Well, it's a while since I did one of these!

I'm sure that literally nobody has been holding their breath waiting for my next blog, but here it is anyway, just to prove to everyone that I'm not dead, I just don't have the Internet at home. Which, thinking about it, is more or less the same thing.

Most important piece of news is that I left The Attic Project, basically because I wasn't really enjoying it anymore. We're all still buddies so it might come around again one day, but as far as I'm concerned the band is on a reasonably permanent break. The day after I left TAP (and it was that way round), I got offered the chance to join Cartel, which has been a great experience. We're now called Party, Fire and Theft and we're trying to make some geniunely different punk rock. It's cool for me to be playing with different time signatures and drop tunings and st00ph, which was something I never really got the chance to do before. All is good with me musically anyway!

I'm now living with Christina, in a flat which is like the Palace of Versailles compared to Quarry Street. By which I mean it doesn't have rampant mould and a resident basement rat called Roland. Moving in to a new place is never easy, but I'm loving it (and her) so much now that we're settled. And I've got a new job, starting a week on Monday anyway, in which I shall be paid a real, graduate salary, as in one that starts with a 2!!!

So yeah, life isn't really so bad at the moment. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that it's pretty good. What, a contented Andy?! Whatever next!?

PS, add PF+T:

One whole year for me and Christina yesterday

Happy me

    Realised last month that I hadn't actually blogged with any degree of seriousness (on the basis that moaning about Nickelback doesn't really count as a blog) since January this year. "A-ha!" thought I, "I'll create a marvellous microblog, detailing the events of the last nine months in bite- size format". And then I forgot about, as frankly, noone cares about Myspace blogs. I've got an hour to kill now for the first time in donkeys years, however, so heres a bullet point summary of the last 10 months instead:

- Started going out with Christina in January. 10 months and still going strong . Which is nice.

- Got told to leave Barclays in about July time, on the basis that I was only ever a temporary member of staff and they therefore were within their rights to fire me whenever they felt they wanted to save £200 on their wage bill. Grumbled. Was very annoyed.

- Spent the worst seven weeks of my life jobhunting and being unemployed. How do benefit scroungers do it?? Not only was I bored off my tits, I had no money and the constant shame of being dirty layabout scum.

- Got excellent job looking after fruit machines at Gamestec, which made me feel much better. Especially as they told me they wouldn't have taken me on if it wasn't for my degree, therefore negating the burgeoning sense of "no really, why did I bother to go to uni in the first place?" that was working its way up my gut like a rancid Egg McMuffin.

- Played some ace gigs with the band in the summer. In the space of about six months we: 

-Won the Bright Young Things competition and played to a sold-out Met Bar as part of our prize
- Opened for Sonic Boom Six, Fandangle, King Django and Zen Baseballbat at the Well. (that's four seperate gigs, too, not one big festival)
- Launched the How's My Driving? EP in March.
- Played the main stage at Badfest with Bad Manners and The Beat (amongst others).

- Andrew left band after Badfest, cue much wailing and gnashing of teeth (as the saying goes). We got a new dude (name of Tom) in to replace him last month and we're just in the process of making it work again now.

- Did hair metal cover band for Danny's wedding. (think Poison, Motley Crue...) The whole thing was amazing fun and we didn't even sound that bad in the end! Which was pretty surprising, seeing that we sounded very bad indeed in rehearsals and Danny had been having a world-class panic attack about the whole thing for about three months prior to the gig...


And that's pretty much it, as far as I can see. Hopefully the new Attic Project lineup will have some new toonage out shortly. But don't hold your breath, the pace of progress at Quarry Street is slow and steady, like the tortoise and the hare, or something. I don't know who the hare is, though. Makie It Better Later, maybe? They seem to get things done quicker than we do! Ho hum.

I've been feeling a bit weird for a while now, didn't know if anything was wrong or if it was just me being silly. Now, however, I have concrete proof that all is not right in Andyland.

I'm listening to Nickelback. Voluntarily.

Kill. Me.

I've got to go to the doctors tomorrow and I'm worried.

Just had a bit of a search round my room and found:

3 x 440ml cans of Stella
4 x 330ml bottles of Bud
1 x 500ml bottle of Budvar
2 x 660ml(!) bottles of Nastro Azzuro
1 x 660ml bottle of Becks
3 x 700ml bottles of Smirnoff Ice
1 x 750ml bottle of Echo Falls White Zinfandel
1 x 500ml can of Bud

All empty.

Untidy pisshead? Me?

There are many of life's subtle nuances that pass me by at times, but none provides me with a sense of "just why does this exist?" as Reduced Sugar Sugar Puffs

Why?? Surely they're just "Puffs"!

What next, Reduced Meat Sirloin Steaks?? Reduced Water Evian?? Reduced Gristle McDonalds??

I ask you...

Disclaimer: All characters portrayed within are entirely fictional and any percieved similarity to any persons living or dead is due to some sort of interesting paranoia on the part of the person doing the percieving.

Thought I'd better put that, as I'm still the new kid at Barclays and I'd quite like to not end up getting my ass kicked in the unlikely event of anyone who works there reading this:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


I wave the security pass, that magic piece of white laminate with the power to make doors obey it's every whim, at the reciever, and step into the staffroom.

8:15 am. 30 minutes before start time. Too fucking early. I should still be in bed asleep, or at least sitting up in bed with my headphones on and a cup of coffee in hand.

Not here

Not now

Not sitting here in the staffroom on Monday morning, about to get to work, contemplating buying a filthy cup of tea from an equally filthy vending machine and watching my fellow inhabitants of this soulless, sanitised box of a room go about their dull little affairs before heading off to their own jobs.

