A Dirty Job

And the adventure continues...

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 10:00:00 +0000

In a basic (and probably lame) attempt to sort my life out, I'm attempting to condense a lot of it, and one of the areas where this has to happen is in my various blogs.

Hence, my adventures in night security, as well as everything else in my life, can now be found at this URL:

iamsheamus.com

Hope to see you there, kids. It's been a blast.

Let's face it...

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 09:30:00 +0000

... my job ain't so dirty anymore.

Churn.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 20:30:00 +0000

This story was passed on to me by one of the male keyworkers at my place.

He'd been working last night and was doing one of the general rounds of the building, I believe at around 6pm. He went to the top level and was outside the room of the youngest chap in the project, who's a total pisshead, when he overhead a conversation taking place between him and the near-fifty year old skank who is riddled with Hep C and all manner of STDs that I wrote about before. The door was closed and he couldn't see anything, but this is how it went down:

Hep C Skank: "So, are you going to give me that tenner, or what?"
Young Alcoholic: "No." (laughs)
Hep C Skank: "Then get the fuck off of me then!"

Prostitution, the world's oldest profession - after the humble midwife - is alive and well in the very building where I'm currently devouring season three of Prison Break. That's all well and good, but slipping the wick into that hag? I don't care how much of a drunk you are. That shit is fucking wrong.

Grim.

Physician, heal thyself. Then fuck off.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 22:30:00 +0000

Last Friday I paid a visitor to my local surgery. I wasn't ill - I simply had to pick up a prescription for my son. This was about 5pm.

I walked in, and immediately got a strange vibe. Except for the staff, there were only three people in the room - a man and his missus, who were seated, and one other chap. This latter fella was leaning over the reception desk in a most aggressive manner. On a side note, he later turned out to be Iraqi. That wouldn't be worth mentioning generally, but it's relevant within the confines of this tale.

As I said, the chap's manner put me on guard immediately - I'm a professional, don't you know - and as I went over to the desk and picked up the prescription, my instincts were proven correct.

"I want to see my fucking doctor," he said, "Not that woman. She can do nothing for me. What can she do? What does she know?"

The chap had come in and asked to see his usual doctor. She was away, and the reception staff (there were three of them) had told him that. Instead, they're referred him to a locum. She also turned out to be a woman. Now, I don't know why he was happy with his normal female doctor and unhappy with this one, but he clearly, at this point in time, didn't think a woman could do much for him.

"What can she possibly know?" he repeated, "I'm dying here. I want to see my fucking doctor."

Each of the ladies in reception took turns to attempt to calm and appease him, but each time one of them spoke to him he said something like this:

"Was I fucking talking to you? No, I was talking to her."

And then he'd turn his attention to the woman he'd same the same thing to just a few moments before.

It was most strange.

Then: "I am dying here. What, you want me to die in the street? I need to see my fucking doctor. Fuck this country!"

"Well," said one of the women, the eldest, "If you don't like it here, you know what you can do..."

Is that racism? It is on paper, but the guy, to his credit, totally set it up.

"What? What did you say?" he said, suddenly aghast at the injustice of it all, "I would go back to my fucking country if you would fucking get out of it!" He was making a brilliant observation about the current unpleasantness in Basra et al, but I'm not entirely sure the 68-year old behind the desk was all that heavily involved.

At this point he caught my eye. "What are you fucking look at?" he said.

"You," I replied.

"It has fucking nothing to do with you."

"It does," I said, "You're just a little out of control, don't you think?"

He became more and more agitated, and when his behaviour descended into almost endless swearing and - one at a time, girls - spitting on the carpet in what can only be described as a 'dismissive' manner, one of the ladies informed him that unless he sat down, they would have to call the police.

"Call the fucking police! Why would I care? I will tell them you are all racists."

I could see where this was going - downhill, fast. I had my son with me, and my first instinct was to get him to a safe place. The guy was clearly a psycho, and psychos are capable of anything. I ushered my boy to the other side of the surgery. Secondly, I had to warm up my hands - as you know, it's been fucking freezing of late, and the last thing you want to do is punch somebody in the face with ice-cold hands. Hello, several broken fingers/knuckles. So, while he continued to rant, I casually walked over to the closest radiator. It was sweeter than heaven itself.

When I had had my fill, my eyes wandered over to the other people in the room - the couple. How were they reacting? My ears zoomed in on their discourse: "Don't get involved, " said the woman, "You're not at work now." I'd had those same words said to me many, many times.

Suddenly, a doctor appeared. It was Dr S, the senior bloke in the surgery. "What's going on here?" he asked the receptionists.

"Who are you?" said Mr Happy, "What does this have to do with you?"

