Did I ever tell you I’m a bit of a neat freak? Just a little bit, you understand. Just in the way that if, say, the room I’m in is untidy, I’ll get all itchy and not be able to breathe. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.
Anyway, this is the latest Ikea Watch:
That? Oh, you know, that’s just the back of the couch. I am TOTALLY coping with it all. Sure, today I announced I was going to take my laptop, get in the car and just drive, purely to get away from it all, but seriously, I was kidding! I am fine with the state the house is in at the moment, and I know it will all be worth it once we finally get off our asses and get things sorted. For real. Also, we have other, more important things to worry about at the moment. Like the Cable Monster we found hiding behind our desks when we moved them:
The new desks are actually in situ now, as is the red filing cabinet and most of the other stuff we bought at Ikea. So it’s really just the detrius we’re left with, and, given that the council can’t come to take it all away until Monday, looks like it’s the valium for me again. Ah well.
Speaking of the council, though, remember that time I reported our noisy neighbour, and the nice man came round and listened to me whine for a while? Well, not long after that a nice letter popped through the mail from none other than VICTIM SUPPORT, who were offering to, y’know, support me, because I am a victim. Needless to say, this was enough to snap me back to reality pretty quick, and that particular neighbour shut up after that, so I didn’t trouble them again.
This morning, though, another letter popped in, which Terry opened before he realised that although it had our address on it, it had someone else’s name. (No, he really did open it thinking it was for him, I’m not just saying that). Well, whaddya know, it was another letter from Victim Support, also offering help and assistance "following your report of anti social behaviour". WELL. At first I was elated by the knowledge that someone else in our street had had reason to report one of our habitually noisy neighbours. "I am not alone!" I thought, jubilantly. There are others like me out there – others who think that, hell no! Loud music every day is not acceptable, and we will fight them on the beaches, by God we will!
 Rubin writes…
Yeah, so last night? After we’d got home from my Norma and John’s? I waited till A&T were asleep then I crapped all over my bed. Yes, AGAIN! That’s three beds I’ve ruined this week alone – three beds AND Azkaban. Man, I am ON A ROLL here, people. Also: Amber and Terry don’t speak to me no more. They have, like, NO sense of humour AT ALL. I mean, why so serious all the time?
Anyway, I totally don’t want to talk about it anymore, it’s just, like, SO last night. Oh OK, I will: I will talk about it because actually? Things are quite serious. A&T are REALLY not happy with me. This morning they were all “BAAAAAAD boy” for, like, HOURS. I think I will have to leave to leave home. They don’t understand me, here. Also, I think what they’ll probably do is, they’ll probably get another pet to replace me, and that other pet will probably be that freakin’ Pepeman. GOD.
Just in case you’re wonderin’, by the way, I am STILL not afraid of the Pepe. No way. Quite the opposite, in fact – it was here a few weeks ago, and it was obviously TERRIFIED of me. Lookit!
Because I’ve been so busy bringing about the death of journalism this week, I forgot to tell you about last Saturday, and the very special brand of torture it provided. See, Saturday was the day I had set aside to kill myself with heat exhaustion go shopping with my mum for her M.O.B (Mother of The Bride) outfit. We went to Edinburgh. Now, it being Edinburgh, and it being September, I assumed it would be cold, so I had dressed accordingly, in my fabby new mustard-yellow-sweater-that’s-also-a-jacket thing. “I’ll be totally snuggly and warm in this!” I though, smugly popping an extra sweater into my bag JUST IN CASE.
I did not need the extra sweater. I did not even need the kicky mustard yellow jacket thing. Nope, the temperatures in Edinburgh on that September 9th day hit about 30%, people. Everyone was walking around in shorts and T-shirts – everyone, that is, except me and my mum, who were walking around like refugees: me in the grubby old grey vest that is only ever worn underneath other items (To keep me warm. Because I needed to be warm in that there 30% heat, for sure), and never, EVER allowed into the public eye, my mum in smart clothes and a pair of red deck shoes that she had to buy when the TREMENDOUS HEAT caused her feet to swell up and rendered her totally unable to walk. Seriously, I’m surprised no one offered to spare some change, that’s how bad we looked.
This “out in public in my grubby grey vest” experience was far from the worst thing that was to happen to me on that day, though. No, I’d say the WORST thing that happened was being accosted by Edinburgh’s resident batshit crazy person, while standing in the queue for the bathroom. For real.
