Sweetpea: The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017. C.J. Skuse

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СКАЧАТЬ up our Instagram page a bit for the readers’. How the hell do you ‘sex up’ tidying? Slut drop on a broomstick? Wide leg squats on a mop? How do you ‘sex up’ Morris dancing on the village green? Or a Women’s Institute talk about buttons? Our Instagram is all flower arrangements, Food Fair snapshots of fat blokes eating pulled pork and one of Eric the handyman lugging boxes. I’m not allowed to put anything vaguely interesting on there, like the dead junkie in the park or the woman who drove her mobility scooter into the river. My God, that was hilarious. First time I’ve ever nearly pissed myself in a public place, including my twenty-first birthday party.

      Ron wasn’t in today. Pretty soon I have to ask for a pay rise or at least some idea of when they’re going to announce funding for the NCTJ Diploma. They appoint one new trainee every year in January and that person does their stint before they’re made up to a senior role. Linus began as a junior, so did Claudia and Mike Heath. Surely after all the stories I’ve done for them they’ll see it’s worth sending me to get properly qualified. There’s nobody else in the running. It has to be me.

      Here’s just a soupçon of the extra – i.e. not in my job description – work I’ve done for them in the past three years…

       1. Feature article on closing the old cinema

       2. Feature article on Rillington Manor, wedding venue extraordinaire

       3. Feature article on the closing of the town swimming pool plus an exclusive interview with the protestor who threw a used condom at the police chief

       4. Test-driving new Audi, plus full report

       5. Countless film reviews – if I have to sit through another Bond, Marvel or Keira Knightley movie I’m going to put a bomb under the photocopier

       6. Interviewing a zillion Golden Wedding couples with unnervingly floccose faces in their piss-stinking lounges, sipping greasy tea from chipped cups and listening to interminable stories about Morris Minors

      I could go on. And it is my diary so I will go on…

       1. Pimping out Tink as the guinea pig for the new grooming parlour on Milford Street, even though she was traumatised and got a rash on her ear

       2. Photos for the power-station feature

       3. Photos for the riot feature

       4. Photos for the Country Life section (toffs at the cricket club)

       5. Food critiques for twelve restaurants under the pseudonym Gaston Enfoiré

       6. Going to the courts every week to listen to dope heads get fined for insurance fraud, Burger King rage or for trying to fuck the pigeons

       7. Learning shorthand

       8. Learning legalese

       9. Not reporting Linus for copious sexist and inappropriate comments, Mike Heath for stinking of cats or Claudia for just generally being a bitch

      And that’s not even the half of it!

      Some doughnuts did the rounds mid-afternoon and I ate one. Fuck you, waistline.

      Passed by Windwhistle Court again on my way home. Still no sign of Our Mutual Fiend. Around the corner was a block of sheltered accommodation called Winchester Place. I parked up and watched people coming out. People going in. I scanned the entire road for some telling ‘peedo’ graffiti or old blokes in green duffle coats. Nothing. I don’t think it’s good for me, going round there. It just makes the hunger to kill grow even more. But not going round there is worse because it means there is nothing at all. Just life. And Craig.

      MasterChef was cancelled tonight for a Panorama Special on the austerity cuts. Our riot was featured briefly – Ron was being interviewed about it with the mayor. I threw peanuts at the screen like I did when he was on The Chase. He got knocked out early anyway, thanks to Olly Murs.

      Neither me nor Craig could be bothered to cook so we went out for a Nando’s. Sue me, Cellulite.

Thursday, 1 February

       1. Linus Sixgill

       2. Linus Sixgill’s family

       3. Linus Sixgill’s friends

       4. Linus Sixgill’s neighbours

       5. Linus Sixgill’s dentist

       6. Linus Sixgill’s neighbours’ dentists

       7. Linus Sixgill’s neighbours’ dentist’s receptionists

      This morning I saw the colour run-outs of tomorrow’s front page – and guess what? MY PHOTO IS ON THE FRONT PAGE!

      Excited? Moi?

      No, of course not, and you know why? Because that TWAT, that bovaristic PRICKSTICK of GARGANTUAN proportions Linus ‘The Vaginus’ Sixgill has spunked his filthy name all over it. He’s claiming ALL credit. He wrote the article, he took the photo, so it’s fuck you Rhiannon, goodnight. I’m amazed he didn’t claim to be one of the people in it. Jeff didn’t even speak up for me. He just said, ‘Well, I saw it coming.’

      Yeah thanks, Jeff. If I had more middle fingers they’d all belong to you.

      So he’s next. Lying-Ass Sixgill is next on the list, trumping all others. Just break the safety glass and pass me the fucking axe.

      I don’t want to talk any more about today. I just want to overeat and shit myself and die. Or shit myself after I die. Apparently that happens. And when you give birth too. Ugh. What a world.

Friday, 2 February

      So I asked for my new contract, it being the three-year anniversary of my joining the company – and the two-year anniversary of my last pay rise. And do you know what? Do you want to have a wild guess what Ron and Claudia said?

      They. Said. No.

      I did get my contract – I’m editorial assistant for another year, guaranteed – and apparently I’m ‘a reliable, helpful and cherished member of the company’ – just not cherished enough for a £1 pay rise. They’ve had to ‘tighten their belts lately’.

      ‘There’s just no extra money in the pot right now I’m afraid,’ Ron said. And I, like the underpaid dumbass I am, took it on the chin like a ball sac.

      So despite the £500 potted palm tree they’ve just bought for Reception and the £5,000 coffee machine and the massive clip-frame Van Gogh on the first-floor landing, despite the new carpets and blinds, new filing cabinets, Ron’s and Claudia’s new computers, the five-star bonding weekend in Lytham St Anne’s and megabucks Christmas party at the golf club – champagne included – there’s no more money. In. The. Pot.

      I imagined Ron and Claudia СКАЧАТЬ