Sweetpea: The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017. C.J. Skuse
article on Rillington Manor, wedding venue extraordinaire
3. Feature article on the closing of the town swimming pool plus an exclusive interview with the protestor who threw a used condom at the police chief
4. Test-driving new Audi, plus full report
5. Countless film reviews – if I have to sit through another Bond, Marvel or Keira Knightley movie I’m going to put a bomb under the photocopier
6. Interviewing a zillion Golden Wedding couples with unnervingly floccose faces in their piss-stinking lounges, sipping greasy tea from chipped cups and listening to interminable stories about Morris Minors
I could go on. And it is my diary so I will go on…
1. Pimping out Tink as the guinea pig for the new grooming parlour on Milford Street, even though she was traumatised and got a rash on her ear
2. Photos for the power-station feature
3. Photos for the riot feature
4. Photos for the Country Life section (toffs at the cricket club)
5. Food critiques for twelve restaurants under the pseudonym Gaston Enfoiré
6. Going to the courts every week to listen to dope heads get fined for insurance fraud, Burger King rage or for trying to fuck the pigeons
7. Learning shorthand
8. Learning legalese
9. Not reporting Linus for copious sexist and inappropriate comments, Mike Heath for stinking of cats or Claudia for just generally being a bitch
And that’s not even the half of it!
Some doughnuts did the rounds mid-afternoon and I ate one. Fuck you, waistline.
Passed by Windwhistle Court again on my way home. Still no sign of Our Mutual Fiend. Around the corner was a block of sheltered accommodation called Winchester Place. I parked up and watched people coming out. People going in. I scanned the entire road for some telling ‘peedo’ graffiti or old blokes in green duffle coats. Nothing. I don’t think it’s good for me, going round there. It just makes the hunger to kill grow even more. But not going round there is worse because it means there is nothing at all. Just life. And Craig.
MasterChef was cancelled tonight for a Panorama Special on the austerity cuts. Our riot was featured briefly – Ron was being interviewed about it with the mayor. I threw peanuts at the screen like I did when he was on The Chase. He got knocked out early anyway, thanks to Olly Murs.
Neither me nor Craig could be bothered to cook so we went out for a Nando’s. Sue me, Cellulite.
1. Linus Sixgill
2. Linus Sixgill’s family
3. Linus Sixgill’s friends
4. Linus Sixgill’s neighbours
5. Linus Sixgill’s dentist
6. Linus Sixgill’s neighbours’ dentists
7. Linus Sixgill’s neighbours’ dentist’s receptionists
This morning I saw the colour run-outs of tomorrow’s front page – and guess what? MY PHOTO IS ON THE FRONT PAGE!
Excited? Moi?
No, of course not, and you know why? Because that TWAT, that bovaristic PRICKSTICK of GARGANTUAN proportions Linus ‘The Vaginus’ Sixgill has spunked his filthy name all over it. He’s claiming ALL credit. He wrote the article, he took the photo, so it’s fuck you Rhiannon, goodnight. I’m amazed he didn’t claim to be one of the people in it. Jeff didn’t even speak up for me. He just said, ‘Well, I saw it coming.’
Yeah thanks, Jeff. If I had more middle fingers they’d all belong to you.
So he’s next. Lying-Ass Sixgill is next on the list, trumping all others. Just break the safety glass and pass me the fucking axe.
I don’t want to talk any more about today. I just want to overeat and shit myself and die. Or shit myself after I die. Apparently that happens. And when you give birth too. Ugh. What a world.
So I asked for my new contract, it being the three-year anniversary of my joining the company – and the two-year anniversary of my last pay rise. And do you know what? Do you want to have a wild guess what Ron and Claudia said?
They. Said. No.
I did get my contract – I’m editorial assistant for another year, guaranteed – and apparently I’m ‘a reliable, helpful and cherished member of the company’ – just not cherished enough for a £1 pay rise. They’ve had to ‘tighten their belts lately’.
‘There’s just no extra money in the pot right now I’m afraid,’ Ron said. And I, like the underpaid dumbass I am, took it on the chin like a ball sac.
So despite the £500 potted palm tree they’ve just bought for Reception and the £5,000 coffee machine and the massive clip-frame Van Gogh on the first-floor landing, despite the new carpets and blinds, new filing cabinets, Ron’s and Claudia’s new computers, the five-star bonding weekend in Lytham St Anne’s and megabucks Christmas party at the golf club – champagne included – there’s no more money. In. The. Pot.
I imagined Ron and Claudia in a pot – one of those giant cauldron jobs of boiling hot oil, like in medieval times. Tied back to back, dangling over the bubbling mixture, screaming; toes touching the surface. Lowering them inch by excruciating inch into the burning liquid as their naked skin grew redder and redder and started peeling away from its flesh – Claudia’s face a picture of anguish; Ron sweating, crying, begging before his sweet release into death.
Yeah, that’d do it. God I am BURNING to kill again. Burning. I can almost feel it beneath my skin.
But at least I finally know what I mean to the team at the Gazette. Less than a coffee machine. Less than a clip frame. Less than a cock-sucking palm tree. The unfairness gnaws at me like a blade to a tin of corned beef.
And here’s the cherry on it – there’s absolutely no chance of funding for the NCTJ either. Apparently, they ‘have had someone in mind for this for a while now’. Claudia said I ‘shouldn’t have got my hopes up’. After all, I am just the ‘editorial assistant’.
So, yeah, I’m still just the Smegitorial Assface. And ever thus shall be.
W.A.N.K.E.R.S
It’s all wrong. It should be me with my own office, not Ron. It should be me treating other people like shit, not Claudia. I do most of the work. It should be my castle and each one of their fat heads should be on long spikes outside the front gates, so every morning I can look up at their slack-jawed faces and fucking laugh.
AJ played it cool with me today. I think Claudia’s given him some lecture about focusing on work not women if he wants a good reference – he does spend a lot of time lingering by desks, shooting the breeze with people, talking about life in Australia and how ‘Christmas is always hot’ and how he goes ‘surfing a lot with his mates Podz and Dobbo’.
I know how to play him. I know what’ll get him on my desk. I’m gonna play him like a didgeridoo.
Went round to Mum and Dad’s to check on Madam after work. She’s been better, put it that way. I took out my bad day on her, which I probably shouldn’t have done because she played no part in it,