Judge:You sir have heard the charges. Please state your name for the record.
Tired Dad: My name is Ti-
Judge: Was that silence?
TD: No. Oh. I see. I mean, Mmmmm.
Judge: What is your name?
TD: My na- oh. Mmmmmm.
Judge: YOUR NAME IS BITCH.
TD: Nothi- mmmmmmm.
Judge: What is your name?
TD: (Now?) [Judge nods] My name is, erm, Bitch.
Judge: And what business are you in sir?
TD: Well, a bit difficult to say, currently I am-
Judge: SILENCE! YOU ARE IN THE GETTING FUCKED BY US BUSINESS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
TD: Bit ‘Usual Suspects’ but I get the gist-
[Pause. The tension is unbelievable.]
Judge: You speak when I allow you to speak. You are now the property of the state. Do you understand? We OWN you.
Judge: Good. You have heard the charges Mr.Bitch. How do you plead?
TD: Thing is, it’s all a bit silly really. There’s been a huge misunderstanding and-
Judge: ENOUGH! [He has grown tired of his ‘SILENCE’ catchphrase].
Judge: What was it? Did you have a craving? Did you need the money for rock?
TD: Rock? I don’t even like Blackpool. Believe me, I’ve been more times than-
Judge: ENOUGH! I mean ROCK. Rock cocaine. CRACK.
Judge: You, my good man, are going down. And not in a ‘about to orally pleasure a lady’ way. Oh no. You can kiss goodbye to those days. Those tomato, mozorella and fresh basil salads you like? You know. With just ‘a bit’ of olive oil? Kiss those fuckers goodbye an’all. We’ve got a nice cell ready for you. Do you know a chap named Johnny?
TD: I don’t believe so.
Judge: No? Apparently he is quite partial to the rock himself. Do you know, he’ll even su-
Judge: Ah. So you have. I’m sure you will both get along famously. SEND HIM DOWN! WHEN I SAY DOWN I DON’T MEAN IT IN A GOOD WAY.
It all starts quite normally.
I am in our local supermarket. I don’t truly feel it has earnt its ‘super’ status, but it's not a corner shop either. Tired Mam craves yeast and tomatos. This does not bode well for dinner.
On my way, I stop at Local Hardware Shop. I wander the aisles. I savour the smell of oil. I love these places. Never used to.
I longingly finger some contraption I will never know the purpose of. I eventually decide upon a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Christ – the actual Stanley Knifes are four quid more expensive. I mean. Sharp is sharp.
Head toward the counter, flushed with my new purchase.
The effete intellectual-type I was several years ago would sneer at me. The handy-round-the-house-family-man I have become would promptly kick him in the bollocks.
I pay. Being a handy pocket-sized item, I slip it into my pocket. In the bag they supply me, I keep the four high-ball glasses I have also purchased. For our Bloody Marys you know. Fuck off.
I’m at the checkout (this is the supermarket now).
I am sure I have forgotten something. I keep looking around in a distracted manner, hoping to see something that may jog my memory.
The woman shows my few items to the ‘bleep’ machine. Tells me price. I hand over card.
She puts it into thing (am I meant to put it in? Am I causing an inconvenience to her by superciliously making her do it? Modern fucking life).
Cashback? No. And it isn’t really having it BACK is it? So don’t phrase it like that.
PIN number. Beep beep beep beep.
Receipts spool. She pops open the till for said receipts.
It occurs to me. Actually, walking about with a not-really-Stanley-Knife in your trouser pocket isn’t the best move. I mean. I am short, skinny, relatively well-dressed and white. I could be stop-and-searched by the police AT ANY TIME.
I take out the not-really-Stanley-Knife in preparation for putting it into the hardware shop bag.
TIME FUCKING STANDS STILL.
I am at the till.
I have been acting nervous, and looking around a lot.
The till drawer has just popped, exposing Christ knows how much in fives, tens and twenties.
I have a fucking sharp knife in my hand.
A not-really-Stanley-Knife no less.
If anyone notices, things will not go in my favour.
No-one did. Put it back in my pocket. Walked free.
No trial. No kangaroo-court judge who keeps referring to me as bitch. No prison cell with a crack cocaine addict convinced I have some ‘rock’ secreted in my sphincter and forcefully insisting that he fellate me in return for a ‘hit’ on it.
Everything is GREAT!
I get home.
SEVEN FUCKING TOMATOS!