Pick me up before you go go

Just when I thought I’d seen it all, I discover there is a whole weird new world out there. The people in it call themselves ‘pickup artists’. And yes, this is as bad as it sounds.

Successfully master meeting and attracting beautiful women.

The pickup artist, no matter how hideous they are, claims to be able to get any women he wants. Jolly good. And how exactly do they think this is going to happen? Oh sorry, I forgot. Women are but pretty creatures with peroxide for brains. You just need to find the on switch and the off switch and they’re all yours. They don’t think for themselves, have no taste and are just waiting for someone like you to pick them up. Sure thing, dude.

Now, I know people can be shy. And I know people can be clumsy. I also know some people find it very difficult to meet women and, like, talk to them. What I did not know is that it is now unacceptable to be a social retard. People like you or I shouldn’t even exist.

The pickup artist’s philosophy is based around the bizarre idea that all women are attracted to him. By default. Like these self-esteem tapes that tell you you’re beautiful, successful and everyone likes you.

What I can’t get my head round is why all women are supposedly attracted to these people. Correct me if I’m wrong, but when did chatup lines become fashionable again? Does anyone actually still collect girls’ numbers as a hobby/to get laid/show off their address book to their mates? Quantity is chosen over quality. Women have become phone numbers. And phone numbers collectable.

Pickup guru Craig Hendleman (who, incidentally, is an Essex lad) even goes as far as claiming that when it comes to women being attracted to men looks aren’t important. Whilst at the same time droning on about blondes, nice asses and supermodels. He gets to pick and choose. Girls are apparently too thick to notice and physical features of any male, as long as said male is buying into the pickup philosophy.

Common sense tells me that beauty does indeed lie in the eye of the beholder. Nobody needs to have a ‘type’ and I am certain most of what the media tell us is ‘beautiful’, the vast majority of people find pretty hideous. The pickup artist, however, is with the media on this one. Big tits! Cue ballscratching. Cue some male gorilla style bonding experiment. For peace and quiet’s sake/adding insult to injury, Hendleman actually goes as far as saying he was ‘with some very unattractive girls’. Yeah, and? You didn’t find them attractive, but there will be a number of people out there who find these ladies drop dead gorgeous.

Coming back to the shy types, the recluses, the geeks and the pathologically clumsy, pickup school is supposedly targeted at them. If I was a man, I would fall into all these categories. But I would also be quite happy with just the one girl. Not an array of shags and phone numbers. If someone happens to be on the introvert scale, revving them up and sending them out to streets and clubs armed with dodgy chatup lines won’t help them. They’ll be acting their socks off, but will no longer be who they are. There are so many different personalities and characters out there, why not find a girl with a personality to suit yours? Why pretend you are something you’re blatantly not? And how long can you keep up the pretence? What do you get out of the experiment? Oh yeah, phone numbers. And you might get laid by them. Well done you. But are you any closer to your quest of obtaining a girlfriend? The hell you are. Instead you treat women like pretty ornaments that had a lobotomy. Oh yes, that’ll get you real far in life. Everyone will take you ever so seriously.

And if someone walked up to me in the street telling me how amazing my legs were or if they could try my shoes on, rest assured my reaction will not be pretty.

Where do I stand?

Right. I’ve been working in what is effectively a complaints department for over three years now. I think I had enough. It’s not even supposed to be a complaints department. ENQUIRIES is the thin disguise used to make people feel a bit better about their workplace.

In reality, more than half the ‘contacts’ are from deranged, angry citizens. Fancy spending seven hours a day reading about how ‘disgusted’ people are, how ‘ludicrous’ the world is, just how much they hate their phone provider and how everything is a conspiracy by thee such-and-such ‘brigade’. The use of the word ‘brigade’ makes me particularly angry for some reason. What do they think this is? Who’s in all these brigades?

I particularly despise the old ‘I pay your wages you do as I say’ trick. Jesus, did you really think civil servants are exempt from taxes? Have you any idea how crap our pay actually is compared to the private sector? And do you know how many times I have heard this bullshit today alone? Ah no, you do not. Because you are one of those ‘retired white male caukasian’ people that make up the readership of the Daily Telegraph and you haven’t had a reality check for about a decade.

And why would you want to send an email ENTIRELY IN CAPITALS to get your POINT ACROSS? And why is any old shit suddenly a MATTER OF UTMOST URGENCY. And why do you keep addressing your letters to ‘the manager’, ‘the chief executive’ and the ‘head of complaints’ plus a whole host of invented titles, when you know damn well that any large organization has a whole host of people manning an Enquiries department dealing with this sort of thing? Like the blithering idiot who threatened to sue an admin person at Virgin Media for supposedly STEALING a letter that he addressed to Richard Branson HIMSELF and responding to it WITH A PACK OF LIES? How naïve are you? Do you really think the world is going to stop, just so you can get your godforsaken toaster repaired? By Richard Branson, preferably. My God.

Don’t get me wrong, I can be very helpful indeed. But only if you act in a civilized fashion and aren’t a raving lunatic droning on about taxes, the freemasons and whatnot.