"I'm a doctor," he said, and walked over, "Look, come with me, and we'll sort this out."

And then he made a fatal mistake - he very, very, very lightly tapped Mr Happy on the arm.

"DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!" he said, loudly, angrily, stuffed full of venom and bile, "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU FUCKING OLD MAN? YOU SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD? FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!"

Dr S looked shocked. He turned to the receptionists. "Right," he said, "Call the police. And delete his details from the system."

"FUCK YOU OLD MAN!" said Mr H, "You fucking seventy-five year old!"

Dr S went back into his office. Mr H continued to swear and spit, spit and swear, and it was only a matter of time. A minute or two passed. The police never showed up, and Dr S came back into the surgery.

"Are the police not here yet?" he asked reception.

"YOU FUCKING SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD!" said laughing boy, "FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

"Oh, " said Dr S, "....................... fuck off."

"WHAT!? WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?"

Mr H was livid. He stormed over to Dr S and got into a stance that was 100 per cent indicative of a person about to take a swing. I looked over at the man and his missus.

"Ready?" he said.

I nodded.

We walked quickly over to Mr H and each grabbed an arm. He went limp immediately. "What are you doing?" he said, nervous. We then picked him up and carted him outside. Clearly he thought we were going to beat the crap out of him, and who knows, we may well have done. But at the very second we burst out into the cold air a police van pulled up. We handed him over, and I went back inside to get my son. The chap with his missus turned out to be a security guard at Priory Meadow.

As we went to leave again, one of the police guys pulled me over. They needed me as a witness. Fine. But Mr H, who was surrounded by four other cops, thought he'd have another go. "You're a dead man," he said, "I'll remember you. We're not done, you and me."

"Yeah, okay, tough guy," I said, and did that annoying quotations thing with my fingers.

He went mental.

I had to go inside to give my side of the story and when we got back out again Mr H was handcuffed in the back of a police car. Six cops were present. Apparently, when I was inside he'd started on the police, too.

Amusingly, I've seen Mr H twice since this incident - once on my way to the gym, and once back. Both times he's looked at me directly and I know there's recognition there. He remembers.

And he's going to get me, you know.

Soon.

Rambo (2008)

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 10:00:00 +0000

I've written about the new Rambo film on here before, but since then the movie has gone through several name changes and a couple of new teaser trailers have been released, and neither are encouraging.

Here's the original trailer, in high-res AVI format (25mb).

Let's not beat around the bush here - that's a great fucking trailer. I mean, it's an odd thing to say, but that level of mindless gore is almost unprecedented in the modern climate. It's almost refreshing.

And here's the second trailer.

I find it quite interested that Stallone, who's basically running this entire project, has made some significant changes to the feel of this second trailer. The music is very much Black Hawk Downish with a cheesy monologue, and it's nowhere near as brutal as the first one. What's also true is that if I'd only seen the second trailer, I'd pretty much think this was going to suck.

And here's the third trailer. Which is fucking awful. It looks like something MTV put together.

The film is now going to be called Rambo. I liked John Rambo, as it implied a bit more of an intellectual (for want of a much better word) take on the character, and tied in nicely with Rocky Balboa, but thank the good Lord they've dropped Rambo IV: To Hell and Back, which is just about the worst name for a sequel ever.

Here's a link to the official site, and here's a featurette about the film.

Stallone claims the picture is about "humanity", and it's safe to say it appears to be offering a familiar but vaguely interesting take on whether conflict can ever be resolved by goodwill or the establishment of a discourse, as opposed to more violence. The jury's always going to be out on that one, although given that it's a Rambo feature you can be pretty sure the closing message is going to be soundly right wing.

Burnett: Please. It will help change people's lives.
John J. Rambo: You bringing any weapons?
Burnett: Of course not.
John J. Rambo: Then you ain't changin' nothin'.

Quite.

In case you're not sporting a semi quite yet, here are some promotional pics:

The risk here is that Stallone couldn't decide whether to really go back to a First Blood-style introspective look at the character or to make a super-violent 80s-style post-pub flick, and ends up with something messy in-between. I think if I had to make a choice I'd go for a film that was closer to the latter, as per the original trailer, although the various bits and pieces that I've seen and the comments made by Stallone himself suggests to me that he was possibly trying to make this one a tad more worthy. Let's not kid ourselves - both the previous Rambo sequels are pretty poor. I don't want any more of that, and I'm pretty sure Stallone doesn't either. We'll have to wait and see exactly what he ends up with. I just hope it's not as lost as those new trailers seem to imply.

Released on January 25, 2008 in the States and February 22 in the UK.

Brighton.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 16:00:00 +0000

I went to Brighton last weekend for my birthday. Yeah, it was nice. You weren't invited.

