You just have to try to bite back ...

Got any Jobs ?

Right now, I wish I had a job to whinge about, I really do.

It's only when your unemployed looking for work that you realise it can be the sole provider of potential happiness in this modern world we live in.

The gloom clouds are gathering as the weekend draws in. Right now, I don't need a weekend, I need two more work days to keep the battle for a job going strong.

I'm not sure where I've been going wrong, aside from the initially badly written CV (which I thought was great)

My new CV is out there now with at least 20 agencies, 5 of which I'm in daily contact with. I've applied directly to companies and every evening, apply online to new agencies I find and jobs I haven't yet applied for. I'm now seeking further afield. I've started phoning directly to Web Dev / Advertising companies, but it costs a small fortune in pay-as-you go bills - we're talking £1 for a minute or so. No prizes for guessing how often I get put on hold ...

Yes, it's going to be a long gloomy weekend - I need to put these thoughts behind me for two days and get positive, spruce up the portfolio, write another CV aimed at something mundane like helpdesk support, datacapture or IT dogsbody.

I have two weeks to land either a web design job or a dogs body IT job, after which I will be forced to try to get work at a pub or hotel, which means pretty much one thing - dish washing.

I cannot fail myself at this difficult time, December is approaching at a unstoppable pace, the type of work I do dries up, the type of work I may end up having to do doesn't (in more ways than one)

Reality bites and bites hard.

You just have to try to bite back ...

The Black.Friar, Hobgoblin & Wicked Witch

What a wonderful pub. The floor is unvarnished worn oak, with water dripping in places from the ceiling. The wooden wall panels are circa 1930's, the bar looks even older and parts of the interior of the establishment date back to 1905. Art Deco abounds.

This is The Black Friar pub, across the road from Blackfriars underground station.

http://www.pubs.com/blacec4.htm

It is wedge shaped, jutting out on an angled corner. The ceiling is a good 15ft high and the fittings are well worn, spanning many decades. It has the air of a place that could slowly erode away for centuries and still remain a pub. Much creaking wood, some marble, wrought iron light fittings, lead lined cottage pane windows, english bar staff. Outside the traffic rushes by non-stop.
Inside there is much business talk as lunch time is upon us. Mostly patrons in suits, which I would imagine is usually the case. No tourists, lots of London accents.

I've just nipped to a last minute interview with an agency about a New Media job working with a team designing video content for the Play Station Portable. I've been informed to rewrite my CV, which I'm duly doing. It's taken this long for an agent to have the guts to let me know that my CV is crap and to give me insider information to what agencies are looking for - over two weeks pretty much wasted !

Talking about wasted, this ale I'm drinking is absolutely wonderful, but also rather strong. The first pint of Wychwood Hobgoblin Ale went down in 15 minutes, this second pint of Marstons Wicked Witch I will take my time over while updating my CV and Portfolio website. (Both these ales are specific to the time of year, for obvious reasons)

And so the mood swings up and down, round and round as I struggle to get a job interview and the money starts to dwindle.

So why am I spending my money on beer, I hear you ask ?
Well, a man has priorities and this refreshment has aided me in crafting a far more punchy CV (God, I hate that word "punchy", but it's what all the agencies say)
I draw the line at "buzzwords" - I will NOT fill my CV full of crap meaningless words, instead, I will use words like Brilliant, Genius, Talented, Fabulous, Magnificent, Magical, Hobgoblin and Wicked.

"Matthew is a Mystical Hobgoblin who specialises in the supping of Ale in old London Pubs, please hire this smashing individual right now in the position of head reviewer for the Good London Pub Guide."

"Matthew is a wicked professional with many years of experience doing very little and talking a great deal about nothing of import. He would suit a position as a part time writer for a small dismal local newspaper, as long as he can write to his usual poor standard and can live in a pub. No agencies please."

Got the trains, now the buses ?

I don't know why, but I seem to have an uncanny knack of just missing the bus. Today, for instance, I missed no fewer than 4 buses on my local travels.

When I say missed, I don't mean that I got to the bus stop and saw on the time table that they had already gone, but that I was within sight of a bus that had either just gone past a stop or was about to leave one.

Another aspect is not really knowing the various bus stops along a route, which can be a problem for short journeys. I often end up back tracking from a bus stop to my destination on a longer walk than the one I would've faced had I simply walked in the first place.

