Tired Dad

2012-01-21T22:51:00.001Z

I am walking - quite close to the road - hand-in-hand with my Excellent Children heading to their local park.

I’m roughly four hundred miles from my own home. It doesn’t seem a long way to come in order to push them on the swings. I don’t see them as often as I would like.

We cross the road and enter the safe environs of the park. There are ducks, swans, trees and all the other things one associates with a decent park. Favourite Daughter immediately runs off chasing after squirrels. Favourite Son and I walk together for a little while.

God, he must feel awkward, I think to myself. He’s six now. What if he sees someone he knows? It’s not like he’s a little boy anymore. He’d be dreadfully embarrassed to be seen holding the hand of some bloke.

Me: Son? We’re nowhere near the road now. You don’t have to hold my hand anymore.

I have to accept that he’s growing-up.

Favourite Son: [Distracted, watching his hare-brained elder sister fruitlessly attempt to gain an audience with a squirrel] Mmm? I know. I want to.

It’s only four hundred miles. It’s not far at all.

I squeeze his hand a bit tighter – just for a second – and we walk along together.

Film Review: Arthur Christmas.

2011-12-31T23:54:00.000Z

I watched this with my Excellent Children, one of whom – Favourite Son (aged six) – will soon be taking a guest-spot on that film show on BBC1 with that Winkleman woman.

Me: I thought that was brilliant! [Glad of the 3D glasses that hid my irrational tears.]

Favourite Son: Yeah. It was really good. Except for the story. [Rolls eyes]

Danny Leigh must be shitting his pants.

Mood Swings #2

2011-12-18T20:22:00.003Z

Mid-morning and I’m feeling just ‘blah’. I’m not happy, I’m not sad. Just existing, doing ‘work’ things.

Liam The Tosser walks into the office and a glorious surge of pure hatred courses through me.

Liam, in his skinny-lapelled date-rapist suit, with his intentionally lop-sided haircut that probably cost more than everything I am wearing. Permanently chipper Liam, with his studied non-regional accent and constant spring in his step. Liam, who actually calls himself ‘Liam’ when you just know his family call him ‘William’. Liam and his soft leather man-bag. Liam and his abysmal daytime-television gameshow-host patter.

Me: [Louder than intended] I fucking hate that cunt.

Liam’s stride falters a little, but he recovers and makes it to his desk.

Blonde Colleague: You know he’s got a girlfriend?

Me: What? Fuck off. She must have a pretty high boredom threshold. And be happy to put-up with loads of abysmal indie CDs, shit craic, tender-stroking and ‘respectfulness’ when all she fancies is an inconsiderate bending-over the kitchen table. Poor cow.

BC: [Becoming quite animated herself] Doubt it. She’ll be one of those waif-types who never touch their face with their hands and buy their fucking floaty dresses from Ghost. She’ll be so fucking pale you wonder if she’s ever gone outside, probably never had a KFC bucket to herself ever and couldn’t put together an IKEA wardrobe to save her fucking life. She’s probably called Hermione or fucking Natasha or something. Fuck.

Me: “Godfafer Free”, “Not considered the best one”.

BC: Eh?

Me: That fucking match.com advert.

BC: YES! Brilliant! That’s those two cunts right there.

Me: They probably go to charity shops together, not because they’re skint but because they think it makes them ‘charming’…

BC: YES. And voluntarily watch subtitled films with a ‘nice glass of rose’ sitting on a pile of fucking scatter cushions…

Me: What a couple of knackers.

BC: They probably read books.

Me: Yeah, alright. People read books. You need to get over that one.

We gather ourselves. I’m panting slightly. Blonde Colleague wipes a faint glow of perspiration from above her top lip.

BC: Any good?

Me: That wasn’t bad, actually.

I feel much better.

An Apology. That I Must Never Make In Person.

2011-11-12T22:10:00.004Z

Russell From Admin ambles through my office, silver- of hair and hunched- of gait.

I’ve a lot of time for Russell. He’s calm and unflappable; a problem-solver and problem-averter who has noticed costly mistakes of mine and others before they’ve even happened, and who is quietly marking his time before retirement. A solid, reliable man, from the days when they still made them.

He completes his errand and heads back out, approaching and passing both my desk and those of three of my female colleagues.

Something odd happens.

Everything starts moving in slow motion. My three female colleagues start appraising Russell From Admin in a new light. That song from that dreadful Diet Coke advert starts playing. One female colleague actually removes her reading glasses to get a better look at him. I can’t swear to this, but I think one of them actually removed a hair-pin and slowly shook loose a mane of luxuriant raven-hair as he passed. The third narrows her eyes and slowly nods to herself as she gazes at him, one hand toying with the top button on her blouse.

Russell From Admin smiles to himself, and leaves the office with a noticeable and new-found spring in his step.

Everything returns to normal, the music stops playing and reality runs at 24 frames per second again as usual.

Female Colleague #1: [Addressing me] No. I don’t think he’s grown a moustache.

Me: Are you sure? I mean, he’s got one of those faces that look like he should have one anyway but I could have sworn...

Female Colleague #2: Naw. I had a decent gander myself and he definitely hasn’t. Know what you mean though. And with the grey hair and that. Easy mistake. But naw.

Me: Right. Oh well thanks. Didn’t just want to go up to him and stare at his top lip. You know?

Female Colleague #3: Yeah, because that would have been weird. [Does or does not fix her hair back into place. I’m still not sure] No ‘tach. Certain.

Me: Ah. Ok then. Thanks. As you were.

I’m sorry, Russell From Admin. You have not ‘still got it’.

Mood Swings #1

2011-10-29T18:18:00.007+01:00

I’m at work, there’s nothing I can do about it and I'm feeling generally ok-ish as I walk through the departments in my building, passing the affable Creative-Types on my way.

I approach the desk of the allegedly-attractive feature writer I need to speak to. Personally, I'm not that worried about her.

Me: Uh hi. So look, I’m going to need, like, a thousand words or so, general festive nonsense. You know the drill, just some filler, Christmas party tips, that sort of thing…

Allegedly-Attractive Feature Writer: ‘Inappropriately snogging work colleagues and how to deal with it’, that sort of thing?

Me: Hm. Yeah. Although no chance of that here - [gesture at the ceiling above her desk] total lack of mistletoe and that.

Bit of observational humour there, in case you missed it. I’m funny, me.

AAFW: [Deadpan, not even glancing at me] It wasn’t an offer.

Me: No, I didn’t… I mean, it wasn’t…[sigh] Right. Thanks then. Deadline’s Thursday.

Brilliant.

I make my way back to my office, past the dreadful Creative-Types with their jeans, stubble and general air of being above it all - as though being able to operate an Apple Mac and owning a Vampire Weekend CD really means they’ve got the world by the balls the hopeless cretins – and return to my desk.

Blonde Colleague: Alright. Oh. Did you speak to editorial about that thing?

Me: Oh fuck off.

“How are you with needles?”

2011-10-24T00:21:00.005+01:00

It’s an odd question, and I’m a little disorientated.

“I’m not in love with them, but I won’t pass-out or anything” I reply to the woman I assume to be a doctor. She’s quite pretty, actually.

“I’m more concerned about you jerking your arm when I stick you and smacking me in the face.” She replies drily, making me like her even more.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

By the smell, I deduce that I’m in a hospital and not a doctor’s surgery. It’s a pretty recognisable smell. And by the noise I’m in A&E and not an in-patient ward. Yet.

“You’ll feel a scratch.” They always say that. What they mean is ‘you’ll feel a fucking nasty sharp thing going into your arm’.

After several attempts she finds a vein and takes some blood.

“So. You’ve had these seizures before?”

My boss sticks her head round the door – surprising me - and gives me my wallet and mobile phone. I thank her, still very unsure of what is happening, tell her I’m fine and that she should go back to work.

Quite Fit Doctor asks who she was.

Me: Oh. That was my boss.

QFD: She came in with you. With the paramedics. She’s lovely.

Me: Ok. How long have I been here?

QFD: A while. You seem to be coming out of it pretty quickly so we’ll do your bloods and if that’s all fine you can go.

My head is fuzzy and I try and remember any recent events, none of which involve paramedics or hospitals. I do, however, recall a pleasant conversation with a female colleague, to whom I was bemoaning some upcoming social plans which involved visiting the gay quarter of the city I work in, on the insistence of Uncannily Similar who enjoys ‘the vibe’.

Me: It’s just, you know, I … Get a lot of male attention. Which is all good, but…. I’d just rather NOT. It’s sort of awkward. You know?

To which she replied:

“Well of course you do! It's because you’re handsome and you’re really slim.”

Which was possibly the nicest thing anyone has said to me ever, and was of course completely insincere and really meant:

“Well of course you do! It's because YOU’RE THE GAYEST STRAIGHT MAN I’VE EVER MET YOU CAMP SKINNY FUCK!”

But I took it anyway.

Some time passes. A locum in scrubs sticks his head round the door.

Locum: Oh. Hi. Who’s your doctor?

Me: Ermm. Not sure of the name. Dark hair. Quite attractive.

Locum: Ok. [Starts to leave. Stops. Turns back with a puzzled/incredulous look] What? FEMALE?

Me: What? YES! FUCK!

Locum: Alriiiiiight. [Spreads his palms in supplication] I just thought you were... you know…

Me: Well I’m NOT. When am I getting my blood results? And where can I go for a cigarette?

I’m discharged an hour later.

What Have I Been Doing?

2011-10-24T00:14:00.005+01:00

I’ve been a bit quiet, and have been pestered about it by about two whole people which leads me to believe that, by extension, a total of six people in the whole world may also be interested.

And so, in short – although to be elaborated on – I have been doing these things:

• Attended stag-do of First Brother.
• My Excellent Children stay with me for very nearly a week
• Attend wedding of First Brother, with Excellent Children.
• Realise that my father, with whom I have had zero contact for 25 years is also attending said wedding. Something I should have worked out.
• As Excellent Children are present for the event, introduce not only myself but his Grandchildren to my father. Discover that he was unaware of their existence. Awkward.
• Later, much confrontation is involved. Not only with my father, but the aunts I had forgotten had existed who poke my face and infer that I am not a pleasant person.
• Return Excellent Children to their mother. This necessitates a fifteen-hour, 800-mile round-trip courtesy of our nation’s woeful rail network. Feel a bit tired. And sad.
• Worked ten consecutive 15-hour days. Felt a bit more tired.
• Attended stag-do of Second Brother. He’s getting married the same month, purely to piss me off.
• Suffer fit and brief spell of unconsciousness in the middle of a working day. Taken to hospital.
• Excellent Children come to stay for a few more days.
• Attend wedding of Second Brother, feel a bit aggrieved by the ‘usher’ duties he has thrown my way to make me feel better about the fact that I have failed in my own life at anything that has been important to me, and also the ‘reading’ I have to give at the church for the same reason.
• Excellent Children leave. Feel sad.
• Receive an email from my new MD informing me that if I want to apply for voluntary redundancy then he is ‘all ears’.
• Receive letter instructing me to attend an ‘epilepsy clinic’. The inference seeming to be that I now have epilepsy.
• Realise I have no annual leave left, and will probably not see my Excellent Children until 2012.

Basically, everything has been superb.

Stag Nights.

2011-10-06T21:55:00.000+01:00

I've attended two this year alone.

Oh God, the bloody Stag Night. A test of human endurance that would make even the most hardened al-qaeda suspect whimper “can you please just make it stop now” if used as an interrogation technique. It’s rarely even a NIGHT, but the dreaded stag WEEKEND – 48 hours in the company of burping, vomiting, farting buffoons so horrendous that the stag practically RUNS down the aisle to get the hell away from the horrorific Clockwork Orange–style aversion experience.

