I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Here we see an exclusive photo, where in-coming series producer Steven Moffatt, is forced to break the news, during a television interview, to David Tennant--who'd only just signed a new contract to continue playing the Doctor--that, as a result of the current economic crisis, the BBC had just slashed their budgets, and instead of the million and a half pounds salary he'd been promised, he would be now working for 150 pounds a week, and a year's supply of Tesco Value Beer and Walker's marmite crisps.

Tennant at first thought Moffatt was kidding, until moments later, when a personal assistant wheeled in Tennant's first installment of beer and crisps. David's reaction, as seen in the photo below, was less than enthusiastic. In fact the BBC was forced to censor it, but sources on the set at the time, said it was something like this: "Oh f_ck! You're sh_tting me."

I think I'm gonna' grab a trolley and go for a round trip ride to Lake George and back...what the hell, nothing better to do.

I did begin another crap play. This one's to take place in LA shortly before the US enters WWII, about a private detective, a former nightclub owner and the girl who loves both of them. It will be somewhat based--VERY loosely, on Timon of Athens, crossed with a Raymond Chandler story. I mean, it can't be too much like Timon or a Raymond Chandler, 'cos let's face it: it's only a 10 min. play, and well...I'm writing it, so it's probably going to be rubbish, as my playwriting skills are crap, but, anyway, it's something new to do, isn't it?

I've had my spaghetti, the cats are all asleep, I need some fresh air and a brief change of scenery to cheer me up--who knows? Maybe I'll get a chatty bus driver to talk to.

Well, just missed the trolley---God! These trolley's SUCK! They are SUPPOSED to run 20 to 25 minutes apart, but the one last night was 40 minutes getting to me--20 minutes late, and now, the one that just went down, came right back around, instead of waiting the required 10 minutes at Ridge Street in downtown Glens Falls---what is with these guys? The night crew is pretty good, but the day shift drivers are lazy prats. I mean, that bus was barely 10 minutes from the time it went past my builidng southbound, until it just came by going north again--and they have no sense of speed--they tend to either go too fast, or the dawdle well below the speed limit. Nobody likes the bus service here--even people who have no previous experience with other bus service elsewhere.

Well, that's what you get when you have a bunch of redneck conservative repulbicans running everything...some of you lot think the Tories are bad? Well, at least THEY'RE not dumb hicks who couldn't find their own backside to scratch it. Or, are they?

I desperately want to change my life--but, it's like looking through some deep murky waters, to try and see the bottom of life's river...a lost cause. I just don't have the fight in me, any more.

Someone sent me a message recently, after I posted an anti-conservative/Bush post, asking me why I dont' just move to another country?

That's like asking me why don't I learn how to flap my arms and fly--can't be done.

Well, for one thing, there's the massive expense: for instance, from what I gather, it would cost the equivilent of around $600 US dollars to apply for British citizenship, then there's the cost of the move--if I brought even less than 1/10th of my few possessions, it would still cost a few thousand dollars. And then, where would I live? What would I do for employment? I'd likely be just as alone there, as I am here, very probably...tho' closer to my UK friends, I suppose. But would they still want me for a friend, if they knew me in person, the true person behind the words? That remains to be seen.

And, of course, even if I could part with my remaining possessions, how could I part with my beloved cats?

I'm not so daft as to be blind to the fact that changing location won't probably change who or what you are. It might, but then again, most likely, it might not. So, whereas I might change locations--and cultures, would anything really change for me, myself?

For some reason, the blog is not letting me do "private" posts again..tho' it let me do it a little while ago.

I'm writing this 'cos I need to get this off my chest. Yes, I'm feeling sorry for myself, and if you don't like it, then for heaven's sake, DON'T READ IT!

__________________________________________________________-

I need a purpose in life.

Here I've gone and lost a whole day--because either I'm an idiot, or, my mental or physical illness is worse than I thought, or, I just have no life whereas I would have an actual reason to keep track of the days.

I wish I had a purpose, a reason for being. I wish I had someone in my life (in the acutal physical sense) to keep tabs on me.

