Awkward.

One week ago.

My Newly Gay Friend has invited myself and Uncannily Similar out for a drink.

This is in itself not a problem. But Newly Gay is bringing his new boyfriend for us to meet. In a bar two hundreds yards away from our place of employ, where Newly Gay’s wife works. With us. And it’s a bar she often frequents.

This too is not a great problem – she’s aware of the potential awkwardness so is staying away that night. Which was awkward in itself. But. It’s just that the whole thing is odd.

If he’d got a new girlfriend it would be just as strange – who parades their new partner in front of their mates for God’s sake?

The whole thing’s just a bit weird and I accidentally get a bit drunk.

After several hours of teeth-grinding and plastered-on smiles I am outside having a cigarette with Newly Gay.

NGF: So. What do you think of him then?

Me: Oh I don’t know, I can never really tell with people. [An outright lie by the way] I didn’t know he was in the Forces. He must get some grief.

NGF: Oh God no. It’s fucking rife with it. Can you imagine a gay man NOT wanting to be a soldier? It’s fucking ideal. I’m amazed there are any straight guys there. It’s a bit of a refuge for closet cases to be honest.

I’ve no idea how Newly Gay has amassed such encyclopedic knowledge of ‘gayness’ or whatever after only a few months of signing-up to it but I suppose he is a quick learner.

Me: Right then. Is he back in the country long?

NGF: [Joking. I assume] No thank God! I can’t wait until he fucks off back to Afghanistan so I can get up to my ears in cock again!

I laugh at this and we both return inside.

Gay Boyfriend is gazing at us with curiosity as we sit back down.

GB: Sooo, what were you two boys talking about out there then?

Me: Nothing really. Just catching up.

GB: Come on. You can do better than that.

Me: Really. Just having a chat.

I’m getting a bit irked at this point.

GB: Can’t you share it? A little secret is it?

I don’t really know why he’s annoying me. He’s over-familiar, doesn’t know me but is talking to me as though he does and has a slight arrogance that is actually uncommon to those serving in the Armed Forces. And I’m a bit drunk. I decide to diffuse the situation in a light-hearted way.

What I’ll do, I think to myself, is tell him exactly what Newly Gay just said and it'll be considered so outrageous that everyone will laugh and it’ll really break the ice. I’m a genius at this stuff. This is going to be hilarious. I'm a funny fucker, me.

Me: Actually he was saying he can’t wait until you FUCK OFF back to Afghanistan so he can get UP TO HIS EARS IN COCK AGAIN!

As in bad sitcoms the sound-system of the bar becomes silent a split-second before I say these words. Instead of the expected chorus of laughter, flies stop in mid-air. Everyone starts fiddling with their mobile phones and no-one looks anyone in the eye, although I can feel those of Newly-Gay burning into the side of my face.

I may have misjudged this, I think to myself.

Never mind. I’ll soon sort this out. I can turn this around.

Me: Anyway. Do you know you look exactly like Andy Bell out of Erasure?

A tumbleweed blows by.

The following Monday morning.

Blonde Colleague: So? How’d the ‘double date’ go?

Me: Could have been better.

Turnaround.

Worlds Most Amusing Woman: Do you know you'd make a really good boyfriend?

I glance around to make sure she is actually talking to me.

Me: Errrm?

She had just asked me what I spent my previous evening doing.

I'm not very good at filling-in the time. The hours excluding nine in the morning and six at night are a constant torment. I dread the evenings; don't even get me started on the weekends. Inactivity is a devil. If I do nothing I tend to brood, which is no good for anyone.

As such much of my spare time is spent in my kitchen, making more food than I can possibly eat from an increasingly inventive array of ingredients whilst listening to the agreeable burblings from Radio fucking 2 (it's better than the bloody television) before crashing out at ten with a house full of nice smells, a full belly and enough left-overs in the fridge to make Jesus feel a bit inadequate about the whole 'fish and loaves' thing.

This seems to have impressed my colleague the Worlds Most Amusing Woman.

I am briefly stunned by her words. It is feasibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, or at least it felt like it today.

WMAW: Blonde? Blonde!

Blonde Colleage: For fucks - what?

WMAW: Don't you think Tired would be an excellent boyfriend?

