Computeach

The night sweated it out, warping my dreams into a single eight hour cycle of The Chipster shoving turkeys into a meat grinder that miraculously turned them into bread-crumbed twizzlers. There was a moment around four AM when I awoke and tried to gather my thoughts, only to have them carry on running manically around the bedroom. I suddenly felt a great affinity with Bernard Matthews. Is this how he began? I wondered, before I fell back into my pillow for more hellish hours with the food processor.

I awoke feeling much better. A few hours of untroubled sleep lay between me, my fever, and the sound of bones and beaks being ground to high protein dinner treats. Yet the nightmares had not totally retreated. I thought about how Bernard had built up his huge empire by hatching turkey eggs in an unused bedroom. It was a sobering thought, enough to make a man consider his life and career.

Recently, I’ve been giving serious thought to doing something else for a living. This cold is just the latest trouble caused by too many nights spent naked on draughty stages. According to my surgeon, my back injury last year was worse than anything suffered by his more usual mix of rugby players and road accident victims. I should have never tried lifting that woman up but at least she taught me to be careful with my body. I need to consider the future.

Yet a career change is a big thing. Bigger, I imagine, than the TV adverts I’ve noticed recently for Computeach. They usually begin with a forlorn postman walking down a road in a rainstorm and then, through the power of editing and a little work by the people at Computeach, he’s pulling up in his forty grand BMW and flashing his orthodontically perfect smile at some wide eyed blonde in his company. The message suggests that qualifications with Computeach are career Viagra. What is the qualification gulf between postman and IT consultant? I don’t know but a Computeach course seems to provide better qualifications than any degree course.

It’s the sort of promotion that works for me. Imagine an ad with a male exotic dancer, perhaps even Wales’ number one hip wiggler, dancing in a small Bangor night club, and then suddenly transformed into a Ferrari-driving systems analyst arriving at his own private parking bay of his own IT company.

Is it too much to ask for?

What else can a man with my peculiar skills do with his life once he finds the baby oil no longer leaves his skin feeling supple? I have thought about politics, but an ex-male stripper is too straight-laced for the Lib Dems, too far out for the Tories, and not slippery enough to join the Labour Party.

There must be some career options for a man like me… Or perhaps I should just buy myself twelve turkey eggs and an incubator.