Because this week, not only do I get to write about rugby (#golions) and generally slag off or praise things I like/dislike in the page 2 column each day (with my big fat smug face in a 40pt byline as a bonus round) but I also get to write a 50cm Saturday yarn on why Game of Thrones is basically awesome. Couple that with getting paid/eating free for doing bar and restaurant reviews and I’ve basically got fuck all to complain about. This week, at least, I can’t believe this is my actual job. Noice.
HOWEVER. I have no time. I am running out of time to do All The Things no matter how awesome. I have so much to write my head might explode. My sleeping patterns are generally fucked and then trying to regulate them with prescription meds for it sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t and sometimes works too well. So every night is a kind of fucked up Russian roulette. Will it take me fours hours to sleep? Will I sleep after 30 minutes? Will I wake up at 3am, 4am, 5am? Will I sleep through all my alarms? Roll the dice.
In other news, my former boss (he of the massive backhanded compliment) actually yelled at me across the carpark today to tell me:
“Good job today (the column). I worked til 10.30pm last night and I was up at 6am this morning and Nothing makes me laugh at 6am but your column did. Well done. Now don’t fuck it up by writing something shit tomorrow”.
Which made me all full of squeeeeeeeeeeee but then really stressed I’d fuck it up. And when I say “column” I really mean 3/4 page (1000 words) of trying to be smart, observational, funny and relevant in a couple of articles. I’m pre-etty much a hit-and-miss.
As he of the back-handed compliment and unorthodox motivational technique said: “you’re smarter and more witty than the shit you published today. Get it sorted”. It might sound harsh but it was (and is on alternate days) true. I can’t argue with that and newspapers ain’t the place to be all sensitive and shit.
In any case, since all the craziness and medication and psych bullshit and stuff I’ve really found it hard to get back on track. I doubt myself a lot. I’ve found it hard to concentrate and write and all that stupid stuff. He of the backhanded compliment is someone I like very much and I admire greatly. His praise is hard-won and his advice is not dispensed to all and sundry. What he said to me today made my heart skip a beat. For the first time in ages I’d done something pretty damned good. For all my other failings and travails I had impressed someone I looked up to whom it is quite hard to impress. Also he’s an irreverent fucking bastard with a wicked sense of humour. Just wish I’d see him drunk more.
Let’s not talk about tomorrow. Because I got carried away and ran out of time and basically wrote a diatribe on shit drivers and then an aside story alluding to oral sex. Probably not covering myself in glory here.
In other news the boring old people aren’t even bothering sending me handwritten scribbly copperplate missives on matching puppy notepaper anymore. Little do they know they only have three more days of my nonsense before we resume normal programming. (I imagine rejoicing and burning of my headshot come Monday. No longer will they have to puzzle over words like “social media” “tweeted” and “onesie”)
I leave you with this, a handwritten letter (replete with a cut out and selotaped-on picture of Neil Armstrong from a regular reader/writer:
“Neil Armstrong may have been the first man to walk on the moon but I will be the first person to ice skate on it.”
Thanks XXXX Jack. It’s been unreal.
Much like many things sent to the column, beautiful in its simplicity and also in its what-the-fuck-does-actually-mean-ness.