2004-04-01 - 2:28 p.m.

This morning at work we were called into the back room. I�m not a big fan of being called into back rooms as I always think something really ace is going to happen like being given a large sack full of used notes, and then it turns out that it is, in fact, something horrendously shit, like being told you have the creative abilities of damp celery.

The last time it happened, I thought I had been plucked from the writing pool of the gay lifestyle website I was then working for to be given my own column (no sniggering, please) and huge great wodges of dosh. Imagine my surprise, then, when I was in fact sacked on the spot for writing vaguely insulting things about my co-workers in an online journal (in the words of Marty DiBergi, �don�t look for it, it�s not there any more�). The phrase �overpriveleged upper-middle class wankers� definitely came back to haunt me. (There can�t be too many people still here that were around back when I was called �Garcia�? And what�s with the Hispanic fixation? And do you think that when they give death row prisoners the lethal injection, they use that little swab of antiseptic first to make sure they don�t get an infection?)

(I am thinking in brackets today)

The backroom pow-wow turned out to be a notice of change of office location, to some part of the city that you don�t walk around after daylight hours and has only just received a working sewerage system. At the moment, we�re in London�s trendy NoHo, with its charming collection of boutique eateries that I cannot afford and hipster-magnet bars that I can also not afford. So I won�t be following them, begging the immediate question �what will I do for a living?� I guess we�ll find out in about 8 weeks. Do you think they have a height restriction for the priesthood?