But...I don't. Truth is, who am I kidding? I can blog all I want, but the reality is, I'd have more value as a coma victim than I have right now, because at least if I was in a coma, I'd be providing some nurse with employment.

But, there are no careers for people like me. No magic genie is going to materialize and give me my life back. And, honestly, after what's just happened (losing a day of my life somewhere this week), I don't think I'm capable any longer, of fighting for a future for myself.

Even a stinking mushroom is more use than I. What do I do? Outside of an ability to gabble on the phone, my job requires no real skills--and I'm not even really all that good at my job, truth to tell. I hate selling, if you really want to know. I like helping people--but when I try to inqire about volunteer work, no one wants me, I jsut get the old brush off.

I genuinely went through the entire day yesterday, thinking it was Friday!

I woke up thinking today was Saturday--HOW THE HELL could I lose a whole day and not know it?????

I'm scared. I'm so scared I'm in tears. I just want to crawl into bed and never come out again.

I was supposed to have Friday off and work saturday--did I work Friday thinking it was Thursday?

What the F_ck is wrong with me?

I'm scared! I don't want to be here anymore. I hate myself so much when I f_uck up like this. That's what I am, a f_ck up. A stupid loser.

I just opened merely a single folder belonging to my late mums 25 year+ family genealogy project...YIKES!

I've no idea what the hell any of it means!

Here's just a single, handwritten page (and there's literally HUNDREDS like this):

______________________________________________________________-

COOPER

Cooper, Margret. B. England c. 1850, Died NYC W 74sth St.
ARC (stands for Albany Rural Cemetery), Sect. 19, owned by John Taylor Cooper

Mary (Budd) Cooper?
James Fennimore Cooper
John Taylor Cooper

John Taylor monument Lt. Gov.

Margret Cooper from England M. John Taylor Circa 1850

(Gen. Zachary Taylor, hero of Buena Vista)

page 140, Old Albany, Morris Gerber Collection.
John Taylor Cooper J. in the 1820's had a soap and candle business.

P. 141, Wm. Cooper Mfg. stoves. Vol. 3 Old Albany, also a Charles Cooper, pg. 14-17 listed with electors.

Charles D. Cooper appt'd. Sec. of state April 1 1817

One sister of James Married George Pomery, a druggist in Cooperstown.

Maria Frances Fenimore Cooper Child of James Fennimore Cooper
Caroline Martha? Fenimore Cooper
Paul Fennimore Cooper

That's just one page---and I have no clue what I'm supposed to make of this information!

Mum said we were directly decsended from James Fennimore Cooper (Last of the Mohicans author), but I don't see any connection here on this page.

The flip side mentions an Elisabeth Evans--and I know she said we had evan's in our family--but..no idea...just one page out of hundreds, with dozens and dozens of assorted names...none in any sort of logical order (due to two hurried moves when things got shoved around a bit)...I'm a bit at sea with this stuff.

I just went to work, and the Presbyterian church's bell was rining, and people in their Sunday clothes were going in...no weddings scheduled there until 3pm, accroding to the webiste...but, then, the Episcopal (American Anglican) church next to our office building's car park, was also having a service at the same time--heard the organ play and saw posh people going inside...what is going on?

It was 10am on a Saturday morning---I thought...why is everyone going to church then? Very odd. Maybe I slept through Saturday and it's Sunday????

Never heard a church bell rining on a Saturday morning before...at least not at any Presbyterian church I've ever attended. Very odd.

The "new rich" chav who owns the Monument building--where I work, recently insisted on intalling a new security key card system--the system was only just installed this past week--on all the outside doors--and was put into operation WITHOUT checking first that all the new key cards worked!

And...I can't get into my job!

I walked all the way down there--tried all three doors--and had to walk back, getting all hot and sweaty in the process--to borrow the neighbours phone (as the pay phone across the street from my building doesn't work today)...and...I get the office's stinking voice mail!!!

