Shouting at wood

So, after seeing a job come up at my old work place and with some minutes to waste, I decided to apply for it. Of course, it would be weird to apply under my own name as I'd only left recently, so I decided to apply under the name of Anthony Arzcoyle.

The job was for a scheduling assistant who was enthusiastic, motivated and flexible with experience in compiling logs. Here are my emails.

I have yet to hear back...

****

Dear Jenny,

I am an enthusiastic and motivated man (whose name is Anthony) and I have

just seen a tweet on Tweeter about a job as a scheduling assistant. I am

also "flexible" to a certain extent although have a strange foot, so while

normal movement is fine, anything too intricate such as dancing or fencing

may prove too painful. I doubt that these will form, part of the job, but

please see questions below.

I would like to apply for this post.

I am available to start immediately. This afternoon even. Although it will

probably take me an hour or so to get there. (I live quite nearby, but my

foot slows me down, what with it being so big.)

I am an excellent communicator, and although I rarely get to speak to

actual real people in real life, I have imagined many conversations with

them. I once had a brilliant imagined chat with the spaceman Neil Armstrong.

"Hey Neil! What's up?" I said.

He got confused because he was in space and there isn't really such a thing

as up.

We had quite the laugh about that, I can tell you.

My questions are this though.

What is a "scheduling" and what will the assistance incorporate? Will I

have to take it to the toilet? Or maybe feed it? Is it actually an animal

like I have imagined? Or is it something else?

It might not be. I see it involves logs, which suits me fine as I love all

types of wood and often spend afternoons in B&Q shouting at the planks and

bits of MDF.

Please let me know if you want me to start this afternoon (preferably by

about 4 ish as Pointless is on a bit after that and I don't want to miss it

unless I'm in gainful employment)

All of my love.

Anthony.

******

Dearer Jenny,

One thing it is worth bearing in mind when you are going to offer me the job - I have a fear of snowglobes - will that be a problem?

Irrational I know. A psychologist told me once it was because I choked on some fake snow as a child, but then he met my mum.

As well as the huge foot (hereditary), she also has a completely transparent stomach, eats a lot of tissues and looks like a snowman. She left me.

He then put two and two together.

So basically, I await with baited breath to hear about the job.

Big hugs and big footed stamps.

Anthony

******

Dear, dear, dear, dear etc...

I'm starting to wonder...

...if the reason you haven't got back to me to tell me I've got the job yet

is because you are going to do a surprise on me.

I have planned a quiet night in (just me and the fish and the turtle and

some Pringles (turtle-worm flavour - she likes those and it stops her

nibbling on the fish)) and so perhaps you are all going to be hiding in my

house and jump out and surprise me from behind my rubber plant.

Probably should warn you, I don't like surprises though. Once on my

birthday I was bought a jumper by my mum. I was expecting it to be blue but

when I unwrapped it, it was red. Imagine how surprising that would be. I

done a cry for two weeks solid.

So, please do feel free to surprise me, but if I'm crying too hard and

shuddering so much my massive foot is violently beating out a hypnotic

rhythm on the floor - then assume I'm saying yes.

I (and my turtle) look forward to seeing you later.

Anthony...

**********

Yo yo Jenjo!

Well - I have to admit it! You certainly surprised me!

Your double bluff of not turning up at my house on Friday to give me the job really was a masterstroke.

What a weekend and Monday and Tuesday it turned out to be. I too was going to surprise you when you came to surprise me by also hiding behind the rubber plant so when you came to hide behind it, you would find me (that would be the surprise).

As it was Hallowe'en I decided to dress as everybody's favourite horror character "Scary Gerald". I put on the trunks, mittens and put a crab in my hair, like you'd expect and squatted down behind the plant.

Sometimes, my foot goes in to spasm - particularly if I have been crouching behind some shrubs. Normally it takes several hours, so I thought I would be safe - however, perhaps because I was nervous about the upcoming job offer, the spasm was almost instantaneous. The largeness of my foot (about the size of a child's dinghy (uninflated (child from middle to moderate wealth background if that helps you gauge the size of the craft if it were given as a birthday or funeral present))) thrashing around meant I kicked over the rubber plant.

It fell on me. It was like it was trying to hug me with its leafy little hands. But I knew that wasn't the case as Scary Gerald is not a friend of the plants, as we all know.

I was stuck. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was released from hospital a few hours ago and came straight back after laundering my Scary Gerald costumer (there were some stains in it from my ordeal - mostly urine and crab's blood but also something 'other' which smell alone could not identify (neither my sense of smell - nor that of the shopkeeper who kept vomiting as I pushed it under his nose))

I don't mean to be pushy - but when does the scheduling start? So far I seem to have done little or no scheduling and have been employed since Friday. Also - am I allowed to bring a pet? Or a pest? Or a priest?

Thanking all of your face.

