Tag Archives: workhell

No.68: Take offence at a variety (all) daytime TV presenters

To be a good daytime TV presenter, one must genetically possess that heady, provocative cocktail of ‘come, I would never hurt you’ smiliness, deep, deep cold-hearted ruthlessness and high-risk, pre-luncheon drinking fiendage. Not all, but some. *smells the lawsuits*

DTTVPs are dangerous. Unfettered, they roam the TV networks before 15.00 like demonic overlords dressed in smart, rumpled casual (him) and anything by Coast (her). They have nothing to fear. Everyone watching is in a conscious guilt coma of work avoidance, reefer-fug or are laundrydrunk. Their blindingly-lit studio kingdoms of inoffensive cookery slots and interviews with multiple-birth mothers are safe from interference. They can say what they like. Well, they can’t say ‘fuckflaps’ but they are somewhat free to flirt in the borderlands of passive-aggressive rudeness and unbridled patronising behaviours.

One such flirt is DTTV Sofa Czar Richard Madeley. Watching him interview anyone was like watching a scene from Cracker, the hapless suspect (AKA: interviewee harrowed by some life misfortune that was promptly usurped in it’s ‘worst thing ever’ status by Madeley’s relentless bullying) being asked a question. And then Madeley firing another at them from his cocksure, I’m-a-dad-who-wears-a-hoody-and-once-saw-Snow Patrol-live slouch. And then another and another whilst promptly answering for them before the synapses  in their brain have even begun to fire the requisite neuron. Richard, this is not Probing Interview Technique.  It is being a douche.

Judy sits on smiling. Because she knows she has replaced his hairspray with vaginal deodorant.

But everybody seemingly in their right mind adores them.  Mums particularly. But this maybe because they’ve been so bored they started licking the Persil washtablets.

 ‘Ooh, but that Lorraine Kelly’s lovely,’ says your dad who you daren’t argue with because you owe him 2 month’s rent. So you nod non-commitally, whilst cringing as she soaks her guests from a well of condescention deeper than Jabba the Hutt’s  Sarlacc pit.

Another offensive presence is that Kyle person, who thinks that because he spends his life paddling in the footbath of society’s genepool he’s somehow allowed to wield a Paxman/Ceasar  complex, dispensing rudeness from atop his  moral high-ground to the scum and their 36 children, but suceeding only in demonstrating the huge absence of self-awareness of a man who is scraping the bottom of a barrel he actually constructed himself.

Kyle: Set phasers to 'scum'

But he’s at least better than Kilroy.

‘Daybreak’ presents another interesting (read:enraging) facet of DTTV–  why do ALL  DTTV sofa’spouses’ consist of some well-dressed, slim, highly attractive woman and a man that looks like the offspring of a coach driver and a roadie? Would the opposite EVER be sanctioned?  Wouldn’t it be ace to see some telly presented by Eric out of True Blood plus a fifty something from the Liberal Democrat backbench?

Doubtless, Overlord Madeley would insist this had already been done in the case of him and Judy. Harhar. Whilst Judy just smiles and knows that it wasn’t fake tan in that bottle he was slathering all over his stupid face earlier this morning.

‘Loose women’ is ok – but too much viewing could bring about early menopause.  And at least they look like what real women look like (before going out on a hen night admittedly) as opposed to the majority of female presenters who are only marginally older than a foetus and posses similarly undeveloped interview skills. Phillip Schofield gets a pass however because he has aged gracefully and always managed to talk to a puppet whilst maintaining his dignity. Fern Britton gets one as well – despite the tattoos and GastricBandgate – because she looks like my mum.

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No. 61: Regularly indulge in a crap Rewards Scheme

‘Oooh, lucky old me!’ shrieks the flancer, like some kind of badly closeted local MP who has just successfully inveigled his entire year’s sadobeauties.net bill through his tax books. And why such camp joy? Because you, the flancer, have just managed to get a microscopic bit of work done. And as a consequence you may now hang the washing out. *score*

To be fair, this level of patheticness is in keeping with the tradition of Rewards Schemes, this being the biggest misnomer since ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.  As anyone whose entire bag collection has at least one antiquated ‘Computers for Schools’ voucher in it knows, Rewards Schemes are  just another way for organisations (who make it their business to rape you of every penny you have) to, in some way, polish this exploitational turd.  And the bottying doesn’t end there. Supermarket vouchers in particular are fundamentally Rohypnol in paper form, luring you into aisles you have no business being in with the promise of something you really don’t want – for cheap!   And before you know it you’re blinking dazedly in the car park clutching 100 dashboard wipes for a car you don’t have, feeling dirty and desperately wanting to report what happened to the police.