For my sins, I like to have a drink or two in Wetherspoons. Now, I know many of the branches of this fine establishment, particularly on the outskirts of London, are complete and utter dives. However, the Hastings John Logie Baird is really quite a decent place. It's a great venue to start your evening - the drinks are cheap (and consistently good), the conversation can free-flow and you really don't get any trouble there. That's as much as a testament to the door staff in Hastings as it is anything else - they've improved dramatically in the last ten years or so. If you've lived in Hastings long enough (I've been here nearly 30 years, on and off) you'll have noted how much safer it feels in the town centre on a night out. You see so few fights, certainly compared to how it used to be. Part of that is due to a greater police presence, but I like to think your friendly neighbourhood doorman, and a slight uptick in the quality of venues and patrons in Hastings, has contributed.

So, I'm in Brighton. There are ten of us altogether. We've had a nice meal and are looking for places to drink, and decide on the local Wetherspoon. In case you don't know, it's called 'The Bright Helm', which really has to be a bit of an in-joke, doesn't it? It's accurate, too, as outside were a right couple of knobs.

When I got there a couple of my mates were standing outside talking to the two doormen, and I thought, "Here we go... too many blokes so we won't be allowed in." But it wasn't that. We were almost an even split of men to women anyway, our little group, and what the problem actually turned out to be was one of ID.

We didn't have any. Hence, they weren't going to let us in.

Now, this wouldn't be all that unusual a story except that last weekend I was celebrating my 36th birthday. Thirty-six. That's double-eighteen.

I can understand door staff being told to be careful about letting in people who look under 21, but for fuck's sake - if I look a day under bloody 35 it's a bloody good day, let me tell you.

Now, this would have been bad enough, but it was the attitude of these cocksuckers that really pissed me off. They wouldn't let me in, and wouldn't give me any decent reason why not. I told them my age, they could clearly see I was telling the truth, but it wasn't good enough.

I never carry ID when I go out. I mean, I've never needed to, but I don't bring my wallet with me because I feel it's too much of a risk. You life is in there, really, after all, isn't it? So it's just a bank card, cash, keys and my phone. But that's because I look my age. I'm 36, you know.

"Yeah, can I see the manager please?" I said. At this stage I'd had a few drinks but was sober enough to be both coherent and maintain the correct level of attitude, i.e., I had none.

"Yeah, wait over there and he'll come out when he's ready."

"How is he going to know to come out if one of you doesn't go and tell him that somebody wants to see him?"

They looked at me blankly.

"So...", I said, "Can I see the manager please?"

"Wait over there..."

And this went on for a bit. Ultimately, of course, I adopted a bit more attitude than was probably desirable and one of my friends pulled me off with the usual "it's not worth it... they're wankers..." etc. For a second I wondered if this was one of those times where it very much WAS worth it but, of course, with the magic of hindsight my friend was right.

However, it's dicks like those two that give all doormen a bad name. There was no need to be such pricks. We weren't rude. We weren't wankered or out of control, and we certainly weren't out to cause trouble. But because we had an average age of somewhere in the early 30s we were too damn youthful to pay two quid for a pint.

Suffice to say I did something I never, ever do, and wrote a letter of complaint to JD Wetherspoon HQ. I haven't heard anything yet, and don't really expect to, but I won't be moistening my lips at The Bright Helm anytime soon, let me tell you.

Work.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:30:00 +0000

Christ, I've been crap lately on here.

What's going on? Well, we have a full house at work, but they're all behaving themselves, and hence the lack of updates. It's come to something when you don't know whether you want it to kick off or not just so you'll have something to say.

I've been hitting the gym very hard, adding a lot more cardio to my routine and doing 90 minute workouts 5-6 times a week. I've lost half a stone in two weeks, but that's the same half a stone I put on vigorously watching DVDs whilst sitting on my arse 38.5 hours a week.

I've cracked the sleeping thing; the secret is to just have a mug of coffee every two hours - 10am, midnight, 2am, etc, up until about 6am, and then you've had more than enough. No Red Bull or Pro Plus - just coffee. It works. You only have to worry about little two-hour windows of pain.

And that's about it.

Progress.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 09:30:00 +0000

The last six shifts, I've pretty much fallen asleep in every one. This is pretty serious; indeed, it's a sackable offense.

Thing is, it is getting better.

After my recent post about the problem of sleep, I got quite a few emails from around the world. Some sympathised, some criticised, but most were actually pretty helpful. So, thanks. I'm touched.

Last week was a bit of a low - each night I totally crashed around 2-3am and basically slept, on and off, until 8am. Now, I have to make a check-in phone call every hour on the hour, so sleeping all night, or through some kind of incident, is not going to happen. My phone is set up to make a really loud, irritating alarm go off at each of these times and so I always wake up. And then go back to sleep. However, while I have figured out a nice private place where I can't be seen having a crafty one in the land of Nod, I did almost get busted once. This concerned me greatly.

