Entries from February 2007 ↓

Lily Allen rocked Brussels last night. She didn’t recognise me, even though I was close enough to smell her. She smelled alright. The guitarist was a kid I went to school with. He’s been all over the world playing a guitar. Not a bad job, I thought.

The past couple of weeks I haven’t been writing much because I wanted to be a spook, and thus discrete. But the intelligence service I applied to wasn’t intelligent enough to notice that I didn’t meet all the eligibility criteria from the off. Months and money have been wasted going to and from interviews for a job I wasn’t allowed to apply for. So now that’s a definite no, I can post naked pictures of myself on the internet computer and not worry about them falling into the hands of teerrrrists.

So to celebrate I got myself a MySpace account and am hooking up with various people I haven’t even thought about for ten years, including guitarists for famous pop stars. Reckon that’s a job I could do.

The thirty-odd “foreigners” (and not thirty odd foreigners) who were arrested for wearing underwear in Malta have been found “not guilty” of running a brothel.

No shit.

The judge’s comments made me proud to be Maltese. He said that everybody has the right to dignity, presumably even lap-dancing scum, and that the police not letting them wear any clothes over their thongs in order to be able to take photos of them was “a crass excuse”. He didn’t say what it was a crass excuse for, but presumably even Maltese policemen don’t get half-naked Eastern Europeans in the backs of their patrol cars very often …

“Nowadays, he noted, we see women in g-stings on beaches and, although some may not like this, it was a fact that the younger generation was more daring.”

I’m skiving off work and school, blowing my noise and whispering consolingly to myself, trying to shake a dose of the ‘flu. No chicken in chicken nuggets, so it looks like I’m not dying.

Yesterday’s lying in bed feeling sorry for myself was brightened by my boss phoning me up and shouting at me for forty-five minutes.

Everybody else is having fun.

Bastards.

Books keeping me company as I languish in a snotty hole of self-pity:

Stalin - The Court of the Red Tsar by Simon Sebag-Montefiore
Confessions of an Economic Hit Man by John Perkins
This book will save your life by A.M Homes
The Boys from Brazil By Ira Levin
How to Be a Bad Birdwatcher by Simon Barnes
The Little Friend by Donna Tartt
The Essential Pritchett By V.S. Pritchett
Dry by Augusten Burroughs
Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller