to bluntly “sort your life out”.  Of course I heeded it for about 30 seconds before rolling over again and falling asleep while watching yet another episode of The OC.

What a series.

My point is that, over the last few months, I rarely do much of anything.  Over the past week or so perhaps the most productive thing I did was to try and listen to David Bowie’s ENTIRE back catalogue to determine which was my favourite song.  There are over 19 hours of music by David Bowie.  And it turns out that my favourite song was the same one as before I embarked upon this obviously necessary exercise.  On the plus side, I worked out the period where Bowie starts to show hints of synthesiser-based shiteness (it was 1975) and found the moment where he brilliantly goes a bit mental.

There was a Hawaiian man on Human Planet weeks ago who was a shark caller.  That is, his job was to sit in a tiny canoe in the pacific ocean and fucking SUMMON.  SHARKS.  No mess.  After getting one of these badboy reef sharks to swim next to him he then caught the shark with a noose and a plank.  Now that really is a righteous, worthwhile past-time.  In comparison, I occasionally play some X-Box.  Not really the same, is it?  Even if, through some bizarre chain of events, a girl discovers my X-Box achievements list and is so impressed that I got through Ravenholm on Half-Life 2 using only the gravity gun that she drops trou right there and then, it still wouldn’t be as cool as catching a fucking shark with a piece of rope.

Still, I bet yer Hawaiian man can’t name his favourite Bowie album.  He probably doesn’t even have an iPod.  Edwards 1, Hawaiian shark caller 0.

Jobs for the boys.

There is nothing quite like unemployment to wear someone down.

Since I turned 16 the longest I’ve ever been unemployed was the year I spent at Lancaster University.  Now, this should hardly be regarded as a time of honour or productivity as that was also the year I spent living off one meal a day (usually noodles or, miserably, a Rustlers) combined with, almost exclusively, imbibing the cheapest of cheap wine.  All this intertwined with a tragic period (two weeks) of wearing different coloured Converse on each foot.  Never in history has it been a good idea to wear mixed footwear, let alone in your first year of university in a town filled primarily with people that frown upon anyone daring to venture out without a Ben Sherman shirt buttoned up to the collar.  I once, in Lancaster’s premium Wetherspoon’s, saw a girl proper twatted out by an implausibly aggrieved woman.  That’s the type of situation that changes everything when you’re still 18 years old - had I ever seen a girl sparked out in Maghull?  Had I fuck.  

Amongst the few things I learned in Lancaster (local girls would end me, southern Catholic girls are disturbed, Cypriot girls look down on entire diets of noodles), one of the things I didn’t realise at the time was how necessary a job was.  Lancaster was my haven, a jobless wonderland where I’d wake up semi-drunk (not even hungover, God bless youthfulness) in the afternoon and merely plan the evening ahead.  Who has the time for job-hunting when you’ve got half a bottle of Lambrini on your windowsill from the night before and the latest episode of Prison Break season 1 has just come online?!

There was simply no time for jobs when your existence entails drinking as much as you can and being a tit; forgetting entire weeks’ worth of memories and trying your hardest to get into the fit posh girl who lived on the fifth floor of your halls who never did know your real name (my name is not and was never “Andrew”) but eventually settling for fellatio from her undeniably less attractive best friend who you lived next door to and subsequently avoided for the next 9 months, wonderfully assisted by the Uni’s decision to put bedroom door peep-holes in our college halls exclusively.

What the fuck was I talking about?  Ah, jobs.  Those elusive, necessary, bastard evils.

Probably should’ve looked for one instead of writing this, really.