TV.

I bloody love the city me. I love the stink, the fumes, the crowds, the noise, the heat. I love the riot vans, the mounted police and the tramps. I love the mentals who ask you for cigarettes because ‘I’ve just split up with me burd and I’m having a really hard time like’. So hard they haven’t got round to actually purchasing some cigarettes.

I even love the throngs of Poles who hang around outside employment agencies at 8.30am and assume that because I wear a suit I can secure them employment on a building site for the day.

I love the fact that there is a certain ‘quarter’ of the city that I cannot set foot in because for reasons I have yet to fathom I am like catnip to homosexuals.

I am walking to my office. It is morning.

Here she comes, I think.

And like clockwork, she strides toward me. I could set my watch by her. Proper strides, mind you. She is nearly seven foot tall. Really. The perm would shame Elkie Brooks. Facially, she resembles an un-surgically enhanced Roger Daltry.

Being of very broad shoulder, many people who step near her are sent reeling.

I say ‘she’ and ‘her’. I have no idea if she is entirely post-op and have no strong desire to find out. But if I’d had implants, hormones and my cock split in half and shoved back inside me, I’d feel I’d earned the title as well as anyone else.

I reach the building that I work in.

The colleague that I work most closely with is the same height, age and build as me. And has the uncanny ability of making people feel unsure as to whether he is about to propose to a person or murder them. I like him.

Uncannily Similar to Myself Colleague: Morning Tired.

Me: Yeah. You know transvestites?

USTMC: I can find out for you. Jesus. I had no idea.

Me: Fuck off. I mean, you know, those men that decide they should actually be women and have surgery?

USTMC: They’re transsexuals.

Me: That’s fucked the title then.

USTMC: What?

Me: Nothing. But. Look. Have you ever seen a transsexual that didn’t look like a goalkeeper? Seriously. They all look like rugby players in drag.

Silence.

Some thought takes place. This is a serious matter and nobody has drunk any coffee yet.

USTMC: No.

Me: Mmmm.

This is going to trouble me all day.

USTMC: But.

Me: Yes?

USTMC: If they didn’t look like centre-forwards, how would you even know they were transsexuals?

More silence.

Me: Of course. I’ve probably seen and met and known thousands and not even known.

I feel a huge weight has been lifted.

Monkeyface.

I am at work. It is morning. As I take my chosen employ very seriously, I am checking my email accounts. All of them.

First personal email account. Nothing. Hmm.

Second personal email account that I had created specifically for recieving junk whenever I need to supply an address to a site that requires one in return of information I need. Hmmm. Several women who are apparently very eager to perform fellatio upon me. Astounding. Otherwise nothing.

Third personal email account that I often forget exists. Nothing.

Email account connected to Shite Blog I sometimes write. Nothing.

Email account of university I sometimes attend. Nothing. I’ve forgotten my password.

This is desperate. As a last resort I check my Actual Work Email Account.

There is a message!

Sadly from a Public Relations Buffoon that I am required to deal with in the short term. It contains phrases such as ‘event critical’ and ‘time sensitive’ and mentions some concern regarding ‘corporate sponsors’.

I read it twice. And then come to the conclusion that if this message were at all important the writer would have employed plain English. I resolve to ignore it until something along the lines of ‘I need such and such and can you do this specific thing. Fucking now’ arrives. Which I shall probably also ignore.

Frankly, I would have preferred nothing.

Spent, I cast about me. At this rate I may have to do some Actual Work.

I begin ‘generating’ some ‘revenue reports’. This is a real thing, and can be very easily mistaken for Actual Work, and is genuinely quite complicated and time consuming.

Whilst I am engrossed in this, Thug Colleague wanders by.

(Do not mistake me. He is perfectly pleasant. He has the vocabulary of Favourite Son [two years old], the appearance of any character you choose from Viz and is self-appointed Class Clown. Now. Every class needs one. But no-one particularly wants to be fucking friends with the Class Clown.)

Thug Colleague: By I’m busy like Tired.

Me: Mmm. As am I, you loud-mouthed imbecile.

TG: Aye. Good one like. How. Have ah eva telt ye aboot my mate Monkeyface?

