Doors Will Open

silly musings from a nowhere man

The resolutions…

For some people its weight loss, quitting the ciggys or simply to love each other a bit more, and for some its just to try and ‘spend some more time with kids’..


Im a non-believer.

Before you know it; Big boy’s got his head in a bucket of chicken again, auntie susan’s celebrating the end of her ‘smoking ordeal’ with a cigarette and the kids are locked safely back in the basement.

I just don’t buy it.  I don’t do resolutions. Why make them if you cant keep them?

I’ve given this some serious thought.

I think, considering we INSIST on making these false promises to ourselves, I think we should all aim a bit higher, get a bit more creative.  I’ve already thought of mine. I think its safe to say that 2012 is going to be a big one for me:

My new years resolutions are…

” To write and direct the sequel to Samuel L Jackson’s masterpiece ‘Snakes on a Plane’ – and title it ‘Hamsters on a Bus’ ”


” To find the girl that I met at speed dating 6 years ago and to tell her that, although the exercise was to divulge as much information as possible in the one minute time-frame provided – she probably shouldn’t have opened with ‘Hi, I suffer Irritable Bowel Syndrome’  ” 

See? Thats what Im talking about, we can make a difference y’know? People need to see that film, and that girl I met – well she needs all the help she can get, and some toilet roll.

I’d also like to mention my late uncle albert who died last january, he was badly depressed a lot of the time and used to wet himself quite often – I remember watching him as we counted down last year, everyone was getting exited and in a huddle – I spotted him at the back of the room smacking the dog about with his walking stick.  His resolution was to die before the turn of another year – kept that promise.

wow. the anticipation is killing me.

Occupation: Cheese Packer

I never thought I’d do it. But I did.

I went along to the recruitment agency. It smelt weird in there. It smelt like uneducated people and some kid of preservative.

They gave me this I.Q test thing, it was four or five pages of questions. Multiple choice. Questions like: whats the odd one out: a) dog b)cat or c)brick.

It was about here that I shed my first tear.

The girl who interviewed me wasn’t exactly inspiring either, i mean i think the stapler on her desk would’ve done a better job at motivating me. She very casually told me told me that ”some people said suicide would be better” and went on to justify this by saying ”but at least you know though right?”

Yes I do.

Thank you interviewer lady – honesty is the best policy, and I truly appreciate your use of  it in this instance. Out of interest is your stapler conducting the rest of the interview? Id just be interested to see if there is anything or anyone out there that can match your incredible interview technique. You wouldn’t mind slapping me a couple of times would you?

From what I gather the process in the factory is pretty simple. You stand next to a conveyor belt and when the cheese in question approaches you on it, you take the cheese and place (not throw) the cheese into a box. You then take the box (in your hands*) and put said box BACK onto the conveyor belt – the now cheese-filled box continues on its journey to, what I am now calling, ‘a better place.’ You then repeat the process. Over and over again. The general consensus is that you are doing well if your brain starts to dribble out of your ears – the better cheese packers will have more of a steady pour from the ears, and will more than likely drool simultaneously.

( * = ‘hands’ can be found at the end of your arms, ask your supervisor if you can’t find these)

I’ve already started thinking of better ways to describe my new occupation. I think ive settled on ‘dairy product logistical engineer operative’ It rolls off the tongue better. Hell I might even get some business cards done.

The good news is I got the job.

And the bad news? Well, the bad news is, I .got .the .fu&ki#g .job….


Eggs or Cheese…that is the question.

Ive had to make a lot of decisions in my life, but this is one that im really struggling with.

So I quit my job – and its secure income , and its soul removing tendancies ,not so long ago now- mainly in a bid to ‘follow my dreams’ and all that – thought Id get another job, part-time, that would allow me to do more with myself. Easy right?


Not easy. Not easy at all unless you want to pack cheese in a factory, or indeed pack eggs in another. 25 hours a week the advert says; £6 an hour and a loyalty bonus.

So im sat in front of the paper, phone in hand – what would I rather put into packaging – eggs or cheese?


What has my life come to? What have I done?  I mean, fuck it, I might do a morning shift packing cheese and an evening shift packing eggs – then have an omelette at luchtime just for the irony of it.


Ever wake up with a disurbing image in your head? This is mine:

Morning Sam
Morning Sam!
So next time I blog I’ll be suicidal, but stuffed full of protein.
Every cloud…

Laughing at Funerals and suchlike…

Catchy title huh?

So, right, 5 days to go until I leave hell on earth and get out of this god-forsaken pub that I reside in. Again, I really cant stress JUST how exited I am – I have tried to find the words to describe this, this, euphoria I feel but am left stumped.

Anyway. You catch my  drift. Yippee etc etc.

