Beshemoth goes to gigs and parties and has not-particularly-deep thoughts

Well, so. After a major meltdown ‘in public’, I felt a lot… emptier. And plus, it’s always good to know where you put your record of What Was Said And When (for instance, it is a fortnight later, cos I R has been busy/ill/sharpening the razorblades, haha I jest, and I do not, now, recall my boss’s exact words on the subject of my deserving to be shouted at by my consultants – possibly because my brain was busy trying to expunge them from the record. You know how a dream can be so vivid when you wake up, and yet half a coffee later, the details are mere haze?)

So let us move swiftly on, just in case the person who should be feeling pretty stupid about all this turns out to be me – and I am rarely on my high horse for any length of time before it bucks me off.

When I went to see the Bossman after work, he refused to kiss me in the car. OH GOD I KNEW IT, our relationship is Over. Except it turned out that he has some sort of Lurgy from Korea and is, characteristically, in massive amounts of chest pains. Which are muscular and viral in nature, so he assures me, but no less painful for it. So how lucky am I that I felt no need to fly into an ego-driven rant about the week’s events!

(I would, however, really, really like a second opinion on whether all this is fair enough or what. I think: not, but when I broached this to my colleagues, they turned their faces away and said Nuffin. Though I suspect they would be spitting chips if they were in my shoes. Perhaps they think I am weak for not arguing the toss with the boss. Perhaps I will bide my time and collect evidence and the opinions of HR and the union before attempting to stick it to The Man*, however, in case it is the Wrong Man and I am forced to apologise**.

*Even if The Man in this instance wears a dress.

** This totally happened the last time I stuck it to The Man, or in this instance, Dr Hurricane. On the word of our Previous Boss; whose drop-of-a-hat rantings, incoherent ten-page emails sent out from the office at ten on a Sunday night, and summary caching of all the office supplies she could lay her hands on, I almost miss, because there was no disputing that these came from a land far removed from the shores of good bossly behaviour, let alone logic. (And nobody has yet stumbled on the fabled Storeroom ‘Where All Our Printers Went’.) She phoned me one day to say that ‘both’ my consultants had complained about me to her, “so that should tell you something!”, and I was most miffed because I felt they should have told me first if they wanted things done differently. So I confronted Dr Hurricane about it, on the grounds that Dr Anonymous is notoriously difficult to locate. Unfortunately, it turned out Previous Boss had somewhat… not quite been scrupulously accurate, and in actual fact, it was only one consultant who had complained. The other one. Result: I looked like the sodding loony.)

Anyway. We went out to see his mate’s band, as part of a charity rock-a-thon of free gigs all across Edinburgh all weekend. The kind of thing I woulda given my eye teeth for in my youth, and here I was and all I wanted was a good night’s kip, hahaha. However, this was fortuitous, because it turned out that right after his mate’s band, was my mate’s band! Both followed a (by all accounts very talented) death?/speed?/shouty-metal band Torn Face  – not at all my cup of tea, sadly, but they did seem very good at what they do and everyone said so. I leaned against a wall and tried not to fall asleep into my cider and/or have a claustrophobia-induced freakout. Same deal for the Bossman’s mate’s band, Engines of Vengeance – also very talented, and the music was much more my speed, and their singer is massively awesome – a cross between Axl Rose and Lisa someone, as was shouted in my ear by my mate. (My mate’s band? Armoured Cats. Yes, the link says they have retired, I am surprised also. Of COURSE they are highly talented, they are My Mate’s Band?) Alas, throughout this bonanza I was kinda staring into space, muttering, ‘it’s my job to be shouted at by my consultants?’ and fretting because I had no change for the charity buckets and felt like a right oik because of it. This week, it has destroyed me. The Bossman was fairly destroyed too, so we left early.

(And I have just spent the last twenty minutes failing to make an online donation to the Make-a-wish Foundation as I promised myself I would, because the website will not let me. LE ‘AWFUL HUMAN BEING’ SIGH).

The next day, it was something of a relief to have to piss off back to Glasgow at high speed, because a) I promised I would go see a mate for drinks, and b) turns out the cup final, between Hearts (Edinburgh) and Hibs (Leith! Where I am!) is being played at Hamden (near ma hoose!) and all merry hell was promising to let loose at some point. I hoped to be safely holed up far from any of these points, with a beer in my hand, before the final whistle.  Also c) I attempted to invite said mate for a catch-up on the last bank holiday, but my by-our-lady new mobile, which delights in ruining my plans, informed me it had sent the ‘wanna meet up then’ message when it hadn’t, and my mate had thus been under the impression I only asked what she was up to that day so I could be Elsewhere. Perhaps she was joking, but it is hard to tell by text, so given that my job is transforming me into the sort of grumpy misanthrope who lives in a lonely glen and rips tourists to shreds by night, a la Dog Soldiers, (only without any sign of increased speed, strength, or bullet-absorption, oh cruel fate), I figured I better mend this fence but good.

And try not to bitch about the job, eh?

Which I failed at, but at least I didn’t hold the floor for a solid hour’s ranting or anything. No really! Being a bird of mighty gob, I did mention it, and float the, ‘so, it is my job to be shouted at(??)’, but again, nobody bit. Christ, maybe it IS. However, everyone did then pipe up that they are working evenings and weekends of overtime and things are tough all over, and I felt abashed enough not to mention it again. You know, except as a Cautionary Tale about being knocked off one’s high horse, which I do so regularly you’d think I was a professional jouster.

The party went on late into the night and early into the morning, when I slunk off home with a vast bag of unwanted cider and snacks (praise be, for other people’s diets) and was of enough good cheer that I made Fine Chat with the taxi driver – unfortunately, to the extent that he took pity, and he gave me a tip. God. I really did think I would be more successful at life by now.

(I did demure most mightily, but stopped at the point where it was about to go from ‘amiable’ to ‘that bit in Father Ted where Mrs Doyle gets arrested after a knock-down fight with her best mate about who buys the cakes’. No, I can’t find a sodding link, sorry).

When I got in, I discovered my lodger had noted my absence, and had snuck into my bedroom and turned the heat on full blast. On the warmest night of the entire year to date, the profit-margin-gouging git! (Advised him when he arrived, I did; ‘rent covers basic bills only, yes, if tropical arboretum you want, pay more you will.’ He assured me he did not. (Want to pay more, apparently). I switched it back off, opened the window and got in around four hours’ kip, before the heat became too much and I went down the Allittlement to work like a dog. Quite proud of myself, I was. Still cut it, can I! I thought, And after hours of partying, too!

Then I quit with the Yoda, went home and spent the night drawing dragons On Commission. And had an early night, for if I am to escape the rut I find myself in, pull something extra out of the bag I must.

No honestly, no more Yodaism.


About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
This entry was posted in a horse so high I need a parachute, backstory, cheese with that?, gigs, karma, please don't fire me, social events. Bookmark the permalink.

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