‘You reluctantly spent seventy pounds on this thing you needed anyway and so we will give you 5p off these panty liners!’ Yes, Mr Keith Franklin of Worksop – that means you too you lucky old bastard. On the plus side, they will probably double up nicely as dashboard wipes.

However, flancer-based rewards make even slightly cheaper panty liners seem like the ultimate in Corporate generosity. If flancers were put in charge of supermarket Reward Schemes, bemused shoppers would be wondering why, having gone to Iceland for their boxes of frozen misery all month they receive a coupon telling them they can pop into the store any time for a faceful of abuse from their teenage checkout assistant. The one with the ear-stretcher and flickr account called #crazy shit I do with dead birds#

This is because flancers consider anything a ‘reward.’  Well, anything that isn’t having to sit at your computer seeing how much work you don’t have or having an aneurism about how on earth you are going to find a dead case study who came back to life thinking she was Joan Collins  (see post No. 14 ‘Accept The Commission from Hell’).  And so would you if you were someone who officially forgot what joy was in 1999.

At least putting the bins out means the part of you that makes vitamin D won’t entirely atrophy.

Recent extracts from the Flancer Rewards Scheme catalogue include:

Untangling that cluster of necklaces clumped in the underwear drawer

Looking at online pictures of the Duchess of Cambridge

Shaving your toes

For a full catalogue, please contact the blogger direct. Although she may be away from her computer unblocking the holes of the salt-cellar with a toothpick.

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No.53: Go Slightly Mental

You know, like that time where you’re sobbing so hard, spittle is dripping out of the sides of your mouth simply because you opened the cupboard above the sink a little too quickly and it bumped you on the head…. and that act of gross clumsiness reminded you that your life is worthless and that you have no talent or else why would you be sat here drooling onto your dressing gown rather than sat at your keyboard tapping out something for the Times, eh?  This prompts you to email all the people you’ve never really liked and tell them exactly why. And all the feature editors that never bothered (the BASTARDS) to even email you back a ‘thanks but eff off’ after you’d repeatedly sent them your best pitches.  Then you change your mind and don’t send them which makes you bitter AND spineless.  Then you go on Facebook and delete all the smug employed/married/”still-good-looking-despite-now-being thirty-and-ooh-don’t-they-know-it-from-their-posed-FB-picture”  people you know and maybe even go through your mobile phone and bin everyone who you haven’t spoken to in a month. And then you have another cry as your mobile phone book is now empty.  And perhaps you’ll even tackle the bank, who decided to shave a chunk off your overdraft without telling you and now you have to pay £69 in charges. I’ll teach them, etc…until they tell you that, no, they sent you a letter to inform you that they were going to shaft you for nigh-on seventy quid’s worth of spurious fees and promptly charge you another tenner for the administration cost of dealing with your phone call. Then, you eat everything you can find, whilst playing The Prodigy really, really loudly. And you wonder what would happen if you  just, you know, sacked it all off and buggered off to America – no, wait – INDIA, where you could find yourself and NatWest couldn’t. Then you might even contract Malaria *take a small moment to imagine your funeral and spend at least quarter of an hour choosing the playlist* and everyone that never called me or hired me will be sorry….then go and get in your car to drive somewhere ANYWHERE away from here and then give up on that plan and sit crying again with your head on the wheel because at the moment you are virtually a character from a Mike Leigh play and because your needle has been on red for the last week and a half and besides you’ll probably only drive to Tesco and bulk-purchase cream horns…perhaps then you go and stare at yourself in the mirror and decide that you’re getting old as well and who would ever want you…then wash-up and tidy-up and vacuum-up like a maniac, at which point you will catch yourself on the ankle with the vacuum cleaner and collapse into a pile of honking self-pity…then eat some more toast, try on everything in your wardrobe and decide you’re also getting a bit chubby (as well as old) before wanting a nap but feeling guilty about it (see post no. 49)

And then you look at the clock and see that it’s only 09.12 am.*

This might all just be me.


*Today’s post was sponsored by James Joyce.

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Facebook is a truly terrifying*, time-bending, Faerie land-like phenomenon.

No, it is.