So I had a moment the other day. A moment that I’m not proud of. A moment that I probably shouldn’t be posting about on the internet. But this moment got me to thinking – and considering I have maybe two subscribers I reckon its pretty safe to say that a local vigilante probably wont run me out of town.

I laughed at someone with special needs.

Now, OK, hold your horses – I know, I know – what the fu*k, right? Right. But it got me to thinking about laughter – laughing at others – laughing AT people in general. When is it right to laugh?  It was one of those things y’know? One of those things that got me laughing uncontrollably. I’m talking out loud here. Out loud and at a volume so high I think only dogs could hear it (I wish.) Every part of me wanted to stop. I could feel it bubbling up inside of me, like lava it was – and y’know, there was just no stopping it.

The person in question was a delightful young chap who came to eat with his family at the restaurant that I work.  It was obviously a mental illness – something that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I am ignorant to the pain, sadness or indeed any of the emotions or sufferings of mental or physical illness – may be this is what made me laugh. I think to myself  that maybe if I had first hand experience of this illness I wouldn’t have laughed. I don’t know. I just know how lucky I am not to have.

The thing is, I wasn’t laughing at his illness, I wasn’t mocking him – I was laughing at the situation that I had found myself in.

In short, this guy just kept saying ”uh-huh” over and over again. Pretty loudly. In a pretty quiet restaurant. He responded ”uh-huh” to everything his family asked him. ”Do you want steak” they said ”uh-huh” he replied. I thought, poor guy, what if he didn’t want steak?

Anyhow it turned out that one member of this guys family complained about her food. She did so as I was clearing their table. Every single plate was clean – I swear blind that they must have licked them clean when no-one was looking. Regardless, she complained – everyone else around the table seemed happy – but not her, she told me this was dry, that was bland, it was this, it was that. So I just said ”very sorry about that madam” turned to the guy with the illness and said ”was everything ok with your food sir.”

He replied.

Its amazing isn’t it – we all have this idea of morality. What is cruel and what is kind. We are quick to wag a finger. I got the ultimate finger wagging at a funeral recently. Again, another one of those moments that I shouldn’t write about.

Awful story – man dies, only 29. Wife and family all at funeral – I didn’t know him, her, or nearly anyone there. I was in his science class at school. I think I ate a sandwich with him once in the canteen. Anyway. We get to the part when the coffin is lowered into the ground. Music playing, all terribly emotional, people are throwing roses in there, sobbing – wife of the dead guy approaches – now she’s seriously crying, big long kinda grunts coming out of her, all very emotional. She approaches the coffin, still wailing, bends down, rose in hand, lets out a little sigh and throws this rose – but, she kinda over cooks it. The rose is flung over the coffin, completely missing it and it lands on the other-side of the hole. Right by my foot. There was a long pause afterwards, lots of people pretending they didn’t see – but they did. They saw alright.

And I’m off. Tears rolling down my cheeks. It just tickled me. I’ve never laughed so hard in my whole life.

Quite a big target when you think about it.

Anyway. I’m not a bad man. I promise you.

But I am that guy. I am that guy that laughs at a funeral.

Wag those fingers all you want. I understand.

But I think that it is these moments, these awful, morally obscure, completely awkward and disgusting  moments that make us not only wrong, but human.

27 days to go.

So. Notice handed in. The countdown begins.

27 days. That’s 648 hours.


Dear Diary,



I cant wait to get out of here.  People tell me that its given me ‘valuable life experience’ – true, I guess.

Oh, no, wait, wait a minute, hang on, let me just it hasn’t.  My experience bucket is well and truly empty. Bone dry in fact. At second glance there seems to be quite a significant hole in my bucket – large enough to, lets say, let any experience of any value shoot right on outta there.

Im not sure ive even learnt much. I mean, I can polish a spoon, shine a glass, I can even carry a whole plate (with food on it) across a room, AND PUT IT ON A TABLE.

Where will I ever benefit from this. Tell me, where? I can see myself at future job interviews saying ”No sir I don’t have any experience at all, but what I can do sir, is carry your coffee (unaided) all the way across your office and successfully place it in front of you. No spillage. Guaranteed.”

Yup that’s me. I carry stuff.

But boy do I do it well.

I’ve been planning my departure from gastro hell for a while now. I’ve decided to go out with a bang and pretty much sabotage the business from the inside. For example; may be I could make a few alterations to the menu? Ya know, mix it up a little. I’m thinking on my last shift i’ll change the menu to read like this..