Anthony

****

Dear Jenjenjen,

I’m starting to wonder now if I’ve actually got this job. It saddens me to think that as we had become such close friends, but then maybe that’s why. Perhaps we are so close that you are afraid to tell me that someone with exactly equal skills to mine (Connect 4, hiding and playing the bongo) but with a slightly smaller foot has arrived and that natural selection makes him (or her (or himher)) the most obvious choice.

Yes, my large foot can be awkward. In my previous job, the woman next to me actually had to sit on it because we couldn’t fit both it and a chair in to the office. I had to leave after one day forgetting to cut my toenails. Unfortunately a rogue rough edge sliced her tuppence quite badly and bosses didn’t like the fact I shouted “Better out than in!” when her guts all slid out. I still don’t know why I did that to be honest.

Let us be realistic though, a love like ours (I’m assuming you are in love with me – we discussed it at length in one of our imaginary conversations the other day and, although you didn’t expressly say the word “love” you kept pointing at your lap and winking) would only have cause problems in the office. 

Not between us of course, because our love would be so strong it would last all time, build a shed from scratch or perhaps pick up and rotate the all the world’s guinea pigs through 180 degrees. The problem would be that every other woman in the office would almost certainly fall in love with me too (winking, pointing, fainting, salivating, sneezing etc) and the jealousy would be so fierce it might actually heat the surface of the earth up enough to make it too hot for the aforementioned guinea pigs and they leap up in shock and rotate themselves back round again.

So, I guess this will be my final letter to you. It’s time for this big shoed hero to limp off in to the sunset – his turtle and fish in tow (actually, the turtle can waddle along on its own) – and imagine adventures elsewhere.

Good luck in finding someone new. May I recommend the man who played Watson in that Sherlock thing on telly? I had a good chat (imagined) with him the other night and he seemed to think scheduling (whatever it may be) would be the route for him after he’s done all the acting.

I wave a farewell flipper at your presence.

Anthony.

Fried Moon.

While going to sleep during a triumphant weekend nap, my brain burped up the first line of this. I decided to finish it.

Fried Moon

For you I'd smother,

The Moon in butter,

And fry it in the Sun.

For time, 

I use,

The stars,

Pulsars, 

To tell me when it's done.

To slice the thing,

Saturn's iced ring,

Slips through rock molten red.

Round Neptune's curves,

It swerves,

I serve it,

In Jupiter bread.

Confessions Sessions

Instead of repeatedly tweeting, here's a simply guide to how the confession sessions work.

I love confessions. Those things we've done that sit inside our minds either eating away at us, amusing us, or secretly delighting us. You want to tell to either absolve yourself or simply to amuse. Perhaps even you think others may have done these things too.

The anonymity of the web is perfect for this. Send me yours and I will retweet them anonymously to my followers. No one will ever know it's you.

I've done a few of these before and love the variety of strange, perverse and delightfully funny things that people are willing to tell the world, so long as no one knows it's them.

Some previous examples include the man who asked a girl to stop giving him a blow job in a cinema because he was enjoying the film too much.

A girl who couldn't tell her fiance his father had tried to kiss her, and she didn't want to stop him.

The person who as a child used to get his pet hamster out of its cage and fart on it to amuse his friends.

Or the many people who've sustained injuries from athletic sex ranging from painful snapages to dislocated knees.

There are two ways to confess. Either DM me. I'll be following everyone who follows me tonight so they can. You can even @ me and ask for a follow and I'll do just that.

WITH A 100% GUARANTEE I WILL UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES REVEAL YOUR IDENTITY.

I've done this many times, and I never, ever have. And don't worry that I'll know who you are. One, I neither care nor will I judge you. That's a promise. Confessing is a brave step and I'm not going to laugh, criticise or otherwise make any valuation of your confessions. Two, I've got a rubbish memory. I have already forgotten whoever those above confessions were from. By next week your confession will just be a random selection of letters I once read and retyped.

The second way if you want true anonymity or you don't trust me (which despite my assurances this is nothing to worry about is obviously something some people may not feel comfortable with) then you can set up a throwaway email account and send them to yourconfessionstellmethem@gmail.com

That's your confessions tell me them at gmail dot com - but with no spaces.

A couple of rules. No serious criminal confessions. I'm not going to lay out exactly what's a serious crime and what isn't - but you're not idiots, so you can work that out. Secondly, nothing that can lead to a third party's identification in a confession.

I will sometimes edit tweets and emails for brevity and just in case a identifying detail has slipped through, but I won't corrupt what you've said to make it more or less salacious.

So - there you go. YOUR CONFESSIONS TELL ME THEM!

Are Women Funny?

Yes.

How TV Is Maked

Most TV shows don't just arrive on screen fully formed. They go through a complicated and convoluted development process, devised to streamline, to target the perfect demographic, and, of course, iron out potential problems.

In this occasional series, we get an insider's view on just how some of these shows came to be…..

