A little analysis of one's own work is a scary but a good thing. Looking back on some of the recent entries on these pages I have noticed that there has been far too much mention of Friday, and how absolutely fucking awful it is and how I hate it.
This is not a fault with my work, exactly. It's just that too much repetition is a bad thing. Originality is what we are after and so now, once and for all, I will attempt to put the whole Friday Is Shit thing to bed by dedicating an entire column to it.
The reason that Friday has become an issue is because whenever it rears its ugly head, once a week usually, a colleague of mine revels in pointing out to me that it is indeed Friday. The implication is that I should therefore be happy. Unfortunately I am a depressive, and therefore unlikely to be happy at any given moment. Annoyingly, I am not the kind of depressive who is blessed with a level of genius and who swings between manic highs and crashing lows. Either I feel utterly rubbish but not rubbish enough to start the car with the exhaust sealed, or I feel neutral. OK. Alright. Getting by. I am not at home to happiness.
Even if I were the type of person who filled easily with the joys of the blooming season, I still can't see the logic in being happy on a Friday morning, or at any hour before that when you arrive home from work. You still have to get through the working day, just like any other day of the week. That's ok if you like your job. I have heard some people claim that they do. But then I have also heard some people claim to be happy and I don't really believe that either. As I alluded to on a recent Facebook status (microblog, anyone?) only the deeply stupid among us can be happy all the time. Fine, if you want to pat Friday on the back do it when you get home when it is actually going in your favour, and you can put your feet up and watch whatever mind-crushing shite floats your boat.
No my friends Friday is a teasing whore. It is a bitch who fills you with promise and then, just as you are about to enjoy it, slaps you round the chops shouting 'it's Monday!' at you and laughing. Friday is massively over-rated. It is the 'Mad Men' of weekdays. The day I left my wheels at home was a Friday. Logic demands that this could have happened any day of the week, but by the same token it is also true that any other day of the week brings the same promise as Friday's supporters claim that it brings. If something good were to happen to me, and I am not for a moement suggesting that it will, it could just as easily be on a Tuesday as a Friday. The same Tuesday that my colleague says is the work of the devil himself, based on the quite berserk logic that you have just got over Monday and you are still no nearer to Friday. No nearer to another mundane day of the week which you will spend nailed to your desk looking at a spreadsheet wishing your life away and wondering what else you could be doing. In my case, it is a desk which is so soundproof and bricked up as to render me socially excluded. My desk at work socially excludes me more than my disability. My disability looks on in envy at my desk as the standard bearer in the field of socially excluding me.
So let us dispel the Myth Of Friday and instead accept the fact that the only days of the week that we really enjoy are Saturdays and Sundays. Saturdays and Sundays for me consist mainly of lounging around watching sport, eating and drinking badly and never, under any circumstances, paying even the remotest attention to a spreadsheet or a fucking travel claim. I do keep in touch with some work colleagues via the gift of Facebook over the weekend but that is not the same thing at all as something which is work-related. They are all extremely nice people and in no way represent the drudgery of my daily grind. They just happen to be unfortunate enough to share an office with a miserable, depressive, Friday-hating little fuck like me.
It'll soon be Saturday........