We were in John Lewis at the time. We’d noticed the Crazy Lady as soon as we got off the escalator. She was walking along talking loudly to herself, and also FOAMING AT THE MOUTH. I kid you not. Well, as soon as I seen her, I knew. I knew that sooner or later, that Crazy Old Lady and I would be getting better acquainted. Remember that sign I have on my forehead, the one that only the insane can see? That sign did its job good.
As I stood in the queue for the bathroom not five minutes after seeing The Crazy, I felt an uncomfortable pressure on my arm. I looked down. Yup, sure enough, there she was, and she was now attached to my arm. “It’s very hot today,” she observed (It always starts thus, with a comment about the weather), foam dripping from her lips. “Yes, it is!” I answered, trying desperately to quell the urge to shout “MUUUUMMM! The old mad lady is taaaaallkingto me!” She looked at me. She looked me up and down, appraisingly, before pursing her foaming lips in disapproval. “Hmmmmmm,” she pronounced, looking as though there was a bad smell under her nose. At the other side of the room, a small child exited a cubicle. I threw the child out of my way and took refuge in the stall, barely able to believe that one of the Foaming-at-the-mouth-totally-freaking-batshit-crazy brigade, had turned her nose up at me. Me!
And that was our day in Edinburgh. We were also served diet Coke by the devil, but ach, you’d have to have been there.
Ikea Watch:
Meanwhile, back at The Igloo, the Ikea furniture is still status: unchanged…
 Rubin writes…
People, I stand before you, an accused man, accused of a crime I… well, OK, I DID commit, but seriously – I’m angry. And trust me, given the wolf blood that runs in my veins, you do NOT want to see the Rubinman angry, no you do not.
And my accuser? Why, it’s none other than my very own Terry. Who has attacked me here, in my very own blawg. Did you ever hear the like?! His accusations are as follows:
1. That I did wake Them up with my barking at 6am.
Yep, that was me, I dun it. Guilty as charged, your honour. But one thing you forgot to mention, Terry, is WHY I was barking at 6am. BECAUSE I HAD CRAPPED ON THE SPARE ROOM FLOOR AND I WANTED YOU TO GET IT WHILE IT WAS FRESH, that’s why. I mean, do you know how much trouble I went to to pull that one off? You were having one of those “deadlines” you sometimes get, so you were stlll up at 3am. I had to GO OUT at that time and, like, pretend to go about my business, but ACTUALLY hold it in so I could do it later, on the floor. And I did. And I’d do it again. So who looks stupid now, huh Terry? HUH?
2. That I did crap down my own leg.
Yeah, yeah, OK, I did that too. GOD, what is this, the Spanish inquisition or something? And don’t try and tell me you’ve never crapped down your own leg, Terry, we all know you’re lying. Let he who has never crapped down his own leg throw the first stone, that’s what I always say.
3. That I did play “Let’s Hide Under the Bed for No Reason” multiple times
OK, first of all? It’s not called ‘Let’s Hide Under the Bed for No Reason’, it’s called ‘Terry’s A Big Fat Dumbass, and He Knows He Is’, and you would KNOW that if you took the time to PLAY THE GAME WITH ME rather than just staring at the stupid computer box all the time. And I mean, what can I say? I like it when you chase me. I like seeing the look on your face when you realise that, once again, the Rubinman is under the bed and you can’t get him out because he’s TOO QUICK FOR YOU, Terry. Ha! Can’t touch this!
Now, I know you’re probably also going to want to bring up the issue of What Happened Last Night, so I’ll just address that one too. Yes, I crapped on two beds. Both sides, top AND bottom. That’s pretty much THREE layers of bedding crapped on. (And by the way, a little bit of credit would be nice, no?). And yeah, yeah, I topped it off with a bit of a pee. SO? They were MY BEDS to pee on – mine. Not yours, so I don’t know why you got all snarky about it. Anyway, it was raining yesterday. The Rubinman doesn’t like the rain, you know that. When it rains I just PRETEND to go out to do my business. Then I come back in and crap in the house. BIG DEAL. Get over it, Terry. Or I’ll do it again tonight. Hee!
Ha! I stick my tounge out at you, Terry. I lick my own nose while I’m at it. Can YOU lick your own nose, Terry? Ha! Didn’t think so…
Rubin
Oh dear. I done created a monster. It seems that my post on Why Journalists Hate PRs has been read, in some quarters at least, as an attempt to “diss” the PR profession as a whole – and the horse it rode in on. It really wasn’t. I wouldn’t presume to take on the might of an entire profession – I’m way too lazy for that.
