Monday, April 25, 2011

I Send Some Text Messages.

Last Thursday. There are plans for ‘cold drinks’ involving myself, Grotbags (resplendent in spray-tan for the event), Blonde Colleague, Uncannily Similar, Gay Mark, Grant From Work and Thug Colleague. I am rather looking forward to it as I’ve known each of them for over five years and have now decided I quite like them.

And then realise that I have a previous work commitment and can only join them for about an hour. Deeply unhappy about this, I send a group text to those concerned after I get on my bus:

Tired Dad: Enjoy the rest of your evening fuckers. Think of me pulling pints for a bunch of 60-year old cunts with no crack.

I get a number of surprisingly sympathetic replies, except from Grotbags, who is pretending she has forgotten I even exist:

Grotbags: Who is this?

Funny lady. I reply:

TD: It’s Tired you knob.

G: Tired who?

She’s milking this.

TD: Oh fuck off will you. I’m in no mood. Dale Winton called – he wants his tan back.

G: What tan?

This isn’t right. She should have bitten. I think for a bit.

I’ve recently had a harrowing 14-hour train journey during which I now remember receiving a rather significant text message from an unfamiliar number:

Unknown Number: Grotbags – new number.

I start to feel quite uneasy and send the following text to what I now know to be Grotbags’ new number:

TD: I’ve just sent a lot of quite insulting messages to your old phone by accident. Please apologize to whoever has it now.

I receive the following, quite chilling, two-word reply:

Grotbags New: My daughter.

Her very beautiful daughter is 11 years old.

I madly send messages of apology to all concerned and explain to daughter that I work with her mother and am also a fool.

I am not looking forward to my return to the office tomorrow.


Anonymous Em said...

You should have stayed home and vacummed.
Although you obviously have a lovely way with the kids. (That sounded a bit pervy, not meant to be.)

2:16 am  
Blogger Meg McG said...

That is classy

4:18 am  
Blogger Alison Cross said...

My son won't be getting a phone until he's got someone he needs to phone where a land line will be impossible to use. And he can pay his own bills. And hopefully left home.

Am I the only person who thinks that giving an 11 yr old a phone is a bit unnecessary?

Ali x

8:08 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Don't feel too bad. My son had my old phone at that age and received some corkers, especially since I was single at the time.

9:30 am  
Blogger Miss Underscore said...

Ah Tired Dad,

It is good to have you blogging again. Could you possibly up your game and wring out a few more posts this week? I have another 9 days before returning to school and am getting rather bored.

I am beginning to picture you as some sort of a 1970s sit com character; calamity prone, perpetually cross and sardonic. Do you live in a Rigsby-esque bedsit? I hope so.

(Oh, and I read your post about Wayne Sleep this week and absolutely loved it).

10:01 am  
Blogger Debster said...

I still giggle about the one with the BHS-wearing chap. You might be a miserable bastard, Tired, but you bring a lot of joy to others.

11:55 am  
Blogger Mr Farty said...

My sympathies. Silly cow should have kept the old SIM for her new phone.

9:43 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Em: The 'kid' in question is said to be much amused by the whole thing. Nothing like seeing the 'grown-ups' making fools of themselves.

Meg: It's not, is it?

Ali: Agreed, as it happens.

Flora: The mind boggles.

Miss U: Thanks and I'll try. May have some time on my hands. My life is, sadly, more Ingmar Bergman than Rising Damp as it happens. But at least it doesn't come across that way.

I wonder. Does Wayne Sleep ever google himself?

Debs: Schadenfreude I suppose.

Farty: I don't think she had factored-in my idiocy.

11:34 pm  
Blogger Miss Underscore said...

Does Wayne Sleep Google himself? Of course he does. No one else is going to do it.

I am struggling to picture you as an Ingmar Bergman character (surely there is no mournful cello soundtrack on your bus journey home). Please don't take the blog down that bleak, desperate route. Remember what happened to Woody Allen when he went all Bergman-esque (Stardust Memories . . . shudder).

1:49 pm  
Anonymous Johnners said...

Aw bless, it could have happened to anyone... It doesn't usually, but it COULD have.

5:22 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Miss U: No, I'm thinking that if he did he would have stumbled-upon my post and thought "Oh, that was that rude prick". And fear not. My life is actually unrelentingly bleak but I'm not fond of the idea of presenting it as such.

Johners: Yeah. Thanks.

9:03 pm  
Blogger Ellie said...

Would your reaction have been the same had the Favourite Daughter been a recipient of such missives?

1:03 pm  
Anonymous looby said...

Alison, no you are not wrong. Mine are twelve and I don't want to have one. Partly to avoid cyber bullying and partly for the social cachet that not having a mobile gives a 12 -year-old.

7:14 pm  
Blogger TwistedScottishBastard said...

Don't worry about the texts.
The daughter knows you're over 40, therefore practically dead, so it doesn't count.

Sometimes life really sucks.

4:41 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Ellie: Oh I would have scoured the earth. Grotbags, however, found the whole thing rather amusing and I get the impression her daughter hears far worse on a daily basis. But I take your point.

loob: Hmm. As it turns out both myself and Their Mother are in complete agreement re: prolonging FD's childhood as long as possible.

TSB: Said daughter actually sent back a couple of texts professing her entertainment but it's not the point. And I'm not even forty so bite me.

8:57 pm  

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