Nixta Sinks

...And into the banal.

You wouldn't believe it, but I've been refraining from writing on account of a serious lack of time. Many would consider that a pathetic excuse. I would be one of them. Nonetheless, it remains the truth and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise into an early and particularly messy grave.

I'd say it's been about 8 years since I've been this busy. 8 and a half. Back in August 1996 I probably had my last spate of working hard, in Denver, in a crappy single-storey red-brick corporate haven belonging to Ross Perot's evil EDS empire. They insisted then that I wear a suit, even though hour by hour I was making less than a McDonald's chipshifter. Did you know that at EDS the rule is that you must wear your suit jacket if ever you leave your cubicle? Obviously there was little chance of enforcing that with the likes of myself, Bill Peden (cue Goldfinger music) and Phil Penn in our midst. Add to that a phsychotic named James Battle who once chased another psychotic named Sean Flannery around the office for reasons photocopied (and Sean only survived by locking himself in a very robust toilet for 20 minutes, his life really was a stake there), an Adelaide native named Tolly (Australian for turd) Nairn and a diminutive muscle-clad Popeye-lookalike blonde (again psychotic, and certifiably so) by the name of Lansell who bragged about having some old hag waiting for him on his bike-route home for a daily root before he had a good go at his wife, and you'll soon understand why EDS locked the door to the rest of the building and only allowed us access to conference rooms whilst closely escorted by their own mid-west drones. By the way I compromised with a rotation between my three velvet suits (red, blue, and pin-striped black).

At that time I often worked 30 hour shifts. From time to time I'd throw in a 36 hourer, a brief 4 hour sleep and another 8 hours. Not quite like studying medecine, but the unrewarding nature of the work more than made up for that. Sustenance consisted of Denny's and pizza. Entertainment of Denny's and pizza. Sleep of fitful twists and turns to the accompaniment of a litany of memallocs and pointer dereferences, followed by dreams of Denny's and pizza.

This time however, I have resigned myself to having no life. In addition I get paid by the hour, and at a rather pleasant rate. I'm also too old to pull the all-nighter and will readily use my age as an excuse. Nonetheless I'm looking forward to my first day out of the office in the last 14 tomorrow and hope to do something more constructive than just getting up in time for the cup final. Who am I kidding? Pah! I'm a slob. A lazy slob at that and one too easily inclined to deluding myself that tomorrow is just another day and I can go to the gym then. It is most likely that I won't leave the house until dinner and in the meantime will have worked on my encroaching gut as no other. Many have in the past likened me in appearance to Peter Cook, which comparison I accept with humility and hubris, but these days I look like Mr. Cook in his ailing years as his paunch made the most of the latest humorous t-shirt and provided a little more side against which to keep wedged his stack of newspapers as he smoked his way down the street to his local.

Anyway, to take a short story, prolong it tediously, and then cut it short as if by way of a favour to you, pathetic reader, the point is that I've been more busy than I care to think about and I've not made the time to write in this pit of bile (or bilious pit if you're into your efficiency of words bullshit). It's taken me a good 10 minutes to pour out this crap and I should have been in bed 3 hours ago, but so dearly do I hold you all to my heart (except of course you fuckers that piss me off and berate my ramblings) that I feel I must explain, in my long-winded and dull-as-dogshit way why I haven't written anything.

Quite unrelated to that, in recent years I have had the odd idea come to me, at moments most inconvenient, that will change and help me take over the world. I doubt many others see them that way themselves, and everyone's entitled to their opinion. Most people however are thick so I don't listen to them and, to quote a close and dear mental Scot, I "batter on regardless". This latest idea however is a pretty good one and I'll not tell you what it is, but I'll say that it's dragged me back to contemplating what I would call a company if I were to start one. An Empire, I like to think of it. Topical moment here: Alan Michael Sugar (or Martin or Mark or whatever the fuck his middle name is) was fortunate enough to be able to use Amstrad - a pretty good name when it comes to staying power. Nixta won't cut it. Nixta Inc? Nixtinc? Cathcart Research? Furness Enterprises? BOOOORING. I mean, Nixta means Wanker to most English speakers, let alone the Wops. I'm not interested in something crap like Linkspoint (what a name! why did I ever work for them?). Furthermore I don't mean to be tied down to a single technology or even merely to technology. I want to market pre-drowned puppies and Panda Porn (though a couple of zoos have now adopted that with success greater even than I had ever imagined possible - for fuck's sake I had worked it into a stupid little skit - it was never meant to work). I need to introduce the world to e-sults and twoletters.com. Silent car alarms, the self-cleaning arse and more.

I'm still thinking what my company should be called. I still like Spazzowizz, but that's only going to be the telemarketing sales side of things for flogging spit in a bottle along with a tub of "elbow" grease for cleaning your tabletop "like Grandma used to clean your face" (who wouldn't buy a product with one's grandma endorsing it?). No. My empire must have a much better name. Virgin's been taken. Cripple won't work. Hitler ruined Hebatron Inc. for everyone, and in this ever shrinking world pretty much any word means wanker or cunt in some language or another. Suggestions are most welcome, but keep them clean and provide proof that they're not an expletive in at least 3 different countries... Oh, and go to bed. Pissing hell, it's just got light outside. I'm going out to Regent's Park for a moment to shout incoherently at the rising sun.