The problem is the sheer variety and amount of buses during the day. At any given stop, there are 3 or 4 different buses going to slightly different destinations, so sometimes you chance it. It wouldn't be a problem if the maps they have at the bus stops actually showed the destinations, as opposed to the immediate surroundings. I still haven't understood why this is the case. Why on earth would there be a map of the area around the bus stop your getting a bus from ?

One nifty thing they do have at various bus stops is an electronic display of the next three or four buses, their estimated arrival time, number and destination.
These are not entirely accurate but are usually within a minute or five.

Arriving from a city with no safe and efficient public transport, I can still marvel at the amazing service they have here and so far have never got angry or irritated. Truth is, most people are incredibly patient and polite, willing to queue, stand, give up their seat to old or disabled people and generally exhibit that wonderfully naff and comfy British sensibility - I suppose it's done out of neccessity.

To get angry and show it really isn't done. Just mind your nose and get on with it. If you wait for more than 10 minutes for a bus during the day, that's a long time, which can't be bad.

Still, I wish missing the bus for me wasn't quite so dramatically demonstrated by buses just leaving before I can get onto them - four times in one day is certainly bad luck.

I often just walk - if a bus is along in 7 minutes, I'll walk the 10 minutes to the B&B - it's good exercise.

Mash & Vege on a washed out day.

Awoke feeling mildly shit, after about 3 hours of restless sleep, the second day of a party-over had started.

How did I get here ?

After visiting a friend I'd met online up at Gants Hill on Saturday morning and visiting Tower Bridge on the way, taking a long walk through a few Wharfs, yuppie housing developments and up the road to Bermondey station on the Jubilee line, it amazes me how easy it is to get around this city, even when things are not working exactly as they should.

For the life of me, I have no idea how far it is by road from Wimbledon to Gants Hill. For all I know, it's the equivalent distance from Sandton to Randburg, except by a hugely roundabout route (excuse the intended pun)

As it was, total travel time without my tourist stop-offs was most likely around one hour. National rail from Wimbo to Waterloo, Jubile line from Waterloo to Sutton, Central line to Gants End.

Wonderful.

Wonderful until I was left high and dry (excuse the intended pun) at 3am Sunday morning, wobbling around the streets of Earlsfield in search of a train or bus. I had a choice of a 3 hour wait in cold rainy streets, returning to the party completely smashed or hailing a taxi.

I chose the latter and somehow informed the cabbie that I wanted to get to Wimbledon.
He took me to my destination and fleeced me of £10 thank you very much. If I knew the way, I would've walked, or rather staggered.

I walked the mile back from Wimbledon central to my B&B and awoke at 6.30pm to someone hammering into my head through a layer of cotton wool.

I was still fully clothed, having failed to climb entirely onto the bed. I was sort of leaning on it. I think that I must've got part way on and slid off.

My head was reeling with party flashbacks, some were pleasant, others along the lines of "ooooh noooo, what did I say to that person ?" "Did I really tell her that ?" "Oh God no, I told someone they looked and sounded like Paul Weller - arghghghg"

I somehow managed to crawl into bed just as it was getting light and suddenly found something blissfully wonderful about this house I'm residing in, not a squeak of sound all morning. Talk about respect for the living dead.

After a crashed out 4 hours, I painfully hauled my boogied-down-body out of bed, showered, walked to the bus stop, got down to Wimbledon and sat in a coffee shop feeling miserable.

No amount of strong coffee was going to do anything to improve my fragile eggshell mind and body, so I retired to the B&B for a few hours and daydreamed with the TV on.

Later that day, I found life at the pub was no solace. I'd neglected to charge my laptop battery, so I had a miserable hour and 10 minutes of use. I drank a dull cider which didn't want to go down and endured a desperate dejected frame of mind.

Time to go back and sleep.

Today started badly, a second day of hangover, grey skies and drizzle. I had to get up and out to continue my search for a job. God, how depressing things were before noon. The residual greyout party-over was still with me.

This time, the coffee must've kicked in, because it kicked my arse into gear and I went hunting for a local laundromat where I can get my washing done then up the hill to Wimbledon village to the cheery Natural coffee shop, with free internet access AND a wall socket for my laptop - BLISS !

I did some job searching and emailing and fully made use of the services, sitting for a good 3 hours with one cup of coffee (which lasted 10 minutes)

As I was leaving, I got a job lead - another agent phoning me - great stuff, except for one thing, my battery died out half way though the conversation.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK IT !

