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Friday, December 22, 2006

Dammit. Clearly putting together the finest application form known to man (no really, Lorraine at Scope said so) wasn't enough to land me an interview for a job earning £11,865 a year. They're clearly looking for an altogether higher calibre of toilet cleaner. And the chap doing the Blitz Experience on Saturday was probably a history graduate with a BTEC in maintenance, and merely looked like a college drop-out who couldn't spell IQ. Admittedly, with my annual rent set at £8,100 (four thousand pounds a room), and a cost of £500 a year on petrol to get me there, I would have had to take up lap-dancing in the evenings just to make ends meet, but still, I really wanted that job.

But hey, that's what happens when you put the words 'clinical depression' on an application for a job involving bombs, knives and big guns pointing at France. They can't take the risk.

Anyhoo, to cap it all off, my second favourite radio talk show host, Mike Dickin, died in a car crash on Monday. I spent my teenage years listening to him on LBC (from Basildon, which takes some doing), and when I didn't sleep from about 1995 to 1999, his phone-ins on Talk Radio were the only thing which kept me going through the night. Well, them and the chocolate biscuits.

But as someone said in the Mike Dickin Book of Condolence on Wednesday, "It is perhaps apt that he died in a car in Cornwall: two things he absolutely loved". Which at least explains why I survived the cruise to Mexico.