Back in Medieval times if a hapless knight wandered into the realm of Faerie (stick with me, readers) he would have a jolly-old time, surrounded by laughing, smiling faces he vaguely recognised, dancing in a circle to Pentangle, drinking mead from a hollowed out hogshead or similarly Medieval recepticle … and believe that he had only been dallying in this bountiful realm for a day or so.   Then he would find the way out and realise that he had been gone for twenty-five years.

 I think you know where I am going with this analogy.

But it’s ok. FB presents a number of pluses for the meaningless existence of the flancer, benefits quite willingly paid for with foetid breath and chairseat induced arse-canker. And  – oh my! – even appears to make their lot a happier one than that of the working drone.

Let us investigate.

Number 1: Wasting twenty-five years without realising it is excellent progress on the flancer wasting time front.  Leading to a sense of  job satisfaction that presently eludes a massive percentage of the office- residing masses who doubtless regularly wish they were dead. 

Number 2: Taking an age to sum up your current mood in one, hilariously expressed super-sentence (aka: ‘CURRENT STATUS’) is something wordy flancers in particular deeply relish.. And it’s far more likely to establish you as a true skipful of wit when doing it alone with plenty of time and a delete button.  As opposed to being in a real-life office, where it is traditional – when someone enquires as to your well-being –  that you answer as immediately and as blandly as possible.   Making them stand there for forty five minutes whilst you try and construct a devastatingly impressive and mind-blowing comeback can mark you out as marginally eccentric. Even if you provide coffee and biscuits.  People actively avoid people like you, preferring conversations that are over almost instantly, from which they can emerge swiftly and the same age as when they went in.

Number 3: You get to create your own highly-polished, far more attractive version of ‘Who You Are’ on FB**.  And as a flancer, this version is much more easily manipulated and maintained than when you are working with other humans, which is when messy, unpredictable old reality can continually stick it’s bloody oar in.  Thus flancing+FB  renders your carefully constructed super-identity far more immune to discovery.  People in offices can blow their ID construct spectacularly easily at any time – after a bad morning meeting/a tequila riddled work party/ punching their line manager after a photocopying fracas.  FACT: being outside your home with others means you can never pretend you are a stone lighter than that profile photo makes you look.

Number 4: losing track of time at a computer is what people with real jobs in offices do all the time.  So don’t feel bad, flancer comrade – in this you are actually doing exactly the same thing you would be doing if you had a real job anyway… but you get to do it in your softest clothes, eating left over yorkshire pudding with Nutella on it. Ha!

                                                                   Flancers: 4       Working masses: 0


*Hence the title is written in caps. *shudder*

**Which, lets be honest is what it’s really for, right?

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No.44:Read Magazines

If you have ever flanced, the act of reading magazines for pleasure is cruelly snatched away and replaced with bitter misery.

You’re slightly sickened by the sight of what’s in front of you, but cannot tear your eyes away – like seeing really badly applied highlights. Reading a magazine to which you have not contributed is a curious, horribly addictive and depressive practice that makes the flancer feel subhuman and guilty.  In this sense it is very similar to stuffing thick slices of discount Cheddar cheese smothered with Ezysqueeze mayonnaise into your face before you collapse in a weeping heap of dairy.

First; the feverish scanning of the gutter, terrified that you might discover that the sniffy, bone-idle workie who used to make you coffee that tasted as if it had been filtered through a roadie’s sock,  is now, apparently features editor.

Then comes the absolute conviction that the magazine has seemingly ‘stolen’ an idea that you sent them (in 1986) and got someone else cheaper and (obviously less skilled) to write it. Just to spite you, the flancer. You seethe. Perhaps you swear at the saucepan rack. Perhaps you write an email pulsing with vitriol and hate – smearing the keys with cheesy mayonnaise as you go.

 And then you delete it when your reason returns from its short holiday, leaving you vibrating with an unexpressed frustration that shrivels your very kidneys. You seek out more cheese.

Then!! Betrayal above all betrayals!! You spot a byline… and it’s one of your flancer friends, who swore she was as jobless as you! And she has two – TWO! – pieces in said magazine.

The betrayal bites deep and you will hold onto it for at least 7 months. She may as well have murdered your mother.  You don’t – of course – avail her of your feelings but simply but make all future interactions slightly chilly. You will meet her for coffee, but she is essentially dead to you.

At least this sort of extensive emotional session can waste many beautiful hours. Arguably, those hours would have been better spent coming up with new ideas to send to said magazine.

