Lunch Date.

I’m at the back of my office building, smoking a cigarette. It’s lunchtime.

Blonde Colleague and Grotbags approach, returning from their lunchtime adventures.

Grotbags: [By way of a ‘hello’] Fuckin HELL, man.

Me: Ok.

Blonde Colleague: Mental in Boots. The pharmacist. Radge-packets all over the place – coppers an’all.

I feel a bit short-changed. I’ve peacefully eaten my home-made ribollita in the canteen without incident.

Me: What?

B.C: About half a dozen, they had to get this massive copper in to supervise the whole thing while they picked-up their prescriptions.

Me: Not antihistamines I take it?

Grotbags: You’re a twat you sometimes.

B.C: And like he knew them ALL by name. And they all knew each other and they’re all like “how man, been in trouble?” and like “naw man have I fuck, just here for my stuff, will they hurry up I need to be in court in twenty minutes like” and asking the copper if he’ll watch for their prescriptions whilst they go to the toilet and that. There’s not even a toilet in Boots!

Grotbags: Aye. And the copper’s like “you’re not going to any toilet whilst I’m watching son”.

Have I mentioned how much I love this city? And simultaneously hate it?

B.C: Aye and it looked like an advert for J.D.Sports but with scag-heads. And frightened old women.

Grant From Work has joined us during this and observes the whole exchange with his usual impassive expression.

Grant From Work: So they give the scag-heads their methadone ‘scripts all at the same time? And they all rush to cash them in ‘en-masse’?

I want to give Grant From Work ‘props’ for using the phrase ‘scripts’ but am not sure what ‘props’ actually means.

Grotbags: ‘Spose. It was scaring the shit out of the old dears in there for their anti-inflammatories.

I check the date and time on my watch. Grant From Work notices this.

Grant From Work: [deadpan] Next week?

Me: See you there.

My Tuppence-Worth On The 'Twitter Joke Trail'

Normal people will be unaware that Twitter has been ablaze all day long with chat regarding the trial of some bloke who made a joke on the social network site or whatever we're calling it this week.

It does seem a bit harsh to put him on trial (I can't remember his name and can't be bothered to look it up - google it) but it really wasn't a very good joke.

The consensus seems to be that people shouldn't be arrested and charged for making jokes on the internet - even not very good ones.

His 'joke' was in fact a threat to blow-up a UK airport. A joke he made on the internet. On what is pretty much an open forum. Probably not a very bright move. He should be grateful he's not being waterboarded in some third-world hellhole as we speak.

The questions raised seem to be:

"Should a person stay away from the internet if they want to joke about stuff, no matter how dubious the subject?"

Answer - no, probably not.

and

"Should a person stay away from the internet if they are THICK AS SHIT"

Answer - yes. In fact they should stay away from most everything. In an ideal world.

Bumps In The Night.

The neighbours when I moved in were great. Because they didn’t exist. There was an abundance of peacefulness. The next lot filled me with dread when I saw them moving in. A Chinese family of at least three-thousand members. But they were silent, save for one of the daughters who used to practice her singing on a Saturday morning as I sat in the sun eating my eggs and reading the paper. She had quite a nice voice.

This lot though.

It is 4.00am on Saturday morning.

“Help! Help, someone! He’s fucking killing me!” Comes the less than soothing voice of the female half of my new neighbours from the street outside my bedroom window.

“He’s taking his time about it.” I think to myself. The racket has been ongoing since closing-time. “He’d better hurry up. I could do with the peace and quiet.”

A few minutes later there is a sturdy knock on the neighbours’ door, and another voice says “Police.” The voice doesn’t say “Police, it’s gone four in the morning and unless you want to know what a proper kicking feels like you’d better not fuck us around.” But you can tell from the general tone that that was the implication.

Everything goes silent. I go to sleep, pausing only to turn my mobile off so I’m not woken by anyone the next day. A mistake as it turns out.

And, after a solid month of banging, crashing and shouting, it’s been silent ever since. Maybe he did kill her. Maybe they’re both in the slammer. I genuinely don’t care. At least it’s quiet.

And perhaps I should feel bad about having imagined the following late night conversation as I knock on their door to complain about the noise:

Male Neighbour: What do you want?

Me: To sleep. There’s a lot of noise. What’s going on?

MN: I am beating the shit out of my girlfriend.

Me: It’s been going on some time. You’re obviously not doing a good job. Would you like some help? Then we can all get some kip.

That’s wrong isn’t it? It is.

A Couple of Weeks Ago.

“This is bloody ridiculous” I think to myself as I grab the edge of my dining-table.

To be honest it’s been a difficult time. Work has been insane. Video-links to Canary Wharf and ‘monetise’ this and ‘insentivise’ that. My Grandfather has lost his mind and my family and I have had to deal with the process of grieving for a man who is still alive. Despite the fact that ‘he’ is gone.

And I’ve been a bit poorly myself.

Anyway.

I’m gripping my dining-table.

My peripheral vision is long-gone and the blood is pounding in my ears.

Six hours previously a colleague has given me a nice fat rump steak, as she does each month for reasons that neither I nor anyone I know can understand. We can’t imagine how the conversation that would have started this first came up-

Colleague: Fancy a big fat steak once a month? For no reason?

Me: Ok then.

That seems to be the consensus, but I really don’t remember. I’m just grateful of the red meat. Times are hard.

As I say. My lungs feel like they are about to burst.

A few minutes previously I had sent a text. “I’m dipping my chips in blood”.

Haha. I like a rare steak.

As everything begins to cloud – a weird rush of endorphins that make me unconcerned about my impending demise – I wonder if I should get a girlfriend purely to avoid dying in such a foolish manner. I mean, if I didn’t live alone someone could do the Heimlich or something.

Finally I manage to cough a wad of under-cooked, under-chewed steak onto the table.

I grab some kitchen-roll and continue eating my dinner.