I can't get into my job! I'm losing pay because some stinking chav brainless twit building owner, didn't concieve the fact that not everyone's card may be working--nor did this prat give more than few day's test on the new system! You'd think he'd give it a week, or put a temporary security guy on the desk on weekends, just in case. The

I'm MAD!!!

Disco lives, disco foreva!

Back when I was in my late teens, I used to love jiving to this song...have a brillian Saturday all, see ya' tonight!

in a hum-drum life.

I think I might start another quickie play, this weekend. I'm thinking a detective story, sort of Raymond Chandler-ish, or something similar.

I need something to do. I was hoping to go out this weekend, but that's not happening. I won't even be able to go play some crazy golf or buy an ice cream, sadly. The summer is once again, passing me by, with nothing to show for it. I don't get to go on holiday (no holiday time off, or holiday pay where I work). The only days we get off are: Labour Day (late August) Thanksgiving day (Nov.), Christmas day, New Year's day, Easter, Memorial Day (late May), and Independence day (July)...without pay..and are often expected to work an extra day to make up for the day off. Yup, our office runs 7 days a week, and is only closed 7 days a year--unless there's a power, computer or phone outtage, raging blizzard (as in 2 feet or more of snow), or no work to be had (temporary lay-off).

Well, must get ready for work...just another Saturdy in the salt mines. Life sucks and then you die.

Another lovely, lovely day, here in northeastern New York state. Unfortunately, I have to work.

I do hope that I don't have to call crafters again today. These American craft women really do get up my nose--so incredibly rude and snarky! They aren't taking the recession very well. Well, that, and apparently their club screwed up (hardly the first time) on sending them some coupons or some free thing, and rather than contacting the club, they're taking out on us--who have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with it. Blimey! I keep yearing, "Well, I don't want anything more to do with you people, YOU didn't do what you promised..." Reality check, woman: I didn't promise you anything, I am NOT the club, I am just the poor schumuck who had the misfortune to ring you up, you nasty, whingy...

Or, they'll be all snippy and pseudo-pretentious (ala Mrs. Bucket and her "whilte slimline telephone", and..."my sister violet has a Mercedes and room for a pony"), and pretend they're all superior to everyone else, because they find the information put out by their club "too childish" or "not advanced enough." Well, la-de-da-da. Get out the party hats, people, we've got an 'EXPERT' craftswoman on the line, whoo-hoo. I'm impressed--NOT.

Go crochet yerself some toilet paper, 'cos yer full of woman!

These people think nothing of being abusive to people who call them--and I'd like to think they'd be appalled if they could see who we really are, as fellow human beings---people in wheelchairs, pregnant mums, disabled, elderly, ordinary folks just trying to get by just like the people we're calling...oh sure, we have some teenagers--which a lot of people think telemarketers are, for some reason...either that, or they think we're sitting in some boiler room somewhere (not too far off there), or some posh office (ha! That'll be the day).

Of course, none of them "see" me. None of these so-called human beings for one second can visualize that there is someone almost like them (except that I truly value manners), on the other end of the line. That's why they think it's okay to hit me with verbal abuse. It's not okay, by the way. That sort of behaviour is NEVER okay. But, no one gets that. Manners are dead. It's easier to be livestock than to be human, these days. Livestock doesn't have to actually think or actually do anything, except stand around, and eat and poo. Easy life that.

But these craft women--wow. What a bunch of zoo animals. Usually, when someone's upset, 75 percent of the time, I can manage to calm them down long enough to at least give them some advice--but with these women...my sucess rate is less than 30 percent. Usually, they either rant non-stop without coming up for air, for five minutes, and totally refuse to listen to me (what's the point in that--if they aren't going to give me the courtsey of allowing me to address their issues, WHY should I even bother to listen to them?)...

...or--most often they'll slam the phone in my ear (I hope they break the thing) while I'm still in mid-conversation.

Anyway, I don't like calling the whacko nutjob American hunters, but they're not half as bonkers as these scrapbookers, knitters and such.

