HELLA COOL 100TH POST SPECTACULAR, BITCHES!!!!!!!

So, this is the 100th post on MoaN. I just thought I'd mention that because I keep looking at the title and I can't shake the feeling that it's a little bit vague.

100 posts sounds like a lot until you, you know, actually think about it for more than a second and realise that it totally isn't a lot. There are people posting daily, and even a weekly blog; which MoaN ostensibly is, though you'd never know it from the erratic way I was posting, before I just abandoned it altogether; would notch up 100 posts pretty quickly.

No, 100 posts is not much of an achievement at all. What it is is enough of a milestone that when I noticed that I was sitting on 99 it gave me a shove to round that shit off. So this is me, posting for the 100th time.

Right, that's that done. Now I'm off to watch some more porn. Hmmm, Zoe Britton...


*Ahem*

No, of course that's not it! When have I ever come on here and not rambled for f*cking ages? Never, that's right. Gold star for you. But what am I to speak about? I don't want this to be a regular post where I rustle up some traumatic memory from my childhood; it seems like after such a long gap a catch up post is in order. But what great and significant things have happened to me since last I clogged up your eye sockets?

Well, I'm still living in the same place. Still pining over the same woman who won't give me the time of day (I know it's sad but if you knew the woman in question you wouldn't blame me; she lovely). Still doing the same job... Ooh, I did get a pay rise which means that yes, I am now earning more than minimum wage, but no, I'm not yet achieving my lifelong dream of cracking a grand in take home pay. One day, f*ckers, one day!

Er... I've read a few books. Watched a lot of TV. Is that interesting at all? Probably not right? This shit is harrrrrrrd, I'm starting to remember why I stopped doing it in the first place.

I started watching Breaking Bad recently, about a month after everyone watched the finale, cos that's how I roll. It's cool so far. No spoilers, now!

This is degenerating fast...

My boss followed me on twitter. I closed my account then reopened it and blocked him. It seemed like the thing to do. Later my mother followed me on twitter. That shit didn't stand for long either. Begone woman, and never darken my virtual doorstep again!

Ok, it's official, it's impossible to fill a post with stuff about my life, even when you have nearly a year of stuff to work with. God I'm dull. So if I do keep the blog going now that I've revived it, and I make no promises; or more accurately, threats; on that score, it'll be back to telling stories about my childhood. I'm told that's moderately entertaining, in a Lifetime Movie, schadenfreude-esque way.

So until then, whenever then is, I'll leave you with this; Pessimism is realism. Optimism is insanity.

Please make it go away

I'm not sure when it happened, but there came a time in my life when I found that I could go days, weeks, even months, without any kind of major emotional meltdown or panic attack. I wasn't cured of my various neuroses and hang-ups; I doubt I ever will be, in truth; but I had, at least, managed to settle into a routine that meant I could avoid all those things that were wont to trigger them.

Unfortunately, no good thing lasts forever and last week I was brought crashing down to Earth when my cosy little bubble of trigger avoidance and a well honed fake personality was popped by unavoidable work related issues.

Exactly one week ago today I was scheduled on what's known as a 'refresher' course; something which you are required to undertake every 3 years or so, if you wish your license to operate a forklift truck (FLT) to remain valid. Since my employment pretty much hinges on my being able to drive a FLT, there was no way out of this.

Now, as anyone who regularly operates these miraculous machines will tell you, there is nothing simpler. Let's face it, a one man vehicle whose gears are no more complicated than Forward/Neutral/Reverse, has a top speed of about 15 miles an hour and is primarily (always, in my case) driven on private land with a minimum of traffic to worry about, is never going to require NASA levels of expertise to drive. So the problem wasn't so much proving that I was capable in order to get my renewal rubber stamped; it was the accompanying drama that was messing with my head. Allow me to take you through the many ways I hated last Monday.

Short Notice

The course was on Monday; I was informed about it on the previous Friday. Since I wasn't working on the intervening Saturday, that meant I had zero days to piss about on the trucks practicing all those little things that you do to pass the test, then never do again until you have another test. Don't be shaking your heads; I don't drive, but I bet there are plenty of examples of that kind of thing with you car lot.