The Nuclear Arms

Drink-Eat-Fuck off



Lamb broth with chunky bread    6.00

Five spiced roasted Quail with sesame and soy

Marinated vegetables, sharp nails and disappointing sauce   6.50

Duck hash topped with a fried Duck egg and seasonal leaves    6.50

Steamed Cornish mussels with cider, bacon and shallots   7.00


Local, over-priced and tasteless pork and leek sausages with creamy mash    10.00

 Aubergine ragu with fuck all    11.50                                                                                

The Stapleton arms Dexter beef burger with triple cooked chips    12.00

Vomit inducing and roasted pork loin with carrot mash, Dorset greens and homemade gravy    12.95                                                                     

Roasted rack of Lagan farm lamb with underpaid staff who, quite frankly, don’t give a shit anymore because they’re leaving    16.50

Ribeye steak with triple cooked chips, burn in hell, and stay there for eternity      17.90                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Bread and water (for two to share)   46.00




Just an idea anyway. I was also thinking about hiring the cast of ‘Willow’ to hide under all the beds in the hotel rooms and get them to force the residence into some kinda weird orgy kinda thing, but that’ll take planning.

I thought I could write to all the people that have pre-booked for Christmas too, ya know, like

Dear Sir/Madam,

We are no longer open for business and will be closed this Christmas, because we hate Christmas. And, in fact, we also hate you. Santa isn’t real, Rudolph is dead, and ‘all through the house, nothing was stirring’ because Christmas is shit.



I’m all over it. I cant wait. Life begins in 27 days. Must find new job. Stat.



When you’ve gotta go….

So I decided to hand in my resignation. I never really saw eye to eye with my boss. The letter read as follows:

Wrap. Stack. Pack – no thanks.

Job hunting.

That’s me. I’m on the hunt.

At first I was open to pretty much anything – but now I’ve got my heart set on a big ol’ life change.

I live in a tiny village in the English countryside. Quaint, yes. Exiting, no. This week our local papers headline was ”Sheep gives birth.”

Yup. High-octane stuff.  Its amazing. No-one seems to know anything about the outside world here. Its a ”Sheep gives Birth” kinda place – subtitle ”Barrack Obama invades Russia” kinda place.

I started looking for Jobs in the employment section recently. It wasn’t long before I realised I probably wouldn’t find what I was after – who was I kidding.

I considered a warehouse job. ‘Wrap, Stack, Pack’ was the title. I could imagine myself on my first day – ”OH! I get it, sorry, its wrap, stack THEN pack..”

So I turned to the internet.

See, I want a job being creative. I want to write stuff. Vague I know. But I want to write stuff that makes people laugh – or think – or both. I’m a guy with very little. I don’t have a degree, or much experience. I’ve got £21 in my bank account and a car that doesn’t work when it rains, and that’s pretty much it.

So I sat.

I sat in front of this computer screen as I do now, and went on some kinda Job hunting rampage. I sat here for hours; applying to every humor writing job I could find –  It got to the point where I was filling in forms with ”Sam Drury.26. Hilarious” and hammering the additional notes section with ”I must re-iterate, just how funny I am, Im talking laugh out lound shit your pants funny.”

No response as yet….

Maybe I should try ”please respond to this, my eyes are starting to bleed”

In fact I might even go to these places. I wont drive if its raining, but I’ll go to these places – walk on in there and start writing.

Who knows.  Going from A to B might be harder than I thought.

I better take the bus.

Hospitality – The Rant Continues..

So. Ok. I thought I’d got it out of system with my last post. But I haven’t.

Not even a bit.

The search for a better me continues.

So this pub I work in – this..’Gastro pub’ is; and continues, to push a few buttons on the ‘dont piss me off’ control board.

Its not just the fancy drinks, the fancy food, or even the sign outside that reads ”We love dogs and Muddy boots” (I mean please. No we bloody don’t) Its the clientèle.

There’s this guy. ..

An intolerable gentlemen that visits the pub quite often, I think his names Tarquin or something like that – we call him ‘The Mussel Man’.’ Now, this isn’t because he’s blessed with an athletic physique, nor because he has impressive upper-body strength. No, no – we call him this because of his love for Mussels – Moules – seafood.

He’s obsessed.

He rang us once whilst he was on holiday in Spain

”Hello” he said ”It’s Tarquin”

”…Hello Tarquin…how are you”

”Fine. Mussels on the menu tonight?”

”Yes Tarquin” I say ”Would you like to book a table?”

”No no” he says ”Just checking”

I mean. Its- just- WEIRD. He’s got this annoying habit of turning up, literally seconds before we close. I swear he waits in the car-park, looking at his watch, timing his entrance just to maximise irritation. Its got to the point where he doesnt even say anything – just walks on in – and mouths ‘mussels’ to me from across the room, usually with with a strange, and quite obviously unauthentic smile on his face the sick bastard.

I don’t know what’s worse – serving him, or cleaning the toilets  – or in fact eating the content of the toilet. Oh no wait, Its serving him.

I love my Job.