Two days in a strange city in the company of men-children who think igniting their own flatulence is 24 CARAT and you would give anything to share the bulk of your life with an actual woman. Because men are idiots and stag nights are horrible.

It starts with the cut-price chain hotel so anonymous and homogenised that your very soul shrinks a little and progresses to some horrendous identikit Yates’s filled with badly-dressed dole-hounds and ageing alcoholics all of whom would think nothing of giving you the full benefit of the thick end of a pool cue after you discover that the door staff of the more salubrious establishments are reluctant to admit large groups of yowling, drooling, stinking men wearing specially-printed t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan ‘Pussy Patrol’

There’s no point sneering at the dolts in the party who spend the evening informing you of their intention to ‘destroy’ any of the ‘blart’ they espy, as you will several days later shamefully recall your own unsuccessful attempt to win the affections of a trainee beauty-therapist from Sunderland named Kylie with the generous offer of a ‘clattering’ behind the bottle-bins.

Staggering around the streets at an early hour asking innocent passers-by where “tha strippas are, like” is not an uplifting experience, nor is finally gaining entrance to Madame Choo-Choo’s and watching the youngest member of your party lose a small fortune to a young lady in underwear and high-heels in the belief that she “actually fancies me, like” Of course she does, mate.

Trying to get back to the hotel despite having forgotten it’s name and location, possessing no phone numbers of any local taxi firms and lacking the ability to single-handedly lift a twenty-stone inebriated imbecile is also a barrel of fucking laughs.

If you’re lucky you wake up in the dreadful room you share with at least three other men in a scene that would make Hieronymus Bosch balk, to the wilting prospect of using a bathroom still echoing with the noise and stench of several horrendous bowel movements.

Then you do it all again the next day, secure in the knowledge that everyone you encounter hates you.

The very worst thing? If you’re the stag, you’re statistically very likely to get divorced and to wish that your mental and emotional anguish would JUST END whilst you tragi-wank your way through the rest of your hollow life and wish that you could just see your children.

And if you’re not the stag, are unmarried and have attended a few of these things, it means you are inherently unlovable and have a stark future of solitary drinking and crushing loneliness ahead of you.

Enjoy your night.

Back To Work.

2011-08-30T01:09:00.005+01:00

Exterior. Day.

A Highway Maintenance vehicle depot.

Two men in high-visibility jackets are staring at the back of a dirty Highway Maintenance vehicle.

Man#1: You’re kidding me with this aren’t you?

Man#2: It’s perfect. We’ll just blame it on ‘kids or something’. They’re always doing stuff like this. No-one’ll think it’s us.

Man#1: It’ll be OBVIOUS it’s us. Hang on. Not even 'us'. You, you twat.

Man#2: Nah. TOO obvious, mate. No-one would believe we’d be that blatant. We’ll be TOTALLY in the clear, and still have a chuckle. We’ll just say some radges did it, we didn’t notice, and everything’s golden.

Man#1: [Unconvinced] ‘We’? Fucking ‘we’? If it comes to it, I’m grassing you right up. RIGHT UP.

Man#2: It WON’T! We’re bullet-proof! Come on. Let’s go to work.

Both men climb into the cab of the vehicle and drive away.

Fade to black.

………………………………………………………………………………………......

I’m on my way to work (this is me now) travelling on a bus that is making excruciatingly slow progress.

To be honest it’s been a weird couple of weeks, but the worst seems to be over (well, not really, but more on that later) and I just want to get back to my office and back to normal. On time.

I lean into the aisle and peer ahead of me in much frustration to see what the problem is.

Ah. We are behind a local council Highway Maintenance vehicle that is making very slow progress in whatever it is they do.

Screwed onto the back of the vehicle is an official-looking sign that reads:

“Highway Maintenance Apologise For Any Inconvenience Caused To Your Journey”

Beneath this, someone – probably kids or something – has written in bold block caps into the accumulated grime such vehicles attract:

“LIKE FUCK WE DO”

I smile to myself. It IS quite funny. No-one will get in trouble for that – it’s too obvious. Probably some radge-packets did it.

Random Unconnected Conversations.

2011-08-07T00:47:00.004+01:00

Some time ago:

Thug Colleague: ...Aye so I've got mesell a one terebyte external hard-drive

Me: ...

TG: Filled it with porn, y'knaw.

Me: ...

TG: Aye, in case the internet RUNS OUT.

Me: ...

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

Some time earlier...

I'm at work, talking on the phone.

Me: What do you mean, 'Why are you being horrible'? I'm not being horrible, I'm just being the way I always am. [Pause] What do you mean 'exactly'? Oh yeah, 'exactly'. 'EXACTLY' YOURSELF. Fuck you. Hey. Does your phone do THIS? [Hang up] FUCK!

My boss passes-by at exactly this moment and looks at me with interest.

Me: Oh. It wasn't a business call.

Boss: Wouldn't surprise me if it was.

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

Anyway, I'm off for a bit. Probably a week or so. Whatever.

Tact and Diplomacy.

2011-07-25T23:10:00.006+01:00

One thing I’ve always been good at is diffusing potentially combustible situations.

The days in the murky world of Corporate Whoring plc continue to be dark, and I find myself attending yet another post-redundancy leaving party. It’s in honour of Uncannily Similar’s wife on this occasion. I know his feelings to be mixed – he’s worried about money, but is looking forward to not working in the same building as his wife. His reasons for that are his own.

Our venue is a tavern of low standing named The Smack Rat. Spirits are surprisingly high and strong drinks with equally high spirit content are consumed. As are even stronger drinks with only one ingredient.

I retire outside for a cigarette, soon to be joined by a couple of female colleagues. The cracked-tarmac street outside is as insalubrious as the venue.

The inevitable radge-packet weaves toward us, tracky-bottoms tucked into sport socks, shaven of head and belligerent as hell. He makes some unflattering comments, directed at the women.

I know exactly how to handle this. In a previous life I worked in the ‘licensed trade’ and have dealt with many a drunkard, despite – or because of - my less than towering height and slim build. Keep your voice low, steady and firm. No aggressive body language, do not encroach on personal space. Maintain regular eye-contact but don’t stare. Be polite, do not get annoyed. Easy.

Me: [Stepping to within 6 inches of his face and firmly planting my hand in the middle of his chest] Listen, chief. Why don’t you fuck OFF back home to your pregnant girlfriend and your fucking STAFFY BULL TERRIER?

I pause to consider my words. I feel I may have forgotten to include something. Ah. I know.

Me: You CUNT.

Astonishingly this does not have the becalming effect I imagined.

A split second later it occurs to me that the strong lager, stupid gay mojitos and tequila shots may have dulled my faculties a little. It’s possible I have misjudged the situation.

Suffice to say, after much escalated confrontation involving door-staff, several burly male colleagues and the two female colleagues insisting I hide behind their skirts, the radge is sent on his way and all are unscathed.

I am surprised that no-one thanks me for my intervention. I did, after all, heroically make myself the target for the ruffian’s ire, hence sparing the blushes of the ladies. None of whom swoon, but merely refer to me as a ‘cock’.

The following morning I resolve to work on my negotiating skills. Or to just never leave the house again.

Brimstone.

2011-07-11T21:28:00.009+01:00

“Do you know who I am?”

I’m in one of those road-side diners you find in dust-bowl shit-holes like Arizona, which is where I assume I am. I’m sat on a high stool at the counter drinking coffee, which I never do, and smoking a Chesterfield, which I never smoke.

I glance at the man who has just spoken. He’s catching the eye of the check-shirted woman behind the counter as he sits in the stool next to me.

Me: Yes. You’re the actor John Glover. You played the devil in that awful series ‘Brimstone’ they used to show late night on Channel 4.

The Devil: [very casually, given the gravity of the whole thing] No, I am the Devil. You just see me like this [gestures at himself] because this is how you imagine I’d look, you being an obtuse fucker who used to watch too much late-night television. No cloven-hooves or pitch-forks for you, you awkward twat.

Me: It wasn’t actually that bad a show, just seemed to lose its way. If you wanted ‘bad’ you should have checked the king of late-night bad drama series ‘Highlander’. They put that on at about three o’clock. Adrian Paul – fuck – he made you look good.

TD: Yeah, it wasn’t me, it was the actor John Glover. I’m the Devil.

Me: Alright. Touchy.

TD: I have a deal for you.

Me: Thought you might.

TD: It’s – [to the waitress] – could I get a black coffee? It’s simple. Two million pounds. In return for one memory.

Me: Which one?

TD: Well – [to the waitress] – thanks. A few months ago, your six-year old son and eight-year old daughter are staying with you for a few days. One afternoon, daughter goes to visit one of her old friends and your son and you spend time alone for only the second occasion in your lives. He chose to do so - knocking-about in the park, having your first falling-out, making-up, braying the hell out of each other in the soft-play centre, indoor-rock climbing and him generally thinking everything was awesome.

Me: Yeah, I remember.

TD: Thoroughly sickening so far. So. Five in the morning, he has a bad dream, and clambers into the camp-bed you are sleeping in. That you have set-up in the spare room that is meant to be their room but you’re too much of a fuck-up to buy bunk-beds so they sleep in the double-bed in your room –

Me: HEY. They’re not cheap, bunk-beds. There’s a recession on. I’m not earning ..

TD: Whatever. I can fix all that for you. So there’s no room at all in this camp-bed, and he lies flat-out on top of you and he’s not a little boy anymore but he knows just being close to you will make the bad dream go away and you spend the night with your arms wrapped around him smelling his hair in your face and just as you’re about to sleep at six in the morning his sister wakes and climbs in as well and the camp-bed creaks and you think it’ll break and you can’t remember the last time you were so tired and so happy?

Me: Yeah.

TD: Two million pounds. Buy a house. And some decent beds. And a little flat near where they live so they don’t always have to travel hundreds of miles just to spend a couple of nights with you. Just that one memory.

Me: I’m quite fond of that one, as it happens. And we're talking about two million IMAGINARY POUNDS - this ISN'T EVEN HAPPENING.

TD: You’re a prick, do you know that?

Me: You're not the first to have mentioned it.

TD: Fucking time-waster. Cock. See you around.

Me: You were great in ‘Heroes’…

TD: That wasn’t me, that was the actor John Gl….oh fuck off.

Comments.

2011-06-19T23:58:00.001+01:00

Google is being a complete dick and is 'moderating' my comments willy-nilly and I'm not noticing because I'm busy and such. That is all.

I Mow My Lawn And Quietly Despair.

2011-06-19T23:20:00.003+01:00

Regular readers with long memories and no lives or friends will recall my ‘lawn situation’, and my gratefulness levelled at the two shirtless radge-packets who last summer came round twice a month and strimmed said lawn in return for enough money to buy some cigarettes or cider and for not putting my windows in.

This year, I approach the assembly of my new lawnmower with some trepidation. To be honest, I’m astonished it needs any input on my part construction-wise at all. Shouldn’t it already come in one piece? It’s one of the largest functional item’s I’ve ever owned and I’m becoming concerned about a future in which I purchase a car or a house and find it comes requiring a degree in Air-Fix. Is this how it works now? You pay people for stuff you then need to build?

Oh well. It’s not the most dispiriting birthday present I’ve ever had but at least it serves a function.

Blonde Colleague: [Several days earlier] But what about the radgies? Where are they going to get their White Lightning money now?

Me: It’s not my problem anymore.

