I'm being a bit of a grumpy twat at the moment. Randomly snapping at or blanking people I love. It's all related to the problems with my left foot, of course. The MRI Scan shows "considerable damage which may or may not prove permanent", but we're still no closer to diagnosing what the condition is. I've been referred to a second consultant before they resort to surgery. This thing's been going on for 6 months now and it's seriously pissing me off, making me as irrational as the imbecile who commissioned a further 7 episodes of the execrable Chris Moyles' Quiz Night. It's hard to explain the constant pain I'm enduring, but I'll have a go.
Imagine you've won a competition to be driven around Silverstone race circuit by Lewis Hamilton in a specially converted Formula One car which positions you as a passenger right behind the renowned automobilist. The day arrives and you squeeze into tight all-in-one pink racing leathers. A trickle of sweat runs down your face under the multi-coloured helmet. The heat rises off the bitumen making the pit wall shimmer as you pose with Lewis and his Pussycat Doll girlfriend for the thronging media before climbing into the cockpit.
But Lewis has had a Monza flashback. You're half in and half out of the sleek silver vehicle as he panics and pulls away at speed from the grid - wheels squealing their protest. Your cat-like reflexes mean you're able to grab onto the car by the raised camera mount above the engine, but you can't lift both legs clear. Your left foot drags along the track. The reinforced boot disintegrates immediately. An explosion of pain turns your vision an incandescent white and you scream as your flesh and bone paints the monotonous grey of the track in a vivid, anguished bloody trail. Your foot now a ragged stump.
That's what it feels like.
Day after wretched day.
Anyway, if I've pissed you off recently, that's why. I love you and I'm sorry, but try not to take it personally. If it's any consolation whatsoever, check out this excerpt from a recent conversation. I'm the second speaker;
"Ooooh! They look nice. Can I have one, please?"
"No."
"Go on. You've got two there."
"And?"
"Half of one then."
"I'm sorry. I thought I said 'no'."
"Ok... How about just a little bit of one?"
"..."
"Just a tiny bit."
"!??!"
"Please...?"
"?!?@£%!*"
"Pretty please...?"
"... Sigh... Fine... But just an itsy, bitsy, tiiiiny bit."
I want you to know in all seriousness, gentle reader, had that exchange not taken place at a large, round table seating 8 other people all of whom were gawping incredulously at my intransigence like a Labrador watching ITV2 and trying to work out what Katie Price is ac-tu-ally for, I would not have caved in. On reflection I can set my present medical affliction to one side, because everyone knows:
You. Don't. Mess. With. A. Man's. Biscuits.
Especially when they're Freebie Luxury Conference Oat Crunch Biscuits.
Cajoled into an act of generosity I grudgingly broke off as small a piece as I could between my embittered thumb and forefinger. The recipient compounded my resentment by exclaiming "Mmmmm... God! These are faaaaan-taaaastic! Did you get them from the conference?"
Three weeks ago the organisation for whom I work hosted an event at a North West Football Stadium. I realise I'm flying in the face of received wisdom here, but I love these things! Because:
1. You get to meet new people who up until this point have only been names copied in on e-mails.
2. I can laugh inwardly and often at the occasions when 'Business/Management Speak' cascades like a tsunami of vagueness from the beautifully appointed stage and makes the audience want to stab their own eyes out with a small woodland animal.
and
3. You get Freebie Luxury Conference Biscuits. My favourites being the aforementioned Oat Crunch.
The dress code for such events is officially 'smart casual' which is quite plainly an oxymoron - you know, like 'military intelligence'. The talk in the office this year suggested that jeans were officially out, but that we could probably get away with wearing Chinos. Having misplaced my 'Let's go back to the eighties' Time Machine I opted instead for an all green combo with peanut butter Timberlands which was, frankly, redolent of Fidel Castro in his firebrand prime, before his beard went all grey and wispy.
The mini bus journey to the stadium was uneventful, which is pretty much what you want from a mini bus journey. I spent most of it asleep. Mouth agape. And snoring. Loudly. I was reliably informed by my colleagues that the driver had opted for a route which appeared to meander via Croydon and as a consequence by the time we arrived at 9:45am for the 9:30am complimentary coffees the initial batch of biscuits had already been consumed. This resulted in the first part of the morning spent with my stomach audibly rumbling like a Tank Division rolling through a primary school in Gaza.
To focus my mind during conferences I look for an opportunity for everyone to acknowledge my presence and keep a tally of the instances of wishy washy 'Management Speak' so rightly lampooned by those who perceive clear communication as having some value. Last year the results were as follows:
1st place 'In terms of' - 51
2nd place 'Around' (as in: "We'll be discussing themes around...") - 45
3rd place 'Going forward' - 18
And the highlight arrived when we were informed that "In terms of going forward we are going to have some food, which is around having lunch." I wish I was joking.
We also had a guest speaker from IBM who, whilst strikingly employing a lexicon which eschewed the usual Corporate language, still managed to use 'Going forward' twice. However, he redeemed himself by using the most obscure word of the day, namely 'Bifurcation', which impressed the hell out of me.
2010 saw the positions change like a game of musical chairs, but unfortunately without any of the chairs being removed:
1st place 'Going forward' - 24
2nd place 'Around' - 20
3rd place 'In terms of' - 18
Phrases of the day were "Mine the analytics" and "Interrogate the propensity models." And when it came time for my team to make itself known to the auditorium I stood theatrically, spread my arms wide in a David Lee Roth pose and gave an assured, slow nod as I surveyed the room and drank in the unrestrained adulation.
Festivities concluded and we hung around the lobby for the mini bus driver's return, which was delayed by motorway traffic, allowing me to further avail myself of the biscuity treats referred to earlier: lovingly saving a packet for my early morning Hot Chocolate libation the next day.
I could barely sleep that night, so excited was I by the prospect. And thus I seek to explain away my earlier prickly discourse. Hopefully, you can now empathise with my frustration at having this exquisite pleasure snatched from my ridiculously full and sensuous lips.
Around the time my left foot first began to swell and resemble a reasonably priced family hatchback Gordon Brown undertook a webchat with Mumsnet in which, bizarrely, he pointedly avoided answering a question on what his favourite biscuit was 12 times! Political commentators were flummoxed: did he actually think you could disenfranchise great swathes of the electorate by coming out in favour of one snack or another?
We can only dream as to the small, sweetened, flour based products available for consumption within the confines of Number 10. I bet it's like a Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory of delights in there and they've now acquired recipes from Iraq and Afghanistan. But being a stoic individual I'm betting Gordon likes a plain Digestive with his cup of tea.
My theory is this: on the morning of the webchat someone nicked the last plain Digestive, hadn't popped out to Spar to get a new packet and Capital G just didn't want to talk about it.
And now we learn he's a moody bully. Coincidence? I think not.
You. Don't. Mess. With. A. Man's. Biscuits.
Ever.
No comments:
Post a Comment