El Presidente

Reported in the news that Brown and Mandelson are pushing hard to get Tony Blair the job of President of the European Union. Scary thought…

I assume they had a chat on the phone about this before the story broke, and here’s how I imagine it went:

Ring… Ring

Peter: “Gordy baby, how are you?”

Gordon: “Who’s this?”

Peter: “C’mon Gordy, it’s Peter!”

Gordon: “Andre? How’s the thing with that slapper working out?”

Peter: “No, no. Mandelson… You know, the Secretary of State? I made a lovely speech at the conference?”

Gordon: “Oh right, THAT Peter. Sorry Mandy, it’s been a hectic morning. I’ve spent three hours working on my plans to show everyone what a buffoon Boris Johnson is… then realised he does a much, much better job of that himself. Wasted morning, really.”

Peter: “Never mind that now Gordy – we’ve got more important fish to fry. Tony Blair. El Presidente. Ol’ TB.”

Gordon: “Don’t I know it Mandy. I’ve got to get him something meaningful to do as soon as I can.”

Peter: “You still worried about…”

Gordon: “OF COURSE I am, you little tit! I mean, think about it Mandy. We’re both top figures in a British government… and completely unelected! How do you think I managed to get this job?! Let’s face it, we both know those idiots out there hate us – they would never have voted for us.”

Peter: “Well I would have voted for you Gordy…”

Gordon: “Don’t interrupt! And get your tongue out of my arse. Anyway, Tony ain’t going to get a real political job now, is he? Democracy… pfff. If I don’t get him something to do soon, I just know he’s going to come and take his job back.”

Peter: “Can he do that?”

Gordon: “Don’t be so naïve Mandy – we’re the Labour Party. We can do whatever we like. How else do you think we installed a revolving door at our borders for immigrants to come through scot free?

Peter: “Ah yes, I’d forgotten about that… all those broad-shouldered foreigners… doing their manual labour jobs… muscles glistening in the afternoon sun…”

Gordon: “Concentrate Mandy! Work first, pleasure later!”

Peter: “Sorry Gordy.”

Gordon: “So as far as I can see, the only way I can get TB off my back is to get him installed as El Presidente…”

Peter: “But you said he would never be able to get another political job? You know, after the arse he made out of the last one he had? You remember? You said the British public would vote John and Edward into political office before Tony?”

Gordon: “For Milliband’s sake, Mandy! Do I have to explain everything to you? The President of the European Union is an UNELECTED post, savvy? Those poor schmucks out there who we ‘represent’… stop sniggering Mandy… have absolutely no say in who gets the job!”

Peter: “My God, you’re right Gordy! If we wanted to, we could even back Boris for the job!”

Gordon: “Ha ha! Good one Mandy! But in all seriousness, if I get on my bike and call that Reinfeldt character who’s in charge of drawing up the list of candidates, we could be rid of TB for good!”

Peter: “That’s masterful Gordy! Fiendish! Legendary!”

Gordon: “Ok Mandy, go easy on the praise – I’m not used to it.”

Peter: “And let’s face it Gordy, we’re out of a job in May anyway – let’s see how Dave likes running a government with El Presidente looking over his shoulder all the time.”

Gordon: “Exactly. Well that’s sorted then. Ok Mandy, call the Times, the Guardian and the Peckham Echo to let them know we’re backing good old Tony. You know, the usual crap – ‘right man for the job’, ‘would be meaningful and effective in the role’, ‘shining example of the democratic rights upheld in our country’… God, I feel queasy already.”

Peter: “Don’t worry Gordy, you can rely on me. What are you going to do while I do that?”

Gordon: “Don’t you worry about me Mandy, I’ve got a lot on today. There’s all these expenses receipts for a start…”

Click

weekendalcoholic

Watch what your friends eat

So you’re standing in a pub, having a chat with a stranger and getting on rather well. He/she is funny, interesting and seems to share similar views to you (which is basically why he/she IS funny and interesting. People who slate your views tend to be boring on balance).

In fact, so funny and interesting are they, that you decide you now have a new friend. Go you! But wait a second, what with all the talking and laughing and mutual back-slapping, you haven’t really had a chance to have a proper look at their physical appearance… and it turns out they’re a bit of a fatty. Damn, that means you can’t be friends anymore! Shame.

Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But if two American scientists get their way, this could actually become part of our selection criteria when choosing friends…

Nicholas Christakis and James Fowler have published a study of 15000 people over five decades which, they say, proves ‘social contagion’.

They reckon that a person’s chance of becoming obese rises by 57 per cent if a friend becomes obese… 57 per cent!

Not only that, but this contagion can actually skip a link – the risk of becoming obese still rises by a fifth if a friend of a friend becomes obese. And even ten per cent for a friend of a friend of a friend…!

Crazy stuff. You can ‘catch’ fatness from your mates. And your mate’s mates (who you never liked anyway, so at least you have something proper to hate them for now – they made you fat!).

I can only assume the thinking behind this is that if your mate eats a lot of crap around you, always visits the dessert trolley, has four packets of pork scratchings every hour then you’re more likely to indulge yourself. We all mimic our friends in some way, so the fattening up is simply a form of social mimicry.

But does this really mean we should stop socialising with anyone who weighs a few pounds more than us? I don’t think so – I’d like to believe that I have enough free will to make myself fat without any outside influence thank you very much, and just because my mate eats deep-fried Mars Bars doesn’t mean I have to, does it?

And anyway, if I do start to develop an expanding waistline, I damn well want someone there that I can blame!

weekendalcoholic

The benefits of brothels

As some of you know, I work part time in an optician around my studying, and was at work on Sunday having a conversation with my store director.

Now in an optician, anyone who receives certain benefits and can’t afford to pay for their glasses can claim on the wonderful NHS for a contribution to get money off their glasses, and we pay the rest of the cost to allow them free NHS spex. The same sort of system applies in dentists and so on, as I’m sure you’re all aware.

But this got us thinking.

We have all have certain needs in the bedroom department, and not everyone can always for whatever reason… fulfil these needs. Now some people just put up with this, maybe send the occasional valentine’s card to their hand and so on – I’m sure I don’t need to paint you a picture here.

Some people choose to purchase an item from an ever extending range of toys and inflatables (while I’m on the subject, I can just about understand someone not being able to find a partner and choosing to buy an inflatable doll – not everyone is good at ‘connecting’ with the opposite sex so, I suppose, fair enough. But why the hell do they sell inflatable sheep? Who has that much trouble pulling a sheep??? You hardly need to be a master of witty repartee! But let’s move on…)

However, a significant minority (I don’t have the exact figures here) do choose to employ the services of a prostitute or gigolo. Now I’m not going to judge, and each to their own, but we were left feeling slightly sorry for the less fortunate in society.

If one of these people does feel the urge and wants to do something about it, they can’t afford to employ the services of a lady of the night.

So we wondered whether it might be an idea to introduce the NHS system to brothels…

Just think, you visit the brothel and pull out your Tax Credit Exemption Card and out shambles Sharon, from the NHS prostitute range. She may not be pretty, and she may not be as stylish as Candice and Chardonney, but she is free and does the job until you can save up for a more expensive model.

If an NHS patient in our shop wants to get a scratch-coating or an anti-reflective coating then they can pay a small supplement and get them on their NHS spex. And presumably the same would apply to Sharon – pay a small fee, and you would get extra coatings.

And I know what you’re thinking – why should I pay even more tax just so some Johnny Work Not-ly can get his end away? And maybe you’re right, but everyone deserves a fair chance says I, and it gives Sharon a job which can’t be a bad thing, can it? And let’s not forget, she’ll have a few more stories to tell on Jeremy Kyle.

 

weekendalcoholic

The truth behind man-flu

All this hospital malarkey has got me thinking about being ill. Particularly, being ‘man’ ill.

To all the women readers of this blog, let me assure you that this is quite, quite different from being ‘woman’ ill, and no, I’m not talking about the whole man-flu fiasco.

And it is a fiasco – let’s face it, some people struggle on when not well, others… well they make a bit of a fuss, don’t they? But I think it’s relatively unfair to point the finger of accusation at men here – I do know a number of men who struggle into work when they obviously should be at home (and subsequently give me and all of their colleagues their germs. Thanks for that), and I do know one or two women who the instant they get a runny nose, declaim it as ‘flu and spend all day talking about how ill they feel. There’s one young lady in particular I’m thinking of here who spends literally 11 months out of every year complaining of having the ‘flu, yet still has the front to accuse us blokes of putting it on, it’s only man ‘flu, you don’t know how I suffer etc etc ad nauseum…

But I really can’t see a definite sex boundary there. Having said that, given some of the crap your bodies put you through on a very regular basis, I’d rather be a man with an unfounded accusation of being a wimp with colds thank you very much.