Do what you like but remember, like Adam Sandler in the Wedding Singer I HAVE THE GODDAMN MICROPHONE! And if I choose to shove your stupid complaint at the bottom of the pile., I bloody well will do.

Time to find a new job, methinks ….

Personal Services Required

Looks like Wifeswap spawned a whole new range of these household documentaries. Where we take a peek into Joe Blogg’s home and watch ‘people like us’, as opposed to the nutters on Big Brother. Or so I thought. Personal Services Required … just where do they find these people? Did they advertise in Nouveau Chav magazine? ‘Wanted: Essex couple with mansion. Must be New Money. Spraytans optional’.

I am absolutely gobsmacked. There really are people out there with nothing better to do than thinking about how twelve cushions should be arranged on the bed during the daytime. Now, bedmaking is a waste of time in the first place, but, surely, if, for some reason, you’re into this sort of thing, does it really require 20 minutes with a ten minute inspection following? I can’t even decide who I feel sorrier for, the poor sod applying for a live-in housekeeper position or those sad freaks who wish to employ a housekeeper. The first is well on her way to become some kind of modern day slave, the latter … well … they might as well take their hedgefund and jump off the nearest bridge. For there is nothing left of their lives. They have outsourced everything. Including the careful folding of toilet paper. Who would do such a thing?

Interestingly, they also offer a handsome salary to whoever is willing to move into their house and be at their every beck and call. It’s almost like buying a Grandmother, albeit a young, healthy one that isn’t your mother.

A friend of mine is a professional Nanny. She refuses to take on live-in positions. Because it’s only a job. As opposed to selling your entire body and soul the spraytanned lady of the manor. Mind you, not having to pay rent and bills sounds handy. But would you really want to be sharing a house with your boss, who may well inform you that there is a fly in his bedroom at 3am?

Having watched Personal Services Required twice now, I am absolutely horrified at some people’s need to wield power over servants. To even tell them what they should and should not be wearing. And to show them off to friends and family like novelty pets.

And I can’t make up my mind who was worst. The headhunting, orange couple who asked this guy to wear chauffeur’s livery to Tesco’s or the middle-aged, chavy but loaded single mother who spent the entire program drooling over the young, male Au Pair? The latter acted almost like she was a female sex tourist in her own home, for goodness sake! Mind you, the one who informed her budding new Au Pair that she was ‘going to mould her’ wasn’t that pleasant either. Mould her? Yeah, sorry, you are but a spotty nothing, but I am going to make you a star, my dear. You are but an empty shell and I will make sure that I brainwash you into total submission.

Where do people get these powertrips from? I suppose it is to do with money. Money can buy you pretty much everything. I am loaded, therefore I am. Now I will invest in some new friends, a big house, some kids. I will buy into being admired and liked. Because I am the one paying. What these people didn’t quite realise is that the one thing they don’t seem to be able to purchase is anyone’s respect. How do you respect someone with an unhealthy obsession with polished faux brass lighswitches?

No Miss, I have not been smoking in the girls toilet!

My contract says no smoking in the flat. I ignored this, of course. Next thing I know the agency announces that ‘our regular inspection is coming up’. Er, okay. Not that you mention this to me at all. Not in the contract either. Flat smells like a working men’s club before the smoking ban.

Panic. Must get rid of smell. But how? Stop smoking in there immediately. Okay, that didn’t work. I resorted to smoking in the bathroom. After the event I realised my bathroom has no windows. Oops. Next stop, Oust! If it works for badly dubbed Dutch housewifes, it’s good enough for me. I settle for the ‘Outdoor Fresh’ variety. Pfffft, there goes the can. To my surprise I woke up the next morning, delighted I had not manage to gas myself over night. Death by chemical pine – not great. The can says to not use on fabrics. Febreze! I need some Febreze! Two hours later I am spraying double. Febreze pointing on the carpet, Oust! Towards the ceiling. Bubbling away in the bath is half a tub of Vapour Rub I am cunningly steaming with boiling water. Nice one, Julia. If hell was on earth, it would smell of fake pines, menthol and fresh Febreze Cotton Scent goodness.

Then it hits me. What the hell am I doing? I feel like I am 15 again, standing in the girls loo at school, clutching an air freshener. Have you been smoking in there, Julia? No! So why is there smoke coming out from under the door? I have no idea. And why is there a fagbutt floating in the toilet? No idea. You can’t prove anything!

Or the time when I seriously thought half a packet of Strawberry Hubba Bubba would ensure my parents would not detect my fags and beer breath after a night out on the town. They knew, allright. But they took great pleasure in leaving me to squirm for a year, until they ‘officially’ caught me smoking. Only then did they tell me they were most aware of my filthy habit from day one, but they thought it’d be more educational to have me come down to earth with a bang all by myself. Thanks, guys.

So why on earth am I thinking the letting agency won’t notice the fact I’ve gone crazy on unusual smells? Why not just let off a stinkbomb and claim an upset stomach, no further questions asked? I am 29 years old now, I should not have to be doing this. I hold down a perfectly respectable job and I am technically speaking a grown-up. Admittedly, I live like a student, but … those tatty band posters have been with me for over a decade. I like them. And that signed Stereolab poster is irreplaceable. So are the He-Man toys. So there.