Seriously.

Have people nothing better to do?

'Doesn't Peter Andre Look Like Charlie Brooker?'

For some reason I thought she said Carl Andre. Conceptual artists and snide newspaper columnists do not go together in my mind.

Me: WHAT?

Tired Mam: You can just see him singing Mysterious Girl can't you?

Me: Honestly. WHAT?

TM: I mean. I've seen him on Have I Got News For You and that -

Me: Peter ANDRE?

I'd never really clocked him as the 'topical debate' sort.

TM: NO! That'd be mad. Charlie Brooker.

Me: Right.

TM: And he doesn't look a bit like Peter Andre.

Me: WHAT? Wait -

I am literally lost for words. I put the phone down for a moment and stare about my office. There are various telephone conversations taking place, involving phrases like 'credit control', 'deadlines', 'servers are down' etc. None involve washed-up 1990's 'singers' and painfully amusing 'Guardian Columnists'. My normal office chat / mouth-ADHD begins to sound sane by comparison.

Me: Right. What?

TM: On the cover of his new book. He looks like Peter Andre. But he doesn't look like Peter Andre at all.

Me: Seriously. You've rung me at work -

TM: But he doesn't.

Me: What?

TM: Look like Peter Andre.

Me: I KNOW.

I feel like a simple child has chanted the words 'Peter Andre' into my ears in an annoying sing-song manner for 36 hours.

TM: But he does though.

Me: WHAT!

TM: On the cover of the book. He looks just like Peter Andre.

Me: Please don't say 'Peter Andre' any more.

TM: I thought that it was meant to be Peter Andre [FUCKFUCKFUCK] leading a charge of idiots. Like he was the leader of the fuck-witted.

Me: Ok. So Charlie Brooker's publishers are deciding upon the cover art for his new book, the general subject of which is that people in general are facile and worthless, and feel that Peter fucking Andre best represents this?

TM: Yes.

Pause. She has a point of sorts.

TM: But it doesn't really work because he doesn't even look like Peter Andre.

Me: WHO? The guy depicted on the cover?

TM: NO! CHARLIE FUCKING BROOKER!

Me: I have to go. Fuck me.

TM: What?

Me: No wonder we split up.

TM: Really though. Ask anyone you work with. They'll all say it.

Me: Say what?

TM: That Charlie Brooker looks like Peter Andre. Everyone's been thinking it, it's just that I'm the only one brave enough to say so. Like when you admit you look at the toilet paper after you've wiped.

Me: Fuck. Do you? Filth.

TM: You know what I mean. Ask around. I won't be the only one thinking it.

Me: Thinking that a writer none of them would have heard of resembles a 'singer' they're all too young to remember? I'm sure they are. They just haven't the courage to bring it to my attention for fear of embarrassing themselves.


So. Dear readers. For the sake of settling feasibly the world's most absurd argument, does or does not a Guardian writer resemble except not really resemble an ex-pop 'singer' who sung one song and looks like he should be in a Disney movie (personally I think he looks like that guy off of Lilo & Stitch).

Make it snappy, it's not the festive spirit to be not having furious rows with estranged loved-ones about things that don't matter. And I need some ammunition.

Outbursts From My Sister.

I can tell when people are on the edge. Usually I enjoy myself by saying 'Josh, your Dad's found your scooter' when they reach this point and watching them explode.

But I also know when to sit back.

Sister is in a foul temper. She is given to irrational rages at the slightest incident. I don't know where she gets it from.

We are in her van. She grinds the gears as much as her teeth.

Sister: FUCKS SAKE. I need some cocking petrol now.

Me: Em. Diesel?

Sister: Shit. SHIT. That would have been spot-on. Petrol in a diesel van. That would have been perfect. That would have been just fucking right if I'd done that. That would've been great. It would've been perfect. It would've fucking fucked fucking everything.

Me: It hasn't actually happened.

My sister appears to be hyper-ventilating.

Sister: It could have.

It seems she is furious at the very possibility.

Me: Ok.

We pull into a petrol station. My sister jumps out of the van, forgetting that her bag is on her lap and is wide open.

Bag and unusual contents (secateurs, lip-gloss, twine, nail polish, a screwdriver and insect-repellant) spill dramatically across the forecourt.

I am entranced by the bulging arteries and veins that appear about to burst.

There comes a strange roaring noise from my sister. I think it is directed at her bag but I can't be sure.

Sister: Oh you fucking SHITWHORE.

Re-fuelling completed, we continue on our way.

Me: Really though. 'Shitwhore'?

Sister: I know. It just came out of nowhere.

Me: It was very good.

Sister: Thanks bro.

Danger Wank.

I am At Work.

It has been a long morning.

Not only have I had to pretend to do some work (which is genuinely quite draining) but I have actually been required to do some Real Work as well. It has involved some tele-phone calls and my clicking upon the mouse of a computing machine whilst saying things like:

'Time is a real issue here so ASAP otherwise we both have to actually speak to the client, which neither of us want.'

And trying hard not to feel like the world's biggest cunt.

Inbetween saying cuntish corporate-things on the phone, slamming through double-doors and sending people I briefly percieve as being less important than me flying, talking-down to people who probably have more qualifications yet earn a lower wage than me (and I have an MA from a real university) and generally being all 'executive' (it's on my business card, it must be true) I am approached by Thug Colleague.

(Regular readers may remember Thug and his Jim Davidson Humour. He is in his early twenties and as such still retains a sparkle of life in his eyes.)

TC: Allreet Tired like.

Me: Christ.

I instantly feel more weary than I did.

TC: How's it gannin?

Me: Worse now. What's up?

TC: Have you ever had a Danger Wank?

Many things have been darting through my mind that morning.

Will I get through the day without spazzing the wishes of half a dozen clients and fucking-off every single person I work with and burning whatever slender rope-bridges that are left between me and every department in the hideous conglomerate I work for?

Will my daughter ALWAYS love me? Will my son ever see me for what I am as I did my own father?

The very concept of a 'Danger Wank' has not been at the fore-front of my mind.

Me: [Resigned. I know from experience that it's best to get this over with] Define 'Danger Wank'.

TC: Reet. Well. When I was home from university-

Me: Seriously though. You went to university?

TC: Aye. You keep asking. Why?

Me: Really no reason. Anyway.

TC: Aye well. The point was. A 'Danger Wank' is when you're in your room, and you call your Mam, and you've got to tug it off and then clean up before she's got from the kitchen to your bedroom.

Silence.

I suddenly feel about six thousand years old.