But men and women definitely do deal with the whole ‘ill’ thing in a different way.

Let’s start with the men. Us men adopt a light-switch approach to being ill.

We are not ill. We are ill. We are not ill.

Off. On. Off.

Up to a certain point, us blokes will ignore strange twinges, we’ll look past pain in areas we know we shouldn’t be getting pain – this will not be mentioned and anyone who accidentally discovers that we are experiencing said twinges will be made, forcefully if necessary, to sign the Official Secrets Act. We will brush this all under the rather shabby carpet in our mind. We are not ill.

Deep down, we know this is a load of tosh, but we are men and must be seen to be men. We are reluctant to show any visible signs of weakness and heaven forbid we should visit the GP for anything less than full on cardiac arrest. It doesn’t matter, we are not ill.

But then of course, we reach a certain point where the pain/twinge/strange itch/discharge gets too bad, or the paranoia about what this means gets too bad and there’s not enough carpet left to sweep under and… we throw the light switch and are officially ill.

Now we demand instant medical attention from a dedicated team of medical specialists, 24 hour surveillance and hot beverage of choice on demand. Not to mention full, I said full, control of the remote control, and choice of snacks which you will be dispatched to the nearest supermarket to purchase, and god help you if you buy us the wrong flavour of Doritos.

We will keep this up until it is quite clear that we are not ill anymore (i.e. that we can’t get away with it anymore) and we throw the light switch and… we are not ill. At this point we will probably visit the pub, or play football.

Whereas you women seem to operate the whole ‘ill’ thing on much more of a dimmer switch kind of arrangement.

Maybe you’ll get a twinge, maybe the start of a headache, and this will be discussed with friends and a reasonable plan of action established. You always carry painkillers to nip some of the more minor things in the bud.

Any twinges which the committee establish may be a tad more serious are directed to the relevant health professional as soon as is practicably possible, and dealt with before they do become an issue.

You may well (turn away now blokes) not even be ‘ill’ or ‘not ill’ – you may just feel a little under the weather… a bit peeky. I challenge you to find me one man who has, at any point in his life, described himself as feeling ‘a bit peeky’. I can tell you now, you’re wasting your time.

There’s none of this ‘on-off’ nonsense, more a sliding scale of well-being that may require slowing down a bit for a day or two whilst you recover, to stop it getting worse. But things will still get done, and the world will not stop turning.

To be fair, the dimmer switch approach is certainly the better of the two systems, makes a lot more sense, saves a lot of suffering and hassle in the long run… yet will be totally ignored by us men. You see, as much sense as it does make, and as ridiculous as our system may sound to you ladies, it works for us.

And as much as I’d love to give your system a try, I can’t really at the moment. Because I am not ill.

weekendalcoholic

Nurse! Nurse!

Ok, so I’m now recovering from having my appendix removed and I figured my NHS experiences might be a good source of inspiration for a blog, so here goes…

First of all, I have to say I was reasonably impressed with good old Basildon Hospital – I’ve heard a few horror stories, had a bad experience there in the past and generally didn’t have high hopes for the place. I kind of figured if I came out with as many limbs as I went in with, I was probably on to a winner.

But you know what, they were pretty good – clean, quick, attentive, helpful, didn’t moan at me when it was obvious I was trying to sneak out of the ward for a fag… I was impressed!

I think the worst part of having your appendix out is the ‘nil by mouth’ part. How cruel is that?? You’re sitting/laying there in a fair amount of pain in an unfamiliar place, a bit worried about the fact that you’re going to have an operation, and they stop you eating and drinking. Whilst simultaneously surrounding you with other people who are allowed to eat and drink! Bastards!!

And not only are you not allowed to eat and drink, but they seem to instruct the tea lady and dinner ladies to completely fail to acknowledge your existence – not even a hello, a wave or a smile – you might as well be an empty bed. At least have the courtesy to say ‘hello’ while you’re torturing me with your smell of coffee and toast (which is a WONDERFUL smell when you haven’t eaten for 24 hours).