But anyway, their content has really gone downhill lately.  And Murder She Wrote has just started.

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No.33: Wonder, ‘Am I Actually Any Good?’

Herein madness lies.

For normal people, whether or not you are any good at what you do for a living is evaluated via sensible and appropriate indicators: your boss calling you an incompetent twit, being handed your P45 with one hand and receiving ‘The Bird’ with the other, coming in to find your stuff in a burning pile and another person at your desk.  These all generally point at ‘no, you are not very good’. 

Whereas, pats on the back, standing ovations when you use a stapler, pay rises and having tasteful rosettes that say ‘Most Good Employee of The Month*’ bestowed upon you are deemed a definite positive.

In short, workplace -based experiences lead to workplace-based judgements as to one’s skill. This makes sense and tends to encourage a certain level of mental balance within an employee.

Alas, when you are a work-alone flancer, your ability to judge your personal  level of  talent becomes enmeshed with an array of oddities.

These include: blood sugar, the weather, not being able to fit a hooverbag, running out of salt, pulling a hole in your tights as you put them on, snagging your sleeve on a door handle as you rush from one room to another, etc.  All of these things can crush the flancer spirit, and – because flancers are emotionally wired like a radio that has been dropped and put back together by a laboratory beagle – this will result in them fully believing that they contain less talent than a Norfolk beauty contest.  This is compounded by the fact that there are generally no other human beings around to stop them careering off down the lane to Paranoidsville (via the picturesque hamlet of Self-Hate-on-the-Wold)

 Indeed, a flancer’s confidence – if plotted upon a graph – would look like the heart rate monitor of somebody negotiating a minefield on a pogo stick.

Flancers  regularly experience what is known as CABS: Crash and Burn Syndrome. It can happen in minutes. And this is how it happens:

Flancer feels confident first thing in the morning (I am very good at what I do!), starts writing something (I’m still quite good at what I do!), reads something by a respected writer on their coffee break (I am not as good at what I do as this person…) re-reads their own work  (This doesn’t convince anyone that I’m good at what I do), the coffee kicks in (I’MGOODI’MGOODI’MGOODISHOUDLREALLYCLEANTHEBATHROOMAGAIN) they send the work to someone, (I wish I hadn’t. Clearly I am not very good at what I do) and receive no reply (confirmed: I suck hole.)

Thus, for a flancer to believe that they are a fantastic writer is to do absolutely no writing at all.


*If this regularly happens, you either work in a playgroup, cutting-edge advertising agency or Rosette and Trophy manufacturing company filled with bored Flancers.

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No.29: Annoy other People

You know when the battery is running out on your smoke alarm and it emits a high-pitched ‘pip’ just regularly enough to make an interesting and effective Ministry of Intelligence torture device, but not often enough that you can be fagged to change it?  Well that’s like being stroked by a handsome, interesting person carrying a tray with Ferrero Rocher and a pot of coffee on it just for you, compared to the irritant factor of a bored flancer.  Bored flancers are the death knell for anyone else nearby with real work to do, what with their sleeve-tugging insistence that they need a cohort to skive off doing nothing with, so that they feel less guilty about avoiding doing anything about having nothing to do.

Flancers love to share their boredom.  They are uniquely generous in this way.   If you are a naive first timer, you will feel pity and invite them over. And then you will learn, and fake your own death so that they stop calling.  They’ll come and hang out with you at work, twiddle with things on your desk, empty and then break the coffee machine and re-arrange everything so that you mistakenly send a Ikea brochure meant for your ‘take-home’ pile, to a client that sent in a letter of complaint. You will wonder why you have a vaguely insincere letter of apology in your hands when you get home that night and wish to browse for wardrobes.

 If you have already alerted security to the fact that the flancer must not be allowed to enter the building on any circumstance, they will either hassle the security guard to play cards or to help them try and name as many bands with ‘The’ in the title as possible in ten minutes. Or, if turned away they will telephone you ‘just for a chat.’ When you say you have to go because everyone else has now packed up and left for the day, they will beg you to come for a drink  or try and convince you to take tomorrow off work and go and play Mini golf with them.

If you rebuff them, they will get the huff on and wander off like a child denied the biscuit tin kicking at the ground with their bottom lip stuck out and then probably start doing something that results in a tapping, scratching or beeping noise that makes you want to gouge your own eyes out with the fruit you brought in for lunch.