The caffeine OD clearly was not helping. However, it's more than this - it's all about my diet.

We're fortunate enough to have a trained nutritionist amongst the staff and after speaking to her I believe I've nailed down a lot of the reasons why I'm dozing off so readily. One, obviously, I'm fucking tired at 4am in the morning, but two, if you've been eating large, carbohydrate and fat-heavy meals throughout the day, and especially so late at night, your body just wants to conk out. Every day is like Christmas after the Queen's speech. Minus the booze.

So, I've made some radical adjustments to my diet. No more white bread, and less bread overall. No pasta. Less sweets and refined sugar. And, as said, less caffeine. The Red Bulls are Pro Plus are gone. It's just coffee and Diet Coke. I've also been hitting the gym hard, switching from just heavy weights to a mix of circuit training and cardio. The result? I'm a lot sharper.

I'm still falling asleep.

But it's slightly more under control.

By this time next week, I'll have nailed it. You watch.

Being Grant Mitchell.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Thu, 01 Nov 2007 14:00:00 +0000

I was just in M&S picking up a few groceries. All of a sudden, this lady, maybe in her fifties, comes slowly up to me. I see her out of the corner of my eye and I'm thinking it's all a bit strange.

"Sorry," she says, suddenly, "I thought you were that Grant Mitchell off the telly. I was going to ask you for your autograph."

It's becoming a fucking epidemic. As I've said before, I don't even look much like him. Shaved head, jeans, leather jacket. That's about it. My grandmother's name was Peggy, but she couldn't have possibly known that.

Still, it wasn't all bad. I got a tenner for my signature. Then I slapped the woman and ran out of the store without paying. Fuck 'em - I'm a celebrity.

There's a book in this, actually: Being Grant Mitchell. I'll walk the Earth, like Caine in Kung Fu, picking up stories and anecdotes from famous people like me who look like celebrities, and how it's made their lives absolutely magical. The epilogue, of course, will be Ross Kemp and I meeting for drinks in a very public place and then, hilariously, people will still be asking for my autograph and shunning him.

I'm going to be very, very rich indeed.

The problem of sleep.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 16:30:00 +0000

A pint of San Miguel and two large bourbons, please.

That's what it took to guarantee I fell asleep this morning. Before 11am.

And to make sure I stayed up all night? A litre of Red Bull, four coffees, three Diet Cokes and eight Pro Plus.

The Pro Plus, I've found, is essential. I tried the previous two nights without it, and accidentally 'dozed off' at least half a dozen times.

The thing is, all this shit can't be good for you. I mean: it isn't. At somewhere between three and five am the human body, littered with caffeine, taurine, and other essential vitamins and nutrients, starts to see shit. And stuff. Apparitions. Ghosts. Late at night withered, howling entities appear at my door, banging loudly upon it and screaming for me to help them in some disturbed, ghastly tongue. Others in the building refer to them as 'tenants'.

The thing is: Red Bull. It's all a myth. Lies. Media filth. A can of Red Bull contains less caffeine than a regular cup of instant coffee (80mg vs 100mg, on average). So a litre of that shit only gets you so far. Now, Pro Plus - that's a different animal. Albeit marginally. Two tablets equates to 100mg of coffee. A can of Diet Coke has 45mg. So let's do the math.

320 + 400 + 135 + 400 = 1255mg of caffeine.

Just to be, you know, alert and shit, whilst I'm watching the latest episode of Californication. Sans Pro Plus, that's 855mg of caffeine, which clearly puts me in 'queer' territory as it does fuck all.

What this means is that when I finally get home around nine-thirty I'm so fucking wide-awake, despite an eleven-hour overnight shift, that alternative methods beyond, you know, a pillow, are necessary to get me to the land of nod. Hence, our good friends San Miguel and Jackie D. It's all about the downers and the uppers. For eleven hours, I'm doing everything I can to stay awake, and then for 60 minutes or so, trying to stamp all over that shit.

Bottom line: I can't be doing myself any favours. Anybody know a good shrink?

The Mitchell Test

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 14:00:00 +0000

With strangers, I can usually tell where I stand with them depending on where I fit on The Mitchell Test.

We have two new tenants at work - a right pair of hardcore drunks. One's 30 and one is only eighteen, but they hang out together a lot as the young'un is dating the elder's niece. Plus, of course, they both live in the project. I've yet to see them sober. Last night, they were absolutely wankered at 10pm and made, literally, four more trips to the local petrol station for a refill before 12.30am. At this point, they were borderline comatose.