As I said in the post itself, I’ve worked in PR. I know that the vast majority of PRs do a great job, and my post, written at the end of a long and tiring few days, was really just a rant about the tiny minority who don’t. That’s all. No calculated attack on the army of public relations professionals who perform an excellent, and often thankless, task. No attempt to further inflame the already heated debate that goes on amongst journos and PRs all the time, nothing like that. It was Just. A. Rant.
I’ll be honest: I thought it was funny that someone trying to promote a business would send me a press release that tells me what colour the curtains are in the show home, but not which city that show home is in. I thought other people might find it funny too, and, in my defence, some did. I didn’t intend to cause offense, and I’m sorry if I did. You see, when I wrote that post, I made an assumption. (Don’t you just hate that?) I assumed that you all would realise that my comments weren’t directed at the PR profession as a whole. I thought I had made that clear enough by referring to “some PRs” rather than “all PRs” and by stressing that I have worked in the profession myself, and that I know journalists can be a right pain in the backside too. I know I certainly am.
It has been said, by the way, that I exaggerated. That I take exception to. All of the examples I gave in the post were genuine examples of press releases I received last week. What I should probably also have said is that, in addition to those stinkers, there were a lot of other press releases that had absolutely nothing wrong with them. It’s just that writing a post that said “Last week I got sent some press releases that had nothing wrong with them” wouldn’t have been quite as interesting, no? And by the same token, the blogger who wrote a post about my post, describing it as a “diss” to the PR industry, probably wouldn’t have found much of an angle in it either.
All of which leads me, of course, to the place I didn’t want to go: the whole debate about blogging, what it is, what it isn’t, and what it should be. Here’s the thing: no one forces bloggers to write in public. We could just scribble our rants into our journals, like normal people, but where would be the fun in that? I think most of us blog because we appreciate the audience, and once we have it, we write with that audience in mind. That’s why I chose to focus on the press releases that amused me last week, and didn’t write about the ones that were absolutely fine. That’s why, although my headline was “Why Journalists Hate PRs and Why PRs Hate Journalists”, there was more of the PR-hating going on than the other way around.
So, what have I learned from all of this? Well, one thing I’ve learned is that blogging is not like journalism. (A road to Damascus moment, I’m sure). Whereas journalists – or good ones, at least – have an obligation to find out the facts before they write about something, bloggers will quite happily take an assumption and run with it. I’m not excepting myself from this, either. The natural progression here would be to make sure that nothing I write can ever be open to misinterpretation, and to carefully qualify everything I say.
The problem with this, of course, is that it leads to some pretty clumsy prose. For instance, in my post about the neighbour who keeps playing music loudly while washing his car, I would have to add a bunch of qualifications along the lines of: “My neighbour played loud music again today. That’s not to say that ALL neighbours play loud music, or even that this particular neighbour plays his music loudly all the time. And it’s not to say that loud music is bad ALL the time – for instance, if we were at a concert, the loud music would be OK.” You see my dilemma.
My point? I thought it was obvious that I was writing about specific press releases that were bad. I thought that by giving examples of those press releases, it would be clear that I wasn’t targeting the industry as a whole. Again, I was wrong. Mea culpa.
Of course, all of this is just part and parcel of the wonderful world of blogging. When you put your life online, sometimes people misunderstand you, or make assumptions, or voice objections to what you have to say. Sometimes the objections themselves are objectionable: only yesterday a commenter on one of the blogs I write for suggested I should be given electric shock treatment because my taste in shoes is THAT BAD. Two weeks ago, I discovered that the nasty comments being posted about me on another blog were written by one of my colleagues, using a fake name. That’s blogging for you. I love it. That’s why I keep on doing it, even although sometimes the things I say are misinterpreted, or just not explained too well in the first place.
Anyway, enough of all of this, I have an article on baby’s blankets to write. Please don’t send me press releases: I hate to be dependent on them, so, in the interests of good journalism, I will be going undercover in a blanket factory, after which I will be interviewing the CEO of the company, his board of directors, the lady who makes the tea, and a baby. Actually, make that a dozen babies, I need to get as wide a spread of opinion as possible. I’ll vox pop them outside the daycare. DON’T SEND ME PRESS RELEASES, though. God, no.