As I say, the test isn't all that hard regardless, but someone with my anxiety levels need  all the help I can get to be prepared, and this wasn't. Help, that is.

Location

As in, anywhere I haven't been before. Every previous time that I've done this, it's been at my home branch, with people I knew. What this means is that they're people I'm relatively comfortable faking a certain level of friendship with, or at the very least a kind of low level 'jokey' enmity.

This time though, thanks to branch closures, openings, redundancies and re-hirings and high staff turnovers, the staff at our branch no longer have synchronised licenses, and no-one else was due. So off I was shipped to another branch, to interact with strangers for a day. Helpful.

Everything about the day itself

On arriving at work I was immediately bundled into the managers car and whisked off on my way. Now, being stuck in a car with anyone gets me jittery after too long; I only have a limited supply of 'small talk' in me. And of course, this being early morning, and the branch we were headed to being in the middle of a busy retail area, the traffic was horrendous; you'd think people had jobs to get to or something; so that added a good while to the journey.

As people go, my current manager is less problematic to speak to than some, on account of how he started shortly after me when we were both essentially kids and I've known him all the way through his climb up the ranks, so he's kind of 'one of the lads'. If this had been any other manager I've ever worked for I'd have been clawing at the door to get out.

Even so, the bulk of our conversations; just like the bulk of my conversations with everyone; are very 'hit and run'; I like the freedom to leave a room when I'm out of material. And yes, I do practice off the cuff remarks ahead of time, and keep a store of them for future use. Being spontaneously witty doesn't just happen you know.

He steered the conversation to music, television, politics, sport... some of those things I know a little about, others I know nothing about, but none of them are things I'm willing to express an opinion on to someone without first knowing their opinion, so I can gauge what I think the level of... look, I can't explain this, but suffice to say I overthink everything and I wouldn't make a very good dinner party guest. Eventually I got the talk back onto work, which is pretty much the only thing I feel truly comfortable talking about, and since he; for reasons unknown, but it may be down to heavy drug use in his formative years; seems to actually respect my opinions and agree with my ideas when it comes to how to run a branch, I was on steady ground.

Until we arrived at the branch...

First impressions I had were that the staff were all numpties and the place was a shithole. Of course, even I am not so oblivious to social niceties as to think that those would be acceptable conversation starters, so I was knackered.

We (myself and the two people also doing the course) were locked in an office with the instructor, but not before he had found time to announce that this would be an all day thing, rather than half a day, which was what we had been told. What this meant was that my managers business in the area would be concluded and he would be leaving earlier than me. He said that he would come back for me at the end of the day, but then the instructor said that he lived...somewhere...I don't know, places I don't live in are all the same to me... but the gist was, he would bring me half way so my manager wouldn't have to brave the tea time rush hour.

Unbelievable. So I now had that to look forward to.

The session began and I thought I would be safe for a while; these things usually consist of a bit of a lecture and some safety videos made in 1972 in which a bunch of stuntmen die horribly. No call for small talk there. Unfortunately, our instructor had other ideas; we were going to listen to his stories about meeting famous footballers (number I'd heard of: 0), look at pictures of his grandson (how many times can you say 'yeah, cute' and seem genuine?), hear stories about all the many businesses he'd owned/co-owned/founded as a favour to a friend (quantity of bullshit detected in said stories: a hell of a fucking lot), and so on and so forth. The others, both fully rounded individuals capable of holding down a conversation without gagging on their words, were fine. Myself, not so much.

At one point, and I can't believe I did it, I joined in the conversation. It had turned toward fireworks, and they were all agreeing with each other about how much they hated them and I thought, hang on, I have something I could say here that is actually relevant! So I told the tale of someone I know having been scared by a dud firework hitting her window. On topic, and vaguely interesting, I thought.

