So said Lino, when I informed him of the subject of this week’s piece: plumbers. Well, it has been, convicted nannies notwithstanding (of course, unlike the jury, most of those whining about the case didn’t sit through every second of evidence, and relied on the soundbites in the media here — and still they think they know better). Nothing has even happened about last week’s “abusive” email.

This allows me to bitch about unprofessional professionals. In the house at the moment, we’re renovating the bathroom, with the aim of getting rid of the shower- room, as it’s suffering from damp. However, the bathroom is still a way off being ready, but the shower packed it in recently. With malevolent intent, it would work for about five minutes, then stop dead — inevitably just after you’d worked up a good lather, forcing you to trail soapsuds and curses up to the bathroom.

Now, with the bathroom imminent, we wanted someone to come to look at the shower, and fix it if it could be done quickly and cheaply; otherwise we’d just survive on baths for a while. I turned to the Thomson directory to find suitable candidates. Why are so many plumbers called A.A.Aaaaaaaaardvark? Yes, if you’ve got a leak, you might not agonise over your choice — but if so, neither are you going to carefully begin at the beginning, and your sodden leafing might just as easily take you into the plumbing section at page 6.

I dumped all those, since I wanted a shower looked at, not a game of Scrabble, and phoned a couple of companies with real-sounding names. No, they wouldn’t come out and take a look at the shower. Not unless I paid them 42 quid for the first hour. Plus parts. Plus VAT. Call it 50 quid. Christ, if I get called into work, they get FOUR HOURS out of me for that, and this could be a five minute, “it’s dead, Jim” kind of task. I bit the bullet and booked one, vowing that I would, if necessary, lock the plumber in the cellar for 55 minutes.

And what happened? They never appeared. What, 50 quid not enough to get you out of bed? Hell, for that price you could get a lawyer or a blow-job, and I bet you good money THEY would turn up. I am tempted to send them a bill for the three hours I spent sitting round playing Tomb Raider and watching TV, except that I couldn’t honestly say it was thus any different from my usual Saturday morning. But I think I’ll be sticking to baths…

It promises to be a slightly uncomfortable weekend. This afternoon, one of my email messages from work was nailed by the automatic censor which looks for unacceptable language [In my case, the phrase in question was “piss-poor”]. As a result, the mail was rejected, and a copy went to the “powers that be”; I think in this case, it’s the personnel department.

What happens now is uncertain. I know a few people who have had similar bounced emails, and have suffered no repercussions, which is soothing. However, it was a mail message that I’d probably rather prefer the powers that be didn’t see, so I hope they read it in the same light-hearted way it was…oh, God, why am I not over optimistic about this? Think I might have been reading too much Dilbert. Also, it wouldn’t be my first brush of 1997 with the authorities over, um, “unauthorised communications”, though I think this one is a relative pussy in comparison. [Buy me several pints if you want the gory details]

On the plus side, if I’m going down, I won’t be going down alone since the mail message was being sent to about 25 people within the company, as well as the extra-company recipients. What’s odd is that it’s ONLY extra-company messages which are monitored, and also ONLY email. No-one seems to care about what you send to the bloke on the other side of the desk, or what you fax, phone or print-out and slam in an envelope to anybody. Email seems to receive special treatment, as if it were the spawn of Satan himself. But the company I work for is lurking in the Dark Ages with regard to such things: Internet mail was only introduced earlier this year.

That was, in fact, just after the other “encounter with authority” — somehow, giving me Internet access at that time seemed curiously like entrapment, handing me a loaded gun to play with, in the hope that I’d give them something nice in exchange — such as my head on a plate. And maybe I’ve just passed it over. But while I seriously doubt this is a P.45 offense, I think I’ll certainly be a little more circumspect about using the phrase “piss-poor” for the next few months. More news if/when anything happens.

Fitness has never been a major concern of mine. My philosophy revolves around drinking, eating, and shagging till I drop [at least in theory, in practice the proportions of the three are a little unbalanced]. But I’d far rather drop dead at 70 of a heart-attack, and not become an Alzheimer-riddled lump who needs all his orifices tended by hired help. Despite this, I possess a well-developed sense of hypochondria, which has manifested itself in sure fire convictions that I’ve had everything from skin cancer through diabetes to AIDS — never mind that the call from the the Blood Transfusion Service was simply them checking my address.

