Week three...

Don't worry, whoever has been or not been reading it. You have not missed out on three weeks of shite, it is a new thing and it is my third week looking for a job.

First I think we should do a little background history; some dirty details and some time wasting.

The relevance for me being on the dole is that I am a naturalized foreign citizen. I originally come from Mexico with the intention of taking your women and screwing your jobs.
I have lived in beautiful England for 9 years - ha, I slipped through the net and now it is too late. I have already taken (well, married) a beautiful maiden, a true British rose born in Cyprus (RAF base, so stop that now). After nine glorious years in this nation I have acquired the taste for humour, beer, football, Indian summers, hate for the English, Labour government and now the dole.
You do not understand how dirty I felt when I went to sign on, as I immediately became the object of so many of my jokes and snide remarks. It didn't help either that - though I fully intend to get a job - I was wearing a red t-shirt with the legend 'Made in Mexico', reading a book in Spanish and that my name is unpronounceable.
So when I got called from the desk in my friendly and sophisticated job centre I had a few funny looks and I saw some xenophobic thoughts running through a couple of people’s eyes. So from that moment I became one of my own jokes and one of the people I turn my nose up at. I faced a mini identity crisis, should I start making racist comments? Should I switch to rollies? How mush is it for four cans of Special Brew? And all those things that rush to your head when facing such situation. I suppose no one is born a dole scum and there are no such manuals to help you.

After having received my first payment on Monday (04/09/06) and being shocked at how am I to live on that; I went and took a cold shower rocking on the bath tub’s floor scrubbing myself real hard. It was a shock to the system. This is what I can call properly a Culture shock. It is the great unknown and the great awkward silence in the flat in the mornings. My wife has got a contract and that is great, but that leaves me with the TV, the news (on line and on TV), my CD’s, Gamecube ® (you like that?), a bass guitar and a Word copy of my CV and covering letter to fill the day.
Though a routine has now taken shape (and suffering from OCD makes sure I stick to it) the days seem to be too big and long to fill them productively. I wake up with my wife and I make us a cup of tea, each, splashing out already. We have breakfast as we watch the news (count how many times this takes place), then she’s off to work. That leaves me there watching the end of the news and then I start looking for a job online. I categorically refuse to watch Jeremy Kyle as I know once I go down that downward spiral I will be cashing the giro at the pub or with a local dealer.
On line searching is not as fun as it might appear to be once it is strictly restricted to jobs. I go through approximately 10 or 15 messages that I receive daily with jobs. Though I created these searches, it is only a small percentage the number of jobs that are actually suited. You’ll find that no matter how specific, you might as well just enter ‘Job’ in the criteria and hope for the best. A couple of times a day you get calls from agencies and those teach you a lot. You understand what it felt like when you never called that girl (or guy) back. You hear your pathetic excitement as you answer to their questions, so they can tell you that they will call you later that day. All for you to mope over the phone for the rest of the day and pull faces at your wife when her sister calls her all the way from the North and they haven't seen in weeks.
After or during online searching I listen to the Ricky Gervais podcasts and nearly piss myself laughing, though I listen to them nearly every day. OK, every day.

Then I go for a run. At the moment I can only handle 2 miles (I am showing off now), take a shower and read a couple of chapters from (currently) ‘Broken angels’ by Richard Morgan. A traditional Sci-fi chick-lit (ha, not really) thriller, that makes you ponder whether it is the new Blade runner or if you can tell your friends about it. Review to follow.
Back on the net just in case there is a new job that has been posted in the last half hour. Get bored of it, now go and read the news on the BBC’s website (twice the news now). Read immediately after, some boring sports news as the transfer window has closed and Fulham did fuck all. Check to whom we might lose to this weekend or cherish the thought of a draw or even be a bit cheeky and fantasize with the whole three points.

From there it is psychological downhill. I sit and watch the noon news on channel 4 and once they finish change over to BBC 1 to see the same news from a different angle, or so I try and lie to myself. Though I pretend to read my book at this time, I still have an ear out for the headlines. When the news are about finish I start cooking lunch and then proceed to eat whilst watching Neighbours. I tape them for my wife too, but she’ll kill me for having put this here. Once having eaten I go out for a cigarette. Then I struggle to play the bass whilst keeping the blinds open and a concentrated yet intense look upon my face.
Once my fingers are really sore or I feel too sweaty to have been only standing there, I stop. After that I have one or two hours before my wife gets back. In those two hours I think of plenty things that only an incredibly doomed and bored soul can dwell on.

For example:

- I wonder if Tony Blair and George Bush invent words when they are together. I am sure they do and they use them at G8 meetings to show how close they are. Though Tony just does it to rub it on the faces of the other world leaders.

- If we get a proper Scottish Prime Minister (though Tony Blair was born in Edinburgh he is sooooo English, face it), would the mentioned Prime Minister try to seriously fuck over the English?

Those are the two most topical and recent thoughts that have been keeping me awake at night, not really, they just plague my dreams.
Then my wife arrives, we have dinner and I have to act all sane only to blow my cover as soon as Hollyoaks starts. It’s got to the point where I seriously question its credibility. I have been living here for nine years, long enough to know better. After questioning it’s credibility I realize that the young Scouse lad that hardly ever features in the show, is the most believable character. When have you ever heard such thing?

Well, I shall leave it here. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. This is the beginning of what I hope will be a short ride. Though it strangely feels like a motorway drive with my Granddad. Longer than desired, terrifyingly fast and getting too close to the oncoming traffic.