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Health issues are very much in my mind right now. As if the dust at work wasn't provoking enough coughing, I seem unable to completely shake off symptoms of a bad cold. The lads I work with now expect me to break out the Lemsip. Hard Hat, my Jamaican colleague, sometimes offers a can of energy drink when I look especially tired. That weary demeanour hasn't escaped the attention of other colleagues either. But, if I don't stay, I get no pay, so to quote from an old Red Jasper song, I'll carry on "Crawling into work". Cough splutter. One chap on another shift might not be working there much longer. Carelessly he left a packet of cigarettes in the toilet. Worse still, a small supply of drugs was secreted within it. There's been quite a flurry of activity over that mistake and no shortage of gossip. I say bring in Sherlock Holmes to work the Case of the Discarded Fag Packet. But of course, we all know it was Colonel Mustard with a lead pipe. Max Power Time to go home, so I tramp tired and weary up the road to the bus stop. Sometimes you see the same old regulars waiting in the cold for bus rides somewhere close to home, sometimes you get occaisional adventurers out for a double decker thrill. As we mere mortals wait, those blessed with vehicles demonstrate their superior social status by blasting past at high revs, sort of like beating their chests but faster. Naturally that stirs discussion among the young lads, and once fast cars become the topic of the night, everyone taks about their own machines, always chipped, tuned, and stage three everything. They boast earnestly about how their car's capabilities allow them to ignore common sense and the laws of physics. Come on guys, I was young once. Who are you trying to kid? On the money we get paid affording hyped up cars really isn't realistic. Sure, I've done my fair share of speedy driving - we human beings have a strange fascination with going faster than anyone else unless it's do to with working for a living - but at least I showed some restraint if conditions weren't suitable. I was, after all, only ever caught speeding once. But those modified and lowered shopping trolleys roaring past the bus stop are probably no faster than the version their granny bought from the dealer, although I will concede, the idea of an eighty year old woman hurtling down the road, aggressively using her horn to persuade those youngsters to stop obstructing the road, and challenging their Women's Institute colleages to traffic light drag races is just bizarre. Max Canyon Thee's been a series of adverts on television for a breakfast cereal in which the fictional survival expert 'Max Canyon', is about to demonstrate a source of protein, if only you had the guts the try it, only to hesistate when his camera crew tuck in to a healthy bowl of something more palatable. Exotic game meat has become available at my local supermarket. At least that saves me the bother of travelling to faraway places to find something different to eat. I must admit to a vicarious interest in consuming animals simply because I haven't consumed them before. Wild boar sausages were quite good, ostrich burgers perhaps a bit bland but they never taste quite as you expect, or at least, until you try crocodile. A pair of crocodile burgers looked suspiciously like gammon and funnily enough didn't taste much different. However, I didn't take to it and I now understand why they're survivors of a lost era. They're just not pleasant to eat. Having seen the first series of The Mighty Boosh, the prosect of consuming kangaroo meatballs are challenging my determination. Breakfast cereal it is then. Philosophy of the Week The site manager at work has been spending time on the shop floor and needless to say has left havoc in his wake. Especially for me, as it happens, because his expert eye has detected that our rubbish exraction system isn't making enough profit. Now I'm told off if I try to obtain some means of dropping off the rubbish I collect, and told off if I leave it lying. Never have I seen a warehouse that generates such amounts of rubbish. Cardboard, shrinkwrap, paper, cans, bottles, packets, shards of wood, it's all out there, until we wave a magic wand and make it all disappear like the site manager wants. Naturally the presence of senior management is intimidating for some. He is, after all, a pretty decisive guy. He doesn't have much time for practicality or any input from me about the realities of warehouse waste management when profit margins are too small. Hard Hat has other ideas. "A man is just a man" He says in terms of true equality. Yes, I agree, but we can't sack people. He can. On the plus side we can only hope that he accidentially left a cigratte packet in the toilet and we can go back to making the warehouse look respectfully tidy.

Happy New 2015! Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin. It’s traditional at this time of year to have a sort of review of the past year, outlining key events and so on. Since I did bugger-all of any worth whatsoever in 2014, I won’t waste your time. Instead, I’ll tell you what I’d like to achieve in 2015. As ever, for those that don’t really know me (which is all of you – this blog is kept strictly a secret from anyone I actually interact with, just in case they laugh at me), some context will be required before I tell you my dreams and goals for this year. When Young OfClayton (That’s me. Pay attention!) hadn’t had the joy and ambition ground away out of him by life, he went to college, full of dreams and aspirations for a bright future (what a gullible and naive git he was). His first year at college was utterly wasted because most of the time he should have spent learning stuff was actually spent playing snooker. Anyway, through what must’ve been divine intervention, he actually passed his exams and his coursework and was accepted for a second year on the course. The course was a sandwich course, and the second year was spent working. This was good for Young OfClayton, because your evenings and weekends are your own, and nobody gives a shit if you waste them on non-productive pursuits. The third year saw Young OfClayton back at college, with a very different attitude to the waste-of-space that barely scraped through his first year. Things would change this year; no more would I waste my time playing snooker. And true to my word, I didn’t. Instead, I wasted my time playing ‘Elite’. I feel I must explain what Elite is, though I’m sure 90% of my audience are familiar with it. It was a video game played on the BBC Micro. It was the original and seminal space trading game, in which you played the pilot of a spaceship. The aim (unsurprisingly) was to fly around and shoot things. It was a really, really playable game that you could easily become totally immersed in. The graphics were ground-breaking, the universe it existed in was believable, the action was thick and fast. It was . . . just . . . totally . . . frickin . . . awesome. And I played it a LOT. As an aside, there is now a new game called ‘Elite: Dangerous’. This is effectively the same game, by the same people, but brought up to date. If the ‘white-lines-plotted-on-black’ of Elite was awesome, can you imagine how awesome it is when displayed using 21st century computer graphics? Mere words just cannot do it justice. It is the Mona Lisa, The Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Beethoven’s Vth, Grand Unified Field Theory. It is a thing of unrivalled joy and beauty to behold. So, what are my hopes and dreams for 2015? Basically, I aspire to spend every hour not spent sleeping or pissing, playing that game. However, I know deep down in my soul that this ambition is never meant to be. Mrs OfClayton won’t let me. I haven’t asked her, but I know she would never allow it; what sane woman would? Instead I shall have to squander my time fulfilling my responsibilities to my wife and household, earning the respect of my community, and being a productive member of society. What a waste!