8.00 am Tuesday morning....

I'm sat in E-17 doing a playout before Dixon arrives. Then all of a sudden;
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!
My ears pulsate and I spring from my seat, the shrill piercing pain of the klaxon ringing in my brain.

"Oi oi! Alman!! Back from the Bestival, haven't slept since Thursday it was well brutal!"

Christ not again. Toby has been going on all summer about how fucked he’s got at the latest music festival he has attended. What a bellend. He’s been to so many this summer, he has a collection of wristbands where his lower right arm used to be. Of course he doesn't take them off - he wants the world to be able to identify how so on the fucking cusp of everything he is wherever he goes.

“Me and Koika ended up doing loads of K backstage with the Boosh and that bloke from the Iceland adverts. That Fielding's well nutbag! Oh check this yeah, Koika knows a girl who works at the hair salon that Rob Da Bank goes to and arranged for us to meet up with him - we gave him a six twats and a drum machine track, and he got us to do an secret gig in the hidden disco - I reckon we’ll be giving it well main stage next year!"

Toby really is the worst kind of person - he barely tries in life and everything just falls in his lap.

"What the fuck you think of that! I'm having my own festival next year as well on my parents estate while their in Tuscany. Our drummers mates with Alfie Allen so we can have all that crowd down, and you know just hire in some yurts and a fuck off big sound system, all my peeps down for the weekend with lots of drugs, real mad decent like.”

This guy is amazing - I'm surprised he gets away with wearing such tight jeans with that silver spoon protruding from his anus.

"I'm so fucking mashed still Alman!! Couldn't even take all my drugs - I've got some acid left over that I bought off this morris dancer; they've got Wall:E on them, you want some? Apparently they're well strong!"

I politely decline.

"Ha ha ha, stupid question really your too fucking box aren't you Alman!!!"

Too square?

"Go on then you twisted my arm, can I have them on tick?"

"Course Al, you can have them mate - probably can't afford them on your wages anyway!! Get on them Wall.e’s"

He gives me the trips and continues to hoot off about his new video.

“Gonna get well viral with this, our new tracks gonna blow the shit out of you”



With Toby’s latest monstrosity burnt on to my retinas I make a run for it before Dixon arrives.

An Apology

I recently posted a story about BBC producer Tarquin Proud. I would like to apologise to anyone who actually thought he drowned while taking a wild swim and checking his Blackberry. Tarquin is alive and well, and has even decided to stop any false web rumours by starting his own blog. Hopefully he wont get his thousand pound-a-minute media lawyer to take every penny of my fully stretched overdraft away from me if I issue this apology. As a lowly paid runner, I might have to work off the legal costs by making him organic earl greys for the rest of my life. So I hereby issue this heartfelt apology to Tarquin’s family, friends and the production team of Chasing Dreams for any inconvenience or offense caused.

E-17

"Oi Oi! Almans in the house! Get us some fucking coffee will you! You know how we like it - me and Tobes are well strung out! And clean this shit up will you, we've had no runner for six hours over the night, the service here is fucking terrible!! I'm going to complain to Fiona, suggest you work the same hours as us Alman! Put-put-put-put-put...."

Dixon is making my life a fucking hell. Every morning I come in and get the same shit. I thought I was beyond this.

".....put your hands up!"

I dream of flipping the script. Making his life hell, but I can't lose another job can I? Maybe if I work hard I can get moved on to another part of the building, like the machine room or something. Theres this well fit girl down there; she can teach me how to stripe tapes and I can make her tea. It'll be well good. But instead I'm stuck working 17 hour shifts to facilitate Dixons edit binge, scoring chaz and sushi, washed down with the latest beer fad, while Dixon prats about on the internet and dictates to his trusty sidekick how to edit the London way.

"Its a fucking baptism of fire this Tobes, no other fuckers going to give you this opportunity - you stick with me you and you'll go far, maybe even get your own song innit! Don't be like that loser Alman! The running man! He's well Schwarzenegger! Put 'em up! Oh alright Alan, didn't see you there - HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Hows Stella Girl!!!! Probably still recovering from my rough assembly!!! Put-put-put-put....."

I can't take this. One week into the edit of a whole series and the fucker hasn't stopped talking since the first second I laid eyes on his camouflage.

".....your hands up! Only pulling your leg Alan!! Get us a fucking Latte though!! What do you want Tobes? "

Not only do I have to play on this cunts every whim, but the stella girl thing and his comments about Rudyard just add insult to injury. Dixon is my mortal enemy. I will get my revenge. But the question is, how? I can't do anything, I can't. I can barely afford to eat let alone be on the dole. I can't give in not yet. But I can take Dixon out of the equation. Slowly.

"Oi Alman can you get a grande double shot iced mocha-chino, with soya milk for Tobes? Don't bring it back cold though!! Ha ha ha ha!"

"No problem guys!"

Just watch me.

Ape Shall Kill Ape

Regular readers of the blog will have no doubt encountered my updates on the trials and tribulations of life as a runner in the heart of Soho. These updates have been thin on the ground lately, mainly because I've been in the 'honeymoon period' that comes with a fresh start: new job, new girlfriend etc. life’s been well not too bad really. I’ve just got my head down and worked and ignored the bullshit that goes with it, just smiled and kept the coffee coming, but today that all changed.