However, before they rambled off to their rooms for the night (thankfully and finally), they put me through The Mitchell Test. This has happened to me many, many times. Without exaggeration, at least a dozen at my last place of work.

Drunk #1: "Can I tell you something without meaning to cause offense?"

Me: "Go on then."

Drunk #1: "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Ross Kemp?"

Me: "Yes, they have. Many times."

Drunk #2: "Who!?"

Drunk #1: "You know, Ross Kemp - Grant Mitchell in Eastenders."

Drunk #2: "No he doesn't. He looks more like Phil..."

Now, this is the hook. I have worked out that looking like Grant is meant to be a bit of a compliment, whilst looking like Phil is, of course, an insult. The reality is I don't look particularly like either of them - yes, I have a shaved head, but that's really about it. But many, many people, great or otherwise, seem to think we're blood relations. Particularly if they're wankered. And I've come to realise that I can get a fair grip on somebody's future behaviour depending on where they rank me on The Mitchell Test - if I'm a 'Grant', then we're going to have no problems. If I'm a 'Phil', then they're basically saying - "You are a bitch" - and the shit will, inevitably, and at some approaching point, hit the fan.

So don't call me Phil. Just don't.

Additions.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 13:00:00 +0000

We have three new tenants starting today. All blokes. If it's gonna get spicy, now's the time.

This week, I've had the pleasure of seeing the bare legs of somebody 'riddled' with hep C - not pleasant - and can bring you the good news that a can of Coke left in the fridge on your days off does not get drunk by anybody else. Miracle.

Meantime, back at my old place, several massive fights have broken out, the cops turned up and beat the shit out of one punter and maced several others (including security), one doorman was hospitalised, another broke a rib in conflict, and it all seems rather exciting.

Do I miss it? Fuck no. But this is dull, no two ways about it.

Update

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 08:30:00 +0000

Don't worry: I'm not dead.

At least, not yet; I might, however, die of boredom.

I realise it's been ages since I last wrote anything but the reality is I have nothing to say. It's all very quiet and very dull - the biggest hardship is staying awake.

We have some new tenants coming in over the next week or so and we're bound to get at least one mental so it might all get interesting then.

Until then... hang in there, kiddo.

The dirt.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 06:30:00 +0000

I'm just plodding along at the moment, getting used to the sleep pattern. I think I'm there, then I'll just totally crash. It's a new experience for me. I've been here two weeks now - I think it might take a couple of months before I'm in control.

Got a bit more intel on the characters at work - one has done 16 years of hard time, eight of which was for armed robbery. The thing is, he's fifty but looks thirty-five, so he must be doing something right. Another is 'riddled with Hep C' and is, by all accounts, a 'spitter'. Luckily I've had my shots, but still. Two are professional conmen - well, one is a conwoman, and allegedly has tricked so many old people out of their pensions that three of them have 24/7 protective watch. Junkies, dealers and boozers basically makes up the rest.

All, it would appear, would slit your throat and/or sell their own grandmothers to make a deal.

And these, I'm told, are the good ones. The real scum got booted out. As said before, we're only really half-full at the moment, so Lord only knows what treasures are waiting for me around the corner.

Bring it on.

Zombie.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 07:30:00 +0000

My apologies for the lack of updates of late. The biggest and newest problem is pretty simple: once I get home from work at around 9.30am, I'm too fucking knackered to do anything but go straight to the land of Nod. Before, when I was working doors, cracking out 500+ words at 3am seemed like the right thing to do. At 9.30am, all I can think about is a pillow.

It's going to take some while for me to get used to the shift in general and the overall pattern of my week. I will get there. Eventually.

Here's roughly how my night goes:

10pm-midnight: Just kind of chilling, watching a bit of TV, doing various checks and patrols, etc.
Midnight-4am: Watch a bit more TV, maybe some DVDs, patrols, etc.
4am-7am: Sit around like a zombie, bar the odd patrol.
7am-9am: Try and 'hang on' to the end of my shift.

As I said before, the project is only at about half capacity at the moment and the folks there are there for a reason - they behave. Hence, not a lot really happens. Some new tenants should be arriving soon and things might spice up a bit then. As it is, my work-time at the moment is little more than a war of attrition - it's an endurance test. Staying not only awake, but semi-alert overnight for 11 hours is not all that easy. While I have the privilege of DVDs, TV, music, reading etc to pass the time, it can get incredibly dull. Also, closing your eyes, even "just for a second", is death. Even blinking can be a bit risky.

