| Back in the mid-90s I used to post a lot to the newsgroup alt.peeves using the not-very-heavily-disguised pseudonym of 'Bod', and then I stopped, and then at the beginning of 2001 I started again. The message below, a reply to a question asked in the newgroup, explains why. Treat it as autobiography stuffed with cynicism, garnished with self-loathing, and served here with just a soupcon of after-the-event editing. Enjoy! | ||
| In article <93v553$tmt$1@vallen.koba.ee>, Michael A. Atkinson writes >Bod <bod@erstwhile.demon.co.uk> wrote: >>Michael A. Atkinson <chaos@suespammers.org> writes > >>>[Magnificently formed expletive of great length and force deleted], >>>it's Bod. Where have you been? > >>Getting married and getting divorced, mostly. Peeve at eleven. > >So far, based solely on my subjective evaluation, this qualifies as the >Best Peeve in the Ten-Words-or-Less Class for the 21st Century. > >But it's past eleven. Give. Well, let's talk about the first week of November last year. It was an interesting week. The first was a Wednesday. I remember it being a Wednesday particularly clearly, because it was the last time we saw the marriage-guidance counsellor, because it was the day that, eighteen months into our marriage, I asked my wife for a divorce. Hey, when you're both seeing doctors for stress and depression, and the woman you pledged all your worldly goods to says that she has no intention of working for a living, ever, that the overdraft of hers you paid off six months ago is full top again even though you're giving her half of what you earn – and you're paying all the bills – and despite earlier pre-wedding promises to the contrary, she doesn't actually want to have children... well, you know it's never going to get any better. Thursday was peaceful by comparison, broken only by intermittent sobbing. Friday, I was made redundant. My own damn fault for going to work for a dot-com. I mean, I spent most of 1999 as an internet commentator so it's not like I didn't see it coming, but it was still a punch in the nose. Very like the repeated punches in the nose I received later that same evening, in fact, as a group of youths decided their need for my mobile phone was greater than mine. I mean, if they'd asked me for the damn phone I'd have given them the damn phone, but they had the bad manners to open the negotiations by breaking my nose and hitting me round the head with something blunt. That pissed me off, and I didn't give them the damn phone. Nor the damn computer, the damn passport, the damn credit cards or the damn UK£200 in cash I was carrying. Modern youth. Tsch. Anyway, six hours in hospital later (and that was just waiting to see the doctor), I was informed that everything that can be broken inside a nose was broken in mine, that the facial scarring would likely be permanent, they couldn't do anything for me, and that I should go home, try not to bleed so much, and make an appointment to see my regular doctor in a week or so. Saturday, I mostly stayed in bed. Sunday, unable to breathe and with big panda-eye bruises coming through beautifully, I boarded the big silver bird to Chicago. Dry aeroplane air gives me sneezing fits. I don't recommend sneezing fits with a severely broken nose, unless you have a great deal of something absorbent to hand, and neighbours who don't mind sitting next to a man who appears to be bleeding to death through his nostrils. I also don't recommend flying with American Airlines. Monday, I sat through the most important all-day job interview of my life. Yeah, okay, so I had seen the above-mentioned redundancy coming, and had prepared an emergency escape-route. Still, not the best interview I've ever done: from the neck down looking like I'd spent three grand with Giorgio Armani, and from the neck up looking like I'd spent three rounds with Mike Tyson. Ray, who'd arranged the interview, took me to dinner afterwards. Moroccan. I love Moroccan, and this was great Moroccan. It was also impure Moroccan, because shortly afterwards it decided to leave my body at speed, and it continued trying to do that for the next 24 hours or so. Those were 24 hours I was supposed to spend hanging with my friend Ken watching the American election close-up, and discussing game design. Instead most of it was spent on Ken's couch, discussing when I was going to throw up again. And then back to Blighty on the big silver American Airlines bird. "Excuse me," I said. "I'm 6'5" and I have food poisoning. I know my chances of getting a bulkhead seat with extra legroom are fuckall, but please could I at least be on an aisle? And vegetarian food?" "Sure thing," said the blonde, booking me the middle seat of the middle row and the meat-with-everything option. Don't fly American. They're not as bad as Northwest, but that's like saying a slow death by smallpox isn't as bad as eternity in the fifth circle of hell. Peeve: guess who my wife – a woman with no assets and no income – decided to employ as her divorce solicitor. I'll tell you. It's the same firm of shysters who did the business for Prince Charles when he and Di decided to call it a day. Seriously. With bills to match, which she will be paying. That's another reason I decided to ditch the bitch: she has a problem understanding how this money stuff works. !Peeve: I got the job. Started today. Much fun; cool people and good product. It looks like I'll be working from home for much of the time, and yet they still offered me a company car. Everything else still sucks.
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