This is a tough one. Had Thug ever mentioned his acquaintance Monkeyface, I would surely have remembered. It is one of those names. So, if I lie and tell him I am fully appraised of the activities of Monkeyface, I shall be left alone. But will unfortunately have to then Do Some Work.

If I tell the truth, I will be excused from Actual Work, but will have to suffer the presence of a man who assumes that being referred to as a ‘loud-mouthed-imbecile’ is actually O.K.

Me: Do you know what? I’ve been tortured by this. I honestly don’t believe I have.

TC: Aye. Reet. Do you knaw why we call him Monkeyface?

Me: Does he have a face like a monkey?

TC: Naw.

Me: Of course not. That would be too easy. Do tell.

TC: Reet. Well. We were at university together reet?

Me: You went to university?

TC: Aye. Why?

Me: No reason. Amazing.

TC: Aye Reet. So he’s in his room in halls reet, and there’s this lass geing him a noshy. Ya knaw? A noshy?

Me: I think I get the picture. As memory serves.

TC: Aye. Piping him off an’ that.

Me: I am now definitely on the same page as you.

TC: Reet. Thing was, he’d trimmed his pyubs beforehand like.

Me: The age of chivalry is not dead it seems. I’m sure no self-respecting young lady enjoys the sensation of going down on what is essentially a camel-hair sweater with a bit of gristle in the middle. What a gent.

TC: Eh? Anyways. He gets there and then pulls it oot and whacks-off all ower her face.

Silence.

I am unsure as to how to respond. In mitigation, I am sure that such things have happened to the best of us. Although thinking back, I do not recall ever having specifically taken aim.

Me: O.K. then. As I say, I really am quite busy.

TC: Aye. Reet. And then, reet, he grabs this pile of pyubs that are still on his bedside table and he hoys then straight into her face. And all the hair sticks cos of all the spunk like and he gans ‘Monkeyfaaace’, ‘Monkeyfaaaaace’.

Silence. For some time.

Me: O.K. then.

I look at my computing machine. It appears my revenue report is complete.

Jumping the Shark

Appalling Blog Cliches#2

The worst is the My Blog is Now One Year Old and Here is What I Have Learnt Post. To be followed closely by the I Have Just Received My One-Thousandth Hit and am Dead Chuffed Post.

To avoid this, I am doing my One-Year-Learnt thing late. Ha-ha.

I have learnt that:

Being as rude as you please to people you believe to deserve it is almost as pleasurable as it is in real life. But not quite. And then they turn out to be very gentlemanly and ruin it all.

Lots of nice ladies will send you emails saying nice things.

One of those nice ladies will bully you so much you feel compelled to get a bit drunk with them. In person and that. And eat in an average but nonetheless perfectly pleasant restaurant with them. And suffer being repeatedly referred to as a ‘cunt’. And rather enjoy yourself for the first time in ages.

Somebody will thank you for giving them a much-needed kick up the arse and say that their marriage is now back on track.

Somebody else will thank you for other reasons that are far too personal to mention here, but will say that your words prompted him to talk to his family about something that bothered him all his life. You will feel simultaneously brilliant and shit.

A number of people will say ‘Hey, this is quite good’.

A number of people will say ‘Hey, this is very shit’. (They are often the most entertaining. Lots of people get cross and it goes on for ages. It’s brilliant)

You will correspond with Americans. And Canadians.

You will be quite obsessed about your ‘stats’ for two months and then forget to check them. Ever. Unless you are a twat.

You will enjoy the contents of your ‘comments’ more than you enjoy writing your shit blog.

Rather dubious-sounding insurance companies will offer to advertise on your shit blog in return for foolish amounts of money. You will decline because you are not a ‘cunt’.

People will request that you put ‘links’ to their shit blog on your own shit blog. You may or may not decline, for reasons best known to yourself.

You find yourself with not much to say for yourself.

Oh. And it’s actually quite good fun. And you’ll kid yourself that you’ll get a Real Writing Job like Mil Millington or Charlie Brooker or the Playground guy. But you won’t.

It doesn’t matter. Because it’s Quite Good.


Sorry. I know. I'll delete it.