Moncrieffe 2K7
21st January 2007
 
Greetings, shit-fans! I hope you renewed your rape insurance for the year ahead because Planet Jerky is back on your screens and accidents will happen. Specifically, accidents that involve the raping of you. As if anyone would do that intentionally! Man, have I got your number.
 
I'd say that's enough making-light of sex crimes for today. I'm just giving the public what it so obviously wants. Don't pretend it isn't what you want. You're a fucking liar.
 
In other news, Archibald Moncrieffe came back to life for some reason. That guy is an asshole and even I hate him, although not nearly as much as I hate you and all that you hold dear. I strongly suggest you defenestrate yourself, preferably from a tall building. This concludes my opening monologue.
 
Mr Jerky
 
 
Tuesday 12th December 2006:
After almost five months of enjoying life as a layabout, I went and ruined everything by going to an employment agency. As I can't be bothered with interviews and am wary of getting trapped in one place for another four years, I only asked for a temporary deal. They offered me a dull job at an insurance company, commencing this Thursday. Quite easily my briefest job-hunt to date.
 
I later ventured into Goldchat, an IRC server perpetuating the tired stereotype of all Dutch people being gold-obsessed lunatics. I was joined by Internet donut-enthusiast "Mrak", and aside from his efforts to communicate on their level, it wasn't that interesting. We were soon kicked and banned for our antics, not long after I accused them of being Belgians. They don't like that for some reason.
 
<mrak> ik houd der goud
<catwoman> graaauwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww mrak
<catwoman> wat zegt ie nu
<mrak> Sexytimes!
<kyra> no sexytime
 
Wednesday 13th December 2006:
Received a letter from the financial ombudsmen this morning. They informed me that while published exchange rates exist, they're not meant to be taken seriously and banks are entitled to manipulate them. Fair enough, but while no money had even changed hands between my Irish and my English banks, the Irish bank was somehow justified in taking an extra €403 difference on top of the €8 bounced-cheque charge. They neglected to explain that bit.
 
Long story short, the Bank of Ireland can legally dip its fingers into my savings and there's fuck-all I can do about it. My only option is to close that account out of spite and take my wads elsewhere. I'm not expecting them to be personally bothered or anything, considering I'm just one insignificant peon customer and they've already got my €411, but it'll make me feel slightly better at least.
 
Thursday 14th December 2006:
My first day at work was shit, in the sense that I would have rather spent the day sleeping, surfing the internet and doing hearty blow-offs whenever I please. By this logic, all jobs are shit, unless you count "serial rapist" as a job. But unfortunately, rape does not pay the bills so it's back to a life of mind-numbing work and searing gas pain for Mr Jerky.
 
I was impressed by the new office however. It's incredibly spacious compared to my last workplace, with only a fraction of the staff. My desk is twice the size of the old one (which I thought was quite big) and there are semi-cubicles, the next best thing to none at all. There are also other little things I didn't have before, such as free coffee, adequate heating and futuristic Buck Rogers toilets.
 
Surprisingly, co-workers are already acknowledging my presence, exchanging shallow pleasantries and not getting shitty when I ask inevitable work-related questions. This is probably due to these things requiring little or no effort. It took about three years before anyone deigned to grant me these "favours" in my last job, and by then I secretly resented it.
 
I'm yet to meet anyone I'd consider mentally unbalanced or criminally stupid. Aside from the silly accents, they're all just normal people. It's fucking surreal. Not that I'm about to get complacent and let my guard down, time may still reveal them as a pack of shit-stabbers. Rest assured that if this happens, you'll be the first to hear about it!
 
Friday 15th December 2006:
Agus took was up before 7:30am to buy one of those so-called "Nintendo Wii" things. It was good that he did because "Wii Sports" was lot of fun. But as if it wasn't bad enough them calling it a "Wii" like, you know, piss - They've only gone and printed the word "POO" on the side of the controllers, or at least on Agus's controllers. Nintendo, eh? What a bunch of fucking guys.
 
Thursday 21st December 2006:
A co-worker asked me if I was going home for Christmas, so I told him I was going back on Saturday. He then asked me if I'd had any problems with the flight booking, on account of fog in London. Now, having people assume that my "home" is England is fair enough, but I'd already explained to him that my family reside in Ireland when he interrogated me yesterday.
 
Either my situation is genuinely too abstract for people to understand, or this was his subtle reminder that I am not one of them, and should not start thinking otherwise. That's fine by me, funnily enough. Though you do get a lot of part-Irish people who really want to be Irish. Some guy at my old work told everyone that his great great great grandad was Irish, and was showered with glory as a result! I'm more Irish than that cunt, where's my glory for being born?
 
