A Day in the life of Old Holborn
Thursday 7th July 2011
07:00. Radio Four woke me up with Citizen Humphries blathering on about increased tractor production as usual. Since they started piping it directly into our homes via BBC cable and removed the on off switch, I do as most people do. Put a towel over the speakers they installed in every room. You’re not supposed to and sometimes good stuff is on but I still have a headache from last nights home brew.
07:30 Since butter was banned, I prefer to eat an egg, fried in lard. Wolfed that down whilst catching up on the Internet. Nobody has revoked my EU issued bloggers licence yet even though I complained about an article in Pravda telling us that Iraq is not really Iraq but a part of Iran. No Email as yet but it usually arrives late after the ISP has cleaned it for me.
Nice cup of tea though! No more sugar for me! I was warned by the GPNet that my bodymass is going up and if I want to still be on their list, I must desist immediately. They've told Tescos who won't sell me any. I’ll get used to it, I’m sure
08:30 Sit at my desk and start work. Login Screen stares back at me with some useless motivational quote designed to make sure I go to work with a smile. Webcam is on, they can reach me if they need to. I love being self employed. No more commuting for me and no more bosses (apart from “the one”, obviously) checking me every five minutes via the ISP. I work in Renewable Energy Recruitment and the Government has decided that I have to work extra hard to fulfil their EU quota by 2020. I’m allowed to work for myself as long as I hit the quotas they have set. I have to use their database of course and they get the final say over who goes where, but hey, other than that, a coffee when I want it (as long as I’m not over my daily limit) and the chance to surf all four remaining sites on the Internet.
09:30 Multiple choice questionnaire received from Pravda (online) to check I am aware of the Party daily bulletin. I’m not. Which means I am forced to read the articles they have published otherwise my computer will shut down. Dammit. One hour late. Very knowledgeable on Islam though.
12:00 Pop to the shop. Tesco have fitted RF scanners and like an idiot I took my wife’s ID card by mistake so apart from greeting me like a woman, the shopping trolley informs me that I need tampons. Wonderful. If I don’t buy them, a message will be sent to her GP informing them that she needs a hysterectomy or some such shite. Bollocks. If I have her ID card, I won’t be able to buy my daily ration of beer either. She only gets 12 units a week and the scanner will reject it. Arse. Apparently we have used too much mustard as well, so I get the usual “unexpected item in the baggage area” as I try to pay with my EURO card. Stasi Officer comes over and makes me put it back. Now he wants to know why I'm buying tampons. I tell him I am gay and my arse is leaking. Haven’t they got anything better to do?
Shit! My controller will also want to know how I can be at my desk while my wife who has my card is currently oystering the Underground in my name. More reports to file.
12:30 Mad Mickey gives a nod and a wink on the way home from his car. That means he has some tobacco to sell. WICKED! We meet at the usual place (no CCTV) and I hand over the readies and am already looking forward to a furtive puff this evening when the lights go off at blackout!
13:00 Bollocks. Web cam wanted to know why I’m late. I told it I had the shites and now it has booked me an appointment with my personal health advisor for tomorrow. Attendance is mandatory. *fume*
16:00 Nearly made my 200 calls for the day. Since BT switched the lines over to VoIP, all calls get logged and a massive reconciliation takes place over night with who called whom and if you haven’t been calling who you said you were calling on the system. Only two Emails were rejected by Steve at Blueline PLC as “offensive”. Steve is what we call a gobstopper. If he’s sleepy, you can get anything past him but most of the time, his automated censor software bags you bang to rights and more shit hits the fan. More reports to write and a £200 fine for a "rejected content" Email. Joy.
18:00 Time to log off. The ISP severs the connection and powers up the Pravda Evening Bulletin online. Bloody andrew Marr. Blah blah blah.
19:00 Din Dins! Apparently, I am having steamed fish with new potatoes and lentils this evening. My slot on the food rota changed last week so the fridge ordered it for me via the ISP link to Tescos. I’ll be fit and healthy at this rate! Eat it all up. I cannot get rid of food waste (as there is not supposed to be any and I hate flushing it down the bog). Recipe is shouted at me by Rancid Delia, the speaker system. I thank my doctor for his unwanted monitoring.
20:00 SomaTV is on. Eastenders, Lottery, How to bake bread and the Circus. Sod that. Cover the TV with the TV blanket and wander round the garden. I’m growing vegetables (which I really shouldn’t. Not allowed. God forbid, I might be growing skunk instead of artichokes) and they’re coming on fine. Can’t wait to add a few to the Tesco diet I am supposed to be stuck on (thanks Doc).
22:00 Ha ha. Home brew time. Little do they know that yeast and sugar pretty much kick themselves off if you know how. Apples (oh yes, they grow on next doors tree. I pretended to be picking up the windfalls for “recycling” but only put half in the bin when the Council Brownshirts came round to weigh them. They looked at me a bit dodgy though. I really don’t need grief off them again. 42 days of hell just for using the "turbo cider" recipe from River Cottage. A quick puff on the pipe and time for a read in bed. "1984 by Tony Blair". I remember those days. Anarchy, disorder. Dreadful.
What a day. Still payday tomorrow! I’ve nearly paid off the transport loan (for the car. Only the government is allowed to sell them now) and have enough carbon credits saved up to apply for a trip to the seaside. As long as I can get three others to join me, I’ll be allowed through the tollgates & checkpoints. I might ask DK, Guido and Rog Thornhill to join me.
Bollocks. They’re banned from my Myspace Network although my ISP has arranged for me to be friends with three other people. Mrs Dale, Dirty European Socialist and some nutter called Mozo. Apparently, they’ll be “good for you” – thanks mate. God forbid I take the missus’s ID RFID card again. I’ll be stuck with three fat munters discussing Beckham’s arse again.