I virtually ran from Wimbledon Village down to the B&B in about 15 minutes, popped in a spare battery and frantically tried to find the person who called, using my phones call register - no luck.

Then suddenly, they phone back - thank God !
Had a quick chat with agent, will call tommorrow, good chance of interview with prospective employer - great stuff.

So here I sit in the pub, replete after two cheap but filling side dishes - Mash and Vege, working mans nosh for an unemployed web dev.

Pint of Plastered Publican Stuck to the Roof of my Mouth Ale please !

My London Photo Tour

As London is such a rare destination to visit, most people choose the more beaten tracks to travel to. Many have asked me to share some of my photos of this lonely and obscure part of the world. As I didn't find any beaten tracks, I've made do with some battered ones instead.

I have selected these few choice shots of places visitors may wish to see, complete with captions. Please enjoy.

London is smelly.

The drains all over the show are smelly today it seems.
Then there was a silently violent wind breaker on a crowded bus near Waterloo. Everyone looks around with either amusement, disgust or guilt. Nobody comments, who dunnit ?

Yes, it's smelly here on occassion, an affront to the senses. Then again, I'm just this spoilt white boy from the Northern Suburbs of Joburg, so what would I know about the smells of a crowded city ?

So, here I sit in another corner of The Swan I don't usually sit in, with the scent of a drain wafting through from somewhere - not sure from where, but it stinks. Think I need to move.

It's putting me off my curdled-yaks-pee bitter.

Ah well, as with the crowds, you have to get accustomed to these simple facts of a busy city.

I view it as just a bit more culture in a hectically cultural city - the type of culture that grows on mouldy cheese.

Is that poo on my shoe ? no ? what the hell is that stench then ?

Possibly it's a good thing that it rains so often here ...

The British Library, quick thoughts

Just zipped here from Waterloo, where I did nothing but look. £12 for the London eye, £8.50 for Dali, £9 for the Aquarium (fish 'n chips not included) - walking is thankfully still free, as is the classic view of the HP sauce building which I caught in a classic rare photo that only about 123 million people have.

So, I'm inside the British Library and I haven't opened a single book yet. It's a bit overwhelming and I shall have to return early in the morning to spend a day here.

I'm upset that there's no free wireless access, so I'm using up my expensive (but cheapest that can be found), 4000 minutes for £40 BT Openzone.

I'm also starving, but £6 for a small wedge of bread with limp lettuce and a gulp of water is too much to bear. I'll hunt down a Tescos. Not quite as cultural as the Library, but a damn side cheaper.

I think it's international limping day here at BL, I've seen three people limp past in the last 10 minutes.

So what now ?

Hmm, pack up the laptop and stroll around. Possibly I'll open a book, but which one ?
There appears to be a slightly larger collection here than can be found at the central Randburg library. The building is a bit bigger too.

bb_matt limps off in search of rare reads and Tescos £1 salad sarnies ...

They think I'm a writer !

They think I'm a writer !

Well, wobble me backwards down the off-ramp, I've been called a writer !

What does a writer look like ?
From my limited experience about such things, a writer doesn't actually have a "look"
Certainly an image of sensible clothing with pipe accessories for men and bicycles for women comes to mind, along with heavy jackets, boots and scruffy plaid shirts, specs and wanton sex in green fields or barns seems to be the order of the day, but these ideas can be challenged in the same way that the longest sentence in the history of the world could do with a fullstop.

I suppose a plaid shirt with a black denim jacket containing a hash J as worn by a wildly drunk overweight oddball will have to suffice, I never was very good at naff.

Hold on, there's a problem here, I'm not a writer at all. I have no degree, have never been published ...

I'll just pretend, after all, I have to keep my fans happy ! (all 1 of them)

A little bit the worse for wear

I met an old friend today who I haven't seen for 5 years, so I'm a little bit tanked up for 7pm on a Thursday evening. Never mind. I don't feel like writing at all, but I'm trying to get myself to write regardless of my mood.

I'm really overwhelmed by the level of friendliness I'm finding on this rainy island, despite the fact that people say London is a lonely place.

I have been warned that I should give it more time - the initial social thing can die off in winter, but I'm not phased - can take or leave it.

I haven't had a place to call my own for almost a month and although I'm missing being able to sing odd songs, burp and fart at will and wonder around in my space swinging low, I'm happy as a smiling budda for now. I remain flexible as always, able to assimilate into whatever situation I find myself in.