B.C: They’ll probably start mugging old ladies for their pension again.

Me: You don’t know that. [They probably will.] And to be honest, it’ll be a relief not to have a couple of shirtless fourteen-year-old boys knocking on my door – the door of a single adult man – anymore. People talk.

B.C: But they were canny! Doing all that work for a couple of quid instead of going on the rob!

And she’s right. As I heave my new lawnmower onto the front lawn I admit to myself that I am now depriving some local delinquents of legal employ. But it’s a gift – I have to use it.

I reflect to myself that it would be funny if they came down my street now and saw me with my new lawnmower.

The radge-packets walk down my street. “This is ridiculous,” I think. “If I write something on the tedious subject of mowing my lawn no-one is going to believe this is happening. Fuck.”

Radgie 1: Alreet, like?

Me: Yeah, um…

Radgie 2: Lawnmower is it?

Me: Aaah…

Radgie 1: WE’D do THAT [gestures at lawn] for ya!

Me: I know but [gesturing at offending lawnmower] it was a present so I’ve got to use it, you know?

Radgie 2: Aye. Right then. Used it before?

Me: NO! First time! I’ve just put it together!

They shrug.

Me: Here we go!

I pull at the ‘power’ handle attached to the real handle. Nothing happens. I release the safety-thing that allows you to ACTUALLY pull the ‘power’ handle and it whirs into life. I grin at the the radge-packets. They scowl.

After mowing for a bit I feel oddly content. Adult. Capable. I glance back. THEY’RE JUST STANDING WATCHING.

I realise they are going to watch me mow MY ENTIRE LAWN.

I manfully shoulder-on, aware that every square-foot of grass represents a mouthful of Diamond White to them. They’re gone by the time I finish. I collect the grass clippings with my newly-acquired rake (get me) and bag it. Judging by the weight it’s at least equivalent to twenty Lambert & Butlers.

I feel DREADFUL. I am convinced the local crime rate will soar. And am also dismayed that this is the only interesting thing to have happened to me in some time.

NEXT: I take the sunflowers back inside, realise I'm being silly and put them back on the patio again. REALLY.

Checking-out.

2011-06-08T21:48:00.002+01:00

An early Saturday afternoon. I’m in the queue for the checkout at my local ‘super’ market armed with some eggs, a loaf of bread, a newspaper and a monstrous hangover.

I’m in no mood.

A man I sort-of know joins the queue behind me.

Namesake: Alright mate?

I’m going to be forced to have a conversation, aren’t I?

I glance at the length of the queue ahead of me, briefly calculate the number of items each person has and the resulting transaction time and come to the conclusion that it’s going to be far too long.

Me: [With heavy heart] Mmm?

Some back-story is required. A couple of years ago I did the hellish ‘flatmate’ thing and moved into the spare room of a ‘lively lady’. She’d had a number of ‘flat-mates’ in the past, and had agreed to ‘take me on’ as I was a ‘fella’ and she felt she didn’t ‘get on’ with her female lodgers.

It was ok until she perplexingly got quite ‘keen’ on me and that. Which was awkward for a bit, but then she pulled herself together and got herself a new bloke with the same name as me. And, I assumed, lived happily ever after once I moved-out and got my own place because I couldn’t tolerate all the ‘happiness’ going on.

Anyway. This is him. He's not a 'bad' bloke I suppose.

Namesake: Been up to much? Still in the same place?

Two questions at once. The bastard.

Me: Mmph. Yeah. Out last night though. Bit delicate.

Namesake: [Needlessly enthusiastic]Gotta be done though, yeah?

Actually, could you just not talk?

Namesake: Don’t know if you heard?

Me: …

Namesake: Yeah, me and Lively split.

Me: Oh.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information. The fucking queue isn’t moving any quicker and the conversation is quickly getting into a place that is ‘not my area’.

Namesake: Yeah. I mean. I moved out, then we weren’t together.

Yeah, that’ll do it, I think to myself. Especially if you try it in that order.

Namesake: We were still seeing each other after I moved out and that – her idea for me to go, you know – money and that, I’ve not done well after the divorce - and…

The old woman two spaces ahead of me – after paying for her shopping - is now paying her utility bills on those pre-payment card things. One-by-one. Marvellous.

Namesake: …so she got a new lodger but he didn’t work out. This is before we officially split and that. Apparently he didn’t like having the flat to himself ‘cos she was always round mine…

Yeah, no doubt mate. ‘He hated having the place to himself’. That was his problem.

Fuck me, Mum-Ra has been replaced by Discount Coupon Lady who is taking even longer.

Namesake: …but she’s got a new one now and it seems to be going well. I mean. I don’t see her much anymore, but sometimes I see them and they’re even out together. You know? Of a night-time and that? Seems like a nice chap, actually.

I think of the Friday night texts I used to get from Lively Lady.

Namesake gazes thoughtfully into the middle-distance. The poor bastard.

Thankfully, I have been served.

Me: Anyway.

Namesake: Oh. Yeah. Good to see you again mate.

Me: Yeah.

I don’t then grab his shoulder and say “At least I didn’t fuck her” because I’m far too hung-over.

Under-Krackers.

2011-06-02T21:20:00.001+01:00

I’ve a tiresome work-related problem to deal with and it involves Blonde Colleague.

We’ve been put-back a good couple of days by some absurd ‘training’.

Me: [Brandishing a memo from Accounts] Now then –

Blonde Colleague: [Squirming in her seat] I’ve got the mother of all wedgies.

Me: *sigh* Right. Accounts have been on at me and –

B.C: [Wriggling] Friggin’ hell, if they were any further up they’d be in my mouth.

Me: Ok. It’s just there’s a query on –

B.C: If I coughed they’d come flyin’ out my gob.

Me: Yeah. Apparently you spoke to Client X and agreed –

B.C: [Standing-up and doing a weird thing with her hips] They’re big pants, you know – like boxers but for girls?

I can’t remember when it happened, but either I became ‘one of the girls’ or she became ‘one of the boys’.

Me: Ah. I need to get this sorted today, so –

B.C: They cost two pound and one-seventy-five of them are up my arse.

Me: No doubt. Can we get this –

B.C: It’s nae good, I’m going to have to sort this.

She heads-off in the direction of the ‘ladies powder-room’. Or the ‘can’ as she prefers to call it.

Me: [To her rapidly-disappearing back] I’ll talk to you later, yeah?

“Motivational Seminar”.

2011-05-27T21:05:00.003+01:00

Are there any two words in the lexicon that can chill the blood more? I suspect not.

“Motivational” is bad enough - if you need ‘motivating’ to do something then it’s because it’s something you don’t want to do. Ask yourselves; do you need ‘motivating’ to spend all Saturday in your pants on the bean-bag playing video games? No you don’t – you’d be doing that anyway.

“Seminar”? Basically slang for ‘making a short conversation last a thousand years by inviting a bunch of twats you don’t care about to give their worthless opinions’.

Anyway. I have to subtract two days from my life to attend one of these dreadful things.

I’ll not bore the world with it’s eight-gagillionth blog post about ‘how corporate working life is a bit pants and that’ because – lets face it – wearing a suit every day and working in an air-conditioned office isn’t really as bad as fruitlessly hacking-away at an unforgiving coalface, but I will gift you with a series of ‘motivational’ bullet-points I have been supplied with to ‘keep with me’ during this dreadful seminar next week.

The following BBFC-style advisory does apply:

1) Reading further will potentionally cause your brain tissue to melt into a watery-grey semen-like substance that will begin seeping from the tear-ducts of your eyes, causing you to weep hot bitter spunk and cerebrospinal fluid down your cheeks - making the lower part of your face resemble one of the melting Nazis at the end of Raiders Of The Lost Ark

and

2) Actually make you shit your pants.

What follows have been cut-and-pasted and not embellished in any way. Connesiurs will recognise the wearingly constant exclamation marks. The bracketed comments are my own, where needed. You have been warned:

“People will never consistently do who they aren’t!” [I’m not convinced that this is anything other than a random collection of words. Unless it is the colloquial ‘do’ in which case it means ‘fuck yourself’. Hmm.]

“People remember the experience long after they remember the price!”

“When you increase the amount of time you think about things you start to add in other dimensions!” [The only thing 'increasing' here is 'fear'. What other 'dimensions'? If Doctor Who is not hosting this seminar I shall feel let-down}

“If you don’t know where you’re going all the roads lead there!” [To where? That literally makes no sense.]

“If my life was a business would I invest in it?” [Currently, I'm not even investing in you mate - and I've not even met you.]

“What you say… will be the way!” [Ok then. "I'm the next James Bond."]

“Pain is the catalyst for action……Pleasure is the continuation of action” [What? Really. What?]

“What you think about you become!” [See above. I am still awaiting my MI6 invite.]

“If you think you can or you think you can’t… your probably right!” [Although the author of this Motivational Speaking seminar ‘pre-prep’ document is hardly motivating me with the fact that he doesn’t know his “you’re” from his “your”]

“Amateurs practise till they get it right – Professionals practise till they can’t get it wrong!”

“The quality of your life is in direct proportion to the quality of the questions you ask yourself and others!”

“It’s not about doing major things differently… It’s about small changes which together have a compounding effect on the end result”

“In a world where the BIG things make little difference it’s the little things that make a BIG difference!”

As of Tuesday, I’ve got two solid days of this. They’re (not ‘There’ or ‘Their’) not even providing lunch. Pray I do not murder someone.

Sunflowers.

2011-05-19T20:06:00.000+01:00

I am re-potting some sunflowers. There are about eighteen of them, roughly ten inches high and they currently reside in just two pots, originally planted as seeds by my son and daughter respectively.

They’re getting a bit crowded.

I select the tallest from each pot and re-plant them, placing the two small sticks each of my children have written their names on into the compost of the plant they belong to.

Chatting under my breath to myself, I refer to each of the plants with the christian names of both my son and daughter as I have done throughout the growing process. If I did not live alone, someone would probably tell me that not only is talking to plants a bit odd, but talking to them as if they were actually your absent offspring is even odder.

And I would tell them to fuck off.

So they don’t feel left out, I also re-pot the remaining, less successful sunflowers, and put them and their larger siblings in the sun on the patio. They’re getting big now, and I think they’re ready to leave the house and amuse themselves outside on their own.

It’s a task I’ve been putting-off for over a week now - despite acquiring the compost, pots, bamboo cane and twine - without really knowing why. But of course the reason is obvious, as any Oliver James-reading armchair psychologist would point out:

I just don’t want them to grow up.

Silently nodding my head at my own insightfulness, I head back into my living room and gaze at my unkempt lawn. I wonder why I haven’t got round to mowing it, despite the still-boxed new lawnmower residing in the shed.

Again, the reason is obvious:

I just can’t be fucking arsed.

'Nice' People.

2011-05-15T20:35:00.003+01:00

Blonde Colleague and I are out the back of the building we work in, smoking cigarettes and scowling at strangers.

Blonde Colleague: Anyways. Did you go for a drink with that lass then?

Me: Mmm hm.

B.C: You did? God, you tell no-one nothing you. So? Any good?

I shrug and make a face.

B.C: No?

Me: Naaaw.

B.C: It’s like pulling teeth with you. So – why, like? Aside from her obviously being blind or a mental or something if she’s giving you the time of day.

Me: No. It’s just…she was ‘nice’, you know?

B.C: What’s wrong with that? A nice lass wouldn’t do YOU any harm. Level you out a bit.

Me: I just don’t really like ‘nice’ people.

B.C: YOU DON’T LIKE ANYONE! God. You’re going to die alone, do you know that?

