I’m an IT freelancer working mainly in the financial sector. Axes started falling last week at the company I’m currently working for, major cut backs are causing jobs to go. Freelancers such as me are at the top of the list (naturally). I can’t say that I’m happy about it but I understand market forces else I wouldn’t be a freelancer. Major companies are downsizing, getting rid of freelance and permanent employees in their thousands. Many companies are outsourcing to India where skilled resources are significantly cheaper that here in the UK. It’s not just IT people, it’s marketing people, customer service centres, human resources and so on. Everyone is firing, no-one is hiring.

So, who buys the products provided by these companies? The people who are losing their jobs, that’s who. I’ve got a mortgage, credit cards, pension, ISA (a good way to make a small fortune out of a larger one but that’s another story), life insurance, medical insurance, critical illness, income protection, motor insurance, home insurance etc. I go on holidays, subscribe to satelite TV, I buy stuff. All of the above are provided by companies who are downsizing and or outsourcing. Here’s a thought. If I lose my job and can’t find another, I won’t be able to buy the products provided by these companies, their sales will go down, they will have to save more money by downsizing or outsourcing. Someone else will lose their job, they won’t be able to afford to buy the products. Aren’t we seeing a marketing disaster here where companies are gradually making their own and each other’s customers redundant.

My friend Colin and I were outed on Friday night. We went for our customary eight pints and a curry in Guildford. Sitting next to us were two couples from the local trailer park, loudly discussing ‘olidays in Magaluff or Tenerife. One of the lads was so pissed he tried ordering the chicken phaal but was negotiated down to a dansak by his bird.

Out of the blue, “chicken phal” boy leaned over and said “’scuse me, can I ask you a question?” “Sure” says I. “Are you gay?” says he, “Splutter, splutter, what?” says Colin. I’m sure some korai lamb came down my nose. “Why do you ask?” says I. “Well, two blokes having a nice quiet dinner and you look gay!”, says he. Can’t argue with his logic, we’re both good looking lads.

Now, I have nothing against being gay, it’s just not for me. I like girls, I’m “straight not narrow”, live and let live etc. But, we’d just spent the last half hour discussing the impending birth of Colin’s (and his wife’s obviously) first baby with me as an old hand giving expectant father loads of useful advice. Enough I should have though to establish our orientation.

Guildford is not known as the San Francisco of Surrey, it’s not the most cosmopolitan place on the planet. I hope “chicken phaal” boy doesn’t find a less easy going “couple” to try his gaydar out on next time.

Motorcycling, good weather and stuff: I got speed gunned on the way home on Friday, two policemen at either side of the road in the middle of a village with a 50mph limit. How fast was I doing? 47mph, Nyaaah! Mind you I always stick close to the lower limits due to having a social conscience, so it wasn’t anything special. I looked the officer straight in the eye and smiled at him, then realised that I was wearing my illegal dark visor.

I must have been the only bloke in Surrey, Sussex or Hampshire who owns a motorcycle who wasn’t out riding at the weekend. Not that I’m jealous or anything. The roads around Haslemere were chock a block with shiny sports bikes carrying even shinier riders. Where do they find clean roads? My bike’s always filthy even after a clean (which it didn’t get this weekend). There were deifinitely more bikes on the way to work this morning, I try to nod, wave or make some kind of gesture to each of them, it’s going to get a bit tiring soon. So, if you see me out on my bike and I don’t acknowledge you it’s probably due to RSI or the Gregory Peck.

By the way, big thanks to the guy on the red Fireblade in Camelsdale, Haslemere who took time to wave at my little boy (he loves bikes funnily enough).

“Help help, I’m being oppressed” Bloody pheasants are all over the place. One of the suicidal little gits almost got me on my bike ride to work this morning. Leaning beautifully into a left hander up a slight hill, lo and behold there he was in the other lane walking away from me to safety. Until he saw me that is! A quick dither, an about turn and run at the nice motorbike’s front wheel. No, turn around again, no another shot at the wheel, no take off towards the big round shiny black thing with a window in it. Why do people who shoot these idiot birds call it sport? They’ve all got a bloody death wish. Surely it would be more of a sport to try not to shoot them!

Why is it that the people who have the theme tune from Mission Impossible as their ring tone are always accountants or

mild mannered IT nerds (at least by day). I wonder what secret agents have!