Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Monday, 14 May 2012

The Great Pork Pie Conspiracy

"I just don't understand it!" SbH was staring in disgust at his lunch. "It must be a government conspiracy or something..."
"What?" I asked, nose-in-laptop, only half listening.
"This is the fourth packet of pork pies this week that doesn't have jelly in them...."
"Eh?"
"Jelly. Pork pies. Why the fuck can't you get pork pies with jelly in them any more? What's that about? These are Melton Fucking Mowbray for fuck's sake. How can they hold their heads up as a beacon of pork pie manufacturing excellence while churning out these lacklustre clumps of stodgy matter?"
"What?"
"I feel very strongly about this. I think it says a lot about the sad direction in which our society is going."
"I daresay you're right"
"First they take our freedom, now they take the fucking jelly from our pork pies!"
"Babe, it's just a pork pie..."
"Just a pork pie? That's the kind of apathy that breeds this kind of subterfuge. They've probably been quietly reducing the amount of jelly in pork pies gradually for years without anyone noticing and now they've passed some obscure law that precludes them from putting it in at all! You can't get pork pies in France. I've been looking forward to one all winter and then I have to come home to this shit," he stuffed a piece of cheddar cheese and pickle into his mouth sadly.

Scruffy-but-Handsome is bored. 

It's to be expected really, he has nothing to do. There's only so much time you can spend searching on line for jobs you despise and have no interest in doing, before your once sparkling ego deflates like a small child's helium balloon that's been left behind the couch for a month. Hanging there like a limp condom waiting for someone to put it out of its misery with a pin. Then you start getting angry about pork pies.

"Look at this," he said, pointing in outrage at Gumtree on his computer screen. "Earn over £10 an hour as a beauty consultant....well that sounds right up my street! Or how about this one...significant opportunity - a career in welding could be yours - fucking brilliant!"

"Darling, these are the jobs normal people have to do. You know nine-to-five shit..."

"REALLY? You're joking.  Come on, I don't think so. Listen to this abomination: 'Earn big, work from home. Home shopping continues to go from strength to strength and you could be part of this success right now! Simply deliver and collect our well-known brochure in your local area and take the orders they produce to the customers when they come in – it really is that simple. Wow!"
"That sounds like a mug's game"
"Exactly. How many of your friends fuck around selling catalogues door to door? This is bullshit. It makes me want to put my snowboarding helmet on and run headlong at the groin of this catalogue delivery boss...Mr Raj Rajeed or whatever his name is."
I gave him a long-suffering smile. "I might draw your attention to the fact that I worked in a call centre last year to make ends meet. Extorting cash from grannies for a Catholic charity. That wasn't exactly my dream job either."

At this point the Umpa Lumpa came lollopping down stairs to get a coffee with a face like the shitty slapped arse end of a cow. I have resolved to ignore her as stoically as possible until she moves out (only another glorious 2 weeks to go!) but SbH is far too affable for this...

"Afternoon," he said cheerily.
She gave us both an icy glare and continued into the kitchen.

I have full sympathy with SbH's frustration. Fitting his current injury-limited capabilities, personality and career skills into a normal nine-to-five job in a job market that's about as fruitful as Mother Theresa's ovaries is like trying to get a hyperactive petulant toddler into a hairdresser's chair.

"Hmmmmm," he continued, scrolling down the list of jobs, "Ophthalmologist...well, I'll have a punt at eye surgery, but I should probably scan a few diagrams first...oooh! Back Protector Testing - this could be just my thing. Fucking myself up for money, perfect!"
"They do say find a job you love and you'll never work again."
"Mmm, how about Disrobing Executive?"
"Stripper?"
"Yeah  .... oh wait.... great, brilliant! Now my computer's crashed. Aaaaargh! That's it. I'm going to take some fucking laxatives and see how far I can get into Microsoft headquarters before my arse explodes! They won't even be able to tackle me to the floor or point a gun at me because sudden shocks could set me off! It's a fail safe plan."

I have resolved to just let him vent for the time being until he finds something to occupy his time. But please, if anyone out there has a job for a scruffy-haired maniac with verbal diarrhoea who likes to fix things and/or break himself, please get in touch.

Belle-going-stir-crazy-de-Neige



3 comments:

  1. When I started reading this I thought my girlfriend had typed it. It is almost word for word one of my rants.

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  2. I'd love to hear one of your rants James. What do you tend to rant about?

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  3. Me, too! Why can't the French make a decent pork pie ? They put mashed potato in them, for God's sake! You can't hold your nation up as the epitome of culinary excellence if you can't make a decent pork pie which, like revenge, is best served cold.
    J.Cornelius, Paris

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