I came here expecting the worst, but I arrived with an open mind and a purpose of sorts, perhaps that has helped me.

Raymond hasn't really changed, he's still a really down to earth stand-up guy. He still can't really judge people the way they are, but because he is such a damn fine person it makes him more accessible. I enjoy chatting with Ray. We can talk about anything. I will be meeting Jill on Sunday, Rays wife. We've always got on fine, but Jill is always on Rays case, yadda yadda yadda - non stop.

Grant called me earlier, my brothers brother-in-law, asking how I'm doing - I think he wanted to go for a pint, will maybe call him now to see if he wants to meet me in Wimbo for a pint, otherwise, there's always tommorrow. I'm a bit too pissed right now to meet anyone, to be honest.

So, I post this lacking in humour and any other type of enjoyable reading stakes because I owe it to myself to try to write under all conditions. Inspiration is miles away, there's none here at 19.04pm - maybe later ?

Possibly after a nice bite to eat.

Land of the rising damp (blah blah fishpaste)

Land of the rising damp

Brolly weather, that's what it is, black non-descript-bat-wing-portable-rain-avoider.
But guess what, I left the brolly at the B&B.

I've used it on and off about 10 times today, but still need to associate it with the 5 minute walk to the pub. I wasn't the only one to be caught out it seems. Then again, many British people seem to resign themselves to getting soaking wet in a country where the brolly is king, or at least as essential as shoes.

I'm late for my regular evening internet and "social" session, having actually done some constructive work today which felt rather good. Had a quick chat with one of the bar staff. She sounds Aussie to me, but is actually a Saffa who left for the UK when she was 10. Can't be more than 24 now, lovely girl. Went back on a tour of South Africa 3 years ago and drove up the coast by herself, visiting backpacking places along the way. She's looking for an Aussie to hook up with, as she fancies Perth and surroundings big time, but can't get the Visa. There's something special about pub workers, or maybe it's her smile.

But back on topic and back on track - rain. Always back to the rain.

I've been a lucky, lucky bastard. Eight days of mild weather on the trot, only getting caught in the rain once in Camden Town, near those odd Vampire type shops which seem to specialise in rubber, leather and the evil-but-not-really-cos-goths-are-nice gear.

But now the reality hits. It rains here in winter. It rains a lot.

A steady drenching rain of the type that's likely to find a gap between the back of your head and the back of your neck, rolling down the spine to induce a shiver-shudder.

It's pouring at a 20 degree angle, the type of rain that just doesn't happen in South Africa, save for perhaps the Western Cape.

How could I forget this simple fact ?
How could my memory loss be so great that I neglect to remember that it can rain in England for weeks on end, forget that brolly manoeuvring is the order of the day - left, right, up, down, shake, do the Brolly shake.

It's just a shake to the right, then a step to the left, lift the brolly above head, then take a lunge for the bus.

Ducks, weather for ducks. As I peer out the window, I can see a dirty duck waddling down the high street - oh wait, that's the pub signage, silly me.

Another night down The Swan then ?

I have a choice of sorts, either hang out in my room at the B&B and watch various BBC programs, usually involving extreme amounts of weather programming and such scintilating subjects as David "did he or didn't snort nose-candy and should we care" Cameron or ...

... go down the swan where there's wireless internet connectivity, get my email, continue to apply for jobs and have a chat with the bar staff or anyone else who happens to show any interest in talking about the weather, or David "did he or didn't he smoke a giggle stick" Cameron.

Of course, there's always "Natural" a coffee shop up in Wimbledon village with free wireless access, but somehow the thought of sitting having coffee at 6pm isn't as appealing as a nice pint of steamed larks vomit bitter.

Not much competition really.

Now, before you assume I'm a desperately lonely poor chap lost in London, let me be the first to say that I'm a moderately lonely slightly whimsical bloke found in London who does at least have an invite to a party on Saturday, so it's not all sad. I may wangle myself another dinner at friends during the week too if I drop some subtle hints such as "Cooking dinner anytime this week and can I come around sporting a cheap bottle of plonk ?"

After a day wobbling and lurching my way around several tube lines, District, Central, Victoria & Northern in search of a better wireless networking card and of course an all important meeting with a job recruitment agency (which went exceptionally well), I'm knackered.

Where does the time go in this city ?
It just vanishes. I can't put my finger on it. Certainly London moves fast, people don't amble around here, they power walk. Everyone walks fast, if you don't, you get bumped and piss people off. But here I sit in the pub and it is just so wonderfully relaxed.

