Today I had my photograph taken for the local paper. Now, don’t get all worried and thinking the worst – I sincerely promise your 15 year old daughters are safe and unsoiled! The reason my mug will adorn the local press is wholly for work-related purposes.
This is not the first time I’ve been invited to have my photo taken for the paper, which is quite bizarre given that facially I look like a cross between Rodney Trotter and the lead singer of Everything But The Girl. However, it is certainly the first time I’ve actually accepted to have my photograph taken for public consumption. This is partly because (contrary to the fact I keep a daily blog which is sometimes arguably a little too revealing) I am of a shy nature. And also partly because the last time I was invited to be snapped for the paper, it was on the proviso that my pose would involve me looking lovingly at a poster advertising the right-wing comedian, Jim Davidson. This of course would be one-rung lower on the dignity stakes than being snapped naked whilst masturbating on an open top bus, whilst singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ at the top of my voice.
So far in this blog, I have tried to avoid talking about my occupation and background. Or any particularly personal things about people and places I know. Or libelously speculative things about people and places I don’t know. Or ill-informed opinions about current affairs. Or dull scheduled timetable reports of my days activities. To be honest, it’s left me with a pretty narrow canvas to work with. I feel it might now be time to break with some of those self-imposed conditions and talk a little about my job.
I currently work at an events and entertainments venue. Coincidentally, my boss, who boasts the astonishing feat of actually being even more unpleasant and intolerable than Davidson’s TV persona, has heady hopes that one day we may become Jim's actual most favourite venue.
Naturally I fear my boss is building his dreams on sand. Jim Davison's all-time fave is a now-delapidated and long-defunct theatre on a pier in Great Yarmouth. You simply can't compete with a fondly-thought of closed theatre. It's like trying to compete with the memory of a lover's previous husband who died prematurely. Simply impossible - no matter how many cheese and biscuit selection boxes you throw at them.
Ultimately, the fact remains that at some point my life has been concerned with a pandering woo of Jim Davidson, and personally this is not something I wished to have a souvenir photo and news article about. Hopefully, the photo-shoot I was involved with today will not be too dignity sapping. But it did involve me kneeling down in the street, grasping an inflatable guitar. Which I justify partaking in, solely for being one rung higher than the naked open top bus wanking to “It’s Raining Men” thing.
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