No stranger to the P45, Dan W.Griffin [the two towers ebook .TXT] 📗

Nineteen eighty-eight was such a long time ago that I don’t remember how I got the job working on the production line at the Cuprinol factory in Frome. But since it was a production line and I was packing boxes at the end of it, I can’t imagine the application process having been particularly tough. I went to work with a considerable reluctance and a dragging of feet that some may say was not the most suitable of attitudes to go into a new job with. They’d be right: I didn’t last out the day.
As you may have gathered by now I’m the type of person to whom boredom comes rather easily... you too, huh? (see Book). If I’m not finding my given task of the moment sufficiently stimulating I will inevitably try to do something else; something to divert my attention away from the tedious unpleasantness of the particular task. Often, this will involve thinking up alternative mind-occupying entertainments to help pass the time, and an example of this would be the counting of the thousands of cold, lifeless, recently-beheaded soggy lumps of grey-fleshed bird (pouring onto the conveyor) at the chicken factory some time back. The lack of chickens notwithstanding, it was a similar scenario at Cuprinol.
If you don’t already know, Cuprinol manufactured a range of wood-stain products and dollopped them into tins. These tins were then packed (by me) into very large cardboard boxes. My role was also to seal said boxes once full and mark one of six spaces on the side to indicate which variety of wood stain or creosote was contained within. I’ve no idea whether there’s any difference between wood stain and creosote but I don’t care, either. What’s important is that packing boxes of the stuff was about as much fun as sitting in treacle.
By the end of the first of the morning’s shifts I’d already exhausted the majority of my time-passing activities; one of which required me to count the number of tins passing through my hands each minute to be dumped into a box for Homebase. I’d counted all of the bolts (in the machines) within my field of vision and I’d tried hypnotising myself with the regularity of their output, but succeeded only in having one of my legs go numb. I really was getting very bored indeed and I realised that it was time for a new game. After a tea break spent listening to men in overalls guffawing about the size of the ‘puppies’ of the girl on Page 3, along with a discussion of the previous night’s football that I didn’t understand, I’d come up with it.
As I’ve said, packing boxes at the end of a production line was about as much fun as sitting in treacle. Judging by the expressions worn by my co-workers it was clear that I was not the only one who thought so. Radio One was blaring like a foghorn across the factory floor and there was an air of glumness and disappointment about the place too. Bored, I’d figured that an injection of humour was required and I set about this injection beginning with my own work station.
With my marker pen, to accompany the label describing the contents of the box destined for either B&Q or Homebase I began to add a variety of cartoons. I had a brain stuffed with images of pig-rabbits and people with huge teeth and at least a dozen types of chicken. It was these that I would feature on the side of each box and it pleased me to imagine them being appreciated by the staff of B&Q or Homebase as they transferred the tins to the shelf. I then took the idea a little further. I took it too far.
In addition to my cartoon pig-rabbits, people with huge teeth and man and pig-rabbit-chicken combinations I began adding bubbles for thought and speech. In each of them the characters made comments about the weather and wished all the staff at B&Q and Homebase a pleasant day. Soon enough the characters then began to joke about the contents of the boxes and instead of being specific with the labelling, they (I) would simply tick all of the spaces on the side or leave them all blank; adding the words ‘Guess which?’ to the side instead. It amused me to think of the fun to be had by those members of staff as they played their game of Russian Roulette: Wood-Stain Product Edition. I’d had a lot of fun at a friend’s house recently by taking all of the labels off their tins of food. I thought it was going to go down rather well. It didn’t. A few minutes later and my line manager stormed across the factory floor. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he yelled, his face as red as ketchup.
‘Er... I was just having a bit of fun.’
‘What?’
‘Um... I thought the customers would appreciate the cartoons and a little joke.’
‘You’re fired. Fuck-off.’
‘I’ll get my coat. I suppose a reference is out of the question?’
It was.

It’s gonna be lonely this Christmas...