Maybe it was just my paranoia; it was almost certainly my paranoia; but they seemed to listen politely enough then get back to their own chatter as soon as politeness allowed. I spent the next hour sitting there, stewing over my words and trying to figure out what I'd said wrong, counting how many different ways I'd embarrassed myself, and working out how much longer this hell could go on for. They, for their part, went back to talking about football.

Lunchtime arrived and after I inquired as to the nearest shop that I could get some food from, since I hadn't brought any, since we had been told this would be OVER BY FUCKING LUNCHTIME, I set off. Only to be stopped by instructor man, who offered me as lift. LEAVE ME ALONE!! I wanted to scream at him, but of course I didn't. I'm too afraid of confrontation for that. So my blessed relief; my little bit of alone time that was going to be my walk out to the shop; was taken from me.

What is the 'done thing' when someone you don't know gives you a lift to the shop and then needs to use the cashpoint? Do you stand and wait with him? Or do you head in ahead of him? If you stand and wait, are you being too clingy? Are you saying that you can't go to the shop by yourself? If you do stand and wait, you have to then walk round the shop with them, making smalltalk, feeling self conscious if it takes you longer to find something than them. But if you go in alone, are you being rude? Are you saying you don't want to be seen with them?

Welcome to my head. In the end, not knowing which was the 'correct' response, I went with the one that required me to speak the least, and headed straight in alone.

After lunch was a load more waffle about getting shirts signed by football players etc... before we finally, well after 2pm, went out to the trucks. Then we spent another hour standing in the cold while he made various phone calls.

Someone: It's a bit chilly eh?
Me: Just a bit, aye.
(Repeat) (Repeat Again) (And Again) (And Again...)

That was the conversation for the afternoon. Riveting stuff.

When we finally rated his attention again, he told us a tale about a man 'in his fucking 30's, a fucking grown man' who upon making the same simple mistake several times, was chastised by the instructor. 'In the end I grabbed his fucking leg and dragged it off the pedal. Then he burst into tears, I couldn't believe it!!!'

Here's the thing, if you'd pulled me up for making the same mistake over and over again, and then grabbed my leg, I wouldn't have started crying; I'd have told you to fuck off; but only because I'm a better actor than that other guy. You can bet the house I'd have been close to tears.

The practical tests themselves were over in about 5 minutes once they actually started. Then it was back indoors for a written test based on information we should have covered on the morning but didn't because he was too busy name dropping and then home. With him. In his car. I was genuinely terrified. I have this knee twitching thing that happens when I'm uncomfortable and it was going a mile a fucking minute the whole way home. He kept talking about stuff, and I kept ignoring him; literally, I was beyond the point of caring what he thought anymore. I practically jumped out of his car when he got me where we were going.

And do you know what? When I got in my manager's car for the second leg of the journey, my mood being immediately apparent to him, he asked how the day had gone and I told him. He found my torture, and it was torture for me, every second of it, funny. Not because he's an unpleasant person; he isn't. But because we come from a background, and work in an industry, that simply doesn't take that kind of thing seriously.

Which is why, after a few minutes, I switched on fake me and laughed along. I should have known better than to do anything else.

It's been a long one this week, even by my standards; I apologise. I'm not sure I've fully gotten across how upsetting the day was, either; I read it back and everything seems so petty. Either way, I've gotten it off my chest and I can go back into my bubble, until the next time.

Come Back, I Need You

Today is a sad day readers. A sad day indeed.

Regular readers of this blog may have noticed that I have something of an obsession with that wondrous creation known as The Twitters. I joke about it, but it's true. I really do have a, probably more than is healthy, obsession, with the service.

And I make no apologies for it.

I am, in life, a bit of a hopeless case. I don't do well socially, at all, and I have major difficulties relating to pretty much anyone on an emotional or empathetic level. I've talked on here before about how I don't grieve when people die, about how I fake concern when people tell me their woes, about how I spend all my time battling the inner voices that tell me that no-one cares what I think, no-one cares what I do, no-one wants to hear anything I have to say. It's a constant struggle not to just sit in the corner and stick my knuckles in my mouth.