On discovering that bananas just aren’t a sharp enough de-ocularising* tool, you come up with a better plan and send them out to buy batteries for the smoke alarm, and sneakily emigrate whilst they are at the shops.


*for any student doctors reading, before you use this word in an essay – I thought I ought to point out that I made it up.

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No.28: Justify Your ‘Job’ to your Parents

As previously pointed out, the question ‘how’s work at the moment?’ is feared and loathed by flancers worldwide. But it is particularly horrorsome when asked by a parent.

Especially when you have called them to borrow money.

‘How are things?’ blithely asks The Mum.  You mumble ‘ok’ whilst trying not to break down over the truth which is that – only ten minutes ago – you were contemplating laying down in the gas oven due to an all-time workless low. The Mum isn’t fooled. She can hear in your voice that things are a bit rum. She distracts you by twittering pleasantly about the nasty hanging baskets Shelia from across the road has put out and laughs at herself for being a curtain twitcher (hey, you can relate, see post No.15). She asks how your friends with jobs are getting on at work (The Mum needs to show interest in a child’s life. And seeing as her child has been virtually unemployed and single for five years – any child will do. But The Mum knows that asking about your life will only upset or embarrass you further, and so she makes this adjustment without realising that this just makes things worse.  Until of course she asks you about the married friends and their new-born children.)

‘Would you like to speak to your dad?’ she asks. All pretence is over.

The dad pulls no punches* and immediately after asking ‘how you’re keeping’ will ask you how you are for money. His gently hectoring tone suggests that any chance of a loan is off, so you reply, ‘fine’ swiftly followed by thinking, *shit!* as you remember that The cunning Dad probably opens your bank statements, as virtually every flancer has used their parents’ home address as their fixed address since university in order to get loans and credit cards. Which, in retrospect is pretty bad because that’s where the bailiff will go first.  The Dad will ‘hmm’ enigmatically and ask about work. You will fluff somewhat and try and distract him by talking about the flashy book/script/project you are working on. This bluster impresses many, but cuts no cheese with The  Dad; who is all about  mortgage and cold hard cash under the mattress. He asks if you need money. You say no. He will ‘hmm’ again and ask what you’re doing today (seeing as you’ve called them at like, 3pm) The honest answer being ‘nothing’, you throw him off the scent by talking about a proper job you were considering getting. He will demand details. You will not have them.

Then you realise that you have a coffee date you are late for. But telling The Dad that you don’t have time to explain how poor and workless you are because you have to go out and dispose of your non-existant disposable income  will further secure your place in the ‘WRITE THIS OFFSPRING OUT OF THE WILL’ file. The Dad senses that you are ready to go and despite everything sends his love (as does mum from the background.) You can hear the theme tune to Murder She Wrote and the kettle whistling.

‘I’ll pop a bit in your account today,’ says Dad. And as you put the phone down trying not to sob, you swear to yourself that when your book sells its first million – before anything else – you will buy that man a sports car.



*Dads hate using the phone and talking to their children – even if their children are millionaire entrepreneurs. They just do. If ever you call home and your dad picks up, within twenty seconds he’ll usually say: ‘I’ll put your mum on’

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No.27:Shout At Your Computer

The army of brains in glass domes on wheels who work for computer companies know that flancers love wasting time. And so they specifically design small electrical items that don’t do what they are meant to do, precisely so that flancers can squander hours of every day swearing and thumping them. Most – if not all – laptops have the emotional button-pressing, wind-up skills of a top criminal psychologist crossed with a five-year-old.  They know exactly how to set synapses to ‘enrage’ and push you, the hapless operator, in all the right ways…until you explode in a teary flurry of expletives and collapse sobbing, begging for it all to be over.

Nine times out of ten* the more aesthetically gimmicky a gadget/computer/Operating System is the more things there are about it that can break down at stupendously inappropriate moments. Like deadlines for example. Gimmicky techno-things are also a lot like high maintenance girlfriends: they look utterly sexy.  You don’t feel you can really afford them.  All your friends are slaveringly jealous and want one too.  But within 6 months they become a totally useless pain in the arse that demands hours of your attention just to get them to execute one simple task which they then do reeeeealy slowly just to get back at you for asking. They sit on their 100-thread count tablecloths like small electrical Jennifer Lopez’s, stipulating the correct air temperature and humidity necessary for them to perform.