The head runner Fiona (more on her in the future), calls me on the runner team mobile (yeah man, this place is so big I need a team mobile, which means I can't even take a shit in peace) and says;

“Alan we've got a new editor coming in today. Apparently he’s the next big thing; all the productions are clamoring to work with him and he’s booked up further in advance than the Ivy! Make sure you look after him properly, we want to impress him in case he can swing productions to bring work our way. Oh, and he’s bringing his assistant along as well if he’s learning from the best he obviously must be good - we must make them feel at home here, give them the VIP treatment. Ive been really impressed with your hard work lately so I think you’re the man for the job.They'll be in Edit 17."

So I go up to E-17 and get the suite ready. Its about 9am, I go downstairs to take the mornings deliveries and prepare the breakfast platter for the new edit (when they really want to impress someone they always get the danish pastries out). Thats when I heard the sound, like an air raid siren bleating through the night.

"Put your hands up!"

Where have I heard that before? I broke into a cold sweat, the nightmarish memories hitting me like a bad acid flashback.

"Put your hands up for Dixon! He loves this facility!!"

Shit. Shit. Shit. Cuntface fucking Dixon.

I hadn't seen Dixon since that fateful day at the last place. I hoped our paths would never again cross, especially after what he had said about Rudyard. But this was only the tip of the iceberg. I walked into reception and there he was, strutting around like a peacock with camouflage feathers.

"Oi oi!! Its only the Alman! Hows it fucking sequencing! So you my runner then! At least someone knows how I like my coffee!"

I was lost for words; a smile spread across my face faker than a Miliband endorsement.

"Well well well Alman your gonna be looking after me and my assistant then. I think you’ve met before!"

And then from behind Dixon appears Toby. "Alman your a runner here, that's well nang"

Trust fucking fund Toby, sporting the latest neon coloured wayfarers, designer goatee and the couture camouflage bathing ape t-shirt. They look like twins. I feel sick.

"Alright Alman! Sort us out some chaz will you, we're going on a edit binge!"

And so it begins.

Let battle commence.....

BBC Producer Dies While Conducting 'Wild Swim'

I don’t think this story has reached the national papers and just thought I would like to pass on my condolences to anyone who knew Tarquin Proud, series producer of among others 'Chasing Rainbows' and 'Lunchtime Doctor'.

BBC Producer drowns while conducting ‘Wild Swim’.

A BBC producer was dragged to his death in a Devon river while indulging in the latest town and country pursuit of the creative middle classes. Tarquin Proud, 41, was dragged under by strong currents while swimming and attempting to check his Blackberry mobile device in an undisclosed North Devon river. As a keen observer of trends, he was said by colleagues to have been desperate to undertake in this increasingly popular pastime.

A 'Wild Swim' involves taking a innocuous dip in a secluded country river, and has lately gained popularity with the release of a book of the same title, by author Daniel Smart. Articles in 'The Guardian' and 'The Telegraph', have caused a distinct increase in the activity in recent months, with participants distinctly unaware of the dangers of strong river currents and aggressive river fish such as pike. Swimmers are also susceptible to Leptospirosis (commonly known as weil's disease), which can be contracted in river water from rats urine, and results in death in 10% of cases.

Mr. Proud's wife, speaking to the paper from their £625,000 Stoke Newington town house, moved swiftly to warn fellow swimmers of the dangers of wild swimming and urged city dwellers to holiday in safe coast guarded Cornish beach areas such as St.Ives.

Source: North Devon Bugle

Cocogrim

Regular readers of the blog will remember the posts back in the day, called 'Nu Cunts On The Block' and 'Grimshaw'. I predicted the latter would explode on to your screens like a dirty kay bomb; I wasn't wrong as the cunt was all over the Glastonbury coverage and has got his own show on Radio 1 - fortunately my ears have yet to be poisoned by this as I'm more of a BBC6 man, but I'm sure its as shit as the curly fringed fuckwit.

What I didn't expect to see was the other two all over the telly 'mang'. Thats right, the cococunt twits are starting to get people to believe their own hype and have gained employment from our wonderful television stations. They so have their finger on the pulse of Britain's youth don't they! The moomim-a-like has taken up Sarpongs mantle on T4, and the purveyor of 1990s Spike Lee stylisms has secured herself a prime self-promoting slot on BBC Three's new show 'Class of 2008'.

Apparently this show is introducing Londons latest bright young things to the world - as if they hadn't caused us enough pain with Kate fucking Nash - and it won't be long before the most nausiating one has their own late night chat show with James Corden on the sofa.

What I really want to know is, wheres the rest of the country?? Give some of the bright young things outside of the M25 a leg up for once Auntie.

P.S Notice how I failed to mention Lily Allen once there? Heres why.

1 More Thing I hate About Glastonbury.........

How everyone wears their security wristband for months afterward, just so everyone knows 'They were there'.

Its not cool, you just look filthy.

Cunts.