I also think that Basildon hospital needs to work on its layout a little bit if it really wants to improve its services to the maximum. For example, the distance between the ward and the main entrance. I am a smoker, for better or worse (ok, worse) and although I only had two fags in three days, those two fags were a nightmare! The second one in particular was a proper mission.

First of all, you need to plot a plausible excuse for leaving the ward. Now it was 8am, I’d been operated on 12 hours before and had only just woken up, was on clear fluids only and was struggling to think of a good one. But I hobbled up towards the main desk, holding my beer gut with one hand, and told the nurse as I shambled past that I was going to buy a newspaper.

Turns out the hospital shop doesn’t open until 9.30am, and there’s a newspaper lady that comes round the ward every morning anyway. Damn and blast! Fallen at the first hurdle! So I dutifully shuffle back to my bed to be ignored by the tea lady.

Half an hour goes past and I really do want a fag now – I think “sod it”. I’m an adult damn it, I can put up with a few disapproving glances from the nurses. So I get up and shuffle as fast as possible (in my current state, about 0.24mph) for the exit doors and freedom… down the hugely long corridor which is in full view of the main desk, expecting a bullet (or at least a hypodermic) between my shoulders at any moment…

About half way down the corridor, I’m starting to regret it – from my bed to the main entrance of the hospital measures approximately a mile and a half, and in my weakened state, I’m starting to struggle already… but the knowing looks from the nurses if I go back after aborting my mission just doesn’t bear thinking about, so I force myself to carry on, and reach the lift, and eventually, fresh air.

Luckily, I thought ahead and am wearing my own clothes rather than the ass-less apron thing they provide. Now it was no picnic trying to put my socks on, but it was worth it as I stand there next to a fellow escapee who looks rather awful smoking his fag wearing said apron with ‘hospital use only’ stamped all over it, special anti-embolism socks, and a drip which he has pulled the whole mile and a half with him to the entrance.

He is getting some rather funny looks, and lots of disapproving tutting sounds from the passing public.

I, on the other hand, seem to be avoiding the worst of this as long as I remember to hide my identity tag and cannula needle in my hand (harder than you think when every three seconds you have to put a fag in your mouth).

And then the long slog back to the ward. But it’s strangely easier going on the way back – maybe it’s the nicotine, maybe it’s the spring in my step knowing that I’ve succeeded… I don’t know but I reach the ward in pretty good spirits and walk back to my bed, and safety.

“And where have you been Stephen?” enquires one of the nurses. I know I’ve been rumbled because she’s calling me Stephen and not Steve… I’m not sure what it is about nurses, but they have something about them that reduces me to a naughty five year old.

“Just went to stretch my legs, get a bit of exercise, you know” I manage.

“Got some fresh air, did we?” she asks, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Er… yes”

I’m waiting to be put on the naughty step, or be refused ice-cream after my dinner… But then I realise she won’t mention it if I don’t, and I’m certainly not going to blink first and admit it…

And there she goes, walking off down the ward – mission successful! I kick back on the bed, and switch hospital radio back on… Job done.

weekendalcohlic

Ps a heartfelt thanks to all the staff at Basildon Hospital for the fantastic job you do

six months…

So my mate at work has been classed as “clinically obese” and has been given a six month free membership at a rather nice gym in his town…

I don’t know about you, but I never knew such schemes existed on the NHS… and I think it’s a fantastic idea! Although I did laugh at him when he told me – yes, I am going to hell.

But in all seriousness, I think this is a fantastic thing – he’s really up for it and has already lost a bit of weight and has even started running as well! Nuff respect, says I.

But why stop there? The Government are always telling us they want to change things for the better, so why not extend this idea?

Just think of all the good we could do…

Idea #1 – crazy old cat ladies with 23 cats and no idea of hygiene living in a bedsit to be given a six month free dog (and a bath obviously);

Idea #2 – anyone wanting to form a boy band to be given six months free in solitary confinement;

Idea #3 – dole scroungers to be given six months free of benefits. It’s only holding back their personal development;

Idea #4 – chavs to be given six months free locked in a room with Jeremy Kyle;

Idea #5 – well I could go on all day here, but you get the general idea.

I think I’m on to a winner here.

weekendalcoholic

The future of falsetto

I was listening to my new Green Day album this morning and in the chorus of one of the songs Billie Joe went all high-pitched and falsetto on me. Why? Why do male singers these days feel it necessary to prove their squeaky credentials?