Me: Rather that than knock-around with some ‘nice’ girl who’ll end up making me pray FOR an early demise.

B.C: What do you mean anyways? ‘Nice’?

Me: Well. [Begin counting bullet-points on my fingers] 1) She works for a charity and –

B.C: [Screwing her face in disgust at the very idea of ‘altruism’] What sort of fucking charity?

Me: - oh I don’t know, spastic kids or something I’d stopped listening at that point. 2) She’s also a part-time student and –

B.C: [Equally appalled] Fuck! Studying what?

Me: Psychology and child-care.

B.C: Jesus fucking Christ. What’s that going to get her?

Me: Dunno. A free copy of the Guardian and a pair of moccasins when she graduates I’d have thought. And 3) she does volunteer work for her local Girl Guides.

B.C: Fuck off!

Me: I’m not even joking.

B.C: [Flicking her cigarette across the street and not noticing it hit an elderly woman’s wheeled-shopping-basket thing] Fuck me you’re better off out of that.

Me: Tell me about it.

We head back into our office, a place of dreadful raw-nerved competitiveness and awful pressure where we would each fuck the other over without a second’s thought, far, far away from any horrendous ‘nice’ people. We sit down, stinking of cigarette smoke and cynicism and glare at people.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I Receive A Text Message.

2011-05-11T20:00:00.004+01:00

I'm not hugely mourning the loss of my daily contact with Thug Colleague, Grant From Work and Silent Ben since their rather ignoble departure from my workplace, but it is quite odd and I don’t like change.

As such I’ve uncharacteristically been in quite regular contact with them as we do the odd thing of changing from work ‘mates’ to actual friends. The last time I did this was with Gay Mark and look how that ended. He wasn’t gay before.

Not that I'm saying being friends with me turns you gay. I'm not saying that at all.

Anyway. I now find myself ‘organizing things’ and that. Not my forte, but I’m rather enjoying it.

Oh and let me make it clear - the ‘ignoble’ aspect was not down to them at all and actually I think they’ve acted rather impressively but that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want to be one of those ‘bloggers’ who gets sacked for jabbering about their workplace and then gets a book deal as a result. I’d hate that.

But I’d started – after nearly five years – to decide they were ‘alright’. Thug was exactly the sort of person I’d never get on with, Grant was so dry he made me look like Timmy Mallett and Silent Ben has – to my knowledge – never spoken to anyone ever.

But still I send a text to Thug offering some gesture of solidarity following a night of cold-drinks related entertainment neither of us could attend. Unfortunately for me, he texts as he speaks so I have little idea what the following reply means:

“Wey ner hit it like mark hits his balls off male anus na cudnt make it had ma fitness class on till 8 wud have been owa late we shud sort owt a gud drink soon mate get all the gud ones owt minus Hitler and ginger Claire haha.”

After several readings I can only assume that a night out of some sort is in the offing.

I think.

More things to organise. *sigh*

Something Odd Happens.

2011-05-07T23:55:00.003+01:00

Are you a woman? Do you have breath-takingly low standards and want to know how to snare yourself a damaged ill-tempered skinny man who spends his down-time scowling at people on public transport? Then read on.

Tuesday evening. I’m on my way home from work but will be getting off the bus a few stops early to visit a hideous shopping centre to buy a cheap DVD player to replace the one that done broke and that. It’s a massive inconvenience and I’m tired.

I move toward the doors of the bus as it approaches the shopping-centre. Someone places their hand on my arm.

I don’t like people touching me at the best of times and this is the last place I expect such unwarranted intimacy. I flinch, jerk my arm away and stop just short of punching Captain Touchy square in the face.

Vaguely Familiar Woman: Hi!

Me: Err…

The bus has stopped and we go through the rigmarole of getting off, entering the hideous shopping emporium and side-stepping all the old people and ‘wheelchairs’ that always hold-up the normal pedestrian traffic in such places.

It’s all a bit disorientating and I’d already retreated into a private mental-place as I usually do when visiting this awful citadel-of-hatefulness so I now have to unexpectedly ‘snap out of it’.

VFW: [Beaming at me like I’ve known her for years despite my only slightly recognising her from somewhere or other] So! What you doing?

Me: Ah. DVD. Ehm. I mean. It broke. [Clears throat and pulls self together. Still a bit rattled about all the ‘touching’ business] I need to buy a new [actually, WHO THE FUCK IS THIS WOMAN?] DVD player, I had a box-set delivered and I’ve not been able to watch it – bit frustrating – so I’m ahhh…

VFW: [Astonishingly not losing interest] Ok. Well I just need to pick up some things from Boots The Chemists then I can give you a lift home.

Me: [Glancing behind me at the bus station] Urrr..

VFW: Oh I park the car here and get the bus to and from town.

Me: Ahhh…

VFW: Currys would be best. Or Argos. [Proceeds to give me in-depth directions ‘in case you get lost’ as I probably would]

VFW: I’ll just drop you a text when I’m done in Boots yeah?

Me: [Still massively befuddled. Who the fuck is this person? She does look familiar. And is quite pretty] Yeah.

I’ve said ‘yeah’ purely to end the conversation without really thinking about the consequences

VFW: What’s your number?

I see what she’s done now. And I’ve already said ‘yeah’. So I can’t not give her my number. And of course I now have to give her my name. Because it would now be ‘silly’ not to. She’s good.

Forty minutes later.

We’re now in her car approaching my street.

Me: Anywhere here is fine.

It’s far enough away from my house for her not to know exactly where I live. She stops the car, after a twenty minute journey during which she has acquired my life-story after a asking a few simple questions and making me feel so awkward that I cannot stop talking.

Me: Ah. So. Thanks for this. I must owe you a drink or something.

That’s something you just say isn’t it? No-one takes that as a commitment surely?

VFW: This Friday or Saturday. Either are good.

Me: [Oh, I’m wrong] Ahhh. Ehm. Ok then.

I get out of her car, dragging my new DVD player with me, and let myself into my empty house and look at my reflection in the mirror. I look haggard, confused and startled.

Me: [To my own reflection] What the fuck just happened?

Nothing Interesting Happens.

2011-05-04T22:11:00.000+01:00

A bleary-eyed Saturday morning. I take the washing from the line, carefully fold it and toss it onto the patio table which promptly collapses sending rusty screws, splinters and planks of dry wood aloft which a sickening crash.

I stare at it for a bit, but it does not magically re-assemble itself.

If I were married or had a girlfriend someone would now be saying:

“Well don’t just stand there staring you idiot!”

But I don’t even have that as a distraction.

Taking my splinter-strewn washing indoors I then make myself some boiled eggs that are not boiled satisfactorily. I begrudgingly eat at my dining-table and not in the sun on the patio.

There is a ‘thud’ from the letter-box.

A new box-set. Things are looking up.

The DVD player no longer works.

Brilliant.

I go out to buy some compost. I have sunflowers to re-pot. There isn’t any compost to be found in a 5-mile radius. At all. Nor is there available any generic ‘No-More-Nails’ – style wood glue to allow me to clumsily transform what is now a small amount of kindling into a table-shaped object.

Attempting to purchase the Saturday edition of my favourite newspaper, I am thwarted by the fact that it is now actually Sunday because I’ve lost track of the whole thing what with all these bloody Bank Holidays.

I arrive home empty-handed.

Scratching at my partially-successful beard I reflect that the day is not going as I would wish.

NEXT: As an indirect result of nothing interesting happening, something odd – but not terribly interesting - happens!

I Send Some Text Messages.

2011-04-25T22:50:00.002+01:00

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.

You Don't Really Want To Ask.

2011-04-10T22:05:00.002+01:00

Classified advertisement spotted in my local 'sales and wants' paper:

KARCHER SC1020 STEAM CLEANER. Good steam cleaner. New costs £130. Valentine gift from my husband, used only once, not my forte. Durham.

I strongly suspect the back-story is not a happy one.

Small Coins.

2011-03-29T23:33:00.003+01:00

Like the shiniest coins in your money box as a child they may have little real value or significance, but sometimes the small incidents, the small memories, are the best and you’re afraid to touch them or revisit them too much in case they become dull.

This evening. I’m walking through the grass-lined war memorial outside the bus station that will provide me with transport home. It’s late, I’ve been kept back at my office two hours longer than need be and I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep well the previous evening and am generally in a foul mood.

The memorial, at this time of night, is home to every cider-head, smack-rat, emo, goth, chav, homeless, skater-kid and radge-packet in the city. Basically they are representative of all the various tribes of humanity I despise and I just want to negotiate it in one piece without losing my temper and getting into a situation I will doubtless not come out the better of. I really don’t have the build for it.

I’m near the pillared-entrance to the small shopping centre at the back of the memorial that leads to my bus station when I notice an elderly man in ragged clothes and a bobble hat taking a circuitous route around the pillars, staring intently at the ground.

I come to the conclusion that he is either a) mental or b) homeless and is searching for money or viable cigarette-ends or c) most likely both. I alter my path to avoid contact with him. I can’t help him, it’s late and – do you know what – he’s not my problem.

Almost simultaneously a small group of radgies clock him as well. They’re the very worst sort. With an average age of fourteen years by the look of them, they are clad head-to-toe in either Bench or Kangol, dripping in Elizabeth Duke and have obviously been wagging-off school all day and stink of Lambert & Butlers.

And they’re girls. Which is so much worse. Empowered by the effect of their new-found hips, tits and arses they know they have a terrible influence over men that they do not yet fully understand, but still they know it’s there. And they also know that no man will strike either a child or a woman on the street. Being a strange mixture of both, they are fucking untouchable and they know it. They’re terrifying.

One of their number detaches herself from the radge-hive and starts heading toward the elderly mental homeless guy. Her shoulders are squared, her stride argumentative and she is reeking of fake tan, hormones, aggression and whatever they use to fix hair-extensions with.

Radge-Packet: [At Elderly Homeless Mental] You! Aye. You. What ye dein’ like?

I slow my pace and turn around. It’s none of my business. And I may not have been prepared to do anything for the man, but I’m not going to stand by and watch him be tormented by an ASBO kid. Christ. All I wanted was to get home.

R.P: [Shouting] Aye. Yeah. Ye, like. Ah’m talkin’ to yuh.

It never happens often, but in situations like this I never know WHAT I’m going to do. I just know I’ll do something.

R.P: [Now squaring-up to Elderly Homeless Mental in the most confrontational manner possible] Looking for pennies are yu? Eh? I said- are you looking for coins?

My jaw is clenched. I start to walk over.

Elderly Homeless Mental: [Confused, frightened] Oh, er, yes ….

R.P: Reet. Well have this. [Proffers a small coin] It’s only ten pence but it’s all I’ve got. [With undiminished aggression] One of my stupid mates hoyed five pence ower there [gestures] so yu can probly find that too an’ aaal. Reet?

E.H.M: Oh bless you. You’re an angel.

R.P: Aye well.

She heads back to her cohorts and I trail behind as she’s on the way to where I need to be.

One of her companions asks her what the guy said. She replies with the same borderline-furious tone I now realise she has used all her life, and that her mother and father have probably used all their lives before her.

R.P: Aye he said I was an angel, like.

Companion: Aw.

I look at my watch. I’ve still time for not only my bus, but also a brief re-evaluation of humanity. I shall try and remember this. But not too often.

Pressure.

2011-03-13T21:37:00.000Z

“You might feel a bit of pressure.” Says the woman sticking a scalpel in my eye.