Given this, the prospect of a fully-paid company medical was too good to miss, so I signed up. Unfortunately, the rest of my colleagues clearly also had well-developed hypochondria and as a result, the event had to take place just a few days after I returned from my trip to America — land of the free, home of the unfeasibly large portion. However, this did mean I had a perfect excuse to ignore everything said to me: “Of course, BEFORE my holiday, I’d have been an Olympic medallist, but now…”.

The tests and examination were mostly fairly routine: blood and urine samples were taken, eyesight measured, and I was put on an exercise bike and told to pedal, while hooked up with more wires than are used in your average ‘Peter Pan’ production. Strange machines went ‘Ping!’, and pens swept across rolls of chart paper.

After this, I had a nice chat with the doctor. She quizzed me on my general state of health — which, it has to be said, is unproblematic. I’ve not spent a night in hospital since I was born — at least, if you discount the one in a Casualty department after a Cramps concert, but that’s a whole different story. “And do you check your testicles for cancer?” came the question. Now, while I am certainly familiar with my own genitals, I’ve no idea what I should be looking for: ‘tender lumps’ apparently, but the entire area is, on the whole, both tender and lumpy. “Would you like me to check?” was the next question.

Readers who’ve been paying attention will have noticed the usage of “she” with reference to the doctor. Having been aware of this part of the exam from previous attendees, getting a youngish, neo-pretty practitioner brought up several questions. Now, while not normally averse to having such women fiddle with my erogenous zones, it had the potential for “Well, clearly no problems with THAT, Mr.McLennan” comments. So let’s think of income tax returns; DIY; Biros; mobile telephones; broccoli; Eric Rohmer movies.

This did the trick, and I emerged for the final confrontation with the nutritionist. “Eat more fruit and vegetables”, he said. Five portions a day. And barley and hops don’t count as vegetables, he meant stuff like Brussel sprouts — seems a rule of thumb that nutritional value is roughly inverse to palatability. Otherwise though, I came through pretty well: while my cholesterol level is a little high (oh, THERE’S a surprise), my lungs are in tip-top shape, and the liver is doing a fine job of making the piss.

All somewhat of a relief, albeit disappointing — I was hopeful of being diagnosed with some (chronic but non-painful) disease which would prevent me from working, yet not stop me spending my permanent health insurance. Ah, well, time for some pizza: tomatoes and onions, that’s two. Do you think pepperoni is a vegetable?

Sigh. I am not looking forward to work on Monday morning. I don’t usually anyway – as a matter of principle – but this time, it’ll be back to the grind after the longest break since my days as a student. And THAT was back in the days when the government gave you money to attend, rather than the other way around. Three weeks it’s been since I took my nose off the mortgage-supporting grindstone; I’m not sure I can remember where I put my shirts, it was that long ago.

It would be very nice to be able to sit around the house all day, doing nothing, and getting paid for it. But of course it doesn’t work like that. So that’s why I must go in: to sit around the OFFICE all day, doing nothing, and getting paid for it. [Hah — I would like to state, for the benefit of any boss-types reading this, that that was just my little joke. This explicit disclaimer is necessary because, to become a boss, you generally need to have your sense of humour removed. Certain incidents over the past year have proven this. Buy me a pint sometime if you want the details]

I don’t actually mind my job; things could be a great deal worse, as the fact that I’ve been there for over eight years shows. This is because my problems are not with the specifics — you get the same shit shovelled at you, regardless of where you are. Sure, at X you might get better pay, but then you have to work longer hours, while at Y the manager’s a jerk, and in company Z you must provide sexual services to board members. Same shit, just different flavours. What I’d rather avoid is the general concept of employment itself – it’s just glorified prostitution, with a pension plan. Sadly, while I remain fond of things like films, the Internet and two-week junkets to America, I can’t see any viable alternatives, since I doubt I’d be any good at dealing crack.

