Acting, it's a piece of piss.

Admittedly, I need to stop giving the whole subject of the article away in the title. Or, as my wife would put it, to stop coming so early.

How difficult can acting really be? I spend evenings in the pub, as I just have, and when I look at some of the people there I realise that they are playing a role - they're trying to be funny, they're trying to be ingratiating, they're trying to be more attractive to the opposite sex - whichever way you look at it, they're certainly not being themselves.

They do this for free, in the vain hope of acceptance, or, in rarefied circumstances, getting laid. The most important thing is that they're usually not very good. The key is to find a role in which you can develop, one which you can meld yourself with. I have been given this opportunity.

I will be attending a murder mystery party this New Years, in which all the participants must assume a role. My role is that of "a wine critic and a wine snob. Sneering, patronising and often downright rude, you don't care whether people like you or not. Which is just as well, because most people don't". Shouldn't be too much of a stretch.

Acting - it's a piece of piss.

Viva la resolution!

I admit it's a little early, but having spoken to someone today about some old posts on the blog, I took the time to read up on some of them. You know what I realised? I actually used to be funny.

So, and I think you know where this is probably going, dear readers (an aside - if there are still any readers here from the old days, for fucks sake stop checking this site), I have decided to give the Ribshack a final roll of the dice. It won't be as good as the old times, but at least thanks to the advent of Facebook - a modern phonomenon that didn't really exist before, at least more people will read it. Which means what? More people will call me a cock, I suppose. No bad thing, I always wanted a world record.

Let's kick off with an easy one for now. This sign:



















I saw this on a number of occasions while driving to France the other day. Mostly I saw it whilst driving on a motorway, which, as some say, is an activity that requires a fair level of concentration. Fortunately the Highways Agency don't agree, which meant that periodically I had to squint through the fog whilst in the fast lane to read a flashing sign.

"What the fuck does that say? I can't see shit for the fog. It's flashing, but the fog is reflecting the orange lights. Ohh it would be so much easier to read if the car in front didn't have their fog lights on. Ohhhh, it says 'fog'. Well, thanks for the heads up you bunch of fucking ret-BANG!!"

Always keep your eyes on the prize.

Czech in

I ended up interviewing a few people yesterday, and the (un)suprising result of it was that the Eastern European girl got the job.

I was very impressed with her enthusiasm, and her commitment to "go out of her way to ensure a sale". When it comes to interviews, she's got the buzz-phrases down pat. The fact that one of my other interviewees looked mildly like a horse had nothing to do with it.

Speaking of horses, does anyone want to buy a zebra? I realise this sounds like an odd request, but this is something we have been discussing recently. You can pick up a zebra - a couple of years old with pretty low mileage and a full service history for about $8000.

I truly believe there could be a niche in the market here - if you're down at Bournemouth beach and there are a load of old guys there with donkeys, what would you rather your kids had the experience of? The same goes for pony-trekking. In fairness, I've also been investigating hybrids - no, not ones that run on fuel or gas, but cross breeds. If all else fails - who fancies a zonkey?

I don't work with morons

"It's simple", I said in a knowing, desk thumping way.

"You're here to sell houses. If you're not going to do that, then you can go and work somewhere where you don't have to"

By the book, rocket up the ass motivation.

So when I arrived at the office this morning, mercifully without a hangover, and noted that the perpetually late subject of my previous post was sitting at his desk, wearing his tie, I had a pretty good idea how my morning was going to shape up.

You guessed it, there is the first victim of Ribby's reign of terror. Admittedly, he was a little disapointed that I would be holding him to his notice period. More so when he realised that this meant he still has to work this weekend while his boss is getting hammered in France.

It appears he was a little upset about a number of things - working weekends, having a lack of a full in-the-pub lunch hour, and being required to sell something. Not, as I thought, unreasonable demands upon a salesman. Perhaps I'm wrong.

A little later on, perhaps by conicidence, perhaps by design, a thoroughly gorgeous creature darkened my doors. Young, slim and Eastern European, she stated that she was very interested in a career in estate agency. When questioned a little further, it transpired that while she was in retail at present and had been looking to "make her career go up" into a management position, she would be prepared to go down for the right job.

She's got an interview tomorrow.

2nd time lucky

I can do this. I really can.

I keep promising to bring the Rib Shack back on line, and every time I fail. Maybe this time I'll prove myself, and all you buggers wrong.

"What's changed?", I hear you cry. "What the fuck is this?", I hear frustrated teenagers cry as they land upon this site in the endless search of a blog written by a girl, whilst not wearing any clothes. That could apply to the girl or the onanists of course.