BC: Definately. [I blink at her in astonishment for a moment. She notices and clears her throat] Well - at least until he opens his mouth.

WMAW: Mmmm. You're right. He is a nasty bastard.

I have gone from being 'viable boyfriend material' (good) to 'thoroughly unpleasant piece of work' (bad) in the space of a nanosecond and - it seems, as all concerned are now talking about me in the third person - have actually vanished.

Me: Hey! Listen.....


But I've got nothing. The irritating thing is that they're both quite right.

Lost Post # 3: Document Created 10th December 2006, 03.20am.

Rash Decisions.

I suddenly realise that I have been praying for a road accident. Probably involving fatalities.

I am on a bus. On my way to work.

Work that I do not enjoy. And as I have sagely informed my younger siblings:

‘You’re not meant to enjoy it. That’s why it’s called work.’

Wise words. I get off my bus and head toward the other bus stop that will provide me with safe passage to the glamorous trading estate that is home to my office. That I do not want to go to.

I have under my arm a folder thick with Important Work Documents.

I have been praying for people to die, purely so I do not have to go to my place of employ.

I think about my nineteen-month old Favourite Son. Except I don’t. I’m standing in the wind (and we get proper wind here) and the rain thinking about the feel of his skin. The smell of his hair. The feel of his toes. His stupid toothy grin when he finds something new in the world. Which is probably every day. The look of ABSOLUTE delight .

I look about me. There is a queue for my bus to hell.

They do not look happy. Suits. Raincoats. Ladies with umbrellas who know their hair is FUCKED before they even get there.

Miserable.

Something clicks in my head.

I toss the folder in the nearest bin. And go into the nearest coffee house. And order something quite pleasant. And watch. People. Who are in a hurry. Who are shitty and rude. I drink my coffee.

I read the paper, enjoy my stupidly named coffee and then get the next bus home.

I get home.

Tired Mam: I knew.

She is smiling.

Favourite Son: Daddy home.

It’s the first time he has put two words together. I roll on the carpet with him. He does not often see me at this hour of the day. He is giggling like a twat. As am I.

It will be a frugal Christmas.

Lost Post # 2: Document created 22 February 2007, 01:07:00

‘That’s rubbish.’ Exclaims the girl in the seat in front of me to her companion.

I am on a bus on my way home. It is nearly dark. I am tired and discouraged. It has been a long day.

At work and that.

I focus on the conversation of the two girls (girls, tweens, teenagers? I don’t know. When you see four-year-olds wearing fuck-me shoes you lose track) of indeterminate age but who are very young in front of me. I try and listen in order to drown-out the adolescent dribbling of the two male youths sitting behind me.

Male Youth 1: Yeah but have you seen this one? She is filth.

There follows some clacking of mobile-phone keypad. Then some crackly audio, obviously accompanying video footage being vomited out of a mobile phone. I hear a breathless female voice saying ‘Do it now. Put that dildo in my arse and fuck me.’

They are laughing fit to burst.

Male Youth 2: That’s Jessica init? Does she know?

Male Youth 1: Naw man. She’d gan mental. Darren bluetoothed everyone.

They proceed to show each other video clips of people that I have never heard of and that are apparently famous engaged in similar pastimes. From what I heard of the conversation, it seems something regarding the Hilton is quite popular.

I am already feeling quite gloomy. Intimate footage of sexual relations compiled and distributed without the female participants knowledge to every boy in their year is not the most cheering thing I could be hearing.

I glance behind me. As suspected, both young men (boys, lets be honest) are wearing school uniforms.

Looking out the window, I see that some wag has placed a traffic cone, complete with blinking light to warn drivers of impending hazard, on top of a bus shelter. Ha-ha.

Some time previously I had been in a city-centre public house waiting for said bus. At the bar had been a frail elderly gentleman completing a betting-slip with all the flourishes of someone signing the Magna Carta. I purchased my drink and sat at the only available seat. Quite close to a gentleman in his sixties who appeared to be made entirely of hair.

‘Cunts aren’t they?’ He says apropos of nothing.

‘Mmm?’ Say I.

‘The Australians.’

‘I haven’t met them all. I really couldn’t say.’

