Clean Your Toaster

There’s a crumb for every hangover,
especially ones that last for days.

And the times you’ve little food in
so push potato waffles on their way.

Trapped crusts linger deep below,
months after a sickie graze.

Little memories of burnt fingertips
during a late night pitta haze.

A twice yearly, upside down jig
will help the gates to heaven pop.

Serving moments of salvation
mornings after you haven’t stopped.

But always check the settings dial
to avoid level five charcoal flops.

And hiding behind fake note taking,
your still-steaming corporate prop.

New Year Message

Tescoland is out of headache smarties.
I’ve been drinking all day for days.
Here flood the New Years sales
to mop up consumerism’s strays.

‘It’s been great but glad to be back.
Don’t you start missing the routine!’
the office workers shuffle in and repeat.
I’m under my desk, hoping not to be seen.

‘Oh nothing. I’ve dropped some Blue-Tack.
I’ll be with you all very soon.’
I contemplate sucking my fingers
and poking a plug hole, for meetings loom.

Thank goodness, lunch-time’s arrived.
Here I stand before meal deals galore.
Three quid for a sarnie, drink and snack.
Problem being, I’ve been eating for four!

‘I’ll see you back there in five.
You go ahead. Don’t worry about me.’
I reassure them, skipping off to the pub
for a pint or two. No, make that three.

’Tony, you don’t seem yourself.
Is there anything I can do? What’s wrong?’
Where to start, I think. I miss gluttony
and you keep playing that Sam Smith song.

Workstation Wrangle

Wow, hasn’t the weather just turned!
I was reading a book in the park on my lunch break!
I thought I was going to burn. It was so sunny!
Did you just see that flash of lightening?
I bet it’s going to thunder in a moment.
Oh wow, did you hear that thunder?
English weather, eh?
You’re only wearing a t-shirt Johnny?
He’s going to be a wet fish on the way home.
Then again, it might dry up.
You never can tell!

An Early Read

A swift shower made space.
The book’s pages turned to the past.
Springtime clouds stole sunrise.
On went the living room lights.

Through the walls, routines revolved.
Alarm clocks, flushes and showers
pulling the marchers to attention,
lining up their drills.

Niceties soundtracked kettle boils,
bag packing, coat shuffling
and the lightening bolt chords of zips,
encasing their passengers like armour.

Out to their worlds they departed
towards another broadcast starring
the same ever suspended in time
story arcs of familiar acts.

The lines of scripts were agreeable;
everyone plodding through their day
besides the bookworm who bounced,
charged with ideas from another time.

Meeting Adjourned

The training course broke for tea and biscuits. Most people left the room to smoke or piss.

’…back when I was growing up in North London’ said the instructor to one attendee.

‘Oh, what part of North London are you from?’ said another attendee who overheard.

‘Up in High Barnet.’ the instructor replied.

‘Ah, I’m from High Barnet too!’ replied the attendee, excited by the rare mention of his home town. ‘What school did you go to there?’ he continued, eager for the imminent skip down memory lane.

The instructor dunked half a custard cream biscuit into his mug of tea, pressed his glasses up his nose with an index finger and stood up, over the attendee.

‘Oh gosh, no. I wasn’t schooled in Barnet. I boarded at Bishop’s Stortford College. The cross country around its 130 acres was divine.’

‘Ah, right.’ said the attendee, giving a polite, empty smile before facing down towards his notepad and making a purposeful ‘I’m not dwelling on what’s just happened’ act of taking the lid off his pen.

The room fell silent besides the distinct second hand of its wall clock, before people started filing back in.

‘Right then, everyone back in their place and we’ll begin’ said the instructor.

The United Error

We all got to our desktops
at around a quarter to nine.
The videos began circulating
of people waiting in line.
As the doors opened wide
men and women violently rushed.
With air conditioned importance
we shook our heads and fussed.
‘Look at them crawling around
like possessed animals unleashed.’
Oh how we tutted that day
at consumerism’s feast
before returning to our work
creating marketing campaigns
surely hoping to trigger
greater Black Friday level fame.
A month of juggling balances
and organic juice detoxes passed.
Hypocritical tuts of disdain
never tend to really last.
Within a vacuous liquid lunch
hysteria grasped our souls.
Monopolising on a website bug
became our number one goal.
A flock of holiday dreams flapped
and tapped trying to refresh
an error in the airline’s system.
Our cries resembled a creche.
Return flights to anywhere
priced at that of Friday drinks
had us scrolling and sweating.
Dignity passed in a blink.
Some were on the side of luck.
Others are heading to Kazakhstan.
Me? I kept getting error pages
but boy, I wanted Japan.
You’d be silly not giving it a go
and grabbing a bargain when you can
but let us not forget
the words of disgust we sang.
One man’s wide screen TV
is another’s trip to Belize.
Some long for mobile phones.
Others dream of the West Indies.
Whether it’s a trolly of DVDs
or a beach side coffee and croissant
we’re all deeply caught up
in an infectious spell of want.

The Facebook Cull

This weekend I did one of my bi-yearly spontaneous Facebook culls and disconnected from about 20 users that I hadn’t seen or spoken to for a good few months.