So, you fill the time with caffeine. Last shift I had four coffees, three Red Bulls, two Cokes and about eight Pro Plus. Sounds excessive - it is excessive. However, whilst one could probably scrape by with far less than this, not being loaded up means time goes by much, much slower. When you're that tired it's very easy to lose all enthusiasm to the point where even putting in a DVD seems exhausting. So, drink your coffee, put on that movie, and watch the time go by just a touch faster. This is, obviously, essential to your survival. A movie lasts 90-120 minutes - you know this, time knows this, your sanity knows this.

Films I've seen at work this week: Goodfellas, Pulp Fiction, The Simpsons Movie - which was crap - Prizzi's Honour, Mad Max, MST3K: I Was A Teenage Werewolf and probably some other things I'm forgetting. Also, several episodes of season five of The Shield on DVD, lots of Family Guy (the BBC has been kind enough to show 2-3 episodes every night this week), and various other shows.

This all sounds great, and believe me, I'm getting paid for this so I'm not complaining, but it's that fucking 4-7am phantom zone that's the real killer. You've just passed the halfway point of your shift and then it all slows down to a fucking crawl.

I go back Wednesday.

Hollington.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 07:30:00 +0000

Yesterday was meant to be my night off but I got a call from the new boss at about 4.30pm, asking me if I'd go down to another site and supervise an agency security person my firm had sub-contracted to. I'd get paid more than usual. Seemed fair enough, so I did.

Horrors: it was in Hollington.

The irony was, the project there was a piss of piss compared to my place. When I mentioned where I was working to the staff they were like, "Heavens, no, it's nothing like that." Which is a bit worrying, naturally.

This place had no lockdown at all. Tenants were free to come and go as they pleased and to bring back visitors with them 24/7.

I was there for about 2 1/2 hours and it was incredibly peaceful.

The 'agency guy' was actually the boss of a firm that's been established in the East Sussex area for five years. I felt a bit of a pseud telling him how to do his job - my boss told me to say I was the area supervisor - but he was exceedingly pleasant and it's actually turned out to be a useful contact.

One odd thing: there were these flyers everywhere that said in big, colourful letters, WOULD YOU LIKE TO WIN SOME HAIR STRAIGHTENERS? OR A NINTENDO WII?

Now, that alone is a bit of an oddity as even a good set of hair straighteners probably cost less than one third of a Wii system, but I read on, somewhat eager, thinking, yes, I wouldn't mind a Wii actually, now you've brought it up. Then, in slightly less colourful, significantly smaller lettering, it read:

JUST GET TESTED FOR CHLAMYDIA AND YOU WILL BE ENTERED INTO OUR PRIZE DRAW!

There's always a catch. Always.

A new beginning.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 08:30:00 +0000

Well, the first shift went pretty well.

The area manager got called away to a more serious site and couldn't make it - this left Edmonson and myself working together and alone, which of course was great.

The house is only just over half full at the moment - seven out of a possible twelve tenants. A few big troublemakers have been kicked out of late and while those we met tonight were perfectly polite and seemed fine, there's already a few characters there. One chap has to have daily visits from the police (they arrived this morning at 6am) because he's on bail; another is clearly a dealer and/or a speed freak, as he didn't settle down, let alone sleep, all night; a third is an early 40s peroxide blond, who's kind of a cross between Paris Hilton and Chloe from Fight Club, waif-thin and always accompanied by a chihuahua on a lead. She's also quite clearly a junkie, or a recovering one, spending a lot of time with the speedfreak, naturally exchanging blow-jobs for blow, or whatever (believe me, it was in her eyes.)

The shift started at 10pm and began with immediate bad news - the previous security team showed up to reclaim their TV. It definitely was theirs (we checked), but they must have timed it like that on purpose. Thankfully, we managed to blag one from the staff and tonight I got through Mad Max, Prizzi's Honour, the Washington Redskins vs the Philadelphia Eagles, about an hour of news (Northern Rock, Northern Rock, Northern fucking Rock) and even some GMTV. I bought a bunch of DVDs but neither of us was in the mood, really.

Endurance wise, it was fine and dandy until about 7am, when I really started to crash. We had to put the on-loan TV back at 7.30am and that last 90 minutes just went on forever. Good news: the manageress was on duty when we were leaving and ordered us a new TV (from Argos, don't you know) that should arrive tonight. I'm not back on duty until Thursday, of course, so as long as it's there by then, I don't really care.

Now, you'll have to excuse me: I'm fucking exhausted. Still, two days off, and all that.

Shifts.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Sat, 15 Sep 2007 16:00:00 +0000

The new work beings Monday; I'm going in at 3pm, with Edmonson, for a briefing/tour of the new location, and then we'll both be working that night's shift, with the area manager (joy). He'll do Tuesday and Wednesday, and then I'm on for my three days from Thursday.