“Pressure?” I think to myself. “You know nothing about it, love. I’ve got a workload you wouldn’t believe and I’ve had to take an hour off to come here so a swarthy lass who could obviously beat the shit out of me if I looked at her funny with my good eye can stick needles in me and start fucking about with a sharp fucking knife. At my fucking eye. Fuck. It’s not like I can even look away. Shit”

“That’s a good result.” She says to no-one in particular as the vision in my left eye goes blood-red. With blood as it turns out.

Being an obviously considerate sort, she tapes an eye-patch big enough to take care of Geoff Capes onto me, despite the fact that my entire head is about the size of my eight-year old daughters. So I don’t look in the slightest bit foolish.

“Now, if you have to come back…..”

“Don’t worry. I AM NEVER FUCKING HAVING THAT DONE AGAIN.” I say.

She and her assistant laugh. This is a big load of TEH FUNNY for them. They cut cysts from the under-sides of eyelids all the time.

I return to the office, tripping down stairs and bumping into door frames.

It’s not the first time I’ve had to have things hacked from my body because they’re doing more harm than good, and I wonder how long it’ll be before I have a bathroom cabinet like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly packed with discarded pieces of me.

After much hilarity caused by my appearance, four of my colleagues are – without warning or explanation – escorted from the premises. Two of them I happen to have quite a lot of time for.

I’m told I shall be taking over the accounts of one of them. As I’m obviously at a loose-end these days. And don’t have enough to do.

Finally, I get a bus home. It’s the same service upon which I had an alarming seizure and convulsed on the floor of for a full five minutes some months ago. People look askance at my patched face and shuffle out of my way.

I take out my much-hated mobile phone and send a couple of texts of concern and support to Thug Colleague. I remember how much I used to dislike him, and how perplexed we both must be about the massively unlikely friendship we have grown in the last twelve months – sparked by a mutual admiration of the recording artist Kunt And The Gang - after four solid years of being deeply suspicious of one another.

It seems I have developed ‘empathy’ quite late on in life. As if I didn’t have enough to do, it seems I am now ‘caring about people’ all over the place. The selfish bastards. Christ.

Impromptu Telly Review.

2011-03-04T19:38:00.021Z

I’m having an unbelievably stressful afternoon having taken on an unnecessarily ambitious project just to prove a point and also because neither backing-down or admitting defeat are one of my big things.

Thug Colleague: How. Tired. Y’want in on this?

Me: FUCK. What?

T.C: Top five most hated television programmes?

It’s better than his enquiry as to who my ‘arch-nemesis’ in the workplace is, but I have deadlines screaming at me like I owe them money, three different departments of my silly company doing the same, six clients who do not seem to know what the term ‘deadline’ actually means and ninety minutes to tie the whole thing up.

Me: Yeah, O.K. then.

Here are my answers, and reasons (if required):

Popworld, Channel 4.
Two charisma-free mannequins perform the most painfully over-rehearsed ‘spontaneous’ banter whilst pretending to laugh at their own obviously scripted and unfunny ‘jokes’ whilst asking uninteresting questions of uninteresting popstrels and banging on about ‘festivals’ and stuff. They wouldn’t be invited round my house in a million years. I don’t hate it because it was once quite good. I hate it because it is shit.

Anything Featuring the ‘Talents’ Of Alex Zane, Any Channel.
No explanation required.

That Dreadful Bob Grundy-Hosted History of the North of England Thing, BBC1
I can’t even be bothered to look-up it’s real name. It makes Countryfile seem avant-garde. Do you know that feeling of dread that used to creep into the pit of your stomach on a Sunday night before school when Bullseye came on the telly? It’s like someone distilled that, cooked it up and fucking mainlined it into you. In a massively unlikely footnote, Thug Colleague has had business dealings with the man in question (attempting to flog his DVDs to an uninterested public) and reports that he is ‘a cunt’.

Something for the Weekend, BBC2
I can only assume that the sorry enterprise was born of this scenario:

Exec 1: We need some sort of Sunday-morning ‘magazine show’ made-up of clips from the previous week’s telly that is totally unlike the omnibus This Morning on the other channel which features the deep likeability of Philip Schofield and the unique combination of sexiness and equal likeability that is Holly Willoughby. You know, the one people actually enjoy? But have it be almost identical to that. Whilst being different.

Exec 2: No problem. We’ll just assemble a bunch of feckless z-list celebrities and no-marks with all the charm of my foreskin and with no chemistry whatsoever to pretend they don’t secretly hate each other any more than the general public actually hates each and every one of them individually and then – twist coming – throw in a cocktail-maker who appears to be a hairs-breadth away from downing a mojito in a one-er and chinning the lot of them.

Exec 1: Perfect.

Any Cookery Show Featuring Rick Stein. Any Channel, But Usually BBC2.
A controversial choice as it turned out. But let me ask you this: could you spend more than an hour in his company without wanting to grind your teeth on his worthy skull? No, you couldn’t. And he always smells of fish, whilst constantly quacking-on about it. It’s fish, Rick. Get over it.

Several people list that “fuckin 10 O’Clock Show shite” in their top five, and I briefly argue. But even I have to concede that I WANT to like it more than I ACTUALLY do.

I look at my watch and realise I shall now be working late or face the wrath of a client named Wayne, who is built like a brick-layer and sports the name ‘Miss Kitty’ after dark. True.

I Reach A Pivotal Moment In My Life.

2011-02-16T22:00:00.000Z

There are certain moments. When you know you will change as a person. And are about to do things you never have before, that will probably define the rest of your life as a man.

For the first time, I am about to purchase a vacuum cleaner.

Feeling very modern, I flash the text-message reservation confirmation at the woman in Argos. She seems unimpressed. Perhaps she has seen this done before.

I remember the first time I discovered that socks and pants did not magically just appear. I was in my third year of university.

That was a big one.

The thing about household tasks requiring ‘tools’ of some sort was also a shocker, as was the introduction to shops that smelt of metal, hard work and masculinity. Purchasing a cordless drill was mind-blowing.

But this.

More than socks, pants, hammers or drills, vacuum-cleaners have always just BEEN THERE. Wherever I’ve lived, there’s always been one about, or someone has had a spare one (why?) that I’ve taken.

So this is enormous. I had a perfectly good one that just came from nowhere, which my sister – in the brief period she rented my spare room, used once and tripped every switch in the house and caused a brief but alarming electrical burning smell – destroyed.

Getting home from work, I take the box from the carrier bag. This is guaranteed to be an excellent experience.

For one; it cost less than twenty quid. No matter how poor it is, it cannot disappoint at that price.

And. The box has been taped-up by an Argos employee meaning it is an un-advertised return. This means that the previous owner thought it was so good that it would have been unfair not to let other people have a go at it.

I am agog with anticipation.

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish thingse”

Yeah. It’s time to put away childish things and do some overdue hoovering.

But it’s late. We’ll see.

Internet Dating.

2011-02-10T20:54:00.007Z

It’s a rainy Wednesday afternoon, and Blonde Colleague is engaged in one of her favourite pastimes.

Me: Alright. Do you just want to delete it now?

Blonde Colleague: But you’re getting loads of matches! I mean, I’ve not put your picture on there which probably helps but ….

Me: I don’t even know why this amuses you.

B.C: Well, it’s just…oh. Look at her – she’s alright.

Me: No.

B.C: It’s just funny. You know. The thought of you actually ‘with’ someone. I can’t really see it. God knows how you managed to have two children.

Me: Great. Thanks. Will you delete it now?

It’s not the first time and I doubt the last that she has created an online dating profile for me because she’s bored.

I shan’t forget the harrowing afternoon when she found a site that effectively promised to match a very in-depth psychometric profile of your good self with anyone similar in the world. After forty minutes filling-in the alarmingly lengthy questions she refused to take any more of my honest answers on the grounds that they made me sound like a 'fucking psycho' and clicked ‘search’ with the result that I am apparently incompatible with anyone in the Western Hemisphere with internet access.

B.C: Ooh. Look at this one. ‘Mildly disabled’ it says. What do you reckon?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not ‘hating on' internet dating. But I’ve been ‘actual’ dating and by God it’s horrific.

Effectively a job interview to be someone’s boyfriend, where you sit across a table with someone you hardly know in some bar or restaurant somewhere with a fake rictus grin plastered on your fizzog whilst you pretend to be interested in a virtual stranger and try to present yourself as a reasonable example of humanity and not as the vindictive, ill-tempered monomaniac you actually are.

That’s bad enough. But at least you’ll have had some sort of normal human contact to get you there in the first place.

I nearly tried the internet version once. I had a flatmate a couple of years ago who seemed to do quite well out of it. I actually set-up a profile on her preferred site and everything. To be honest, it was because she was (astonishingly) quite keen on me herself and I was trying to subtly let her know that it wasn’t happening. She liked my profile, but felt that the photo “didn’t do me any favours”. In that it contained my face, I can only assume.

It was deleted after a day. She’d got the message.

And I'd got a dispiritingly filthy message from an overweight woman who works in my local Co-Op. I do my shopping out-of-town now.

Anyway.

B.C: You should do this for real.

Me: No. If I write an attractive profile people will be only let-down by the abysmal reality and if I write an honest one people will run a mile.

B.C: What’s the honest one?

Me: I dunno. Something like “Emotionally distant borderline-sociopath WLTM fragile woman with crippling self-esteem issues to repeatedly batter with his Sarcasm Mallet until her sense of self-worth is so low she can’t leave the house. Reply to Box Number etc”

Blonde Colleague squints at me for a moment.

B.C: That would work.

Me: WHAT?

B.C: Women are mental. [She considers herself an honourary ‘woman’] They lap that shit up. They love a bloke who’s crackers. Either that or they think “hmm, I could sort him right out.” You know, fix you up and that? They love that.

Me: Let’s just not bother.

Besides. I like the way my house is at the minute. Y’know?

Train Of Thought.

2011-01-26T20:54:00.006Z

New Year's Eve, and I'm on a train.

I'm in an astoundingly bad mood, and am also six hours away from my final destination. My head and heart are pounding from the conflicting feelings of being very sorry to leave where I am, and being bloody glad to get home.

I start to wonder where the 'twat on the train' is.

It's a rule of ‘Rail Travel’ in this country: you cannot travel a lengthy distance without encountering a stranger - usually sat next to you – that you would not murder with a smile on your face. He is the ‘twat on the train’.

Perplexingly, all is fine. It’s a bit crammed. But that’s all.

With great relief I open a can of strong drink. I’ve had a couple before I got on but it’s fine. I’m unhappy. I’m allowed to be unhappy and have a can of strong drink? Yes? Yes. There is no ‘twat on the train’ so I am ok.

A couple get on and sit at the aisle opposite me. I assume them to be married.

He’s a ‘snorter’.

“Oh God,” I think to myself. “Just don’t say anything. He’s got a sinus problem or something. Just keep quiet.”

*SNORT*

*GURGLE*

*THROAT CLEARING*

*SNORT*

His wife seems very serene and totally involved in her book. CAN SHE NOT HEAR?

She must be deaf. She’d have divorced him.

*SNORT*

Christ. I’d leave him. I’m not even married to him. Fuck.

I can LITERALLY hear the grotty sputum gurgling around every single cavity in the man’s head. EVERY ONE.

Looking at my watch, I realise I have at least four hours of Captain Disgusting to put up with.

*SNORT*

*GURGLE*

The easy option is to put in my headphones and ignore him. But it’s busy, the metal tube I’m in is crammed with people and I’m unwilling to give up any of my senses. Not when there’s this many randoms around.