He sucks on his cigarette thoughtfully, although it seems to be sucking on him.

Anyway.

Focusing now on the girls in front of me on the bus, I hope for some redemption.

What is it that her companion thinks so 'rubbish'? Maybe her conception of basic human relations, politics or meaning in a western world over-saturated with stupidity, in which the major talking points of the day are from some made-up stories flickering on a box in the corner of their front-rooms? The ‘yoot’ can see through this surely?

And I’m sure they can.

‘You see,’ says the young lady addressing her friend, whilst pulling-up the copious bangles and bracelets that adorn her wrist and best part of her arms, ‘this is how it’s really done.’

‘Oh’ Says her companion with a hint of dismay.

‘See? I got ALL his initials. Even the middle one. And you can see it clearly.’

The other girls fiddles with her bangles in a slightly-ashamed manner.

‘You are rubbish. You have to really dig the compass point in on the first try or you’ll never really scar properly. You have to try harder. Amateur.’

Her ‘friend’ falls into silent embarrassment.

My stop nears. I concentrate on pushing the button-bell-thing between the correct stops so I do not have to walk too far. I cast out of my mind thirteen-year-old anal-sex aficionados and self-harming over-competitive females of a similar age and get off the bus.

Thirteen if a day.

My stop is next to the public house that is one-minute-and thirty seconds walk away from my front door. The general street area is speckled with vomit. At six in the evening. Impressive. I enjoy a drink as much as the next man, but to have to relieve your stomach outside a public house at that early hour is above and beyond the call.

I sidestep, and walk down my street. Occasionally side-stepping the deposits of the Phantom Dog-Shitter. I get to my house, and let myself in.

It is cold. Dark. Silent. Empty.

I put on some lights. I sit down.

‘Fuck the lot of you’ I say. To no-one in particular.

Lost Posts # 1: Document Created 15th January 2007, 11.17pm.

“Pimpy Says I Am ‘Tend.”

..........................................................................................................................................................................

And that’s all I have. Not a 'post' obviously, but a forgotten idea for one.

Casting my mind back, I recall that my daughter – probably about three years old at the time – had a number of imaginary friends. She was an only child at the time.

One was the improbably named Pimpy – I still don’t know – the other was the more domesticated Sock. They shared a common impediment of unfeasibly-long Tim Burton-esque arms in her pictures but were indistinquishable otherwise.

I got the distinct impression they didn’t see eye-to-eye but as they were imaginary it wasn’t a great problem.

Until.

‘Pimpy’ – who I imagined to be a trouble-maker anyway (what’s with the name?) and not the sort of imaginary person a lady of my daughter’s caliber should be consorting with anyway (I didn't like the sound of him at all to be honest) – impishly announced that it was not in fact HE who was ‘tend – pretend - but it was my daughter herself who was imaginary.

I’ve no idea what this single sentence of a silly blog idea was going to go – probably why I didn’t finish it.

Upon announcing this to me I probably glanced over my newspaper of a late morning, hungover, and informed her that ‘Pimpy’ was just being silly and she shouldn’t listen to him.

Her internal narrative had taken an alarmingly meta-textual turn for one so young and so fearsomely intelligent and I’d dismissed it.

She got over it.

Boredom / Work.

Friday afternoons are terrible - industry grinds to a halt as anyone with any money, power or decision-making ability are on a fucking golf-course somewhere.

Blonde Colleague usually takes the afternoon off when she can. She doesn't cope with inactivity very well.

Blonde Colleague: Tired?

Me: What?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet paper?

Me: ....What?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet roll? It'll be really funny. You'll look like a mummy.

Me: ....Erm. No.

BC: [throwing a biro in frustration] Well it'd be better than looking like someone out of Schindler's fucking List!

She folds her arms and glares out the window for a minute.

BC: Thug? Thug!

Thug Colleague: What man?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet roll?

TG: Fuck off will ye.

BC: Ah maaan you'll all rubbish you like.

I look at my watch. I've got three more hours of this.

It Resolves Itself As Expected.

And is probably nowhere near as interesting as people have imagined.

I’d always had my suspicions about ex-friend and ex-landlord Seven-Foot Sociopath.