I have no expectations yet, as I don't really know what to expect. My only concern is adjusting to the new sleep patterns. My shift is 10pm-9am, and so as I typically have a problem winding down immediately after work, most work 'nights' I won't be going to bed until 10am. This could be kinda awkward.

In other news, I'm giving serious thought to using some of my spare day-time to do a home study degree. I quite fancy criminology, to be honest, and have done for a while. It'll certainly fit nicely in with my current career, and as I'm giving serious thought to joining the police force on the right side of my fortieth birthday it'll expedite the old application process there, as well. One assumes.

Training day.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 11:00:00 +0000

You'll have noted, of course, that I haven't had much to say lately. This is what happens when you find yourself in-between jobs.

Tomorrow, I go to Portsmouth for a day's training, and then my new position begins next week, either Monday or Thursday depending on the shift pattern Edmonson and myself work out. I'd prefer to do Monday, so I can have the weekend off.

I'm not really sure what to expect from this new job, to be honest. It'll either be the good life, as described by my new boss, or each night it'll be like a new episode of Hellraiser.

Watch this space.

End of an era.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Sat, 08 Sep 2007 02:30:00 +0000

Fair bit of hassle tonight, and for a while it seemed as if the place was trying to prove some delayed kind of point, i.e., you are going to die tonight.

But, forty minutes or so before closing, the complex manager let Edmonson and myself finish early, and we hit the bar... hard. And didn't have to pay for a single drink. Owners, staff, punters... they picked 'em all up for us. Gaymers at my place is £3.75/bottle. I had more bought for me than I could possibly drink.

When people tell you that you've not only been valued, but liked as well, what more can you ask?

Some people were actually crying.

There was a lot of love in the Showbar at 2.45am this morning.

Handicapped Toilet Blues.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 01:30:00 +0000

In the past two days, I've had rather unfortunate run-ins with disabled people. Specifically, at or near their own toilets.

You see, back in the day when I started working at this poxy place, we were informed that it was wisest for us to always use a cubicle when we wanted to go to toilet, even if it was just for a number one. The reason why makes sense - if you've had problems with one or two geezers all night, the last thing you want is for them to follow you into the toilet and smash you over the back of a head with a pint glass when you're having a slash. I mean, even doormen have some level of dignity they'd like to maintain.

So, I mused over this for a while, and figured the disabled loo was an even better bet - one, disabled toilets are always nicer. Have you noticed that? They're cleaner and they smell better. Clearly our limp-legged friends are quite demanding. Two, they come with a greater level of privacy. And three, sometimes, if you're careful, you can nip into one and spend a good 15-30 minutes in there dozing off while everybody else around you works. That's good livin'.

We have two disabled toilets at my place of work - one is down by the main bars and therefore far too noisy. The other is up beyond the restaurant, shielded by walls, and always nice and quiet. It's nearly always vacant, too.

Yesterday I went in there - to have a crap, if you're asking - and was getting down to business, and all was well. Now, when I pay a visit to the carsey at work, I have to remove my radio. You see, it's quite a heavy item, and once I've undone my belt it tends to fall on to the floor. This, clearly, is not productive. So, I remove the radio, and put it to one side. I always turn the volume well down as it can be quite loud when left on the highest point, which is where it always is when I'm wearing my covert earpiece. Oh yeah, I'm all hardcore, me.

Last night, however, I forgot about the volume. So I'm sitting there, and time passes, and la de da. Suddenly, Edmonson comes over the radio: "ADJ, I saw you go into the disabled toilet mate, and you might want to know that there's a handicapped bloke on crutches who's been waiting outside for ages." This, of course, came over VERY LOUD INDEED.

This was bad for two reasons.

REASON #1 - The person outside the toilet heard it all.

REASON #2 - I finally finished up, washed my hands, and opened the door, and said, without looking up, "Sorry mate..." And it was a woman. Bloody Edmonson. Okay, okay, she was fucking ugly, and built like a brick shit-house, but how do you recover from that!? He was laughing for about half an hour when I told him.

Tonight, I decided to chance my bog of choice again. The coast was clear. The restaurant had long closed and there was nobody around at all. So, I go inside, settle down to business... and less than a minute later I hear the familiar (but always hilarious) BEEP BEEP BEEP of some chap's disabled car, reversing up the hallway. In fact, there was a shit load more of BEEP BEEP BEEPs after that as the hallway is quite awkwardly narrow and clearly he had to three-point turn or something. Finally, he's done, and then instead of using his voice to enquire if anybody is inside the toilet, he favours banging on the door instead.

So, I'm rushing to finish - and why is it when you need to do this it's always at those moments when two entire rolls of toilet paper isn't quite enough? - and this bloke is banging away on the door. "Alright, alright," I say, "I'm coming, I'm coming." Not literally, I'll add - that would be very wrong indeed.