In fact, when I do actually get asked to clean the toilets, its not that bad – I wrote myself a ‘Braveheart-like’ battle speech, just to recite to myself while I’m in there:

”I tell you what – when my head is down a loo, all I do is smile.There is no-where else I’d rather be. You see, I could have been a Lawyer – I could have been a doctor, HELL I could’ve been many things – but you know what? You know what I smell when Im down here? Its not the reminents of Chicken and beans from last night, its not faeces, oh no – its- god-dam SUCCESS – because this isn’t just a toilet, this is the toilet thatclean, and may you shit in it, and may your children shit in it and may your CHILDREN’S CHILDREN shit in it for generations to come, for I will be here, I will be here with my rubber gloves and skin-burning chemicals and I WILL BE SMILING, beacause you can crap on in this china bowl, BUT you WILL – NEVER.TAKE.MY.FREEEEEEDOM’

I might even get some blue paint to smear over my face.

Anything to get me through the day.

Hospitality. Or not…

So. While I’ve been on the hunt for the better me  I’ve had to get a job.  It helps to have one of these I’ve heard.

I’ve been working in hospitality for a while, to make ends meet. I’d like to take this opportunity  to tell all you aspiring writers out there, and everyone else for that matter, that under no circumstances, no matter how desperate you are – DON’T DO IT. Its a painfully uninspiring slog, that quite frankly, isn’t too far from slave labour.

I work in one of those uber trendy ‘gastro’ pubs that you might find in Chelsea. Its a ‘Pub with Rooms’. You know the ones I mean – inhabited by people that were wax jackets and wear welly boots in the summer. Those types. The ones that do ‘the bill’ gesture with their hands, have a time-share in the Caribbean and say ‘Ya’ instead of the more commonly used ‘Yes.’

I’ve been working here for a while now, longer than I care to divulge. One of my responsibilities is to cook breakfast for guests. Not so long ago I received a letter of complaint which read as follows:

Dear Sir/Madam

Although the main part of our stay with you was OK we were truly horrified by the boy who cooked and served us breakfast. He looked very tired and could barely take our order without yawning. 

Is there anything you can do to rectify this?


Paul and Angela Phillips.


So there we go. A letter of complaint. What fascinates me is this ; why do it? These people have taken the time out of their day to sit down, construct and send this.

I mean, really? Fly in the soup OK, sure, complain away – but complaining because a staff member looked tired?! Whatever next? ”Everything was great but the spoons were a bit too ‘spoony”’

Ok, so I’m not a morning person. Gotcha. Regardless, I felt it only neccessary to write a reply..

Dear Adolf and Eva,

The Slightly lethargic, ‘boy’ who served you breakfast was me.

Many apologies for my somewhat fatigued demeanour – this was mainly due to being up all night having ‘fond relations’ with both of your mothers.

I’d like to offer you both a bottle of my urine, free of charge – I hope this goes some-way to rectifying the situation.

Please do come and visit again, we hate to see customers leave disgruntled.

Best Regards,


Too much?



Ive pretty much ticked all the boxes so far, I mean, I’ve done the stuff you gotta do while you’re growing up.

Pubic hair -check. Deeper voice – check. Had a bit of sex – check.

I did the whole travelling thing.  I’ve done the whole dropping out of uni thing. Now I’m doing the whole ‘what now?’ thing.

For some of us, its all so very clear. Its almost formulaic. Its go to school, go to uni, get a job. For me though, I find all this decision making pretty tricky. Its never been all mapped out for me, and right now, I don’t know WHAT to do.

I know that I need to do something at least.

I got quite terribly drunk last night. Obviously, this probably isn’t the best way to find the ‘better me’ – but nonetheless, I got drunk. When I fall inebriated like this I tend to get a hankering for food, sustenance. Not just any food – a very particular kind of food. …


So I headed for those golden arches. Those beautiful, golden arches. In fact I think I ran there?!

I approach Darren my server. I’m quite coherent at this point, focused on the job in hand – and I order up a Big Mac and fries. I don’t want a drink.

Darren looks perplexed.

Darren explains that I can have a drink inclusive with my meal – no extra cost.

” No, No” I say. ”I’m OK thanks, no drink for me”

Darren looks me dead in the eye. Confused.

”Yeah, but you get one free…”

I reply ”I know. I understand. But I just don’t want one”

”but its free” he says.

” I know, but I dont want one”  I say. By this point I’m seriously starting to wonder whether the two out of five stars on his name badge are deserved.

So its gets to the point where his manager is called over – Kevin. Kevin is  a bloody Macdonalds pro by the look of it – 5 out of 5 stars – this guy is a serious fast food man and from what I gather, directly related to Ronald MacDonald himself.

”Sorry about that sir, heres your Big Mac and Fries” he says


”Would you like a drink with that?”


I know very little about want I want, I’m constantly looking for jobs – I want to write, I want to be creative – and I want to earn a living from being so.

I guess I’m just a guy who wants as many stars on his badge as possible.

”But if all else fails” as a wise man once said to me, ”just remember this phrase son.’eat in or take out.”

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