Discover Top Posts Tagged with #memorable

You know, when you're young, people tell you all sorts of things about adulthood. They tell you about careers, mortgages, responsibility, finding your place in the world.

What they never tell you is that one day you might find yourself trapped in a corn-flake factory listening to Chubby Checker for three straight hours and questioning every decision you've ever made.

I was about twenty-five, give or take. Early nineties. Working as a security guard for one of those companies that supplied guards wherever they were needed. Factories, office buildings, industrial estates. If someone needed a bloke in a uniform to sit somewhere overnight, that was us.

Anyway, I get assigned to this cereal factory for a couple of nights.

I turn up and meet the regular guard. Nice enough fellow. Friendly. Helpful. Showed me around.

"Easy job," he says. "Just watch the cameras. Have a wander around the site every now and then."

Perfect.

I'd come prepared for a quiet night. I had a flask of proper tea, a couple of sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a Stephen King novel. In my mind this was going to be one of those shifts where you spend twelve hours getting paid to read.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, we settle into this little security office with six CCTV monitors and not much else.

Then he says, "I play music in here."

"No problem," I say.

Then he says, "I only listen to Chubby Checker."

Now, I'm not against Chubby Checker. Seems like a decent enough chap. But most people have a selection of music. A bit of variety. Maybe a few different artists.

Not this bloke.

This man had made a commitment.

Three hours later I knew more about Chubby Checker than I knew about some members of my own family.

Song after song after song.

And he wasn't just listening.

He was participating.

Humming.

Singing.

Tapping his feet.

Smiling.

Every tune was apparently the greatest thing he'd ever heard.

Meanwhile, I'm staring at security monitors showing absolutely nothing happening and wondering if this is some kind of government experiment designed to test human endurance.

Eventually he says, "If you want, you can pop down to the pub around half ten."

I nearly hugged him.

I was out the door so fast you'd think the building was on fire.

Down to the pub I went.

Beer.

Whisky.

Beer.

Whisky.

Not because I was having a bad day.

Not because my life was falling apart.

I simply needed to spend an hour somewhere that wasn't playing Chubby Checker.

The pub closes at eleven-thirty and I wander back.

I sit down and say, "Mind if I get a bit of sleep? Feeling a little groggy."

What I didn't say was that I was mentally preparing myself for the fact I had another shift there tomorrow night.

Another night of cameras.

Another night of corn flakes.

Another night of Chubby Checker.

Now, the reason I remember this story all these years later isn't because it was important.

Nothing dramatic happened.

Nobody got hurt.

The factory didn't explode.

There were no criminals scaling the fence.

It was just another boring night shift.

But life is strange like that.

The things we think we'll remember forever often fade away.

The things that stay with us are usually the odd little moments.

A conversation.

A laugh.

A ridiculous situation.

Or a bloke in a security office who loved Chubby Checker with every fibre of his being.

And that's where the lesson comes in.

People talk about drowning their sorrows. Having a drink to forget. Escaping for a little while.

Fair enough.

But the funny thing is, the drink never becomes the memory.

The story does.

The beer is long gone.

The whisky is long gone.

The pub itself might not even be there anymore.

But thirty years later, I can still see that tiny security room, those six camera screens, and hear that distant soundtrack playing in the background.

You can drown your sorrows if you like.

But somehow they always float back to the surface.

Especially the funny ones.

Date in nature, simple but memorable 🌳🏕️

#nature #date #memorable #simple

You know, when you're young, people tell you all sorts of things about adulthood. They tell you about careers, mortgages, responsibility, finding your place in the world.

What they never tell you is that one day you might find yourself trapped in a corn-flake factory listening to Chubby Checker for three straight hours and questioning every decision you've ever made.

Anyway, I get assigned to this cereal factory for a couple of nights.

I turn up and meet the regular guard. Nice enough fellow. Friendly. Helpful. Showed me around.

"Easy job," he says. "Just watch the cameras. Have a wander around the site every now and then."

Perfect.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, we settle into this little security office with six CCTV monitors and not much else.

Then he says, "I play music in here."

"No problem," I say.

Then he says, "I only listen to Chubby Checker."

Now, I'm not against Chubby Checker. Seems like a decent enough chap. But most people have a selection of music. A bit of variety. Maybe a few different artists.

Not this bloke.

This man had made a commitment.

Three hours later I knew more about Chubby Checker than I knew about some members of my own family.

Song after song after song.

And he wasn't just listening.

He was participating.

Humming.

Singing.

Tapping his feet.

Smiling.

Every tune was apparently the greatest thing he'd ever heard.

Meanwhile, I'm staring at security monitors showing absolutely nothing happening and wondering if this is some kind of government experiment designed to test human endurance.

Eventually he says, "If you want, you can pop down to the pub around half ten."

I nearly hugged him.

I was out the door so fast you'd think the building was on fire.

Down to the pub I went.

Beer.

Whisky.

Beer.

Whisky.

Not because I was having a bad day.

Not because my life was falling apart.

I simply needed to spend an hour somewhere that wasn't playing Chubby Checker.

The pub closes at eleven-thirty and I wander back.

I sit down and say, "Mind if I get a bit of sleep? Feeling a little groggy."

What I didn't say was that I was mentally preparing myself for the fact I had another shift there tomorrow night.

Another night of cameras.

Another night of corn flakes.

Another night of Chubby Checker.

Now, the reason I remember this story all these years later isn't because it was important.

Nothing dramatic happened.

Nobody got hurt.

The factory didn't explode.

There were no criminals scaling the fence.

It was just another boring night shift.

But life is strange like that.

The things we think we'll remember forever often fade away.

The things that stay with us are usually the odd little moments.

A conversation.

A laugh.

A ridiculous situation.

Or a bloke in a security office who loved Chubby Checker with every fibre of his being.

And that's where the lesson comes in.

People talk about drowning their sorrows. Having a drink to forget. Escaping for a little while.

Fair enough.

But the funny thing is, the drink never becomes the memory.

The story does.

The beer is long gone.

The whisky is long gone.

The pub itself might not even be there anymore.

But thirty years later, I can still see that tiny security room, those six camera screens, and hear that distant soundtrack playing in the background.

You can drown your sorrows if you like.

But somehow they always float back to the surface.

Especially the funny ones.

#memorable

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#memorable