On thinking about this, I realised that this is a fast growing problem in today’s music industry – they’re all doing it. Just have a listen to U2: I’ll go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonight. Why Bono, why? Some people are clearly falsetto masters. You, sir, are not.

Of course a lot of this sudden prevalence of squeakiness can be laid squarely at the feet of the depressingly high-pitched James Blunt. That man can squeak. I do wonder how he managed to survive his army career whilst singing like that – he must have had the sh*t kicked out of him on a regular basis. It’s the playground equivalent of being the kid called Mary Christmas and having a bowel problem which requires wearing a nappy to school.

Slightly off topic, but my fiancée is a very good singer and a couple of years back we went to a local entertainment venue so she could compete in a singing competition. She didn’t want to enter by herself so I was forced into entering as well. Now anyone who has read my previous entries knows that my singing voice is not the finest in the land, and in an orgy of bad planning I actually chose to sing a James Blunt song. No, I don’t know why either.

Now if I’m being honest, as much as I protested and moaned, I quite enjoyed it – the bright lights; the microphone; being the centre of attention; that slightly bored clapping that we Brits do so well. To be fair, I was expecting a massive uproar of tumultuous applause, calls for an encore, fighting off the signature hunters… what I got actually was more reminiscent of a Lib Dem party conference – even from the stage I could actually hear the occasional snigger. Just call me Mr Clegg.

But Mr Blunt will insist on falsetto-ing as much as humanly (certainly not humanely) possible. But lady singers don’t do the equivalent do they? You don’t hear Beyonce on her new single doing a Barry White impression, do you? You don’t get Shakira rumbling the floor with her booming bass voice in the chorus. No. The ladies sing high, the men should sing low.

Of course this problem does have it roots in medieval history – well the BeeGees anyway. Three men in tight clothing singing like they’ve just been kicked in the nuts. I naively thought that this had died a death alongside the seventies, but sadly these things always come back to haunt us. Like flares. Or neon leg-warmers. Of course some retro revival stuff is pretty cool – converse shoes for a start, but most of it is pretty awful if we’re being honest.

So what to do about all these high-pitched singers? We could just wait for this squeaky fad to die a natural death, but I’m quite impatient. I’m all in favour of the playground approach mentioned earlier to be honest. It’s quick and easy, it doesn’t cost much to give Bono a Chinese burn, and the combination of sore wrists and humiliation should make them think twice before squeaking in future.

Who’s with me then? You pin James Blunt down, and I’ll fart on his head.

weekendalcoholic

Feline good

So I’m sitting in my bedroom and my cat walks in and sits down. And starts licking… well let’s say she starts licking… herself. That’s quite a talent, and as gross as it is, I’m sure deep down you’re just a tiny bit jealous… maybe not.

But the point is it got me thinking about pets. Now cats are pretty independent. Where’s my food? There? Good. I’m off out for two days – see you on Thursday. And that’s fine – cats are cats and you know what you get with them. They may choose to come and have a stroke and a cuddle, they may not (and in the case of my own slightly psychotic cat, they may choose to let you stroke them for a minute or two and then savagely attack your hand), but you know what you get with cats.

And they do say that owners come to resemble their pets. I realise that this is usually said about dogs, but let’s analyse that for a second.

First of all, my cat spends a lot of time grooming herself. She will spend hour after hour doing her hair, making sure she’s got ‘the look’ just right… and… well I do too if I’m honest. I’m one of those people who have to have a quick glance at themselves in a mirror. Or a car window. Or a shop window. Or any vaguely reflective surface. And if I put my Loreal Surf-Style in my hair and it doesn’t come out right, I’ll quite happily re-wash my hair and start over. I am a tart, and so is my cat.

Second of all, my cat doesn’t do your standard eight hours sleep kind of a job. She… well she cat naps. Guess that’s where the phrase comes from. And I tend to be awake til pretty late, get up early with my son, then maybe have a little nap in the afternoon. No reason for this, it’s just how I roll.

Thirdly, my cat eats cat biscuits. And I’m rather partial to a chocolate hobnob. I realise this is stretching it a little bit, but godamnit, I like hobnobs. Actually, if I’m being totally honest, I’m probably more inclined to a custard cream, and I have been known to demolish a whole packet of bourbon biscuits (why don’t they have real bourbon in them??) in a single session, but where are with jaffa cakes? Biscuit? Cake? Snack? Answers on a postcard…

And when my cat goes out in the evening, it’s always a bit of a toss up as to whether or not she’ll be home that evening, or saunter in sometime the next morning… and again, this is pretty similar to my own situation. I may decide to come home, I may lie and say I’ve missed the last train (if you’re reading this honey, I really did miss the train – it went a couple of minutes early, just like I said. On numerous occasions).

