I am excited to welcome the Nick Bryan onto this blog. The third book in Hobson and Choi series, Trapped in the Bargain Basement, has just come out this month. One of the characters I was curious over when I read the first two books in the series was the Sad Receptionist (Nick is going to talk about him a little further down) so when I was asked if I wanted Nick to come on the blog, I jumped at the chance to know more about this character. And this post below is what I got!
Before I hand this post over to Nick and the Sad Receptionist, I must thank Nick for taking time out to write this post and to Faye for asking if I wanted to be involved.
[AUTHOR'S NOTE – Sad Receptionist is a fictional character from the Hobson & Choi darkly comic crime series by me (Nick Bryan, hi). He is a bored young man who posts meaningful yet juvenile poetry on social media. Follow him on Twitter as @SadReceptionist or check out the H&C books (especially the second one) to discover his secret origin. He also has two 'collections' of poetry on Storify.
Now it's time for his first full length blog post: an epic poem about the relevant social issues around gentrification. Well, mostly it's about him. Big shock.]
Every day I wake up
and go to work in London,
amidst reams of free newspapers
for tramps to wipe their bums on.
I live and work in Peckham
which used to be quite shitty
but now it's full of coffee shops
just like the whole damn city.
You'd think I'd be all about
CostaNeroBucks desecration
as I am the core demographic
for endless gentrification.
But I work on a reception desk
for about two pounds an hour.
I glare at all the residents
but have no actual power.
So despite being a white male
with floppy hair and a cardigan
I live in constant terror of
Subway declining my card again.
Every time my school friends
post another picture of cats
I know my cheap shared house
moves closer to becoming flats.
I either drink in cheap pubs
crying over all I lack
or get laughed out of coffee shops
for not having an Apple Mac.
I always get lost in Shoreditch.
I don't know how to twerk.
I can't justify cool glasses
because my eyes actually work.
I explained this to my Mum
struggling not to cry.
She said “Hashtag first world problems!”
and now I want to die.
I tried befriending other poets
but even that didn't stick.
They said “Your work doesn't scan
and also you're a prick.”
Sometimes I start to worry
that a new Twitter follower
isn't quite enough to
stop life seeming ever hollower.
But I shall not give up
the endless struggle to cope.
A hardback comedy book deal
remains my only hope.
No, no-one ever reads them.
They're just token Christmas presents.
But I do not give a single damn
about wasteful spending by peasants.
For I must realise my dream
of moving somewhere cool.
The tworld of twendy Twitter
can be so horribly cruel.
-- a poem
