I Dream A Dream

I have a dream.....not a meaningful dream like Martin Lk but a dream none the less.

My dream is one I have harboured for many years basically since I first noticed girls and that they liked a guy who could dance, my dream is to dance!

Not in a billy elliott style I hasten to add, no boy wanting to dance on a worldwide stage here just boy wanting to dance with girls without killing their feet and/or killing the rhythm! Alcohol acts as a buffer for this dream when occasion to dance presents itself but, while my head in its inebriated state is thinking the boy CAN dance the feet continue blissfully unaware of this update and continue to shuffle in a non-committal style, part rhythm part trying to make for the door!

Anyway, as I've said dancing has always looked exceptionally cool to me, when done well, apart of course from tap which is like rhythmic masturbation in public! Ooh look at me I can tappity tap myself to orgasm. I just do not see the attraction. Tap should be left to old people, take Bruce Forsyth for example, every time I' m unfortunate enough to see him on tv he comes on doing this soft shoe shuffle crap that just isn't dancing I'm telling you, its made up he's just slapping his feet off the floor vaguely in time to the music while the (elderly!) crowd goes into bloody raptures. I frequently get up and shout obscenity's at the telly at the mere mention of Brucey.

But back to my dream, I dream that I finally succumb to my dancing obsession and start to practice day and night with a purpose. I choose a routine and go at it hammer and tongs day after day, week after week, in a Rocky style, eye of the tiger I train non stop for my big moment. I phone in sick in order to train, I lose sleep in order to train, I dance up and down my street alarming small children but drawing ever approving glances from the old ladies and I give up all other hobbies, (shouting at Brucie for example) in order to train. All with one purpose in mind.

Until, finally the day has come,

and its conference time, the Celtic Manor is heaving with bp of all shapes and sizes, we've had dinner the awards stuff is done and dusted and the dance floor opens. The dj begins spinning his discs and slowly the dance floor fills, at first only with the ladies of hr who always hit the dance floor first, but then with all and sundry as the mood builds. At last my time is upon me, I must fulfill my destiny, I've done all that practice for this one moment in time and now is that moment, I make my way to the dance floor , through the drunken hordes to far gone to dance.

As I approach the floor I spy the vacant boards ahead of me, I work my way past the ladies of hr all huddled together in a seamless dance of arms and legs in perfect sychronicity including Fagoon who's offering advice to the less rhythmic among them bellowing encouragement over the pumping base, I sidle past Carl of Stonebridge who shirt wide open to the waist is impressing several females with his well practised hand jive, young Charlie in attendance picking up some of the masters grooves, “ watch this one Charlie he shouts” as he flips the jive from left to right, past Gavin once again reeling out his highland fling disco version, pretty much the same as the traditional version but with glow sticks.

At last I reach my spot and, space clear around me I crouch down into position fold my arms and begin, to the strains of the Village peoples YMCA, a faultless Russian cossack dance. At first I'm dancing the cossack dance completely unobserved but soon the other dancers become aware of my movements and turn to watch, one by one until the whole dance floor is looking my way, this ripple soon spreads to the remaining diners licking their plates at the tables and trying to drain that last drop from the free wine, they too move to the edge of the dance floor to watch. Soon a slow hand clap begins as the crowd witness my routine in full flow, Welsh Sarah starts up a chant of HOI

HOI HOI and that is taken up by the whole room, other guests at the hotel hear the commotion and begin to come into the room to see what's causing it. Bp's finest is now joined by Americans in

golf trousers all filling the room in a throng facing the dance floor and the one man who dances on at ever increasings speeds and complexity. A few spirited souls join in and, although they didn't practice like me they soon get in the flow, Ann from Chelmsley dances the cossack like shes been dancing it her whole life..............

And the night will live in legend both through bp and in local Cardiff folklore, the man who came and danced the cossack dance will never be forgotten at least until something better happens in wales......

Carry On Luggage

Meandering thought playing havoc again led me to pondering the ins and outs of your average sex change, most specifically the female to male rather than the more traditional male to female, which we all know a little about already right?

I mean it involves operations, hormonal stuff and the gradual growing of breasts etc, but what do we know of the female to male really? Not much at all I’m thinking, I mean how does that work exactly? Its not as if hormone therapy grows a penis now is it? And, I for one have never heard of a transplant style operation, I mean who would donate for one thing? I cant see that kind of donor card catching on, I sure as hell wouldn’t carry one!

My train of thought led me to thinking that the deal has to be prosthetic. A detachable maybe even interchangable penis in a wide range of colors to suit all. Perhaps your discerning former female could carry several? , a variety of penis if you will, in a display case. Presented nicely in little (or not so) velvet lined compartments.

Its entirely feasible I mean, I’d assume, your average newly made man wouldn’t want permanent stasis in either floppy or ….ummm.. more alert…now would they? Stands to reason they’d have before and afters . Reconnection of same would have to be rapid and easy to do as nothing would spoil the mood more than “ yes yes I swear I‘m turned on I just cant find my bloody screwdriver"

When your out and about tomorrow and you see a male who might not, when you think about it, look quite right somehow and he’s carrying a briefcase…..well, who knows eh……….

There It Rings Again

mid morning at the fun factory and the phone rings

me "good morning bp Kings norton ? "
him "What ?"
me "good morning , how can i help you ? "
him " is that Asda ?"
me "no I'm sorry this is a bp "
him " a what ?"
me " a bp ..as in petrol station "
him "well I've looked in the yellow pages and it says Asda ?"
me "well Ive looked at the darn pole sign and it said Bp !
I didn't actually say that last part but i wanted to !