1. When a telemarketer rings you up, just keep saying, "I dunno'" to every question you're asked.

2. Get on a crowded elevator (lift) and the minute the doors close, just let 'er rip with a big ol' bum trumpet.

3. For the lads, stuff long, rolled athletic sock down your trousers, then go to the shop and get a pack of the largest size of condoms they sell, and then tell the clerk they're too small and ask--with a sly grin, if they have anything a lot bigger.

For the ladies, buy the biggest bra you can find, then stuff it with some water balloons, then, putting on a tight-fitting sweater (jumper), go to a bar/pub, and sidle up to the bar. Begin crying, and when someone asks what's wrong, say your partner left you 'cos your boobs were too small.

4. Walk around in a crowd in formal dress, wearing a really silly hat.

5. Get on a crowded train/bus with an Ipod or portable CD player, and start singing out loud--and off-key, "Karma Chameleon," or "She Thinks My Tractor is Sexy".

"Oh, they love this one...watch me pull a condom out of my ear!"

Wow, I'm sooo-tired! 3 1/2 hours going to Lake George to do the laundry (worth it, as I figured out that I save at least 10 or 15 dollars by not paying for a cab-and the cost of their wash/dry is a bit cheaper, as well)--albeit, it does mean that I have to do far less laundry than I normally would--I'm not as strong as I once was, and I can only carry enough for two small loads, only between 10 and 20 pounds max. Two years ago, I could manage 25 to 35 pounds, 15 years ago, I was handling up to 40 and 50 pounds, and when I was in my late teens, I could carry 50 to 70 pounds. So, way I figure it, in ten years, I'll be lucky if I can lift a carton of eggs, ha-ha.

Then, after getting home around half-past five, I had a late lunch of a ham sandwich and some soup, and blitzed out again to the store for cat food and some things I couldn't get at the supermarket yesterday....and forgot my internet bill. So, now I have to go back after work tomorrow and pay it.

After a bit of a rest, I left for the supermarket at 7pm, and because the trolley was running 25 minutes behind schedule, only now just got back, just before nine pm.

At least I feel better than I did this morning. To be quite honest, I was on the verge of going to the ER, that's how awful I felt. But, I think maybe a good night's sleep will help. I just feel so overwhelmed, there's so much that needs doing, and I'm just having such a hard time getting anything done. I miss having family around, sometimes. I don't like to admit this publicly, but there I times I do wish I had someone around to be with me. God, that sounds so pathetic to me! I mean, I've long ago accepted that I must be on my own, and I'm totally okay with that. Still, days like yesterday and today...yeah, I feel the gap in my life, sure. I try not to let it get me down, or make me feel sorry for myself, but some days I really feel overwhelmed by it all, and then it's honestly tough being on my own. But, that's the price I very well know that I must pay.

It's like when I was a stable hand, and someone once asked me why I left my cozy office job to go do that, with the low pay, long hours, hard labour, sometimes brutal weather conditions, and...the injuries. Well, as I recall, I told her that I knew what I was getting into: knew that some days I would shiver all day long, or have buckets of sweat pouring off me, knew my pay would suck, knew I'd get callouses, achy joints, sun and wind burn and sore backs...and knew I might be injured sooner or later--perhaps seriously. I accepted that going in, and when I did finally get a couple of near-serious injuries, I didn't wninge about it...well, not very much...tho' I remember waking up screaming the night the nerve in my back went all haywire, following the day that stupid mare ran over me--God help me yes, that hurt like hell-fire.

But, in the painful months that followed, I just dealt with it, and didn't whinge and moan, because I knew that getting hurt was an unwritten part of the job description. You couldn't go about at 30 years of age doing heavy lifting and repetitive movements, working continually around unpredictable animals that weight 600 to 1200 pounds, and not run at least some risks.

So, I knew when I decided to live my life alone--tho' I never expected to be quite as alone as I ended up being--that there might be times of regret, times when I needed someone and no one would be there for me. That's just the way life is. You sit down at the table, put down your chips, and play the hands that life deals you. Have I mentioned that I suck at poker, by the way? And no, I'm not going to break into a Kenny Rogers song.