And we’re both prone to urinating in public places.

So there we go – I’d be a great cat, and that’s comforting. I guess.

weekendalcoholic

Some artwork…

Ok, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to put up some pictures of various artwork, tattoo designs and murals I have done over the past couple of years… One doesn’t like to blow one’s own trumpet, but I thought I should at least let you know that I have a trumpet. Please be nice with with any comments!

Ok, so these first couple are abstract pieces of artwork done on canvas:

The next couple are pencil drawn onto canvas frames:

These next few are various tattoo designs I’ve done for friends and family:

The final set I’ll put up are fairly obvious what they are…! Drawn with pencil on paper, nice and simple:

Well there we go. There are a lot more, but that’s all I’ll bore you with on this occasion – maybe I’ll do another artwork post at a later date…

weekendalcoholic

Ghost-busting

Well, well, it’s been a while since the last blog! Haven’t got much to say in my defence except I’ve been busy…

So I thought I had better get back on the case and post something. But what to write about? Well to be honest with you, I have no idea – I’m just going to write and see what comes out. Little bit of ‘stream of consciousness’ as James Joyce put it. Apologies in advance!

So yes, I have been very busy – rapidly approaching my exams now, so lots of studying, with a five-year-old running around demanding attention, and a twenty-eight-year-old running around in the evenings demanding attention…

To be honest, the only peace and quiet I get is on the bus going to and from work.

I do wonder about the whole university thing to be honest. I’m in a slightly different situation as I’m doing distance learning, but these people who escape to Bristol/Newcastle/wherever come back with the most fantastical stories…

Like a lot of things, I reckon quite a few people lie about their time at uni once they’ve left and have rejoined the real world… I mean, I find it fairly difficult to believe that every single person who went there had a string of amazing girl/boyfriends, wall-to-wall sex and vomiting from binge drinking, hilarious episodes of waking up naked outside their tutor’s office, that time they broke their leg in three places and didn’t even notice because of all the shots they’d drunk, spending three years without once visiting the launderette, and all this whilst attending two lectures the entire time they are there and living off a student loan.

Why does no-one ever say “well it was a bit of disappointment to be honest – I only pulled one bird the entire time, and she turned out to be the southern-area shot putt champion. It really put me off the next morning when the crumbs from her toast kept getting stuck in her beard. Ah, Olga, I really miss you”.

THAT is slightly more believable than all these perfectly normal people who couldn’t pull a pint in a brewery, and fall over after sniffing a glass of wine suddenly becoming a super-human sex-booze robot as soon as they’re out of your sight.

But yes, my ‘university’ experiences have been slightly more… low key. Not much scope for wall-to-wall vomiting, and I’m sure the missus would have something to say if I brought home a string of incredibly beautiful women. She would probably even have a problem with the shot-putter. And I do my laundry. Not the rock and roll lifestyle reported by most students – I use too much public transport to be truly rock and roll.

And I’m twenty eight next month, so I’m getting pretty close to having to be one of those ageing rockers anyway, and let’s face it, that’s not a good look is it?

Unfortunately for us students, these degrees we’ve worked so hard to earn (some harder than others) aren’t some magical guarantee of success that many students seem to believe. Let’s face it, you’ve come back to your home town after three years, you have your third class degree in ‘Ghost-Hunting’ (actually a course offered by Lincoln uni!), or ‘Happiness’ (University of East London) or the rather more beguiling degree in ‘Golf Studies’ (Lincoln again I’m afraid), and you wonder why nobody will employ you…

Come on people, wake up and smell the coffee! What the hell good is a degree in Ghost Hunting going to do you?? Those huge corporate London firms you had dreams of working for aren’t really going to snap up a trained ghostbuster, are they?

A worthwhile degree

And as cool as it would be to be able to sing the ghostbusters theme tune to yourself, knowing that you are perfectly entitled to do so (and have the letters after your name to prove it), it’s not going to get you very far in life is it?

Weekendalcoholic BsC. SsC. BGH Univ. of Linc.