I think actually I'll phone him back now and tell him after closer inspection I've found it is in fact an Asda and I've been coming to work for 2 years in the wrong damn uniform

Sunday Sunday

That alarm on a Sunday morning is a blessed little tune that wafts me softly from my warm bed and deposits me carefully in the bathroom,ready to begin my ablutions and kick start my happy day.Sunday's face scraping is even more pleasurable for it being welllll Sunday.


Oh Joyous Sunday how I love to work you.It matters not that my mouth tastes like I've had incontinent hamsters sleeping in there overnight nor that my tongue feels as if I have coated it in batter,No for I have work to go to and customers that await!


I feel joy when the first customer of the day badgers me for his missing supplement..."you have a free supplement missing sir?Well clearly that is not good enough and I can see that it has stressed you greatly,the veins popping on your forehead are a dead giveaway.Please please ,ease your troubled brow for it is Sunday and I,am here to help.Let me see if I can find you a replacement or failing that I could fill you in myself on the lives and happenings of various d grade celebrity's ".........this weeks shock exclusive Jordan blows her nose...........

The Old Routine

"good afternoon is there any fuel with that sir?"

"WHAT?"

"Fuel?Have you had any today?"

"oh yes yes its ....umm...."

several minutes pass

"Which colour would your car be sir?"

"WHAT?"

"which.....colour.......is ........your.....car?"

"its the blue one"

"ahh ok...the blue renault,citreon or ford fiesta sir?

"yes"

by now the queue is back to the m42 and several customers have pitched
tents

"yes...okkkkk.....how much did you put in ?"

"its a blue one"

"rrigghttt...but exactly which...pause to allow ear smoke to
dissipate.....of the 3 blue cars would it be precisely

"ohh its the fiesta son"

"thank you sir...do you have a nectar card?"

"WHAT?"

Stick Em'Up

Imagine my excitement this morning to , a ) actually receive post and , b) it include a whole ream of free stickers !! Woohoo free stickers ! ( Obviously the excitement had been mitigated somewhat by the presence of a bp envelope in the post , the arrival of merchandising matters for example often triggering an asthma attack but heck did i mention there were free stickers ? )

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly an excited moment can turn on you .....and so it was 30seconds later when I inspected said stickers to find they were in fact , Golden Rules of Safety stickers .....woo and a decidedly less enthusiastic hoo .......I've since e-mailed the hsse dept to feedback that i cant see these catching on ? Kids want teenage mutant ninja turtles and football players ,I just cant see them trading ,Golden rule 5 (working at height !) in the playground at break time

Ever helpful , the kind folk of Hsse have included in the pack , a ' table of suggested locations for the stickers ' ....Curiously enough I had my own train of thought as to where they could stick their Golden Rules of Safety stickers ...............

Johnson And Not Johnson

Finally having had our new chemicals fitted by Johnson d we received training in their usage from the lady rep, training I thought? But I am a retail professional of many years standing, what must they show me? Anyway the training was simple enough but a Tad disconcerting due to the repeated, and very grave, warnings re using gloves when utilising the chemicals. Now we've always been told to use gloves but the lady rep was most insistent and wore a terrified expression everytime she mentioned it.

I had also seen welsh Sarah at the last meeting and she'd had her chems before us, ignored the warnings and was currently sporting elderly tortoise skin knuckles as a result,"4 seconds I had my hands in the water boyo" she remarked. With all this in mind I felt it my duty as a caring manager to test said products before unleashing them on my staff and so, we embarked on a controlled experiment whereby we filled the cleaning sink with the solution and, choosing our smallest csa, little satheesh, we kitted him out in protective wear, ie goggles and the wellies, and then carefully emersed him in the sink. (fear not safety fans for we protected our selves from splash back by lowering him from atop the step ladders) Results were inconclusive, he sat there for the whole of his break and although the protective gear survived intact he himself emerged completely wrinkled from head to toe, yes even more wrinkled than Brendan of Bedworth.

Not a sight anyone needs to see and two of our female csa's fainted in shock, one of whom only heard the tale second hand. "more than Brendan of Bedworth?" she was heard to remark before the sound of her head hitting the floor echoed across the phoneline.

The irony of all this is that cleaning wise, the chems are only marginally more effective than plain water!

The Prodigal Son

Dear India,

Please welcome your native son, and my good friend, mr Rohit back to his homeland with open arms. He left your shores a boy but returns a man. Not that he experienced any of our fine local women here but let me assure you that was due entirely to their inherent racism and not any lack of effort on Rohit's part. He was most loud and persistent in his attempts to woo them. He has however met many characters that will help him face almost anything in life going forward, englands loss will be indias gain as no one who has spent anytime at all with Daz and chappers can fail to be prepared for anthing.His mental strength is now second to none...except maybe hitesh and kunal who were also 'dazzed' while here and have probably taken several months to once again sleep at night without the terror. Rohit has taken all his bp uniform back with him with the intention of creating a fashion buzz on the streets of mumbai. He will be quite the envy of all fine Indian gentlemen as he struts around in the sunshine wearing his m and s fleece! Finally let me assure you that although tempted by the women and the drink he did not partake of drugs while here, in any case lemsip is entirely legal.

Yours sincerly, England

ps. Kunal and lalit having spent less time here should have returned home relatively undamaged......relatively