The primary hurdle is usually the relatively uncomplicated task of asking said gadget to be ‘on’.  If you have had a laptop for like, centuries (i.e. about two years) it will probably be as reluctant (and as speedy) to warm up as an eighty-year old ejected from bed at 5am by a shouty army Sargent demanding 50 press ups in the mud. So you press ‘on’ and then have time to go and make coffee, have a shower, do your shopping and solve the global fuel crisis before it’s ready to do anything.  At this point, a small box will pop up bearing a cheery  yet unfathomable message that requires you answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.  Fear immediately descends because you know that one of these choices will wipe your archived copy from the entirety of last year and the other choice will launch a warhead at Wales. By now you will be so angry that you could easily kick a puppy without remorse, so you drink more coffee (just to ramp the old blood pressure up further) which is when your screen will freeze because you had the audacity to ask your hellbox to launch internet AND  Skype SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Note: Despite it’s apparent stupidity, your laptop actually has the ability to telepathically communicate with other electrical goods in your home too. So whilst it’s rumbling to life in its own sweet time, your TV will probably go on the blink, your coffee machine will start making tea and your hairdryer will give you an electric shock.

You desperately want to throw it out of the window,  but you can’t because you haven’t got a spare 300 quid for a new one (which will descend into this sort of immature, teenage stroppery within 18 months anyway) and you know for a fact that editors will not accept copy written by hand on a sheet of creased A4.

So you shout at it some more and when it decides to finally whurrr to life you feel vaguely triumphant – as if this attitude-riddled box of wires and lights has heard your rantings and decided that you – as the human – are to be obeyed.

But underneath that shiny casing beats the heart of a cruel, sadistic yet-even-more- intelligent life form, waiting till you’re out to explode and set fire to your house.


 *By which I mean ‘ten times out of ten’.

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No.24: Fill In OnLine Questionnaires

‘Not-knowing’ causes the Homosapien brain massive problems. Bipedal primates loathe and fear the absence of answers.  This is why the losing team on University Challenge always says ‘Goodbye’ (when aggressively chided by the Paxman) as if they are going to their execution.  Answers are king. Not-knowing is the Anti-Christ.  Not-knowing is worry, misery and a condescending look from Jeremy from behind his big desk of ANSWERS. For example: think now about all the things you don’t know.  Scary shit, eh? 

Flancers in particular hate not-knowing, and – even worse – not knowing something another flancer does know.  This means  dropping a valuable point on the Fantasy Scoreboard of Gloat and One-UpManship. After Paxman’s U.C. desk, the internet is the ultimate great big answer machine, and so flancers love it and use it to gather pointless facts with which to win pub quizzes and to commandeer conversations so that no-one gets a chance to ask them if they’ve got much work on at the moment. 

As well as providing answers, the internet also presents the flancer with countless more things they don’t know. Specifically, things they don’t know about themselves – which it then politely offers to help them discover the answers to via the form of an Online Questionnaire. All flancers adore Online Questionnaires because (a) flancers are action-packed with ego and (b) it’s blatant time-wasting tarted-up as ‘Internet Research*’

I have, in the last 24-hours discovered: How Old I Am Really (43. Disappointingly.) How Old I Will Be When I Become a Millionaire (84. Not taking into account inflation.) What Sex My Brain Is (Female, I am told. But I don’t know what this means. I will have to research it online.) Am I Tone Deaf? (pardon?) Am I Funny? (No. See previous answer) Would I Make a Good Dad? (No. Having bombed after Question 1: ‘are you male?’) And finally, my personal favourite: Which Level of Dante’s Hell am I Due For? (Level 8, apparently. I can look forward to being eternally whipped by horned demons. Questions to uncover this essential piece of information included: ‘Is a pimp is a good thing to be?’ And  ‘Some people just deserve to die: True or False?’  I spent the next thirty minutes after filing my responses waiting for  MI6 to come crashing through my windows.

Arguably, a better sort of Online Questionnaire would be: ‘Where is Your Next PayCheck Coming From?   but I have distracted myself from this by the Which Muppet Are You? quiz.  To which, doubtless, most people I know think they possess the answer already.


*Internet Research can also include: finding exes’ wedding photos/crafting an hilarious status update on FB, Googling ‘dogs in hats’, downloading River Cottage Autumn, looking for recipes that include instant coffee and Weetabix, organising your coffee schedule for the week by email and filling up shopping carts at an array of online stores but not taking them to checkout.

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