I don’t like going on training courses. They are to me, about as enjoyable as licking stamps in a swamp. Going for a weekend on mushrooms with Elton John. Listening to the Black Eyed Peas while being fed whole pineapples. I don’t like them.

The reason I don’t like them is they’re long, full of people, and contain often patronising exercises which last forever and help nobody.

I had to get up at eight in the fucking morning. I don’t like eight in the morning, I think it should be banned. I think the world should only open at 1pm, at the earliest. Anyone who likes mornings are psychopaths. The sun blasts your eyes off, the body feels like it’s undead newly raised, birds are shitting themselves laughing, and God is punching you in the face with bleary eyes and rancid breath.

The journey there was so boring that i had to entertain myself by quietly remembering a previous sexual encounter. It’s fun, try it.

The pub is in Lenham. It is a large Sheps pub eroded of any and all of it’s character by company sterility. Built of several rooms, including a hotel, it is pretty but insipid. There is coffee provided. It’s in a silver kettle/pot combo thing, and the cups are arranged in a circle on their sides, inside each other. It is tricky to get one out without disturbing the rest.

On such an occasion, I wait for others to remove a cup first, as I know if I do it I will knock all of them over, smashing onto the floor. Part of me wants to do that anyway. I drink several coffees, and at one point leave the premises to find tobacco. I purchase this from a newsagent up the road, from a long haired fetus. They do not do Drum in 12.5. I decide on Golden Virginia, which is more expensive, but better than Amber Leaf and Gold Leaf. Back to the pub.

Some people turn up. A cheery old lady who has just bought a pub and is the only person working there. Some other people turn up. A nineteen year old lad who looks like a cross between Frank Sidebottom and Lurch. I think this but don’t say it. Can you imagine it?

“Mate, you look like Frank fucking Sidebottom.”

Wouldn’t do. A girl arrives, she’s quite attractive in a way. However, she appears to have drawn black rings around both her eyes in felt tip. I don’t ask. After some tedious developments where names are checked off, we sidle into the function room. It is bright and warm. I don’t like it. I prefer dark and cold. I like training in a cave. It’s fun.

For the next two hours, we go through the food safety motions. Our tutor says to us that we will be going on a break for coffee, following which we’ll be going through more stuff. The list looks dauntingly long. I imagine myself suddenly shouting “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE.” as a reaction, and I snort to myself behind my pencil.

For the rest of this session, there is not much incident. At lunch, I have to sit at a table with the group, to eat. I don’t like communal eating. I don’t like people being there. Masticating to me is a personal thing, not a fucking meeting. Chewing up mulch in the mouth to me is a thing I don’t want to be sharing. I don’t want to be seeing other people’s gobs turning up and down, pursing and chewing, bits all being swallowed, fuck off. If I wanted to watch dumb faces chewing i’d sit in a field of fucking cows.

Still, this is what i’m doing. My choice was a ploughmans. It’s rudimentary stuff, a sliver of cheddar, stilton, a fucking baguette cut in half, coleslaw, pickle, lettuce, a pickled onion. The pickled onion creates a chortle internally. Everybody’s been there. You’ve got an onion. It’s too big to eat in one. It’ll blow your cock off. I have to cut it in half. There is the effect to consider, of rebound. We shall call it EOR.

EOR is an event that affects round smooth foods. Yer cherry tomato, yer large pickled onion. Some peas. Point being for fuck’s sake….that if you try to skewer the object, it will often catapult off the plate and go anywhere. I think about this. What would happen, if my pickled onion shot off the table and hit Ellen in the eye. Ellen’s eye would water. She would sit in stunned silence. I would apologise profusely, getting up to leave in shame, my body knocking the table and disrupting a fork, which would clatter off. They would all think I was a cunt.

This does not happen.

However, I snigger to myself behind my fork. I am snorting inside with glorious cackles. I finish, get up and fuck off to the smoking area and smoke while starting into the bright blue sky. We go back for more training. It is long, really quite long. I begin to doodle on the paper, a face, a third-world shack suspended on some sticks. That’s how I roll.

Eventually, after having to shift my seating position constantly to stop myself shitting in pure boredom, it ends. We sit the exam. I am done in ten minutes. I would have taken six, if I had not checked my answers once.

What an anit-climax. Like an apologetic orgasm after the world’s most tedious intercourse. Eight hours learning about fucking bacteria, in order to answer some poxy multiple choice questions, all of which could be answered by a dog with no head. Fucking hell.


About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. http://www.amazon.co.uk/frozen-fridge-Zoomeister-Diaries-ebook/dp/B00C426DD0/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366481719&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=a+frozen+turd+in+a+hot+frudge It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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