Because I have no life, I have spent this evening moving Rubin’s blog from Blogger to Typepad, so that I can have all of the blogs I write for in a neat little list on my control panel. It’s hard being this anal sometimes, it really is.
Anyway, the template is probably doomed to change about a dozen times before I find one I’m happy with, but you all should go and have a look anyway, say hello to the Rubinman. He likes that.
 Rubin writes…
This update comes to you live from the “Sin-bin”, where I’ve been remanded in custody by Terry after a day of total and utter BADNESS.
First there was the matter of Amber’s flowers. Well. Somehow during the night Amber had growed two flowers in the garden. Well, I don’t know how she did it, but they weren’t there the night before, and in the morning Amber was looking at them all smiley, so she must have growed them. Which was silly of her. I mean, they were right there in front of me – tall and obscenely orange. You know that thing people say about how dogs are colourblind? Crap. It’s just not true. If it was true, then those flowers wouldn’t have annoyed me this morning: I just wouldn’t have seen them, and if I hadn’t seen then, I wouldn’t have ran over to them and bit both their heads off before the orange-headed freaks knew what had hit them. Well Amber went crazy. Crazy like a LOON. She went so crazy that she totally distracted me from what I was supposed to be doing in the garden in the first place in the morning – the result being that I crapped on her bedroom floor while she was drying her hair. Well, you would have done the same.
I quietened down a bit during the day. Shredded up a newspaper while she was working right enough, but I reserved the real BADNESS for when Terry came home. Then I just went for it. I started making out like I needed a pee, so they had to keep getting me up and taking me out: then when I got outside I’d eat stones, sticks – even managed to pull a small BRANCH of one of their trees and eat it – anything except answer the call of nature. Finally they’d get bored of standing at the door watching me, so they’d go back inside – at which point I’d turn up and make like I needed a pee again. So frustrating for them! Finally they put me outside and told me to just get on with it. At which point the fat kid from next door turned up.
He turned up with a GUN. I kid you not. The fat kid was carrying a freakin’ gun. Well, what’s a wolf to do? Bearing in mind that it’s up to me to guard the house, I started barking my ass off. Then Terry appeared, wanted me to come inside. Like, no way! So I started running. I ran flat out round the garden. Round and round and round the garden, Terry chasing me the whole way. He wouldn’t give up, but neither would the Rubinman. I ran like that for like an HOUR, it was truly an awesome sight. Amber leaned out of the spare room window and laughed at Terry the whole time. He didn’t catch me: I’m fast like a JAGUAR. Finally I stopped to get me a drink of water, and Terry just, like, picked me up and put me in the Sin Bin. Hee, though! I rock!
 Rubin writes….
We have new people next door. There’s some guy who looks like Harry Potter, and there’s a fat kid who’s scared of me. Hee! I mean, I can’t blame him really – I can be quite terrifying until you get to know me. You only have to look at me. Anyway, as soon as they moved in I went into the back garden and barked at them, let them know who’s boss. It’s best they start off knowing there’s a WOLF next door…
So anyways, took Amber for a quick walk at lunchtime today because quite frankly she could be doing with the exercise, but god, what a nightmare…
We got to the end of the street. Everything was fine, Amber was safely attached to the string-thing, I’m having a good smell of everything. On the corner of the street was a van. In the driver’s seat of the van was a dog. A HUGE dog. It was, like, the size of a BEAR or something. Well, as soon as it seen me, it went for me. It was barking, slobbering, throwing itself against the window, everything. What a freakin CLOWN! Hee! It obvioulsy felt really threatened by me, which is understandable, I mean, you only need to look at me…
Anyway, I may not know much, but I know that dogs who drive VANS are bad news. To start with I was like, “bring it on pal”, but I had to think about Amber – I mean, I’d have happily taken it on, but Amber would have been scared (in fact, she looked quite scared anyway) so I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances – I turned and RAN. I turned and ran right into a WALL.
God, how embarrassing. I’m sure that freakin idiot was LAUGHING at me. Anyway, I managed to get Amber the hell out there, but our walk was ruined. Then it started to rain, so we went home. Amber was all, “oooh, Rubin, you were so brave, you’re a good boy!” I was like, “whatever.” But it was true.