I look around with a mixture of contempt and genuine unease at the other occupants of the staffroom. They say that the early bird catches the worm, and what kind of worms this sorry bunch of avians is hoping to catch I couldn't even begin to speculate.

A fat woman sits slouched in the corner with a chocolate bar. (At this time in the fucking morning!? Still, at least I feel like I have some self respect now, even it is only when compared to an obese prole from Telesales) She has a copy of Hello! magazine open on the desk, her eyes greedily hoovering up pictures and stories about inane celebrities like so many cream cakes.

Two young guys hover by the vending machines, looking almost like clones with their trendily bleached hair and their well- cut suits. I can't hear what they're saying from this distance, but judging from the sneers on their faces and the twinkles in their eyes I'd say they were bragging about their conquests over the weekend.

Congratulations, son. You got laid. You bought a giggly blonde vodka and tonic until she relented and went back to your place. Why dont they make medals for stuff like that?

Of course, it's all for show, for the hell of it. I doubt if they even bothered to learn the names of their temporary partners, or even if they actually enjoyed doing the deed. What matters, the only thing that matters, is the notch on the bedpost and the tale to tell on Monday morning, here in this temple to all things banal.

I glance down under the table and check my phone. She hasn't called, texted, or made any other attempt to contact me. The more rational part of my brain wants to pass this off with a callous "shit happens", but I know, and she knows I know, how important she is to me. Sometimes, on a day like today, a call from her can be the only thing that works for me all day.

I continue to survey the scene in the staffroom. On the comfy chairs at the far end sits a manager, looking tired and haggard. Ten years ago he was probably one of the company's most ambitions young go- getters, hiring and firing and cutting deals with an eye on the very top jobs. Now he's been promoted "sideways" so many times he just looks like he doesnt care anymore. I try to feel sorry for him, and fail. That's the thing with riding the rollercoaster of top management, sometimes they forget to do up your seatbelt. Boo fucking hoo. He's probably stabbed a hundred people in the back to get where he is today, and now he knows that the same is about to happen to him. Even the way he slouches in his chair seems to invite the knife between his shoulder blades. I look away, impassive.

Despite the voices of reason in my head telling me not to, I give in to my thirst after a couple more minutes and get up to fetch a coffee from the vending machine. Just black, no milk, no sugar. The non- dairy creamer they put in the "white" coffee makes my stomach turn at the best of times. Today is very much not "the best of times". I sip gently, trying not to burn my mouth, and stroll back to my seat. As I sit back down, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. The personalised tone means I don't even have to check it to know who the message is from. She texted me. That's it. Just that knowledge gives me the impetus to go and do my damnedest to turn this Monday morning into a good day.

A guy sitting across from me has his briefcase open and his papers spread across the desk. Tools of the trade. A man can't do his job without them. I reach under the table for my own briefcase and head from the door.

As I walk down the corridor towards the lift, I see a young girl, 18 or so, standing by the noticeboard. She radiates a kind of defensive boredom as she reads the bulletins, and turns to look nervously at me when I pass. Probably a new starter, judging by the "what-the-fuck-am-I-doing here?" look on her face. I smile at her, the kind of defeated, world- weary smile that old lags give new inmates in prison.

The lift doors open, and I wave my pass at the reciever on the inside. This particular pass gives me access to all floors of the building, even the restricted ones which require special clearance. The embossed writing on the back reads "John Carson, Senior Manager". The lift button clicks as I choose B1, the lower basement level. As the lift starts to descend, I reach for my phone. The clock display on the front reads 8:40. Work time, Time to clock on. People will be meeting up with their colleagues, going to their desks, a weekends worth of stories to relate in five minutes before they have to knuckle down to it. Enquiries will be made as to the whereabouts of absent employees.

Picturing this scene in my mind, I feel mildly guilty. Granted, the people in the staffroom aren't living their lives in the way I choose to live mine, but who's to say what's right and what's wrong? For all I know, they were judging my silently back there in the staffroom in exactly the same way I was judging them. If only they knew... I think back to the nervous girl in the corridor, and hope she's not finding her work too tough. After all, we're all just trying to eke out a living, right?

The briefcase is rubbing against my legs as the lift rattles downward, so I kneel down and open it up. Tools of the trade. A man can't do his job without them. Ski mask, Beretta 9mm pistol, machete for if things get hairy and a spare clip of ammunition. Only blanks, mind, if I got caught pulling this shit off I'd be looking at 15 years as it is so fuck knows how long they'd put me away from if I accidentally wasted a security guard with a live round. The blanks'll just scare the crap out of them anyway, which is all I need them to do.

I wonder if they've found John Carson, Senior Manager yet. He'll be fine. He'll wake up with a big lump on the back of his head and no security pass, and probably wonder why he's in the boot of his car, but apart from that, fine. He might even think he's having a bad day at that point, but at least he didnt have to turn up to work, that's how I see it.

A quick check of my phone gives me the information I need: "SILVER BMW, X47 8QT" reads the message. That's the car she'll be using. Same plan as before, straight out the front, into the car with her driving getaway like it's some kind of fucking movie and noone gets hurt. Like I said, I need her, and she knows it. Can't pull this off without her.

As the lift reaches the lower basemet, I look through the small window in the lift door and see two pissed-off looking security guards outside the main door to the strongroom. Can't say I blame them. No one likes work on a Monday morning. I don the mask, clasp the gun tightly and prepare to do my job.

As ever, all rights are reserved by me, Andy Walton. Nick any part of this and I will track you down and brutalise you.