*SNORT*

*GURGLE*

I shove my hands into my pockets in frustration and find a massive amount of napkins – the sort you pick up when you have children, thinking they might be handy later in the day.

Slamming them down in the tray in front of the Snorter across the aisle I say:

Me: HERE. Thought you might like these.

Odd silence.

Snorter: Oh. Erm. Did I drop them or something?

Me: No. It just sounds like you REALLY NEED TO BLOW YOUR FUCKING NOSE.

Odd silence.

An hour later Snorter and his wife depart. His wife pauses only to peer at me and say:

Snorting Wife: I just want to say – I think you are a very rude man.

I think nothing of this, until York, were - with a flourish - I get off the train, and realise a number of things:

1) I do not live in York, or indeed anywhere near it.

2) I’m really going to have trouble getting anywhere near my home at this hour.

3) I am astonishingly drunk.

4) I should probably make some resolutions. Along the lines of : ‘not being a total cunt. All of the time.’

5) I could very well be the ‘Twat On The Train’

Scratching at my unsuccessful Christmas beard, I resolve to not only get home but to stop being totally unpleasant, probably starting with people I’ve not spoken to in awhile.

After all – what could go wrong?

Good Intentions.

2011-01-10T19:56:00.003Z

I’m on the phone, listening to the ‘ringing’ tone whilst I wait for the other person to answer. The person is a client; the director of a small advertising agency. I’ve not been able to get through on any of the landlines, so I’m trying her mobile.

She answers, and we exchange the usual pleasantries.

Me: Anyway, so it’s been nearly a year since I last spoke to you so just thought I’d check in.

I have what many may think an unappealing habit of completely dropping a person the moment they cease to be immediately useful to me and never making contact with them ever again. My past life is littered with abandoned friends and family members.

The friends – well, I’ve never had any problem making new ones, probably to the amazement of anyone who regularly reads this horrible blog, so big deal. And the family members – well, fuck'em, you know?

But I’m starting - with this phone call to a lady that I used to know quite well and speak to very regularly - to try and feel the spirit of the New Year and the good intentions that are supposed to come with it and that.

Old Client: Oh don’t you know? Of course you don’t. We had to liquidate the business six months ago!

Me: Oh.

O.C: Yeah yeah had to lay-off twenty-five people. Terrible. No fun, no fun at all.

I’ve been robbed of much of my motivation here, but persevere.

Me: What happened? I mean was it the usual thing with, you know ….

O.C: Oh nonono nothing like that. The accountant was stealing.

Me: Eh? Who? Lesley? [Her name wasn’t Lesley] She seemed really pleasant whenever I spoke to her. [To ask if she was ever going to pay me, as it happens]

O.C: I thought so too. She’s halfway-through a two-year prison sentence for fraud now.

Me: Right.

I’m really at a bit of a loss now. Old Client is making no effort to end this conversation, but I’ve nowhere to go. I could ask about her family but knowing her school-age son to have a crippling combination of autism and ADHD and also the trouble she’s had finding a suitable school for him – to the extent that she even tried to create a new one tailored for other children with her son’s special requirements – I don’t really want to go there. I’ve such a low level of natural empathy I could be fucking autistic myself.

Me: Right then. Well. Ok. [Old Client is silent. She’s not making this easy on me] You’re alright yourself though?

O.C: It’s been quite a year to be honest. My sister died ….

Me: ………

O.C: ….and my daughter’s been diagnosed with cancer.

Me: ………

O.C: It’s in her brain.

Me: ……..

O.C: So, anyway I’m really not doing much in the way of press advertising these days…

Me: Well, God, no, well, of course…

O.C: I’ve a couple of small clients that I do occasional stuff for so I’ll be in touch, but it’s more a hobby now. Lot’s to do, you know? Good to hear from you again though.

Me: Ah. You too. Er….

O.C: [With remarkable cheeriness] Alright then babes, later yeah? Be good!

I hang up. She always ended a conversation ‘Be good!’ It suggested a mutual naughtiness that rather amused me.

I take the imaginary ‘My Name Is Earl’ – style list of my new good intentions and tear it up. And stamp on it. Then set it alight. Before pissing on it, and then burying it in a field of bastards.

Pact - Redux.

2010-12-15T20:25:00.007Z

I'm about to have a telephone conversation with Favourite Daughter.

Previously, my eight-year-old daughter had managed to get me to promise never to take a girlfriend – under tenuous conditions, but I was happy enough with the deal.

But she’s upping her game.

Their Mother: [Teasing my daughter] Come to the phone! Daddy wants to tell you about his new girlfriend!

Favourite Daughter: [Background, clearly apalled] Noooooooo!

Me: That's not funny. Just put her on.

FD: 'Lo?

Me: Hello sweetheart. Mummy's just being silly.

I decide to reassure her. I know what all this is about. She's worried that one day she won't be my favourite.

I'm brilliant at this, me.

Me: Mummy's joking. And I don't have a girlfriend right now. I'll only ever love you best in the world anyway. So don't worry.

Genius. I’m great at this, me.

FD: But what about Mummy?

A lesser man would feel the ground begin to open, but not me. I'm fully prepared for this.

Me: I don't think Mummy really WANTS a girlfriend. Not REALLY.

Brilliant. I'm a genius, me. Did you see what I did?

FD: [Laughing] Nooo! But do you love Mummy?

I had this covered about two years ago. I’ve been waiting for it. I know the answer to this one. God, I'm awesome.

Me: Of course. Mummy gave me you and Favourite Son. I'll always love her for that.

Brilliant answer. I rock.

FD: [Quitely satisfied and oddly triumphant] Good.

After some moments our telephone conversation is concluded. And I think for a bit.

Forget the 'ground opening'. This is like that awful disaster movie 'The Core' when the pigeons all go screwy, the Northern Lights go bonkers, Rome and San Francisco explode (oddly nowhere else), the earth's crust starts revolving the wrong way and all electrical things go 'bang' and ,like, earthquakes start happening and that.

Her concern isn’t about my ongoing love for her at all.

I begin mentally constructing a craft that can drill to the earth’s core with Hilary Swank and detonate nuclear devices to get everything moving in the right way again. Metaphorically.

It’s about me and her mother. And she’s just got me to say something I can never really back up.

She is, of course, a genius.

Unremarkable.

2010-12-11T22:37:00.003Z

“This is going to be amazing” I think to myself as I head to the service station across the road.

It was sometime in my late twenties when I realised I was never going to be remarkable in any way. I found it quite dispiriting.

But how wrong I was.

I’m about to return a rental copy of a dvd. And it’s going to be AWESOME.

Being a Saturday night I also select a bottle of wine and head to the cashier. She bags it and takes my money.

Me: Also. I rented this [hand over dvd] about FOUR WEEKS AGO and forgot about it! The fines must be enormous!

Cashier : [deadpan]I’ll check.

Me: It’ll be a record, I guarantee it!

Pause.

Cashier: £97.50.

Me: Woah. That makes it the most expensive dvd in history, surely!

Cashier: Nope.

Me: What? Come on. That’s got to be a record! I should get a plaque on the wall or something!

Cashier: Nope. [Presses some buttons] £210.50. That’s the one to beat.

Me: [Geniunely deflated] Oh.

Cashier: You’ll not be able to rent another one. Pay it off when you can.

I go back home, resigned to being unremarkable.

Pact.

2010-12-08T01:28:00.006Z

I am having a telephone conversation with the mother of my children, Favourite Daughter and Favourite Son.

Previously referred to as 'Tired Mam' (she never liked the name) Their Mother is prattling-on about something or other. I'm at work and my head has not room for whatever she is saying so I make appropriate noises.

Until.

Their Mother: …oh and Favourite Daughter says she doesn't want you ever to have a girlfriend.

I start paying attention.

Me: Oh?

TM: Yes. EVER. I think she's a bit jealous.

Pre-emptively. Of nothing.

Me: Ok. Well. Tell her. Fine, just so long as she never gets a boyfriend.

TM: [away from the phone’s mouthpiece] Daddy says that’s OK so long as you never have a boyfriend.

There is some talk in the background. A boy’s name is mentioned.

Me: HE TOLD HER TO HER FACE HE DIDN’T LOVE HER!

Favourite Daughter is eight years old.

Their Mother comes back on the phone.

TM: I think she’s still holding out some hope.

Me: Christ. Well is it a deal or what?

TM: Hang on.

There is some mumbling in the background. I hear Favourite Daughter saying ‘Kaaaay’ in a distracted manner.

TM: Sorted.

Me: We’ll see.

All in all, I am perfectly happy with this agreement. Based on recent experience I'm confident I shan't have any trouble holding-up my end of the bargain.

Although I'm not so confident about hers.

Massive Fail.

2010-12-01T22:34:00.004Z

An early Friday evening, and I’m in a bar with Uncannily Similar. Our normal entourage have deserted us so it looks set to be a sedate evening for me, followed by an endlessly empty weekend pottering about wondering what my children are doing.

Uncannily Similar: Not many in here tonight.

Me: Mmmm.

U.S: Still. At least we get our usual table. Not like last week. Remember? They didn’t even put the ‘reserved’ signs out. ‘Don’t they know who we are?’ Oh, they’re starting to light the candles now.

Me: Mmmm.

I leave U.S. to his new unofficial role as narrator of the evenings’ minutiae and head to the bar, passing a young lady I vaguely recognize. We’ve become familiar to each other by sight during the past few Fridays. I smile at her in an equally vague way.

I return to the table with our drinks:

U.S: Pretty smooth.

Me: Mmmmm?

U.S: You. With that lass. Mr. Suave.

Me: Eh?

U.S: Yeah. You know.

I genuinely don’t.

The young lady in question slowly strolls past our table.

We look at each other for longer than is strictly necessary. She is actually very beautiful. Her quite lovely face breaks into a very wide smile as we gaze at each other.

I’m briefly amused by the ritual. And it might turn out to be an interesting evening after all.

U.S: Mate. Mate! Did you see that?

Me: Errrr…..

She has stopped to loiter by the pillar next to me. She’s in plain sight and earshot. For me. But out of Uncannily’s eye-line.

U.S: That look! Did you see the look she just gave you!

Me: Actually could you just-

U.S: If ‘looks could kill’ you’d be getting NOSHED OFF just then!

Me: Brilliant.

The very lovely woman with her almond eyes, dark hair and intriguing tattoo looks at me with a new-found ‘contempt by association’ and storms off. I never see her again.

U.S: Oh shit. Sorry. Shit. I didn’t see her.

Me: Actually that was probably helpful.

U.S: Christ, look….

Me: Excellent. No. Really. Great. It’s brilliant being friends with you. Do you know that?

Lunch Date.

2010-11-17T21:16:00.001Z

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'

2010-11-11T20:06:00.002Z

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.

2010-11-10T20:37:00.001Z

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.

2010-11-03T00:49:00.001Z

“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.

“You’re so money baby.”

2010-10-24T14:38:00.002+01:00

As I work in a murky provincial corner of the ‘meedya’ I sometimes find myself on a ‘list’ of ‘important people’ who are then invited to a ‘thing’ that involves food, drink, untold glamour (basically fit women in skimpy outfits) and no financial outlay.

Which happened the other week and, as the above sounds utterly brilliant, I promptly RSVP’ed to the affirmative secure in the belief that the organisers should have first checked if I were actually important before offering me ‘free shit’.

I inform them that myself, Uncannily Similar and ‘others’ shall be attending.

Amazingly, no-one at the P.R. susses that I am, in fact, ‘No-one At All’ and accept.

Uncannily Similar: Right. Got a few more ‘on board’. Be about half a dozen now.