Twitter has changed that. It was a slow process, and I certainly didn't expect it to happen when I signed up, but it has. I care about the people I've met on there. This is a new feeling for me, but while I like it, I'm well aware that it's early days for the new me and I could backslide at any time. For now though, twitter is making me a better person.

Take a look at that list over on the right there; the one that says 'The Best Twitter Has To Offer'; and you'll see a list of some of my favourite people in the world. And I say that without a hint of exaggeration.

In no particular order;

Charlotte, or La_Diabla as she insists on calling herself on the twitters, was one of the very first people on there to encourage me in my stupid attempts at humour. She actually seems to find me funny, which as insane as that probably makes her, has had an effect on my own self confidence that I cannot overstate. I no longer worry that my daft stories about celebrity encounters and secret missions make me sound stupid, because I know that at least one person enjoys them. Unless she's a really good liar, in which case, if you're reading this Charlotte, don't ever start telling me the truth.

She's also hot as hell, if you'll pardon a shallow moment, which makes her willingness to tolerate my existence even more baffling, and even more welcome.

Tamaris is, unless she's perpetrating some kind of elaborate long con on all of twitter, one of the most genuinely sweet people I think I've ever had the pleasure to talk to. I hope that doesn't sound as patronising as I fear it may, because I genuinely and unironically love talking to her; love seeing her get all shocked and flustered at the merest hint of innuendo and  love her Pavlovian need to tell people off if they swear in tweets. She's just nice, and there isn't enough of that in the world today.

Stephanie doesn't know I exist. I've spoken to her maybe four times in the 18months or so that I've followed her on twitter and she's answered probably twice. That doesn't matter. What matters is that her tweets are honestly some of the most bizarre, out of nowhere, surreal comments I've ever heard. I'm sure they make sense to her in the moment, but... What also matters is that she writes; or wrote, because it's all but inactive these days, which is a crying shame, one of the funniest blogs I've read. The very blog, in fact, that I mentioned when I started this one, as having inspired me to write this. So you have her to blame.

Mike is my beard, whom I throw in whenever I do lists like this, to break up the constant femaleness, and disguise the fact that I'm basically listing a bunch of girls young enough to be my daughter.

He is also a long time supporter of this blog who has, on more than one occasion, recommended MoaN to others and encouraged me in my writing, both here and elsewhere. He is good people.

But mainly a beard.

Emily is probably the one that has the most effect on my life. You'll laugh when I tell you this, but in my entire life I have been in a pub 4 times.  On all bar one of those occasions, I was dragged kicking and screaming; I do not like pubs, I do not like crowds of strangers, and I do not like enforced, and thus fake, camaraderie, especially where drink is involved. All of those things make me very very nervous.

In almost 15 years of working in a very 'laddish' industry, full of people who pride themselves on their twin abilities of drinking loads and loads of alcohol and making raucous fools of themselves in bars, I have refused to attend pretty much every works related outing, to the point of telling one person to f*ck off over it. So if any number of friends, bosses, and even crushes, couldn't get me to go out, what could?

Going to a stand up comedy night to support someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a total stranger, that's what. That's how much power twitter has to make me give a f*ck.

And, because I'm waffling on way more than I intended, I'll just say that the others on that list are all just as awesome in their own ways and if you are on twitter, you should absolutely be following each and every one of them.

 So if, sad case that I am, my life has been so enriched by this wondrous invention, why is today a sad day? I shall tell you. That list is missing a name. Someone who has been, for the longest time, one of my absolute favourites, even by these rarefied standards. She (because you knew it had to be a woman) has been threatening to leave twitter for a while but always stayed, until now. Her account has been deleted and she is no more so, it was with heavy heart that today I went into the bowels of blogger and figured out how to delete her link. I shed a tear and said a toast, and sent her off into the great beyond known only as 'a real life'. I would follow her, but it's scary.

Still, at least it prompted me to write this soppy pile of twaddle, eh? Imagine if I hadn't. Doesn't bear thinking about.

Twitter People, And An Apology

So, this is not the post I set out to write this week. I had planned an account of my torment at the hands of a schoolyard bully and how the old adage, 'stand up to a bully and he'll run away', isn't always the best advice, but that will have to wait for something has come up which I need to address. Something which has been playing on my mind for a couple of days.

