I've often wondered how some people get away with filling in their official papers with some mickey mouse occupation.
There are plenty of said jobs around, ranging from the mildly pointless;
Car Park Attendent
Road Safety advisor
Integration manager
social solutions co-ordinator
Right up to the insanely daft;
Harpic expert
Lindt Master Chocolatier
Being the bloke who writes the jokes on the back of penguin bars.
Speaking of which, I have one of said jokes to hand now, brace yourselves;
Q. Why can't penguins fly?
A. Because they don't have any money for plane tickets.
Genius. I bet you'd all love to go for a drink with that guy, he'd have you in stitches. I'm sure his kids are proud of him and his wife in no way, sleeps with other men, such as the slightly funnier Christmas cracker bloke.
People say you can tell alot about a man by his watch, or his friends, but really what we read into most of all is occupation. I once heard somewhere that if someone were to tell you they were a painter, you'd be impressed and rightly so, but add to that the skill of decorating, and somehow the magic is lost.
Women would rather date Dave from accounts, than Jeff, the fat bloke from the kebab shop. Dave inturn would be usurped by Gavin, an archtiect, who would lose out to Ken, the aerodynamicist. Its a fact of life I guess.
So with all that in mind, I'm off for a facial scrub, because top of the social heap again are metrosexual-types. Before you know it, this blog will be defunct and I'll be surrounded by poncy, arty new mates in an organic juice bar after a [not-so] hard day designing a rich arab's palace.
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