Proper jobs

Trades come and go. During the industrial revolution one of the best trades to be in was being a child. A qualified child could pretty much turn their hand to anything, from working long hours in brutal conditions in a mill, to working long hours in brutal conditions down a mine, right up to understudy for Santa. These days, traditional work for children in England is pretty much restricted to thieving and being injured for the amusement of others on ‘you’ve been maimed’, although it would appear that exciting new prospects are opening up in the fields of lurking, being sullen in public and moaning. Traditional employment for children in textiles, mining and so on are still available in the developing world apparently but, frankly, that’s a hell of a commute.

Have I got a proper job? You’d have to ask somebody else.

But I do occasionally wonder if I might be better off doing something proper. Not important, Christ, I hope I’m self aware enough to realise that I can’t be trusted with the responsibility of anything that actually matters. Not even glamorous, I look terrible in sequins.

But I do think I’d make quite a good explorer.

All of the signs are there but principally my love of maps coupled with my inability to ask for directions and the absolute conviction that if you just keep going long enough you are bound to arrive at your destination or more probably something even more interesting. This, as far as I can understand it, is how most of the great discoveries of foreign parts were made, either sailors were looking for a quick route from A to B or merchants were trying to deliver silks and spices without so much wear and tear on the camels.

Most compelling of all though is my utter inability to travel light. Something tells me that a train of bearers would finally see an end to my ‘oh did I remember to pack?’ episodes part way through a journey. Yes, yes you did remember to pack it, because all that is left at home is a vague outline of a house in your garden. In fact your patio and shed are being erected for the night over there.

I’ve got a swiss army knife and a compass. Quite a good start I think. My long term aim is, of course, to have a country named after me but I have a sneaking suspicion that they have all been discovered. So either I have to be the first on the spot when the ice cap melts and there’s some rock, some dinosaurs and so on underneath, or I’ll just have to settle for a plateau.

While what I do might not be exciting, might in fact lead me to fantasise about being an explorer (always polar, never jungle), at least it’s better than being a clown. This, I’m pretty sure, has to be the lowest form of employment, because people who do it are generally doing it because they find it gratifying and, and this is the scary bit, they think others will too.

I mean, even a crack addict whore listlessly gobbling the cock of an overweight businessman in a car park is probably not thinking ‘this is a great performance’. I’d imagine he’s thinking ‘I hope this guy doesn’t realise I’m a man’ and possibly ‘Wow, I’d really like some crack’. Plenty has been written about clowns being more sinister than funny. I’d go further than that, I’d say they are so tragically unfunny that they kill any emotion in anyone watching, even fear. My proof? Why are there no clowns on youtube? If clowns were so frickin’ hilarious then why is the number one youtube video, week after week after week, not clown related? Having said that, clown in an industrial accident, fuck yea, five stars. But a clown doing his act on youtube, Jesus, how creepy would that be? Booked a clown for your kid’s party? No? then just watch this clip, with luck, it’s the one where the clown falls into a threshing machine. That’s why Mr Giggles can’t be here today kids.

That, and he’s a peado.