WARDY WRITES... WARDY PUBLISHES...
Available now: https://books2read.com/sittingonahorsefacingbackwards
Wistful reflections, petty glories.
I'm a flailing TEFL teacher who entered the profession over a decade ago to kill some time whilst I tried to find out what I really wanted to do. I like trying to write comedy (I once got to the semi-finals of a BBC Talent competition, ironically writing a sitcom based on TEFL), whilst trying to conquer genetically inherited procrastination... I am now based in Brazil, where I live with my wife and two chins.
Available now: https://books2read.com/sittingonahorsefacingbackwards
It's not like I'm obsessed with him, but apparently, Sam Altman is now after a cool 7 trillion dollars to make more powerful computer chips, to enable his AI to run the world more effectively, presumably from an extinct volcano somewhere in the Pacific.
Is it just me, or does anybody else think giving one person this much power is not guaranteed to have a favourable outcome for the majority?
Especially when that person has made utterances such as, "AI will probably most likely lead to the end of the world, but in the meantime, there'll be great companies" *. Well, that's okay then. Let's just put him in charge of the nuclear button as well, shall we?
Not a day goes by without Dobber* stumbling past our gate on his daily mission to secure free beer and fags**. The later in the day he appears, the more unsteady his gait, as being a deceptively careful planner, he clearly has a few cans of lager readied the night before so that, when he awakes, he can start the day with a liquid breakfast to ensure his blood alcohol content remains stable. More often than not, his first port of call is the hairdressing salon two doors away, where he will inevitably regale my stylist Gerson with an incoherent monologue and/or rant. Depending on how thin his patience has worn, Gerson will frequently proffer a few notes and coins and ask Dobber to visit the supermarket down the road on the corner to buy him something, anything, on the unspoken understanding that the change will be used to purchase some more cheap alcohol. Cue Dobber stumbling past our gate again, this time heading in the opposite direction with a renewed sense of purpose.
As the salon has irregular hours and is not always open, Dobber will sometimes make his way over the road to the opposite corner, where a tailor operates out of his garage. Lengthy negotiations tend to ensue, and if the wind is blowing in the right direction, a similar visit will be paid to the supermarket to buy the tailor a twelve-pack of beer, a couple of cans being busted out in recompense. Itâs like watching the noble hunter-gatherer, fixated only on securing enough supplies to avoid starvation, or in Dobberâs case, a debilitating bout of delirium tremens.
Part of me canât help but envy his lifestyle, debauched as it may seem. There is a beautiful simplicity to his existence. He has no need for mindfulness meditation, as his sole focus each and every day is how to continue his permanent state of inebriation and keep the nicotine pulsing around his system. He lives with his mother, a melancholy woman who, on the rare occasions she ventures out, sits in front of the house, presumably wondering where it all went wrong.
I should not suggest that Dobber is a complete freeloader. Recently, showing an unexpectedly entrepreneurial bent, he came weaving around the corner pushing a wheelbarrow. It wasnât at all clear where he got it from, or indeed if he was authorised to take it, but he had the air of a man on a mission, willing to push a wheelbarrow from point A to point B in return for a guaranteed supply of the amber nectar. A while ago, when a removal van arrived with some of my brother-in-lawâs furniture, which heâd asked to store at our house, as I was going up the staircase, I was surprised to pass Dobber on his way down, fortunately carrying a dining room chair rather than a more delicate, breakable item. Never one to miss an opportunity to provide manual services in the hope of an alcohol-enabling tip.
There is a price to be paid, of course. Dobberâs dental hygiene is nothing to write a ballad about, and he has been known to drunkenly abuse strangers in bars, with predictable results. In fact, itâs not difficult to imagine that these two facts are related, that his almost complete lack of front teeth in part derives from multiple beatings dished out over the years.
But on he goes, hobbling back and forth all day, every day, with an admirable laser-like focus. I just pray I donât ever collapse and require mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when heâs in the vicinity.
Labels: Bros, Dalston Kingsland, innit, knee's up Mother Brown
Labels: funny place names, late night maudlin street, Rocky III, the birch
Labels: Betjeman, late night, maudlin street, Morrissey, The Smiths
Labels: advertising, bedsits, Seeing Etchings, Wilde
Labels: Mercedes Benz, what shall we do with the drunken sailor?, yodelling
Labels: daydreams, Mary Shelley, stag night/hen do, Victorian piers
Labels: Calabria Dreaming, Facebook, James Randi, Maugham
Labels: Basil Rathbone, puta merda, swearing, The Dutch
Itâs significant that my two main clients never asked me to do a test - they just started sending me projects straight off the bat, and Iâve never looked back. Place the word âtestâ in the mix and I become a gibbering bell end. Iâd therefore ask anybody who wants me to translate anything never to mention the âtâ word, lest my fevered brain goes all Chernobyl on me again.
In other developments, after six years of largely peaceful coexistence with the townâs hundreds-strong mendicant community, my mutt Moby finally came up against some quality opposition last Tuesday and came out of it with his pride, and luckily only his pride, somewhat battered.
By the time I saw his assailant, it was already too late. A large grey hound (note the space), he had that look in his eye characteristic of a drunken Millwall supporter on his way to Upton Park â indeed, Iâm sure he can probably howl along to No One Likes Us â We Don't Care, and answers to the name Bushwacker. My first instinct was to turn round and run away shrieking for help, but the area was crowded and I can do without some kind of homage to my valour in battle being posted on YouTube by some baseball-capped iPhone user.
Despite having identified 203 vagrant canines on my customary daily route, this specimen I had never come across before. After some tense sniffing, things began to kick off in spectacular fashion. I tried vainly to drag Moby away, but before I knew it he was upside down with jaws firmly clamped around his neck, squealing just like Iâd been planning to. I had visions of him losing a chunk of his neck such was the distress he was in, but then one of those bizarre moments that only happen in Brazil occurred.
A large 4x4 drew up and a portly fellow leapt out, and after a split second analysis, he wordlessly stole up on Mobyâs attacker from behind and caught him by the tail. I was hopping around unhelpfully at this point, aiming half-hearted kicks at the brute, keen in doing so not to lose a limb below the knee. Then, with a look as surprised as mine, the dangerous dog let go of Mobyâs throat and I was able to drag him out of harmâs way.
Or so I thought. Being a little too English, I stopped to thank the Good Samaritan, which only gave the enemy time to regroup, and before I knew it Moby was in his sights once again. On the advice of one of the quite substantial group that had gathered by dint of the commotion (we must have been at least 20-handed by then), I released Mobyâs lead and encouraged him to run like buggery, but the fool looked dolefully at me, before launching into a braying scream the likes of which Iâve never heard before from any living creature as fangs clenched once again around a chunk of his rump. Three or four of us tried to release him once again, only for 4x4 man to calmly stroll over, take his position on the tail again, and coax the beast into submission as gracefully as before.
This time, I snapped Mobyâs lead back on and headed for a side street before things turned ugly again.
âYou know what I did?â the have-a-go hero confided as he hopped back into his vehicle, appearing genuinely thrilled with his improvisation. âI scrunched his pods in my fist,â he chuckled, explaining the dogâs wide-eyed alarm and bringing tears to my eyes.
âYou had more balls than me!â I wanted to quip, but that wouldnât have worked in Portuguese. Like many things.
Labels: bell ends, hooligan firms, pod scrunching, puppy love
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