Give me my mother-fucking money

The battle to recover funds owed to me by that cunt - sorry, the director - from the Lit Tour edges towards tedium and deadlock, with him stealing unpaid-for work, claiming that none of the stuff I sent to him months and months ago is useable and, best of all, that he wishes me luck in my future endeavours. It sucks being the little man in all this, without a proper written contract or the proverbial pot with which to micturate in. The best thing in all this is that he has employed someone else to do a mini-site (using my photos, again upaid for) for the Bus Tour (and if I have to type those two words again I will toss my laptop through the window) and it is so painfully wide of the mark and so badly-designed that it seems to prove what I thought all along, that this guy has absolutely no idea of what constitutes good, or useable design and, worse still, is that kind of media fag that likes to have "his" designer in the same way that he has "his" favourite skin product and "his" favourite seat at the bar in the Traverse. Furthermore, I was warned long before starting off this project that I would end up out of pocket and frustrated beyond belief, not to mention wishing the guy would be run over by a #31 at some point - this from a former employee. I once spent a thoroughly uncomfortable 30 minutes in his company in the Cafe Royal while he acted like a total, total fuckface to the poor 18 year old barman. He practically spat out the olives onto the bar, then offered me a lift home after 3 or 4 pints of IPA, which I turned down. Perhaps the greatest way is to shop him to the police the next time I see him out on the town.

In a fruitless attempt to level the balance between being fucked over and trying to get my money, I wrote a remarkably-restrained email to him pointing out just exactly how I viewed the whole thing - something like completely opposite to the way he did. This helps little besides getting off my chest - no more than 50% of - the things I wanted to say - in a horrifically wordy way, full of placatory language like "appreciate", "favourable" and "fair". What I should have done, given that there is probably no chance of getting the £600 (yes!) this worthless fuck owes me back, would have been to write a deliciously-vitriolic letter, on A4 ruled paper stained with brown sauce and dirt, addressing it to "Dear Fucko" and signing off with "I hope you'll never have children. The world is too full of cunts as it is. I hope you get warts on your japs. I AM LONO". I haven't written that letter, yet. Let's see what pops up in the inbox tomorrow and then get the old Corona typewriter primed. Or, failing that, a short phone call to some Russian heavies who drink vats of vodka and are scratchy for casual violence.