The 20 were made up of distant acquaintances from jobs I’ve left years ago, old drinking buddies I’ve not heard from in a long time and dare I say it, present day colleagues that I barely work or talk with at all.

I know it’s very unlikely that anyone connected to my Facebook account will crawl through it and browse even my profile, but the idea that someone barely a part of my present day life, if at all, could in theory check up on what I’m up to rather than pick up a phone, drop an e-mail or God forbid meet up with me in person doesn’t seem right. They’re incredibly unlikely to do that, but in principle they shouldn’t be able to. Be an active part of my life or don’t.

I told someone about the cull who suggested that this occasional social clean-up will mean I’ll end up with few long term friends, which isn’t the case at all. My oldest and best friend doesn’t use Facebook; he’s only just upgraded from a Nokia 3210. He moved to Australia in August but we’ve been speaking to each other by phone, e-mail and Skype more than we ever did whilst living two blocks away from each other. If the friendship’s a real one, it will survive all sorts of situations, especially the absence of a virtual playground for vanity and snooping. Without getting too spiritual about the whole thing, life’s about real world connections which digital should complement, support and enhance, not provide the only space for them to exist in.

Another person who heard about my cull and that it featured work colleagues was surprised at what she called my ‘ruthlessness’, suggesting that unless you make friends on Facebook with people in the office, you’ll never become friends with them properly and your social circles will eventually shrink until you’re old and lonely. It would be interesting to see how she uses Facebook beyond connecting with any and every one she can, because nobody I know has properly used Facebook Events and Invitations since about 2003.

In terms of connecting with people in the professional environment, I’ve done this loads but only after many out of office activities, be it in the pub, sport or music events. My closest friends and current house mates were all found at different paragraphs of my CV. Once there was a genuine relationship, we ended up Facebook friends, able to exchange messages or content to organise and entertain, and share photos and videos of real world events just gone.

Perhaps I’m out of date and way too fussy about the whole thing, though a recent article that did the rounds by a teenager describing their attitudes to different platforms suggests I’m not just being an old grump. They described Facebook as ‘an awkward dinner party that’s hard to leave.

I imagine anyone reading this is wondering why I don’t just leave Facebook and stop fluctuating everyone’s ‘Friends’ count, but like the teenage writer finds, so many people are on there and it’s a very handy way of trading private messages about dinner party plans or household shopping trips.

Readers may also wonder why after a few culls I even end up with people to eventually axe. It’s a fair point as I’m part of the problem, not wanting to say ‘No’ or hit ‘Ignore’ when the requests come through and even less happy about bumping in to people I’ve culled at parties after not seeing them for over half a year. It’s amazing how aware some people are that they’ve been chopped, and how publicly they seek an answer; but that’s another blog post for some other time.

Social media rant aside, I should state that social networking is an incredible utility and force, helping people to connect with one another, find and provide entertainment and in numerous instances come together and cause real change, which perhaps is where my habit of de-friending is rooted. I love social. It’s found me close friends, cohabitants, my partner and a career.

I see and get so much value in it that I’ve no time for digital deadwood and vacuous ‘Likes’ from near strangers of the past who I can’t now name the children of, which should never ever constitute keeping in touch or replace eye to eye engagement.

Hold Tight

Hold tight the strangers cuddling and gassing
at five in the morning over littered coffee tables
before the first buses of the day home.

Hold tight everyone having morning meltdowns
at self-service checkouts in local supermarkets
making you seek assistance you tried avoiding.

To everyone in the bliss of a powered off TV
after fixating on a remote’s channel hopper
for a whole day of trashy shows, hold tight.

If you’re crammed into a tube journey to work
getting passive aggressive tuts from the suit
who’s paper you’ve bumped into, stand tighter.

Tightly hold on to whatever marbles you have
or can kid yourself that you have when enduring
those ‘How is it Monday already?’ loops at work.

Hold tight all the smiley people opening doors
or helping old ladies with shopping up the stairs
despite all the holding tight you’ve got going on.

And people, hold tight to mates wanting a pint
when they’ve been holding things so tightly
they could do with your hand to let things go.

Fitzrovia Square

In different spots of the office
they beaver through the morning
tapping and working their way
to 12.15 discussions of lunch.

Runs to shops for sandwiches
or dashes to the fridge for salad
precede the usual meeting spot
up against railings, on the ground.

In turn they each air grievances
for the other two to suggest a fix
or more often than not just ease
with a sharp, comforting curse.

Then wider life gets dissected
by well formed, agreeable views;
sweet reminders it’s not all so dry
and far from the edge of the world.

Everybody’s talking about it.