Me: Erm. Ok. Who?

He reels off a set of names and –

Me: ‘Janice and Paul’?

U.S: Aaah. Yeeah.

Me: No offence. Janice looks like a homeless. WHEN SHE MAKES AN EFFORT. And – not being funny – Paul is a fucking DWARF. An – no, hang on – an ACTUAL dwarf. His eyes don’t even point in the same direction – no, shut up, he’s got the little hands and everything – there is NO WAY anyone will think that we are ‘high-rollers’ worthy of ‘free shit’ when the CIRCUS IS IN TOWN. Never.

Three hours later.

We’re all wasted on free booze and acting like over-excited children. We’ve gone back for ‘seconds’ at the buffet (some of us ‘thirds’), loudly demanded why the champagne appears to have dried up and have also asked where the free cocktails have gone.

I decide to leave, aware of the fact that I’m not getting on to any more P.R. mailing lists in the near future.

And get home to find a troubling letter from a hospital on my doormat.

Chinatown.

2010-10-03T22:36:00.003+01:00

“Here we go.” I think to myself.

There is an obvious Mental heading straight for me. I’m like a magnet for these people.

I’m outside the office building that I work in, smoking a cigarette with some colleagues. A very small, over-dressed, ridiculously be-spectacled nut-case heads in our direction. He looks like someone has 'wardrobed' him with the brief of ‘making me look as out of place as possible with a budget of only a million pounds’.

His wheeled-suitcase is probably worth more than the house I live in, and the back-street where we choose to smoke is somewhere that people are routinely murdered after dark. True. This is already very weird.

“Hi. Do you know somewhere I can get some Chinese food?”

It’s ten o’clock in the morning. And millionaire-boy wants some Chinese food. Of course. And he’s asking me. Obviously. Nut-case.

“What?”

“It’s just I have to be at the theatre in an hour and I’m starving.”

Fuck’s sake we’ve all got problems, it’s only gone ten and I’ve had a dreadful day already. I’m guessing you’ve come from the train station across the street and am – DO YOU KNOW WHAT FUCK OFF.

That’s what I think. What I actually do is brusquely give him directions to Chinatown, secure in the knowledge that there shan’t be a single place open before lunchtime.

Some time passes. I’m smoking a cigarette with a colleague who I threatened with physical violence over the phone one evening some weeks ago but we’re fine now. It’s a long story and I don’t come out of it terribly well.

Colleague: I know you’re a Gay Magnet but that was just stupid. And you didn’t have to be so rude.

Me: Do you want some more? Do you? Anyway. What?

Colleague: That was Wayne Sleep.

Me: Was it?

Colleague: Yes

Me: Oh.

Forget It Jake ...

2010-09-26T20:56:00.005+01:00

I’ve no strong feelings either way about my Lovely But Stupid Colleague, and am certainly above mentioning the time she shit herself at the office Christmas party, because that would be hugely ungentlemanly.

I just would really rather she didn’t speak to me. Ever.

And I've things on my mind. My Grandfather is unwell and apparently I'm not doing too well either.

I walk back into my building after both smoking a cigarette and conducting an odd exchange with a dancer, of which more another time.

Lovely But Stupid: Tired! I’ve just been to Chinatown!

(By the way, who really thinks a reliance on laxatives as a weight-loss solution, and then drinks two bottles of wine in the staff toilets before they even get to the party is going to have their evening end in anything other than total humiliation?)

Me: Ok.

LBS: It was really, I don’t know…. Sort of …..

Like most large cities, there is a significant quarter of ours which is entirely of the Orient.

Me: Chinese?

LBS: YES! Everyone was….erm….

Me: Chinese?

LBS: YES! It was like being in… er…well…

Me: China?

LBS: EXACTLY! It was all just really….er…

Me: Chinese?

You shit yourself at the Christmas party, I think to myself. However, I do not say anything, as I am a gentleman.

LBS: YES! GOD! It was amazing!

Me: Fucking hell.

I don’t mention the stone cold fact that she shit herself at the Christmas party. Because that would just be out of order, and gentlemen do not mention such things.

We had to call her boyfriend to take her home and everything. He looked rather resigned when he turned up.

The Great Escape.

2010-09-20T21:56:00.004+01:00

“It’d be very easy to just walk out.” Says my grandfather. “I’ve walked all over, I know where the exits are now. It really wouldn’t be difficult.”

I rub the back of my head for a while.

“I know Granddad, but you haven’t actually been incarcerated as such….”

“Yes well, whilst you’re here Mark would you mind opening the window for me?”

My name is not Mark.

“I’m thinking we’ll keep the window closed. I’ve just looked and it leads straight to a flat roof. I don’t want you getting any ideas.”

He doesn’t see the funny side, busy as he is trying to ‘open’ a full-length mirror that is screwed to the wall in the belief that it is in fact a doorway to a non-existent kitchen so he can make us a cup of tea.

“I really don’t know what I’m doing here. It was just a little fall – my ankle you know – out riding. This is all nonsense. These bloody doctors. Trying to make a name for themselves.”

My Grandfather is 94. He has not been horse-riding in at least fifty years.

“Mmmmmm.”

For the first time he looks at me directly. For an instant – the most difficult thing – he is back.

“You live alone. Do you get lonely?”

“Well. Sometimes. I’m at work all day, it’s demanding stuff so I’m usually too tired to feel anything much when I get home. The weekends are tough I suppose.”

“Hm. Exactly.”

I’ve no idea what he means by this.

“Would you like a cup of tea? I can make you one.”

“No, it’s ok Granddad.”

You bastard, I think to myself. This had better be serious because you’ve took all the attention away from me and my ‘little’ scare. You’d better be dying at least.

2010-09-16T22:25:00.002+01:00

I occasionally write for a dreadful 'satirical celebrity news' website, but am so often busy doing 'real' things that I miss deadlines for breaking news.

Even so. Not a single website or tabloid newspaper in the land yesterday actually had the thought of publishing the headline-

George Micheal Goes Down.

Not one? Seriously.

I would have, but was doing my real job and didn't have time (easy to think of these things 24 hours later I know but I really did) - what is wrong with this country? Because that was a GIFT to any half-decent sub-editor or contributor to snarky websites.

Pull your socks up people.

"Disorientated and Aggressive"

2010-09-16T22:12:00.001+01:00

That is the paramedics’ comments from my hospital notes.

“Do you know where you are?” A question asked of me many times in the space of a couple of hours.

“In an ambulance” and “In a hospital” have been the answers.

This seemed to satisfy all concerned.

I’m also asked what year it is and the identity of our Prime Minister. For medical men I would expect them to be better informed.

After 48 hours I have eaten some truly dreadful food which has had the paradoxically reassuring effect of a school dinner, undergone a head CT, a load of neurological tests, some extensive monitoring of my heart and some blood work.

A boy in his early-twenties is admitted late at night and put in the bed next to me. His clothes are ripped and his face smashed. His mouth is so badly battered it looks as though he’s had some unsuccessful collagen and then had lip-stick applied by a clown. A ‘fight with his step-father’ he proudly informs staff with as much swagger as one can manage from a hospital bed.

I read from cover to cover the autobiography of the nasty guy who was in ‘Callan’ with Edward Woodward in the early eighties. My father used to let me stay up late to watch it. (This isn’t strictly true – he was just so drunk he’d forgotten I was there.) I come to the conclusion that said actor is ‘a cunt’ but there is nothing else to read.

I try and sleep. At three in the morning I hear the boy in the bed next to me quietly sobbing to himself.

The next morning, after further prodding, I am told I can go home, with instructions to return for an ECG. And to shower instead of bathe. And to avoid cooking with hot fat.

A friend of the boy – much the same age as him – comes to pick him up when they discharge him. His bravura was back in place and he thanked me for the cigarette I gave him that morning. God knows where he’s sleeping now.

I go to work the next day and almost instantly realise I shouldn’t have.

I can barely move. They don’t call it a ‘seizure’ for nothing. Everything hurts. My short-term memory is shot to shit and everything smells weird.

“It took four people to hold you down when it was happening. And you gave the paramedics hell. It was one of – well… No. THE most frightening thing I’ve ever seen” Informs a colleague who, unbeknownst to me, was on the same bus.

I have no memory of any of this, although am advised to get hold of the CCTV as it could prove to be a youTube sensation if I can also get hold of the audio of my comedy growling as it was happening.

On the up-side I always get a seat to myself on my bus home now. People seem wary of me for some reason.

It’s all been rather exciting to be honest, I think to myself as I get home late from work this evening after a night of pretending to be more important than I am in order to be wined and dined for free. The majority of the bumps, scrapes, cuts and bruises on my fists, knees and shins have all but healed and I’m feeling almost back to normal.

There is a letter from the Neurophysiology Department on the mat. No mention of results from the head CT, but they want me to go back in for an EEG.

Bugger.

At this rate, they may actually discover that I have a brain.

Working Week.

2010-08-14T20:15:00.002+01:00

As well as handling the advertising for many dick-swinging big-shot blue chip companies, I also deal with people who run their own small businesses and who are – more often than not – barking mad. The former are unbelievably difficult to deal with what with their talk of ‘MPUs’ and ‘skies’ whilst declaring the ‘banner’ to be ‘dead’ – I have no idea what they mean but have people who do - insist upon 'meetings' and keep saying things like “I can get this cheaper with a really rubbish company who won't deliver” as if that were a really valid bargaining strategy.

The latter are much more fun. I believe I’ve mentioned Insane Client before now. I shall call her ‘Carol’ for the moment. I am a fastidious note-maker. The following is – tragically – verbatim from my notes of genuine conversations with her:

Outgoing Telephone Call 06/08/2010 11:24 Comments: Re-book. Briefly considered changing the mobile phone number in her advert AGAIN but decided against.

Outgoing Telephone Call 04/08/2010 11:34 Comments: Carol has again called - wanting to change 'pets allowed' to 'pets welcome'. (?) Done.

Outgoing Telephone 03/08/2010 16:40 Comments: Carol called to change the mobile number in the advert once again. Claimed the old one was 'attracting the wrong sort of people'. Amazing.

Outgoing Telephone Call 30/07/2010 10:52 Comments: Booked for another week, good as gold.

Outgoing Telephone Call 23/07/2010 11:45 Comments: Re-book for next week.

Outgoing Telephone Call 20/07/2010 10:22 Comments: Checking adverts - all is well.

Outgoing Telephone Call 15/07/2010 14:02 Comments: Copy amend and rebook for next week.

Outgoing Telephone Call 09/07/2010 11:18 Comments: Wants a call on Monday - waiting to see if a booking comes in.

Outgoing Telephone Call 05/07/2010 12:30 Comments: Got hold of Carol after she slammed the phone down on Thug Colleague. Changing mobile number in advert once more - this time due to an 'irate holiday maker' smashing her windscreen during the weekend. Booked for the week.

Outgoing Telephone Call 21/06/2010 11:18 Comments: Booked for another week. New mobile number again.

Outgoing Telephone Call 11:50 Comments: Bit hassled, will call me back on Monday morning.

Outgoing Telephone Call 15/06/2010 14:21 Comments: Reassured Carol once again that we are definately getting the payments through and that I will call her to re-book her advertisements.

Outgoing Telephone Call 15/06/2010 14:15 Comments: Carol called to check that she has paid for her adverts on her pre-paid account - money still hasn't gone from the bank apparently. Assured her I would double-check all is well at our end. She seemed happy with this and went to feed her cats.