Friday 22nd December 2006:
The management gave us a half-day and a bottle of free plonk for Christmas. Naturally, my first step was to research its value. It was only worth six of your England sterling-dollars, but I'd already said "thanks" and everything. Nevertheless, I contemplated drinking it this evening (booze is booze) but didn't have a corkscrew. You'd think that the flat's previous tenants, the sort of people who left behind a fully-stocked spice rack (05/10/06) and scented candles, would have also left a corkscrew.
 
Sunday 24th December 2006:
To avoid grief, I acquiesced into attending a church service. This involved a singing priest's rendition of "Oh Holy Night" to music. While he was a technically competent singer giving an enthusiastic performance, it was hard to restrain my laughter. It was like watching an episode of Father Ted. I'd been warned about this beforehand, but thought it was a joke. He also name-dropped "Supermacs" at least three times in his sermon, so I suspect he was after corporate sponsorship.
 
Monday 25th December 2006:
Christmas day, eh? My gifts included a microwave, which was good because I'd somehow left my old one in Crawley and I'm a big fan of pragmatic gifts. My youngest sister, now long bored of her pony, got a pet hamster. I suggested she call it "Superdude" but she preferred the name "Lizo" after some black guy with no eyelids and an unhealthy fixation with Harry Potter.
 
At least she didn't go with "Hammy" as suggested by our father, the imaginative genius behind our three consecutive red setter dogs that were all called "Red". We originally had two at the same time, so the other was called "Rua". However, Rua is just Irish for red, making four dogs called Red in one way or another. One of them was chestnut brown at best.
 
Saturday 30th December 2006:
Went back to my parents' gaff after two days at work. I want a couple of peaceful nights in my home bedroom, away from the unending racket of neighbours, water dripping, vehicles bombing up the street, drunken Dubliners yelling at night, sober Dubliners yelling in the morning and an unidentified percussive sound that's a bit like someone kicking a plastic barrel against a wall. Being at home also means I can get more pictures of Luke with his hands in his pants.
 
Monday 1st January 2007:
Welcome to 2007, assholes! I spent my evening drinking Dutch Gold and watching television. Believe it or not, I was invited to a New Year's party once, or at least followed some people to one. I don't know who, but some hilarious fucker spiked my beer with acid or roofies or something, and sent me off a disturbing adventure through Crawley town. I got home safely, but was unable to walk until about 6pm the next day. That was really great.
 
While I was unemployed, I thought of a brilliant scheme to relaunch Planet Jerky in January 2007 as a blog-style thing, and update it every other day. The new format would give me more freedom and prevent me from doing things like welcoming people to the new year in late-January. But after I got a job, I remembered why I didn't do this earlier; If I think I'm going to work all day and then write up-to-the-minute shit every other evening, I've got another thing coming.
 
Tuesday 16th January 2007:
I was in the kitchen at work this morning, and needed to open a milk carton. Even though I've never had a problem doing this before, I just couldn't get it open. Some tart saw what I was trying to do, and butted in to "have a go". She tore it open with no effort at all! I was quite certain that this kind of nonsense didn't happen in real life, and was confined only to the realms of crap television writing. I even saw the "gag" coming at the time.
 
Obviously I didn't continue by digging myself into some "hilarious" comedy hole, trying to explain that I can bench-press 100kg and therefore what just occurred... should not have occurred. Instead, I feigned insouciance and carried on with my business, effectively pre-empting any follow-up shit she may have had, given an inch. Lazy tactics, but it's not my fault that no-one ever counters them.
 
Thursday 18th January 2007:
Attended the pre-assessment for my upcoming operation (29/08/06) which is now taking place next month. They plan to remove a chunk of my nasal cartilage, hopefully putting an end to the incessant mucus production. This is of course, providing I can reduce my hypertensive blood pressure to a lower level of hypertensive blood pressure considered safe by "The Trust" for surgery. Apparently most 24 year old men don't have this problem.
 
Saturday 20th January 2007:
Expecting the landlord (hereinafter referred to as "Rent-Boy") to collect his blood money on Monday evening, all three of us gathered our wads together in preparation. When didn't come round for it, we decided to stash the money in a drawer, rather than carry it around on our persons. We heard nothing from Rent-Boy all week. This afternoon, Agus looked in the drawer to find that the money had mysteriously disappeared.
 
We had no idea what had happened and there were no clues. There were no signs of break-in and nothing else had been taken. We contacted Rent-Boy to see if he knew anything, because we didn't have any other ideas. Turned out he'd paid a visit during the week without calling. He let himself into the flat, went through the drawers, took the money and left! When asked, he pretended to have Agus's permission, which was an outright fucking lie.
 
Sure, the man entered his own property and took what was technically his own money, but what the fuck? He had no right to rummage through our shit like that. How did he expect us react upon finding a substantial amount of cash taken from our home, without so much as a fucking note left behind explaining where it had gone? What a prick.
 
Fare thee well, sirs.
 
© 2007 MR. JERKY