Wonderful news too, Lisa the proprieter who has just introduced herself formally to me, is having a wine appreciation evening tonight starting at 7pm - it's free !
There's also free food. Hooraaah !

(I feel the word Hooraaah is possibly one which may still be in use in this neck of the woods, but probably only behind closed doors and possibly involving horse whips & leather boots.)

Life for a lonely sad saffa/engelsman like myself doesn't get much better than this. I fear I shall strike up many a wondering conversation tonight after quaffing wine, I'll have to attempt to remove the "boring fart talking about trying to find a job" hat and instead don my "desperate lunatic rambling wierdo trying too hard 10-sheets-to-the-wind" Stetson on.

Failing that, I'll retire to a corner wearing my red "tongue-sticking-out-corner-off-mouth-village-idiot" cap and mumble incoherently to myself about following in Brysons footsteps, except with half the writing talent, a lot less money and absolutely not one single ounce of notoriety.

Ahh well, I can dream. (about the notoriety, not the red cap ...)

Wells Bombardier

Rather fruity, with a hint of stale tea and more than a twinge of "ode to my smelly socks"
At £2.43 a pint it's certainly a tall order for those not acquainted with the British passtime of drinking flat luke warm brown water masquerading as beer.

To say that it is an acquired taste could be likened to saying that toenail clippings washed down with runny warwickshire cow pats is an acquired taste. However, millions of British people would attempt to acquire the taste regardless of its content, all the time vehemently defending their great beer heritage.

At this point, Germans would suddenly aquire something of their own, a short lived sense of humour as they belly laugh their way around the concept that Britain considers itself a country which brews good beer.

I must admit that half way through this pint I'm rather enjoying it. This can only be explained away by the fact that I would probably try runny cow pat and toenail clippings
(although possibly not warwickshire cow pats) if they served it lukewarm at £2.43 a pint.

Order another one ?
You must be joking mate !

I'll have a pint of reheated diced lancashire sheep poo with a hint of belly button fluff and salted cotswold gravel please.

Up and Out in London (but not Paris)

I had grand ambitions of getting my London Blog up and running on arrival, even going to the lengths of registering a .info domain and downloading some blog software to load onto it, but alas, the hours have flowed too fast.

I arrived on a oddly warm day for October at Heathrow and plunged head first into London. I have hardly had time to stop to think, let alone time for the luxury of writing a Blog, so this first London personal Blog entry is more of a primer for myself once I get settled.

This and several emails, forum messages and private forum messages will probably go into a "week one in London", however, it's more likely it'll be "month one"

I'm currently sitting in The Swan on Ridgway (yes, that's the correct spelling) inbetween Wimbledon and Wimbledon village, hammering away on my shiny new laptop (essential tool for a web dev guy) and quaffing pints of cider while nursing a fresh head cold, compliments of my first two rainy days in London - two out of four, not bad so far !

In four days, I've tubed and bused mostly non-tourist spots (do they exist in London ?), as the reality of the situation is that I need work and more permanent accommodation very quickly, having enough money to last 2 months.

This Blog is going badly so far - I just cannot think - too much is happening in my head, too many thoughts, not enough luxury to sit back and reflect.

About the best I can do is that London feels like a city with deep damp roots steeped in urgent history and ritual.
It has a feeling of solidity bordering on collapse, so very hard to explain right now, but I feel I shall get my head around what London is, to myself at least.

When I compare it to Joburg, it seems that Joburg could be wiped of the face of the ancient African Veldt and be lost without a trace, like so much dry grass blown by the wind, whereas London may sink into its soggy roots but would leave its mark on the landscape for a thousand years.

This city just doesn't ever stop. Even as I sleep, I'm restless. Dreams flowing fast and wild, no time to catch them to reflect.

The trains are the heartbeat of this city, so much so that a closure of the Northern Line makes headline news in the London rags.

Coffee, water, cider and sandwiches are fuelling my first few tender and tentative days. Loneliness, despite having some family here, is guaranteed in the short term and depression and elation are the bedfellows of that loneliness.

There is nothing quite like exploring London alone, until you reach a point where you would like to share your joy, joy perhaps rendered by a profound insight. These insights hit me continuously, such is the rich visual feast and fruity sounds that meet and greet at every corner on every street.

I need to gather these thoughts into cohesion, but I cannot. I'm lost in London and loving it.

Up and Out.