fish, chips and disaronno

Such was the implausible swiftness of my conversion to Get Selling that I completely failed to deal with the events of last weekend, which was Mat's birthday weekend. We went to the Sea Life Centre in Southend. Our presence was largely a matter of indifference to the fish, who opened and closed their mouths without giving anything away, although a 'shark talk' was advertised. Only the rays seemed really happy to see us, rising to the surface of their tanks to flap a greeting. Or a warning to get the hell away from them. It really is hard to tell with these things.

Afterwards we insensitively went to eat fish and chips in Funland. It made you wonder if we'd learned anything at all.

It was, of course, raining. The next day it wasn't. At Mat and Amanda's barbecue Rhys was talking about a place in South Wales he's been to called Bargoid (it's Bargoed really, but I prefer the more Doctor Who spelling), where the only nightclub is called Blisters. You can tell it's the only nightclub: competition would have encouraged them to change the name, possibly to something not associated with pain. Inside, says Rhys, everything was sticky. 'Is this going on the blog?', he asked, noting my amusement.

'Only if I'm desperate', I said.

Ross was at the barbecue, occasionally shouting 'Horse', and drinking from a giant bottle of aftershave - Disaronno, in fact. Disaronno - which sounds like it might be Italian for 'disoriented', or 'dishevelled' - is a form of Amaretto, and very nice too. The ad for it features - and I hate to bang on about Get Selling (no I don't: I love it, I love it!) - anyway, yeah, the ad features the best example of 'affirming the buying decision' I have seen.

An hunky barman coolly dishes out glasses of Disaronno (they don't appear to serve anything else at this bar, which is definitely not, I think, in Bargoid). It comes in various forms ('Disaronno sour... Disaronno Martini'), but then a glamorous woman orders Disaronno on the rocks. 'Disaronno on the rocks', the barman repeats, his look and tone clearly saying: here is one classy lady. She does not dilute the purity of this mass-produced and heavily-advertised drink with vulgar mixers. His look and tone goes on to add: I am going to shag her - but we'll overlook this because, sexual overtones notwithstanding, this is some kind of masterclass, and I'm definitely going to try it. 'Hard Bastards 2', I will say, arching my eyebrow at the book some surly guy has handed me, and fixing them with a gaze that suggests that at last I have found my intellectual equal. A process which will serve equally well for Maeve Binchy, a manual on budgerigar care, and The Day My Bum Went Psycho.

why I love Get Selling

Regular readers may have got the impression that I have some 'problem' with Get Selling. However, as it turns out, all those entries were a dream. Yes, I've seen the light. It may sound completely fake and ridiculous, but I now love Get Selling! For no apparent reason!

Well, I say 'for no apparent reason' but there are plenty of reasons. Why would I not relish an opportunity to 'share my passion' with customers on the shop floor? I didn't even know I had passion until Get Selling told me so. Of course I knew I liked books, but I thought this was just a kind of anal obsessiveness. Apparently, though, it's passion, and customers just can't wait for it to rub itself up against them on the shop floor!

I should have known, bookshops being notorious hotbeds of passion, ranking just below brothels and salsa classes in the public imagination.

The best thing about this 'passion', though, is that it's completely indiscriminate. I get to be passionate about just about everything they sell, even if I think it's crap! Which makes me a professional enthusiast, something like a TV presenter really, only without all that tiresome baggage of wealth and fame.

Get Selling is great because it encourages us to do the impossible. 'Affirming the buying decision', for example. Whatever anyone brings to the counter, we're supposed to rave about how wonderful it is, in a completely natural and unforced way, without sounding like a gabbling freak. This brings us many an exciting challenge, I can tell you. Suppose, for example, someone brings The Girls Of St. Spanky's (not a children's book) up to us. What do we say? 'My Mum wrote that'? Or how about: 'Why, I was just wanking over that one myself at lunchtime. Please excuse the stains.'

This easily fulfils the other important directive of Get Selling: 'Be remembered.'

As a final task, we also get to 'double the appreciation we show to customers and colleagues'. 'Thank you, thank you', I find myself saying. It's like I'm responding to applause. A real buzz! 'What is the impact on customers and colleagues?' Well, sadly the customers do tend to think I'm being weird and/or sarcastic, and as for the colleagues, they definitely think I'm being sarcastic.

I can't imagine why.

no escape

I didn't get that job. In case you were wondering. Those techniques borrowed from American Idol auditions ('I need this!') let me down, as did my snappy response to the query about how I would ingratiate myself with my new work colleagues ('Slag off the boss.')

Still, I was left in suspense for quite some time. Whenever I rang them, the people I needed to talk to were busy, or on leave. I'd begun to wonder if it wasn't some kind of bizarre initiative test. Was I meant to command the receptionist to let me speak to someone? Was I meant to burst in there with a shotgun and take them all hostage in order to demonstrate how 'proactive' I am?

As it turns out, no. The letter arrived eventually to tell me that I had been rejected, although I was assured that all the candidates were of a very high standard. All except me, did they mean? Surely not. At least they didn't say, as they might very well have, that all the candidates were of a very low standard, 'and you, therefore, particularly shit.' That would have been a pisser.

So, for the moment I remain out the back, listening to Phoenix FM. And working, of course. I wouldn't want anyone who might happen to be reading this to imagine that I wasn't working. Perish the thought! Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Phoenix FM. Some of their ads are as familiar as old friends. Really irritating ones. 'When was the last time you heard a man say: Come on everybody, let's go shopping?' About ten minutes ago, when you last played this ad. Apparently, though, the Eastgate Centre in Basildon is so amazing that even men love it. Especially the food court: 'There's always something happening there!' Shootings, stabbings...

Then there's the invitation to 'shop 'til you drop' in Brentwood's own Baytree Centre. The only people liable to do that must already be in the final stages of exhaustion before the shopping starts. And the hair salon that 'specialises in fun'. I think I'd prefer a hair salon that specialised in hair. I mean, what do they do, squirt styling mousse at you as you walk in the door?

I refuse to be silenced

Inspired by a missive sent by the Conservative candidate, Mark Reed, and addressed to me, I decided to vote. The letter, purporting to be handwritten, began by thanking me for agreeing to vote for him. Well, I thought, that must have been one hell of a drunken night, I don't even remember meeting him. What else had I agreed to? And had I retained enough impartiality in my inebriated state to do it with all three candidates (possibly at the same time)?

I can only assume that, whatever occurred, Mark Reed gave the most impressive performance of the night. Or why would I have agreed to vote for him?

Voting took place in the Bardswell Social Club, an institution I wasn't previously aware of, but which was remarkably easy to find (I'd like to thank a large sign saying 'Bardswell Social Club' for its invaluable help in this respect.) Outside, LibDems lounged, taking numbers; inside it was dim and peaceful, with many dark wooden tables set with tablemats and cutlery for ghostly diners from (as the decor suggested) the 1970's. All very cosy, and quite deserted apart from the two guys at the desk. I felt that I was participating in some quaint and essentially meaningless tradition: 'democracy'.

I placed my cross... next to the LibDem candidate. Fuck you, Mark Reed! Well yes, I probably shouldn't have written that next to the Conservative candidate's name. And as for the sketch of his deformed genitalia, that was both unnecessary and almost certainly inaccurate. But that's freedom of speech for you. It's not always pleasant, but what's the alternative?

The other day I heard a woman say: 'That Pol Pot's got a lovely voice.' Of course really she'd said: 'Paul Potts'. Still, it got me thinking.

Fruitlessly.