Yes he’s very tall. Yes he spends an awful lot of time at the gym. Yes he favours ‘survivalist’ combat attire. Yes he has an alarming collection of knives and guns, as well as tattoos and piercings. Claims to know ‘some things’ about explosives.

But I get the feeling he’s a tourist. I know one properly mental man like this – but without the unnecessary tatts and holes in his face – and I know the real deal when I see it.

And I’d seen Seven-Foot back down from a couple of confrontational situations in the past.

“Scared of the damage I might do mate.”

Ok then. Maybe.

“Bullshit aside, we’re always mates and you’ve got to do what’s best for you. No hard feelings.” He said upon my leaving him in the lurch with his horrible flat when I moved out.

I leave his poxy gaff in much better condition than I first encountered it, and take his two large ceramic plant-pots (planters?) with me. The bulbs I planted in them cost a fortune, made the patio look ‘pretty’ and I couldn’t be arsed with the re-planting when I had sofas to move. He’s in Paris, I thought. I’ll get them back to him when I have a minute. They’ve been obviously unused for years so I doubt it’s a problem.

Five Days Ago.

I am at work, it is the middle of the afternoon.

For reasons that I shall get to another time, my little sister is renting my spare room. She is self-employed, cannot work because of the fucking weather and is at home when one would imagine my house to be empty.

There is some commotion outside my back-yard.

There is no ‘road’ on my street as it is a terrace of what used to be called ‘miners cottages’ that I believe are peculiar to the North of England. The door to our back-yard is open and Sis spies Seven-Foot in his perpetually non-road-worthy ridiculous bull-horned four wheel drive idiot wank-tank vehicle STUCK on the access road behind my home and spinning his wheels.

Sis: Seven-Foot! Do you want a hand? I’ve got a shovel.

She’s made a small side-line in digging stranded vehicles out of the virtually 45-degree slope of an access road behind my house and could do this in her sleep. (She’s more of a man than I am in this regard. I mean. I just couldn’t be bothered. You know.)

Seven-Foot: NO! I DON’T NEED ANY HELP!

Sis: If you’re sure. I don’t mind.

SF: I DON’T APPRECIATE YOU STEALING MY PROPERTY!

At this point in hearing the story I begin to wonder what the hell he’s doing behind my house anyway. It’s an access road, doesn’t lead anywhere and he doesn’t know anyone on my street.

SF: AND YOU HAD YOUR DOG IN THE FLAT.

Sis: Look. Are you sure you don’t want some help….

SF: NO! I DON’T WANT ANY HELP. GET YOUR BROTHER TO CALL ME!

Sister proceeds to retreat to the house, make herself a cup of tea and watches Seven-Foot struggle FOR A SOLID HOUR to get his foolish over-powered behemoth of an impractical vehicle moving.

As I say, not as interesting as it could have been but an Event nonetheless; nothing much happens to me.

I reflect upon Sister’s story. This much is obvious:

Seven-Foot knows what street I have moved to. As opposed to utilizing my phone number like an adult man, he has taken it upon himself to do some sort of imagined SAS-style rescue mission to liberate his fucking plant pots. And has embarrassed himself terribly.

I, on the other hand, am quite cross about this.

He can lurk about the back of my house to his hearts content. I live behind the police station and have seen said police attempt to move my new neighbours on if they take more than twenty seconds to open their front door. And on top of that I can take care of myself.

That’s not the problem. He’s been rude to a member of my family. A girl. A girl better physically equipped to take care of herself than me admittedly, but a girl nonetheless.

And I’m not fucking having it.

I scratch my head for a bit.

I could call him. A sort of ‘If I fucking see you anywhere near my home’ sort of conversation that will end in some bullshit masculine shouting and get nowhere. I could text him. Some sort of ‘odd coincidence you being out the back of my house’ passive-aggressive shit that I’m not so fond of these days.

Or I could leave it. Because it’s silly and it WILL blow over. There’s no point getting worked up when he’s embarrassed himself already.

But that would be ‘backing-down’ by default.

And he was rude to my sister. If I leave it I’ll have let that pass. And that isn’t ‘how I roll’.

Four Days Ago.

I send a simple text. “Give me a call when you get a second.”

