What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

In the wrong job...

I want to work in the film industry. Not because it’s glamorous or highly paid, but because you can be crap at your job, but as long as you have worked even once you still get to see your name roll past at the end of the film you worked on. Every time you watch it. For at least your lifetime.

Even if you were a rubbish best boy or gaffer, you still get paid and you get a footnote in history.

And if you die at work, whoa! You get a dedication at the end of the film.

If you or I die at work, do we get a forklift named after us –?

“Be careful with that! That’s the Clive Marshall Memorial Laptop! Oh, you didn’t know Clive, did you? His work was exemplary. ‘Course he was killed on that last job we did. A server fell on him. No, it didn’t crush him. He starved to death waiting for the IT engineer to turn up.”

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