Really, Elvis? Thanks for reminding me once again. Fuck you very, very much.
I’ve always been a bit Bah-Humbug when it comes to Christmas. It lasts too long and for most of the time I feel as though I’ve been catapulted into a holly bush and then forced at gunpoint to gargle a hammer. That it encompasses a sixty-day bombardment of advertising to sell shit that people neither need nor want (and rarely deserve), a building to a nonsensical frenzy of buying even more shit that people neither need nor want (and rarely deserve), two days of being nice to one another, eating too much food, feeling sick, and finally five days or so of wondering what all the fuss was about in the first place, simply adds to its monumental unpleasantness.
Christmas is a true showcase of something thoroughly disturbing with our world.
‘But soft!’ exclaimst thee, as delusion doth conquer clarity, rationale once more becoming a thing of whimsy. ‘What cynicism of soul! Thou art not a man but a Grinch! What say thee... an’ that, innit?’
‘Eh?’
‘Tis Christmas! Is thyne spirit so cold? Hath thee no warmth of sentiment for thy fellow?’
‘Eh?’
‘Tis Christmas! Tis a time for happiness and joy; a time for sharing, a time for goodwill to all. Tis a time for peace and for love and...’
BULLSHIT. Tis a time for nothing but self-inflicted misery and despair.
Christmas is nothing but an opportunity to delude oneself that all’s right with the world. It’s an escapism. It’s a focal point in one’s own mind’s eye; a red-dot target of hope that exists in the ether of nothingness alongside gut-wrenching depression and the fear-laden anticipation of the New Years’ statement of your credit card. It’s a time to quench your narcissistic thirst; to seek attention and recognition for your very existence. As it stands, Christmas is simply one anticlimactic foolishness. If it were in fact outlawed and that idiot proclaiming himself ‘Mr Christmas’ (the moron celebrating it every day of the year) was actually stuffed inside one of his own turkeys and flung well-away from the rest of us - like a decathlete would fling a small wooden mallet, perhaps - well, the world would be a far happier place. The whole thing is a thoroughly depressing, over-rated and over-commercialised waste of time, all meaning of which is lost but for its mistaken interpretation into two months of high-intensity greed and delusion. Where once it was simply a festival of light, it has now become an over-hyped marketing juggernaut built on shallowness and hysteria. With this in mind then, just imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to deliver Christmas gifts to some kids in Frome dressed as the fat, bearded chap in the red smock. Perhaps it had something to do with that God business of sometime before. Whatever it was, clearly the Bah-Humbug had taken a temporary leave of absence.
Each year the local youth centre (of which I was not a member but - like I said - it probably had something to do with all that ‘God’ business) operated a scheme for parents to drop-off presents for their kids a couple of days prior the nonsensical frenzy reaching its disappointing crescendo of crazy. These presents would then be delivered by the fat, bearded chap in the red smock on Christmas morning, thus maintaining the delusion of fantasy so that a jolly time could be had by all. I agreed to take part with a friend named Steve and he volunteered to do the first half of the morning’s driving so that we could later swap roles as we only had one red smock between us. Thus, early on Christmas morning, with the car crammed-full with gaily wrapped parcels tied with ribbons and string we set-off for our first drop at a rather dilapidated shack.
Both Steve and I were already feeling appropriately jolly as we drew up to a curb somewhere in the middle of a housing estate. We double-checked the address and I grabbed the relevant parcel from the back seat. I climbed out, took something of a deep breath and strolled on up the path to the front door. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window and for the briefest of moments felt rather silly before straightening my ‘beard’ and taking another deep breath. I knocked on the door and waited, albeit not for long.
I didn’t have to wait long because the door soon opened and I immediately felt a blast of warm air against my face. It was accompanied by a gust of welcoming and the smell of fresh toast. ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ I said, ‘Mer-ry Christmas!’ It was the first thing that popped into my head. It seemed appropriate, given the circumstances.
In the