So I guess I’ll just have to put up with it, despite the iniquities of a capitalist system, and strive to retain my freedom. This consists largely of wearing steadily more offensive T-shirts on dress-down Friday, as well as…hell, but let’s not give away too many secrets here, as I do (quite) like my job (or at least, the salary) and want to keep it.

Thus, it’s back to the rat race, fully refreshed and recharged. And ready to sneak off to the toilet in the afternoon for twenty minutes kip. Sigh…

Yes, I had a very nice holiday, thank you for asking. Probably the best one ever, in fact, with more jaw-dropping experiences than on any previous trip. The first of these took place within minutes of getting off the plane in Las Vegas: it had just got dark and so as I made my way to the hotel, I was treated to the full-on effect of the city’s billion neon lights searing my retinas like a supernova. I wasn’t driving, having been met at the airport by TC-er Chris Fata, to whom I am eternally grateful — I’d have made perhaps 50 yards before causing a gawp-induced crash.

For Vegas is perhaps THE ultimate Trash City. Where else can you see King Arthur’s Court nestling comfortably between a large-scale replica of the New York skyline, and an F-sized black pyramid? When you experience the sheer, stunning, inane, naff, stupid BRILLIANCE of it all, ‘Showgirls’ becomes entirely plausible.

I was staying in pyramid, the Luxor Hotel, probably the coolest place, and the only one that looked better in day-light than at night. The Excalibur next door looked like a precast concrete monstrosity when the sun was up, but was transformed into a fairy-tale castle beyond the dreams of Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria after dark. Meanwhile, the Luxor just…vanished, making it the world’s first stealth hotel. That is, except for the 20 million candle-power light shining up into space from its peak, which made it visible from 250 miles away. Woe betide any bird who flew across the beam…

It’s a place devoted to the painless separation of wealth from its owners. And it’s very good at its job. To give you some idea of the scale, the average casino game payout is round about 95%. but the remaining five percent is enough to cover all the costs – the wages, the construction, the shows, the pirate battles, the free drinks and cheap accomodation – and STILL provide a healthy profit for the investors. We are talking MAJOR cash-flow.

There are slots for all pockets, from 5c babies up to the monsters where you invest multiple dollars per spin — and the biggest jackpot I saw was $7.7m. [I didn’t win it, needless to say. The biggest I got was $30] Plus blackjack, poker, roulette, and a billion other ways to redistribute your salary, even discounting the boutiques, shops, bars, restaurants, thrill rides, roller coasters, all intended to keep you within twenty seconds of an opportunity to gamble.

You probably know there are no clocks and no windows, to prevent anything that might indicate the passage of time from distracting the punter. There are also no exit signs; once you get into the middle, it can take ages to work out how to leave. Not that there is any reason to: far better just to take the air-conditioned walkway to the next casino down, if you need to leave at all. And when your hotel has everything up to and including an IMAX cinema, even that’s not very likely.

Eventually you will get bored with gambling. What else to do? Well, in my (heavily ‘Showgirls’-coloured) case, Vegas is also famous for…lap-dances. I took advice from people who had more experience than I, and headed for Olympic Gardens, a downtown joint offering such things. And very pleasant they were too: I didn’t quite require a change of underwear, but if I’d gone for a third, I might well have… It’s an amazing ego boost. You know what it’s like when a pretty girl smiles at you: well, imagine what it’s like when she is also grinding away at your groin with most of her body, while wearing nothing but a small piece of dental floss, and with not so much “come-to-bed eyes” as with her entire body yelling it. My ego was quite robust enough to forget I was paying 20 bucks for the privilege!

The problem with Vegas is its utter intensity, which inevitably leads to burn-out and apathy. On my last night, I really should have gone down to the Mirage, where they have an exploding volcano. Every 20 minutes. But I just couldn’t be arsed. I had run out of astonishment. The town had taken me, screwed me up, and spat me out. As a weekend destination, it’s among the greatest in the world, a true Disneyland for adults, but believe me, it’s NOT a place in which I would like to live…

[An expanded report on Vegas, plus the rest of the trip (Grand Canyon, Phoenix, New Orleans and New York) will appear in the next TC. Whenever THAT is…]