Not the MOT, that went perfectly fine without a hitch. No, this is an even WORSE fail, but still somewhat MOT related.
While I was at the MOT I get a call from some agent that usually only contacts me with jobs that pay over a thousand quid for like a day or two work. So I'm carefully paying attention to what the MOT guy is up to in case he tries to pull a fast one on me or something, and trying to talk to this agent about a potential job.
The agent asks me if I can go to a casting in London bright and early tomorrow morning, and I say yes.
They say whatever it is it's filming on Monday, so I say yes that's fine.
(still distracted trying to keep an eye on the MOT doings)
The agent mentions some other shit I didn't quite catch and I just say yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll be there, whatever, just email me the details and I'll check it when I get indoors because I'm busy at the moment but go ahead and put me down for it.
Then the agent says "...and wear something you can DANCE in".
WHAT?! ME wear SOMETHING I can DANCE in?? What the fuck??
So I get the MOT sorted out and hurry home to check my email to see what the fuck I've let myself in for.
The upshot is that I have to be at PINEAPPLE BLOODY DANCE STUDIOS tomorrow to audition for DANCING in some bloody music video for somebody I've never even heard of and won't dare mention here.
I think you can all see the problem with this picture.
Me, DANCING? What the holy FECK- who on Earth did they think they were talking to on the phone? And it only pays £200 anyway even if I got the job, which would never happen in a million years because THIS hairy old fart certainly does NOT "dance". Imagine the horror. Imagine the mental scarring. Imagine the carnage. Even the thought of it gives me the frights. Who fecking thought it was a good idea to phone ME up for a DANCING job?
FAIL, FAIL, FAIL, FAIL, BLOODY FAIL!
I can't really turn this down because I already said I'd be there before I even knew what it was and it would piss the agency off and I need to keep them sweet for future jobs, but I can certainly make sure they don't even consider me at the casting.
So naturally I'm going to show up in a Russian army coat and an old ratbike shirt, with clonky boots, unshaven and reeking of cheap scotch, and promptly begin going through their bins and scratching my arse a lot. Think the Jethro Tull "Aqualung" album cover.