Not aggressive as such but not friendly. I am pleased with the tone. It’s not threatening. It’s not pleasant.

Three Days Ago.

“Perhaps he’s busy.” Says my Sister.

Two Days Ago.

“Really fucking busy.” I think to myself.

Today.

No word.

I suspect the same response tomorrow. And if I receive an invite to meet in him in a deserted car-park I would take it because he’s been rude to someone I care about and backing-down is not one of my big things.

But it seems my original suspicions were right. A coward. Brave enough to be aggressive to a girl in her twenties but not able to muster the courage to get back to her big brother who is actually half her size.

Case closed.

Absolute nonsense and anti-climax.

A Number of Exciting Developments!

1) Bully Diary.

Blonde Colleague: You remember Lovely But Stupid? Remember that 'bully diary' she used to keep?

Me: Mmmmm.

Anyone reading who is curious about the Lovely But Stupid colleague I used to work with can get up-to-date with her here:

http://tireddad2.blogspot.com/2007/09/faggot.html#links

I can't be arsed trying to remember how to do a 'proper' link so make do.

As her name suggested, she wasn't the brightest and was quite often 'teased' about it - she had the idea of keeping a diary of said teasing to present to Human Resources at some unspecified point in the future and getting everyone sacked. No-one really knew if she was joking or not.

Blonde Colleague: You know she started to put it online?

Me: [Suddenly alert] What?

BC: Yeah. Some sort of blog-thing or something. Very Dry set it up for her.

Me: Mmmmm.

Someone I knew started a blog! Mostly about the place that I spend forty hours a week in! Mental!

The blog itself takes about 45 seconds in total to read, doesn't cast anyone in a good light and is here:

http://bullydiary.blogspot.com

Difficult to believe that she is describing a professional workplace, I know. And odd that she didn't mention the incident at the Christmas party. Anyway. How mad is that?

2) Something Faintly Worthy Of Comment Is Actually Happening To Me At The Minute!

Normally I'm just a bit bored, think of something odd that happened about three months ago and tap away in the off-chance that something readable occurs.

But no! A REALLY STUPID situation has arisen, is ungoing, unresolved and a bit bizarre! Now!

And I really don't know if I should write about as I don't know in advance how it'll end - which bothers me. And it's feasible it may end with me getting my face kicked off by a man three times my size. Which will be a rubbish 'punch-line'.

Dilemma.

3) I Make a Small Discovery!

I find a USB memory stick thing that I haven't used for ages. In it are a number of blog posts from three years ago that I never used. How exciting!

But another dilemma. I am not sure if they should ever see the light of day because:

a) Some are actually quite sad. And as everyone knows, 'sad' = 'boring'

b) Some are actually quite personal and this is 'not that sort of blog'.

c) Some will make many - myself included - fear for my mental health.

d) Some are actually a bit depressing. See a).

Grrr.

Anyway. I'm off for a lie down after all the 'excitement'.

Moving.

“I didn’t know you’d moved house”. Says the World’s Most Amusing Woman.

I shan’t try and translate any of her essential ‘amusingness’ – it’s a kind of ‘how she says it’ sort of thing. Upon hearing that my Newly Gay Friend had briefly flirted with heterosexuality again before getting a new boyfriend she puffed her cheeks out, rolled her eyes, and said in the manner of an elderly Aunt, “Oooh he’s flighty isn’t he?” She’s 29 and uses the word ‘tomfoolery’ a lot. Like I say, you sort of have to hear her talk.

Anyway, it had just come up in conversation.

Me: Yup.

WMAW: But I thought you’d only just moved into that flat. You were quite pleased about the garden.

Blonde Colleague: Don’t even get me started-

Me: Shush. Yeah. But the washing-machine broke.

WMAW: So you thought ‘ah well, I’ll just move house’?

Me: Pretty much actually.

It was, of course, a little more complicated than that.

The flat was rented from a friend of mine; a situation that only the very idiotic get into but my back was sort of against the wall at the time for a number of reasons. Looking back on it, it was a fucking horrible place but was an improvement on the previous three years of shared-accommodation hell and it’s funny how quickly a person can get acclimatized to their surroundings – however unpleasant – and kid themselves that they’re acceptable.