Original Title: Are You Taller Than a 10 Year Old?

On paper, this looked brilliant, and of course, the first choice of host is Noel Edmonds. Is he taller than a 10 year old? No one knows as he keeps his height a closely guarded secret, employing a combination of stilts, complex lenses and helium belch pouches to confuse all around him. The cheek pouches in particular allow him to suddenly float up to 19 inches off the floor after just one powerful stomach erruption.

In the early stages of run throughs though it became apparent the mechanic was flawed. In order for contestants to be eligible for large cash prizes they had to be over the age of 18 and no one on the production staff had noticed that most 10 year olds are only children and therefore smaller than most adults. There was no suspense. As soon as the contestant walked on the audience could see immediately they were taller than a 10 year old, but still had to sit through five rounds of measuring. It was also pointed out that all five rounds of measuring brought about the same figures as people don't grow during a two hour studio shoot, not even children who do grow faster than fully-grown people. What confused the matter though was the show was originally pitched as a celebrity based affair and the first contestant was Kenny Baker. Anyway, by this point the amount of prize money given away had exceeded £1.6 million, and even though Kenny Baker had lost, his appearance fee was large in stature. It was straining the already tight budget.

Noel was now contractually tied in and fully committed, the studio was built and air time booked. With such a small amount of money left, another show similar in nature had to be crafted.

First in line was a tiny cosmetic change and the show became the much simpler "Are You A 10 Year Old?" It was only three dry run throughs later that it was realised the over-18s rule was again somewhat spoiling any tension or drama. The slightly better news was the prize money given away was now £0.

Budget back on track, a variety of options were tried: "Do You Know Any 10 Year Olds?", the trickier to judge "Are You Smellier Than A 10 Year Old?" and a brief flirtation with the idea of a single static shot filling the hour entitled "A 10 Year Old."

It was only after seven dictionaries had been emptied of words did they decide "Smarter" would work perfectly. When tested on the production and channel executives, no one won any money.

And thank goodness this worked, for where else would we now have the opportunity to watch Dick and Dom routinely fail to wring any excitement out of asking people to spell "Ox"?

A Guide to Modern Eating - Some restau-rants.

Stalkers

Enjoy the comfort of your own car as you eat across the road from your unsuspecting ex as he or she dines with a new partner, a devastatingly attractive employee of the restaurant who has invited him or her out on a date. Watch them crestfallen after the meal as they are left with a simple kiss on the cheek and no prospect of a second date. For an additional fee, the truly eagle-eyed may spot a phone number being passed across on a napkin just before the bill arrives through their complimentary binoculars to enhance any feelings of jealous rage you may require.

Best Dish:
Lukewarm spaghetti hoops in a child's flask.
Worst Dish:
A week old Wispa which has melted and re-solidified.

Perfect Broth

A very limited menu of only broth, but high-tech voting panels on the table allow diners to precisely rate the broth for its excellence. Computers compile these results and the data is used to control chains which regulate the distance of a large number of cooks from the broth preparation area. If the broth begins to drop in quality, the chains tighten drawing cooks away from it and vice-versa.

Best Dish:
The Broth
Worst Dish:
The Broth

Eric's Beef Leg

A mostly vegetarian restaurant. All dishes are seasonal and meat-free with varied and excellent vegan options. Every four minutes the restaurant's mascot, Eric Beefleg runs through and diners are invited to chase him down and gorge on his meaty limb.

Best Dish:
Grilled seitan with yukon mash.
Worst Dish:
Eric's other leg chomped in haste.

Prwnd

A startlingly immature fish restaurant. Within four lines the menu descends in to racists abuse and badly disguised links to 2girls1cup.

Best Dish:
Your mum
Worst Dish:
Your mum

Dine and Whine

Everything about this restaurant is perfect. Well, to most it would be, but both service and food are deliberately littered with tiny mistakes in etiquette or technique which render them unpalatable for its exclusive clientèle of amateur critics and food snobs who complain in deliberately loud voices to the rest of their party who they secretly despise.

Best Dish:
Tenderloin of pork with honey and pepper jelly glaze (the pork is cut against the grain)
Worst Dish:
Zabaglione with peach purée (a disappointingly delightful dish from start to finish)

The Waffle House

The food here is described as excellent, only by the waiters who will not shut up. It may be the case, but no one has ever lasted long enough to place anything other than an order for their starter as the over enthusiastic staff pass comment on every dish you mention and how they once had that and it reminded them of somewhere where they met someone who once did something which was not entirely like anything you could ever be remotely interested in.

Best Dish:
Everything it seems.
Worst Dish:
Something the waiter once ate at the cafe opposite his cousin's girlfriend's dog walker's local newsagent, but that was five years ago and it's probably changed hands since then because that was where that girl got attacked. You remember, the one with the hair? It was all over the papers, because they remember looking at the paper while they were waiting in the newsagents, and they only mentioned it because…..