"Okay mate," he says, "Let me just back up so you can get out."

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Oh, the humility.

48 hours.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Wed, 05 Sep 2007 01:30:00 +0000

Just two more days to go.

'Peak season' ended today, and already the place has died a grisly death. It's back to uber-chavs and power-drinkers, but it's blissfully quiet. Really, it's just a case of going through the motions. I'm very blase about the everyday domestics and late-teen posturing now. It only gets exciting when one of those lovely mass-brawls breaks out.

Right now I'm concerned only about two things:

A. That I get paid - in full - this Friday, which means my normal fortnight's wage, the 65 hours of unused holiday pay I'm due plus my first week's arreared cheque.

B. That I haven't heard anything from anybody at my new job since accepting it. It's probably nothing to worry about, but as it was implied it could start potentially as early as the 10th, I'd have liked to have heard something.

Ho hum.

7 days.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Sat, 01 Sep 2007 02:30:00 +0000

I handed my notice in tonight. Nothing was said. Quite literally: nothing.

I have a feeling #1 knew what was coming; most of the staff seemed to have heard something about myself and Edmonson leaving.

Either way, tonight provided many reminders about why we're absolutely doing the right thing.

Jabba's not been too well of late, which meant that it was Edmonson and I doing pretty much everything. And we had all manner of cunts in. I was watching one bloke making the moves on his girlfriend, his hands all over her, etc, as she got increasingly agitated. The guy was seriously pissed and he was on thin ice as it was, but when the woman pulled me over and announced she didn't even know him, well he had to go, like, immediately. Especially when the woman's kids started crying over how nervous he was making them. Edmonson and I had to literally drag him out, one arm each, with him doing everything he could to take a swing at one or both of us. Once outside the gates, he did that strange but very typical psychological thing where he started verbally laying into one of us - in this case Edmonson - whilst saying the other one, me, was "a good bloke." I've seen this many times. Usually it's me who is the cunt, but it's almost like these dicks do a kind of reverse-projection of the 'good cop/bad cop' stereotype, maybe in some kind of loose attempt to gain favour or make one of us doubt the other. It never works, naturally, but it's all quite fascinating, simply because it's so consistent. It happens too regularly to just be a coincidence.

However, because of this and various other incidents that occured, Edmonson has decided he isn't coming in tomorrow which basically means I am not coming in, because I'm the only other DS on duty. Jabba has a 4-day holiday. I ain't doing this shit by myself. Even when/if I go back on Sunday, it's just me and Jones. And on Tuesday, just me and Edmonson, assuming he shows up. Now, one realises why 99.99 per cent of all ex-employees didn't give a fuck about their contract/one-week notice and just fucked off, instead. Much easier. Much less hassle. The irony is I figured I'd do 'the boys' a favour and work the week out, and what happens? They all fuck off on me. You really can't make this dogshit up.

The upside? When it's finally all over, I have 65 hours of holiday pay to come. How'd you like those apples?

Epilogue.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 01:00:00 +0000

Re yesterday's late-night events, I forgot to add that the woman - Ms Ketchup - wouldn't let the man back inside their chalet, but she had his credit cards in her wallet, which he wanted back. He also wanted the keys to her car so he could sleep in that, but she wouldn't give them up in case he drove away and/or turned up again in the middle of the night (the residence keys were on there as well - why she didn't think to separate them is any genius' guess).

So they had to come to a compromise, organised by my boss - the man got the cards and, temporarily, the keys, but the latter was returned to the lady after the chap bedded down, by my boss.

I tell you: the place is fucking mental. Where else does this kind of shit happen? Nowhere, that's where.

It's worth noting that neither of them came up for a drink tonight.

I also forgot to mention that Bilbo quit on Sunday. He was going to be fired anyway, but he figured he'd beat them all to the punch, just to make it even more of a farce.

So, when Edmonson and I hand our notices in this Friday, a week later there will only be three doorstaff left. Even if they work seven days a week a piece, there won't be enough of them.

"Hello, is that the SIA...?"

Red Sauce.

noreply@blogger.com (Sheamus) — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 03:30:00 +0000

Scene One: It's 2.33am, the bars are closed, and the only two DS in attendance - Welshie Jones and myself - sit back, relax, and work our way through the better part of a couple of pitchers of Export each.

Scene Two: It's 3.45am, the bars are still closed, and the only two DS in attendance - Welshie Jones and myself, both sucking furiously on Polos to remove any possible stench of moonshine from our breaths - are outside, deep in the park, attending a domestic where a man on crutches has covered his heavily-intoxicated girlfriend with ketchup, and she now wants him to leave.

It's a hard-knock life.