Rubin writes…
n my time, I’ve often been described as a “dirty dog”. Indeed, there are those who have described me as a “filthy dog”, and still others who have called me a “BAAAAD BOY”, or a “dirty wee b******d”. But those people are WRONG my friends, for the Rubinman, he is as clean and as pure as the driven snow. I mean, I even brush my freaking TEETH:
I know what yoos are thinkin’, by the way. Y’all are like, “no way is the Rubinman actually using that brush, he’s just posing with it little a stupid sissy dog.” But you are WRONG. See?
Ha! Watch me go! I hope this clarifies the whole “Just a dog” rumour that goes around about me, people. Oh yeah, you think I don’t know, but let me tell you, the Rubinman knows ALL. I know, for example, that they are planning on sending me to “Las Vegas” for A&T’s wedding, and y’know what? I’m starting to doubt that place even IS Las Vegas. It’s like, I didn’t see no Elvis when I was there, y’hear what I’m sayin’?
Anyway, just take note here: if I can brush my teeth like a human, you just don’t know WHAT else the Rubinman can do. Just a thought for you.
So, not a lot happenin’. Terry still mad as a brush. He’s, like, totally obsessed with my PAWS. “Give me a paw,” he’ll say, a few times a day. I mean, why? What does he want my paw for? “Get your own paw,” I always feel like saying, but once I’ve handed over the paw he always make a big fuss of me, and sometimes I get a sweetie, so I put up with it. MAD, though. And another thing: what’s with the whole “Sit – stand – lie down” routine that he keeps making me go through? I mean, you don’t see me walking up to him and going, “Hi Terry – SIT! Now LIE DOWN!” do you? So why does he do it to me? Because he’s MAD, that’s why.
Smell ya’s later, folks
Rubin
 Rubin writes…
I think if I were to name the worst thing I ever did it would havta be The Sheet Incident. Amber had washed a sheet. It was white and HUGE. She spent HOURS ironing it, and she was complaining the whole time because she hates ironing. Well, I waited until she was just about finished. Then in I strolled, casual as anything. Amber started to notice a really strong smell of pee… She looked down… There, right in the middle of her beautiful, crisp, snowy-white sheet, was a huge yellow pee-stain. The Rubinman had struck again.
Well, I thought she was going to kill me. She was really MAD – and even more so when she chased me down the stairs and almost stood in the pile of crap I’d left at the bottom. (Note the word “almost” here. She didn’t ACTUALLY stand in it. So why all the fuss?) After that I decided to quieten things down a bit, pretend to be “good”. I did the odd pee here and there – mainly there, on the corner of the leather suite, to be honest, and I was sent to the SIN BIN for that. But I tried to be good. Until last week.
Last week I decided to reprise my “peeing on the ironing” act. She had been ironing Terry’s shirts. Two of them. She had hung them up on a chair for Terry to put them away. Ha! It wasn’t until he was getting ready for bed that he found the tell-tale yellow marks. I had managed to get both of the shirts. And – get this – by then it was TOO LATE for them to give me a row! Hee!
Also last week I pulled off my greatest trick yet. Imagine, if you will, that you’re Amber. You’ve just come downstairs first thing in the morning to find that the Rubinman has, as always, left a big pile o’ crap beside the back door, on the newspapers which are provided for that very purpose. You heave a big sigh and begin to clean up. It’s as you straighten up from disinfecting the floor that something catches your eye. Something brown and smelly. Almost like a crap. But no, it’s at eye level. It can’t be? Surely to god it CAN’T be?! It is. There, sitting on the kitchen counter, right next to your bonsai tree and your fairy liquid, is a crap. How did it get there? How, for the love of god, did it get there?! In the corner sits the Rubinman, quietly watching….
I bet you’re wondering how I did it, aren’t you? You’re thinking, ‘small dog, high counter’ – how DID he do it? Well I’m not going to tell you. Does the Magic Circle give its secrets away? Well then.
Other than that, here’s a list of other BAD stuff I’ve done:
1. barking really early in the morning
2. barking during the middle of the night
3. barking really early in the morning ON THE WEEKEND
4. a bit more barking
5. some more barking
6. barking again
7. and a quick spot of barking
8. barking
9. I’m still barking
10. STILL barking
11. I’ve stopped for a quick pee
12. I’m barking again
13. And again
14. I WON’T STOP barking
15. Bite me.
Hee!
Anyway, better go and have a nap. I’m up early tomorrow…
P.S .
Also: got me a new bed. Ya like?
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