All posts by Tez

arty farty B******s

For the best part of two decades was gainfully employed in an educational establishment which included a School of Art and throughout that time my peers always regarded me as an uncultured, uneducated Philistine. And why would they be so rude as to condemn me to the everlasting disdain usually reserved for the audience of the Jeremy Kyle Show? My lack of understanding of modern art, of the meaningless crap for which modern day artists are rewarded for believing that things, like flicking a light switch on and off repeatedly, or drowning a sheep in formaldehyde, are art. They’re not. They’re the deranged machinations of scruffy hippies whose only real purpose in life is to take the piss. And boy do they do it well.

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outcast

I’m a smoker, an outcast from society destined to spend the rest of my life – some might say that won’t be long if I continue smoking – standing outside in the cold, huddled up against a wall in the vain hope of finding a little protection from the howling wind, driving rain, sleet, snow and anything else God in his anger and frustration with the world might throw at me. I don’t know about the ciggies killing me, I’m more than likely going die from hyperthermia or pneumonia before then. (It’s amazing how we smokers come up with every reason under the sun not to quit. I’m half expecting some eminent doctor to publish a paper insisting that filling your lungs with acrid smoke, nicotine, tar and general gooey stuff is actually good for you… only to find out he’s a smoker.

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is there a god?

It may be unorthodox, but I suspect the interview technique for anyone applying to be a telephone operator on the BT technical helpline, is that they sit the prospective applicant in a chair and ask them to read a script out loud while people throw things at them – paperclips, pens, mouldy slices of half-eaten pizza – anything that might distract them. And if they can get through this process without deviating from the script or answering the one serious question asked of them in the midst of all this mayhem, then the job’s theirs. And why do I suspect this? Bitter experience.

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A nasty gash

I’m writing this as I sit waiting for the paramedics to arrive. I thought I’d better get in touch with them after receiving an urgent telephone call earlier from an intense young man concerned about my health and wellbeing. He wasn’t a doctor, a nurse, not even a voodooist sticking pins in an effigy of me whilst sacrificing a squawking chicken, he was just some average bloke who was convinced I’d had an accident recently.  At least, that’s what he said.

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