Now it's entirely possible that there isn't a problem and I'm just being paranoid. This has certainly been known to happen in my long and torturous history of 'trying to interact with other people like a normal human' but if it is all in my head, then all that's going to happen is I'm making a fool of myself, which is kind of what this blog is all about. If I'm not paranoid though, and there really is a problem, then I hope that this post will go some way to putting it right.

I spend a lot of time on Twitter; a time sucking indulgence which has become akin to an addiction for me, and I don't use the word lightly. You see I joined twitter, as I do so many internet do-hickeys, with the intention of extracting the michael out of all the saddos but unlike the various forums I've joined and never posted on, or the MySpace and later, facebook pages I set up, I have stuck with Twitter and now wouldn't be without it. Why? The people.

In a course of events that I didn't foresee and would never have thought possible, I began to engage. It took me a while but I began to consider these 'tweeters', these people I've never actually met and possibly (probably) never will, as friends. Is that 'sad'? Is that 'abnormal'? If it is, I don't care.

My whole life I've struggled with the social niceties, with the societal pressure to 'do this', 'think this', 'feel this'. I've had few friends, I've become estranged from the bulk of my family, I consider those I work for and with as nothing more than interchangeable/replaceable colleagues. When people are particularly happy or miserable; when babies are born or engagements announced; when people are ill or die, I feel nothing. I put on a show of camaraderie in the good times and feign empathy in the bad but it's seldom genuine and if it is, it's fleeting. I had begun to think myself broken. Until Twitter. I don't know how they did it but they brought me out of my shell, they made me laugh genuine laughter, engage in genuine banter that I wasn't forcing to fit in, care about what they were doing in their lives and want to share what I was doing in mine. So yes, I think of them as friends.

And, as I'm told is common in real life, by the tellybods and the bookwriter people, some are better friends than others; some are more important to me than others.(You can see their names over to the right there). I care, not just about their opinion of me, but about them in general. How they feel, whether they're happy. So when I think that I could have done something, however unintentional, to make one of these people unhappy, it pains me. It pains me a great deal and I want to put it right.

ON SATURDAY I posted a comment on twitter about Person A. It was a joke; a comment posted in response to something Person A had posted earlier that day, which had in turn been posted in response to something I had said the previous night. You know, like a conversation, but with reaallly long timedelay. Shortly after I posted this comment, someone we shall call Person B seemed to get very upset. They posted some things that, while not addressed to me personally, could have been written in direct response to my post. The timing and their content certainly indicated that they were. I pretended not to notice. I hoped very strongly that what I thought had happened, had not happened. I'm now convinced that it had.

You see, taken in context, I like to think that my comment was mildly amusing. Taken out of context (and let's face it, what's the likelihood that anyone would have just happened to see the previous 2 messages in the sea of thousands over the 24 hour+ hours that the conversation took?), the comment took on a whole other meaning. And it was a meaning that Person B would have had every right to get upset about.

I hold my hands up here. It was a stupid thing to do, especially since I knew that Person B was online at the time. I just didn't think; I had an idea for a funny thing to do and I did it, without a thought for how Person B would take it. I apologise; all I can do is apologise, but I want that person to understand something.

It was never my intention to hurt your feelings or upset you. I was an idiot and I've felt like shit about it since it happened. I hope you understand that you are genuinely one of my favourite people to talk to online and a big part of what makes Twitter so positive an influence in my life. The thought that I played any part in making you unhappy kills me. I hope you understand, it was a joke.

As I say, it's possible that I'm overreacting; that the whole thing was in my head, I'm the only one worrying and the above post is just a big load of 'Paul Being An Idiot'. If that's the case, nothing would make me happier and you should all feel free to mock me mercilessly. But if not, then I hope that Person B understands how sorry I am.

And also, I suppose, that all of Twitter doesn't now disown me for being the freakazoid needy loser that I have just ousted myself as. Slipped up there.