So the next World Cup has gone to Russia.  And the next one has gone to where?  To a wealthy sandpit.  This has not done my beloved football any favours.  It just makes me like non league football even more.  It's honest and gritty.  You get what you pay for.  It ain't pretty at times but the young and old lads out there give it everything they can, on top of a full working week.  However the decision is good news for the construction workers of Russia and neighbouring countries like the Ukraine and Belarus.  Our Belarussian fostergirls father recently had an accident while working on a building site in Moscow.  Who knows, maybe he will have the chance to have an accident while constructing an Olympic football stadium.  Something I can only dream of. I can however lay claim to have having had an accident in Milford on Sea.  And in Southbourne.  And thirdly in London. Funnily enough it was this accident that led me into the worst job I ever had. I had my accident right up in the West End of London, on the Kingsway in fact.  Any smokers of hand rolled cigarettes will remember the address on the back of the Old Holborn packet.  65 Kingsway Holborn WC1.  The address of the old Cigarette Marketing Board now being gutted for refurbishment and conversion to new offices.  Now that was a good job.  On the demolition gang, plenty of back to back shifts paying cash. Shame I left it on a stretcher.  Anyhow I had recovered enough to get back to light work I thought and besides I was bored to tears so one morning I left Kilburn and headed up to the Labour Exchange in Kentish Town. This was the mecca for casual construction work in the capital at the time.  I was looking for some groundworks and amongst the job cards on display one from London Zoo caught my eye.  I'll have some of that, I thought to myself, a bit of kerbing or ductwork surrounded by exotic animals.  That will be something to bore the grandchildren with.  I went for the interview and got the job, rather too quickly in retrospect. So I tubed it down to Regents Park on the first day and went to work at London Zoo.  However I soon realised things weren't going to be as I had imagined.  I reported to my new boss and was given a witches broom and a dustbin on wheels with a handle for pulling it around.  What's on then?  I thought to myself and asked as much.  Turned out I had misread the job card, they were advertising for grounds sweepers not groundworkers.  I was shown my patch and told to stick to it.  However once I had swept past the okapi, the elan and the tapirs I fancied seeing the chimps so off I went.  To my bemusement I was glared off by a grumpy Lancashire woman for straying off my patch and on to hers. I don't know if you've ever been glared at by a Lancastrian but it ain't nice.  I only wanted to see some monkeys.  And so began the worst job in the world although I soon realised I wasn't fully fit for serious work and sweeping up was actually about my limit.  It wasn't all bad though there were some interesting moments too.  One of my workmates was a short ginger haired Australian man who was quite the opposite of the national stereotype, in fact I didn't believe he was Australian for a while.  He wanted a picture of himself with the statue of Guy the Gorilla, the nations favourite great ape who had died some years before.  Except he wanted to stand behind the statue with his trousers down.  This was not going to be easy as there were people passing by regularly all day so we decided it had to be done before the zoo opened early in the morning.  One damp early Autumn morning found us lurking in the undergrowth beside one of the buildings opposite the statue.  There were several failed attempts to capture the photo with my diminuitive ginger friend having to dive out of sight while frantically hoisting up his trousers.  Eventually though we got the shot and I like to think that somewhere in the Western Hemisphere a short ginger haired non stereotypical Aussie is showing his grandchildren pictures of himself backscuttling Guy the Gorilla in London Zoo in the heady days of 1985.  Another bizarre incident occurred when Humphrey the Camel died and his body needed to be disposed of in London Zoos very own incinerator.  Loading the incinerator was in my job description  so I volunteered and set off hoping my Aussie workmate hadn't heard of this photo oppportunity. Wow, I was thinking, a great chance to see a big animal at close quarters.  I arrived at the incinerator building and stuck my head around the door but there was nothing to be seen except a large pile of binbags which wasn't unusual as waste turned up there all the time. But no camel.  Damn, no camel.  I reported back to my boss.  Boss, I said, there's no camel down there.  Just a big pile of binbags.  He's in the binbags, said the boss.  The head keepers got a chainsaw for jobs like this.  You'll have to do him one chunk at a time. Oh, I said and went off and got on with it. One chunk at a time.  And that's how the mortal remains of Humphrey the Camel, childrens favourite and local celebrity were dealt with. Whatever next, eh?  By the way nothings happened in the workshop this week.