Anyway, I've moved along the career path a little since we last spoke. At the start of March I changed from senior negotiator at the little local agency, to branch manager of one of the big boys on the block. It's a different job, that's for certain - instead of whoring out substandard housing, I'm whoring myself to obtain the instructions on substandard housing so my chattering sales-monkeys can earn themselves a measly percentage. In fairness, with one of them it's all he deserves. That can be left to another day - the return of the "I work with morons" series of posts.

Only about 5 weeks left to the wedding - hope some of you are nice and fit for the England v France football match.

We can rebuild you...

So, where do I start?

My 18-month blog hiatus has come to an end. Mind you, in fairness, not a great deal has happened in the meantime. I'll lay it out for you in a couple of concise, easy to digest pieces.

• I'm a father. No, I'm not your father, this isn't Star Wars. Little Dylan was born on the 2nd July 2006 at 5.48am. Thanks for a) being so bloody early, and b) making me miss the World Cup quarter final the afternoon before. Here's news for you kiddo - I've got photos of you with no clothes on, and I will exact my revenge. Probably sometime during your teens.
• I've moved countries. Having got a little teed off with with the inability of the French to handle simple traffic rules, I felt it was best for me to relocate to somewhere that had as many roundabouts as possible that hadn't quite reached critical mass. This ruled out Bracknell, and Swindon was full - so I have relocated to Milton Keynes.
• I'm no longer a lorry driver. I realised that if I were to be a lorry driver in Milton Keynes I would very quickly get dizzy and die, so I changed jobs again. Not satisifed with being an accepted member of society (having been an Englishman in France), I decided to return to my roots and sell substandard housing to the poor and hopelessly optimistic. aka estate agency.

Hardly worth a post really, but I thought it was time that The Rib Shack got back off the ground, broke new ground, and, perhaps, fell on the ground. I'll try and keep you posted of the trials and tribulations of a new father, an estate agent and a resident of what I heard described as "the best new city in the world" as and when things happen.

'Night pop pickers, and welcome back.

The man with the child in his eyes

This time, I'm not talking about Michael Jackson.

I know, I know, you can't keep up. I'm writing this blog faster than you can read it - it's like when I first started, but don't worry, I'll slow down again soon.

As promised yesterday, today we will be examining the definitions of paedophilia. There may be an online-type vigilante rant, but hopefully not to the extent as happened in Southampton a few years ago. Some of you may remember that a female child-doctor had all the windows broken in her house because the mob believed that she was a 'paediatrician'.

So what's been happening is that recently we had a new guy start work. Not an altogether strange occurence, as this seems to happen all the time. Unfortunately, what did happen is that the new guy (who for legal reasons we will not call Martin) decided to inform his new colleagues that he was 'in a little bit of legal trouble'.

Personally I didn't really take any notice as this is always happening, until it came to light (and there's only one possible source of this - him) that he was being charged with the rape of a 13 year old girl.

Sick. Fucking. Bastard.

Of course, he is innocent until proven guilty, but he has discussed it with a number of members of staff - with an apparent lack of shame - with a wide range of varying reasons. Oddly, none of these have flown particularly well, and most of the people in the company want to kick the poo out of him, before waving goodbye in the courtroom so he can find out over the next couple of years exactly what she felt like.

This, whilst interesting and disgusting, surprisingly started an argument between my beloved and I. Nothing serious I hasten to add, but it made me think about various peoples takes on kiddy-molesting.

When I discussed it with Emilie, I felt sure that she would have the same feeling as me about it. I feel that yes, he is innocent until proven guilty, but I can't help looking at the guy and thinking 'You filthy little bastard' every time. You see, his story is that he had had a few drinks at a party and this girl got into bed with him. He thought it was his girlfriend, so he proceeded to - well I don't want to say that, you get the idea. Just where exactly was his girlfriend while this was going on?

Anyway, Emilie pointed out to me that there are a lot of young girls out there who like this sort of thing and won't take no for an answer. Personally, I never met any of these girls when I was younger, unfortunately (or possibly fortunately). The thing is I can't envision a 13 year old girl who would be stronger than a 30 year old man (yup) so that he couldn't stop her. And just how the hell do you mistake someone for your girlfriend? Sounds all too suspicious to me.

However, Emilie also mentioned to me about someone she works with (a woman) who has a 14 year old daughter. Apparently this girl is seeing a 29 year old guy, and the parents happily allow them to have sex in their house! I mean what the hell is that about???? There is a law for a reason - to protect minors - and suddenly parents are allowing it to happen? I have met this girl - and she was pretty shy and reserved and it just stinks far to much for me to consider.

When we have a little girl, she's not allowed out the house until she's 18. No, 21. I know how guys think. I'll let you know what happens at work as soon as I find out.