One saving grace was the fitted kitchen complete with all white goods that came with the deal.

Except the washing-machine broke.

I explained this to my friend the Seven-Foot Sociopath.

SFS: No problem. These things happen.

Me: Thanks. So I’ll just arrange to get it repaired myself? I’ll get a receipt and take the money out of next months rent?

SFS: [Slowly putting down his pint]. No, that's on you. You have to pay for that.

Me: What?

SFS: It was rented to you part-furnished. You’re responsible for the furnishings.

Me: So when I move out I’ll be taking the furnishings with me then?

SFS: No. There’re mine.

Me: Yes. I’m not paying to maintain your kit.

SFS: Look, I did you a favour, you had nowhere else to go, I didn’t ask you for a deposit did I? Not like you can afford one either. Sooo-

Me: We’re not going to argue about this.

And we never have. And although what I said was “We’re not going to argue about this” what I was thinking was “Fuck you, fuck your flat and fuck your poxy fucking fuck of a washing machine that made my clothes smell a bit funny anyway you fucking lanky streak of cocking piss.”

Within two weeks and much negotiation with my new landlord I move into a really quite pleasant furnished house that includes a fully-functioning washing machine. Leaving an unrepaired-one behind.

The World’s Most Amusing Woman listens to this story agog.

WMAW: So rather than pay out – what? Fifty balloons or something – you MOVE HOUSE with all that upheaval and cost on a point of principal?

Me: Yes. And a washing-machine.

WMAW: [After some thought] Remind me never to give you an ultimatum. I think you are the most stubborn man I have ever met.

And perhaps I am – something that has not always gone in my favour. But what I know is this:

I would rather look at myself in the mirror at the end of the day and see the sort of idiot who would cut off his nose to spite his face than see a pussy – someone who’d roll over and take it for the sake of an easy life. I’d rather the stress, the logistical nightmare of a house move and the cost of hundreds of pounds than the knowledge that I am someone’s ‘bitch’.



As a postscript to this absurd episode; I did fret a little about telling Seven-Foot Sociopath that I was moving out with less than two weeks notice a fortnight before Christmas. He was out of order, but it’s a hell of a time to land someone in it.

Upon telling him, he replied with-

SFS: Actually I was wanting to talk to you anyway. We’re putting it on the market in January.

He had some bullshit idea that I'd buy the misery-pit from him. With all my millions I can only presume.

Which sort of vindicated my general pig-headedness. If I hadn’t been quite so stubborn, hadn’t possessed the small amounts of resourcefulness, ability and determination that I occasionally rely on, I would have been well and truly fucked.

So perhaps there’s a moral there somewhere.

And no. I don’t think we’re friends anymore.

"Eeee, are ye alreet, pet?"

I am lying flat on my back on a sheet of ice and snow, an old woman of about ninety-thousand is peering down at me with concern. She leapt about a hundred yards with the grace of a gazelle and is now offering to help. Brilliant.

Yes, I think to myself. I am fine. Why would you ask? It’s very comfortable down here. I just fancied a little lie down.

It is 8.40 in the morning.

“It’s OK.” I inform her as I begin moving upright again.

Fortunately she moves on before she sees me perform the ‘Spastic Duck’ – an odd move performed when attempting to stand up again on a sheet of ice whilst your feet splay away from you before you can gain any sensible purchase and you find yourself briefly dancing on the spot like Donald fucking Duck.

She’s nowhere to be seen by the time I right myself. Amazing.

Sadly the surprisingly attractive woman who got on my bus (most people who use public transport in my neck of the woods have weird teeth and eyes that point in different directions) and sat opposite me for my journey is still in witness distance.

I resolve to regain some dignity and make it the rest of the way to my office upright so as to massively impress this creature with my ‘walking like a normal person’ abilities.

And promptly perform the ‘Idiot Crab’.

This is mastered by arranging to have your feet slip into the air in front of you and to begin falling backwards. The trick is to then put your arms back to break your fall and briefly scuttle on the palms of your hands and heels of your feet whilst facing the sky.

I pull it off perfectly.

I arrive at the office to discover that almost everyone in the building has had to stay at home because of the fucking snow the pussies.

This will be an excellent day, I think.