Because Editors such as Dixon always insist on working late (probably becuase its more fun at work then going back to your Mums house where he still lives), the facility employs a night security guard.
Of course this doesn't get me off the hook, I've still got to sit around and wait till all the poncey fuckers decide to turn it in for the night, just in case they need to call their 'bell boy' for anything. More and more each day it begins to feel I'm working in a Hotel, but the great thing is I can go and play cards and listen to the ever amazing stories of Albert.
While you've got all the people in the building fabricating documentary stories (Fatman Slim is one we've got in at the moment - they just put fat people on a fucking crash diet but they keep sneaking off for fry ups, how interesting), if any of them spent five minutes talking to Albert instead of just loving the sound of their own hot air they could produce some of the best television in years.
Albert used to be a spy. He's killed men with his bare hands and survived in the coldest, remotest Russian wildernesses. Ray Mears hasn't got shit on this dude. He regales stories of espionage, winding tales of escaping the Russian secret police and smuggling East German informants across the border at the height of the Stasi. Apparently hes only working in this post house as part of his re-integration back into society, he's a wanted man and needs the cover provided by working as a humble nightwatch man.
Albert, to put it simply is a legend. For all I know everything that comes out of his mouth could be utter bollocks, but the way he tells his stories, make me feel alive again. Then the phone rings. Fucking Dixon wants some sushi.
"Same time tomorrow Albert?"
Of course this doesn't get me off the hook, I've still got to sit around and wait till all the poncey fuckers decide to turn it in for the night, just in case they need to call their 'bell boy' for anything. More and more each day it begins to feel I'm working in a Hotel, but the great thing is I can go and play cards and listen to the ever amazing stories of Albert.
While you've got all the people in the building fabricating documentary stories (Fatman Slim is one we've got in at the moment - they just put fat people on a fucking crash diet but they keep sneaking off for fry ups, how interesting), if any of them spent five minutes talking to Albert instead of just loving the sound of their own hot air they could produce some of the best television in years.
Albert used to be a spy. He's killed men with his bare hands and survived in the coldest, remotest Russian wildernesses. Ray Mears hasn't got shit on this dude. He regales stories of espionage, winding tales of escaping the Russian secret police and smuggling East German informants across the border at the height of the Stasi. Apparently hes only working in this post house as part of his re-integration back into society, he's a wanted man and needs the cover provided by working as a humble nightwatch man.
Albert, to put it simply is a legend. For all I know everything that comes out of his mouth could be utter bollocks, but the way he tells his stories, make me feel alive again. Then the phone rings. Fucking Dixon wants some sushi.
"Same time tomorrow Albert?"
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