Hi guys, happy monday!
Did you have a good weekend?
It was sunny wasn’t it!
I bet that’s it for the rest of the year now.
Nice to get out though.
London looks so much prettier in the sun, don’t you think?
It takes it out of you a bit though.
I need another weekend to recover from that one!
I had to spend ages trying to find my shorts!
It just makes such a difference though, that ol’ sunshine.
It’s a bit colder today, but not too dissimilar to yesterday.
Let’s hope it lasts. We deserve it I reckon.
Yeah, it’s been narf cold and non sunny since way back.
Maybe we’ll get a break now, after all those storms.
Everyone looks a bit tanned, don’t they?
Must have been the sun this weekend, that was shining.
What’s your favourite park for barbecues in the sun?
We should totally meet up for one the next time it’s sunny.
God, I feel so trapped today, after being outside all weekend.
It’s going to be a long week. How is it only nine minutes past 10?
Let’s go outside at lunch and try to relive the sun.
Yeah, it will be like the sunny weekend we had yesterday.
My friend can get designer sunglasses at wholesale price.
Do you want me to get you a pair?
I can’t believe how sunny it was.

In unison.

The previous night’s shows get autopsied
as people arrive in ordinary fashion
opening windows and closing blinds.

Fully realised routine phrases
are exchanged with playful intent
at desks, copiers and coffee machines.

‘Can you believe it’s 10am already and only Wednesday?’

Stuff gets done and sectioned by
flashes of barmy grins and foolish voices
amounting to a mild communal insanity.

Exercising deliberate absurdity
lightness purposefully ticks things along
keeping the mind stitched just about right.

Weeknight drinks.

We mocked the karaoke stars
and then they laughed at us,
before we all danced together
in a drunken, off-pitch fuzz.

Song books and pint glasses
filled our sweaty hands.
An old timer in leather trousers
thought he actually had a band.

Splintering off to train trips home,
alarm clocks began to get set.
A hangover’s route to work
is a journey where energy’s not let.

At projector screens of data,
under an air conditioning’s hum,
began the next set of plans,
to escape the office’s thumb.

In the office with Chris.

I’m interviewing a tree for my blog about how it’s turned over a new leaf.

Tomorrow I’m meeting with a wall to talk about its problems. People keep trying to climb all over it.

Can you cover me tomorrow morning? I’m meeting a lamp post’s paving slab. He wants to moan about life in the spotlight.

This evening I’ll be live tweeting from a zebra crossing about its opinion on road safety. It’s not as black and white an issue as you may think.

At lunch I’m meeting with a Royal Mail box. Follow the live stream. It’ll keep you posted.

How’s this title for my interview with a pay phone? ‘The system keeps boxing me in’.

I’ve got a meeting with the stapler. It wants to consolidate projects.

The calculator keeps shouting at me. Apparently things don’t add up.

HR aren’t happy with the way I’ve been treating my keyboard. I’ve done nothing but push its buttons.

My mouse filed a complaint against me. I keep pushing it around.

I’m due a face to face meeting with the Sellotape tomorrow. I’m expecting a sticky situation.

I’m really worried about the scissors’ attitude. They think they’re a cut above the rest.

It’s just one thing after another with that printer.

I can’t work with my compass any longer. He goes around and around the same old thing. Though he does have a point.

I’m in charge of revolutionising the mail room. People say I’m really pushing the envelope.

I found my conversation with the dictionary really confusing. It had to spell everything out for me.

Want to know why the film about Twitter failed? There weren’t enough characters.

I hate chatting to my bin. It’s so full of garbage.

I love my Mac. It really is the Apple of my eye.

I can’t work out where I am with the office window. Sometimes it’s really open and other times so closed.

I’ve been seeing this AC unit. She’s so hot, but then she’ll go all cold on me.

I’m always a bit nervous about how people will take to the blinds. They’re a bit shady.

I was on Google’s social network the other day. It’s got its plusses.

The office lights are usually fine to work with, but sometimes they just switch off.

I was on the internet the other day. It was refreshing.

We interviewed a very confident and ambitious lamp yesterday. It’s got a bright future ahead of it.

When Chris isn’t writing comedy gold, he’s tweeting as @cwelton, which is sometimes comedy gold.

Posh people on trains.

What world has these guys boarded from,
talking ticket brokers for the national rail?
Comparing first with standard class service;
a woopsy daisy, upper class admin fail.

Wait until they need to use the toilets.
Their posh accents will lardy dar about that.
Oh, to be an uppity, slumming it, commuter
is to sound like a total and utter prat.

Saturday morning.

The instrumentals subtly come to their ends
but you don’t know it, laying holding a pen
scribbling, plucking prose from the head
comfortably thinking at the end of a bed.
The calendar’s clear and the clicking’s ceased
for two full days unleashed from the beast
of appointments, protocol, automated roles
to put the daily cereal blocks in their bowls.
Messages of recaps buzz through the phone
of last night’s dance and drunken groans.
The catchups of allies, staggering walks.
A friend’s words are the truest form of talk.
Enquiries and arrangements colour the day.
Slippery pocket change tallies away.
Books half read sit open on a side.
Contentment warms the place you lie.

Paper clips and croissants.

Another book on heroes,
stenches of vinegar to work,
screens, desks, tea mugs,
where bar dreams lurk
before weekend sketches,
seven pint glasses deep.
The Monday to Friday shuffle
begins atop a hill that’s steep.
Paper clips and croissants,
time sheets plotting the way.
A church choir’s faint murmers
coat streets of an hour’s play
before afternoon rituals
of acronym and jet ink.
Rock n roll babies
aged in a blink.