Outgoing Telephone Call 10/06/2010 16:05 Comments: Carol is puzzled that this weeks’ payment does not seem to have been deducted from her card. Feels that 'someone' is 'playing' with her. Assured me that she wasn't 'accusing' me 'of anything'. Sending her recent statements.

Outgoing Telephone Call 09:41 Comments: Carol phoned to check the status of her advert. Seemed satisfied that it's the same as it was when she called 15 minutes ago.

Outgoing Telephone Call 10/06/2010 09:30 Comments: Carol called in to change her telephone number yet again - claims the entire T-Mobile network is down.

Outgoing Telephone Call 04/06/2010 13:17 Comments: Driving on the A1 - wants a call later.

Outgoing Telephone Call 25/05/2010 09:07 Comments: Carol rang in to change her mobile number in the advert yet again.

Outgoing Telephone Call 21/05/2010 11:00 Comments: Rebook. New mobile number. Again. Much anguish regarding 'the news' and the continuing Alnwick cat poisonings. Genuis.

Outgoing Telephone Call Interested 17/05/2010 11:26 Comments: In the doctors - call her later.

Outgoing Telephone Call 14/05/2010 14:39 Comments: She'll get back to me.

Outgoing Telephone Call 07/05/2010 13:58 Comments: Re-book for week.

Outgoing Telephone Call Interested 29/04/2010 15:02 Comments: Carol has excelled herself with tales of rabid dogs, cat-poisoners and the fact that she's having to change the mobile number in her advert yet again because the old one is attracting 'disableds'. Brilliant. Re-book for the week.

If I worked for a mobile-phone company I would be able to retire by now.

I Do Loads of Gardening. And a Small Amount Of Thinking. I Preferred the Thinking.

2010-08-08T20:19:00.002+01:00

Deciding that the hoe just isn’t cutting it – haha – I get the fork-thing out of the shed, although God knows where it or indeed the hoe came from.

I’ve ignored the borders for seven months and they’ve become an extension of the lawn. I shall have to dig them over.

The lawn itself is not too bad. A couple of shirtless fourteen-year-old radge-packets come around every couple of weeks armed with a strimmer and in return for enough cash to enable them to purchase either ten cigarettes or two bottles of White Lightning they sort the lawn out for me. I’m of the impression that if I ever declined their kind offer of help I would shortly find myself without windows but it’s a good deal nonetheless.

I stab the fork-thing into the ground, promptly hitting a rock and sending shock-waves up my right arm. I swear, drop the spade and then have to jump back so it doesn’t clatter onto my feet.

Picking the fork-thing up, I heroically try again. It sinks into the ground without any trouble and I press my foot down onto the bridge of the fork and sink it completely in. Using both arms I apply a bit of leverage to the fork-handle. Nothing.

Fuck this. I decide to push down on it with everything I have. I promptly rise up, the fork doesn’t move and my legs are thrashing about mid-air just like that paragliding Russian donkey.

I look around. No-one saw. Therefore it did not happen. Excellent.

After two hours of this nonsense I have managed to dig over my borders and have removed anything that might have even looked like a weed. An elderly neighbour wanders by.

Elderly Neighbour: Oh that looks better. I’ve just got back from the States you know. Bit jet-lagged so I can’t chat.

I’ve never spoken to her in my life. I also notice that, by way of luggage, she is carrying a Co-op carrier-bag and nothing else. I sort-of doubt her tale of jet-setting, but am too exhausted to get into it with her. Besides, she’s doing me no harm.

I get a glass of water that I cannot drink because my arms are fucked and keep trying to pour the liquid over my shoulder instead of in my mouth.

The garden looks very tidy. It also looks a bit barren now. I’ve properly gone to town on the borders and there’s not a living thing left.

It seems that my desire to exert some order over the garden has also robbed it of what made it interesting in the first place – it’s ‘garden-ness’.

Maybe this means something. Perhaps it’s ‘symbolic’.

I shrug to myself and go to the pub.

Telephone Conversation With My Much More Intelligent Daughter.

2010-08-01T14:57:00.006+01:00

Five weeks ago

Her Mother: Here.

Favourite Daughter:[background]NO.

Her Mother: NOW. Here. TALK.

FD: [skipping the whole ‘seven years old’ thing and becoming ‘thirteen’]*sigh* ‘llo?

Me: Hello.

The above exchange is repeated five times.

Me: Are you just going to keep saying ‘hello’?

FD: What?

The above exchange is also repeated five times. Each time I hear her slight amusement heighten with my frustration.

I decide to raise my game. I have yet to receive a Father’s Day card – for reasons that have been sensibly explained to me by her mother – but I reckon if I bring this up I’ll crack her.

I know. 'Emotional manipulation'. I'm very proud of myself. To be honest I didn't have high hopes for its success anyway.

Me: So I’ve been very sad. Do you know why?

FD: [almost audible shrug]

Me: What day was it last Sunday?

Silence.

I’m in trouble here. I’ve foolishly done this, will tar her with irrational guilt and will also incur the wrath of not only her future self but her right-now mother and - God – it was just meant to be a joke.

Favourite Daughter: We were really…. and we didn’t make one at school and there wasn’t time …

She sounds very ‘little’. I feel totally dreadful. This has back-fired.

Pause.

Faourite Daughter: Daddy?

Something has changed in her voice. Almost imperceptible, something I like to think only her father would notice. I’ve a horrible feeling she’s about to be devastating without even trying.

Me: [Very suspicious] Yes?

FD: Well. You said ….[her voice takes the tone of ‘got you’ that she’ll employ with any slip-up that I or any man she’ll ever meet will make] you’d WRITE to ME first.

I think about the last goodbye I said to her and remember that I did promise this whilst trying not to let her see how sad I was feeling.

Me: Well, I…..

Fuck’s sake. I’ve been busy. Work. Writing stuff for sarcy websites. Christ. I’m shit aren’t I?

Silence. She does not chuckle.

Me: Well …. [It’s impossible to describe. We both know I’m dead in the water. And I can HEAR her satisfaction at the small victory even though SHE ALSO KNOWS SHE’S NOT ENTIRELY IN THE RIGHT. But that I’m just in the right side of wrong]

Me: Anyway. I love you.

FD: I know.

I Read The Guardian So You Don’t Have To #2

2010-07-26T19:59:00.002+01:00

Caption to a reader-submitted photograph of a dreary, piss-stained underpass:

“Walking through an underpass, I was struck by the wonderful simplicity of the shadow and the composition that resulted.”

Do you know what I think when walking under a concrete monstrosity littered with watery-grey-filled condoms and crushed cans of Stella Artois?

I'll tell you what I DON'T THINK:

'Angles, that was the theme for the Guardian Weekend magazine's photo montage for next week! This is perfect! Look at those shadows! I'm just going to whip out my 12 mega-pixel camera right now and capture this rare moment of beauty in such an unlikely setting!'

Do you know why I don't?

Because I'm not a cunt.

Waste Of Space Dies - World Shrugs

2010-07-25T08:24:00.000+01:00

My day was disturbed at six this Sunday morning by the news that absolute no-mark and Wetherspoons-botherer Alex 'The Hurricane' Higgins had finally made some space in the world for the other shit-heels in the queue at William Hills before the 'offy' opens.

The passing of the perennially homeless fuck-wit alcoholic father of a random amount of children – he didn’t admit to at least two – will trouble no-one at all although his amazing ability of hitting a ball with a stick will be mourned the world over; he was good at it for at least ten minutes and the globe feels the loss.

It’s about seven now – I’m going to try and get some real sleep before the world erupts with the news that the bloke who needed 45p for his bus home on Friday night was actually a chancer. Christ.

I Watch Television So You Don't Have To.

2010-07-25T07:23:00.001+01:00

Sunday morning.

Idiot 1: An amazing motorcycle crash there. You wonder how they walk away sometimes.

Idiot 2: Well they are trained for it. And they have quite a lot of padding.

Idiot 3: Up next – can ‘art’ be ‘too popular’?

Christ.

It’s only eight in the morning.

And the above – completely genuine and verbatim by the way – has been the morning’s highlight.

I’ve got the mid-morning waking-hell of that dreadful thing with the footballer’s wife and that awful AWFUL man – the one that the strangely-likeable cocktail-maker so obviously wants to knock-out – to look forward to which will probably be followed by at least 36 hours of Formula One coverage.

I can switch channels and watch Paul-McCartney-Looky-Likey Angela Lansbury solve some surprisingly alarming suburban crime or look at a bronze-coloured man sell some tat to fools.

A completely un-ironic news item concerning the lack of ‘pond-life’ in Great Britain bothers me for a second. We ‘need more ponds’ says a very earnest-looking man in a green polo-neck.

I turn the television off. I look at my watch.

Two whole hours. I want to kill someone.

People look at me with amazement when I tell them I don’t often watch television.

Three and a Half Years Ago.

2010-07-19T20:20:00.003+01:00

Uncannily Similar colleague and I find ourselves walking down the same corridor in the building we work in. We’ve never spoken before.

Uncannily Similar: So. How are you finding it then?

I’ve only been with the company a few days, the work we do is stressful and hugely competitive. He’s fucking ‘sizing me up’ isn’t he?

Me: Fine. Done it before so no problem really.

I’ve seen him in action ands he’s fucking good at what he does. But I’m not going to let him know it.

U.S: So. [Clocking I’m the same age as him] Married then?

Me: No. Just separated actually.

U.S: Shit. Sorry. No kids though?

Me: A son and a daughter as it happens.

U.S: Fuck. Really. Sorry. Still see them loads though?

Me: Bit up in the air at the minute to be honest.

U.S: Shit. Bollocks. Fuck.

He stops walking, as do I. His shoulders relax and he drops the ‘pissing contest’ thing.

U.S: How am I doing?

Me: Three out of three so far.

We grin at each other.

U.S: Few of us going for a drink tonight if you’re interested.

Me: Why not.

The next week our boss makes us work together.

Two and a half years later I cry at his wedding.

I pretend I have something in my eye.

Lost and Found.

2010-07-12T22:37:00.000+01:00

They say that if you love something you should set it free. And if it returns it’ll be yours forever.

I’m starting to find that this may actually be true.

If by ‘love’ they mean ‘are quite used to having around’. And if by ‘quite used to having around’ they mean ‘is a District Council-mandated necessity’.

And if by ‘set it free’ they actually mean ‘wonder where the fuck it’s gone.’

The wheelie-bin for my recycling went missing didn’t it.

The first week or so I wasn’t that bothered. It’s a recycling bin that - to be frank - I rarely use. I chucked my tins and newspapers in the refuse bin as usual but without the normal minor twinge you get when you irrationally think that you are being ‘bad’ by doing so. The second week I did have a faux-nonchalant stroll around the neighbourhood to see if I could spot it. By week three I was beginning to get slightly concerned.

It just isn’t in a wheelie-bins’ nature to act like this. I began to imagine how it would have coped surviving in the wild for three solid weeks. The torments it must have suffered at the hands of the abandoned shopping-trolleys, the mocking from the single drunkedly-lost shoes and discarded gloves.

Don’t get me started on the indignity it must have suffered at the hands of the marauding ‘Household Refuse’ wheelie-bins. Because they think they are IT compared with their weakling ‘Recycling’ cousins - showing off with their cigarette-ends and bits of chicken wing when they all get together in the grave-yard at night for a bit of lid-flapping.

By week four it had returned, sheepish and repentant. Well, it won’t be trying that one again. I’m never putting it out. That’ll teach it. Locked in the backyard, next to the catflap in the back gate that I spend most evenings staking-out so I can throw clothes-pegs at next-doors’ cat every time it sticks it’s fucking head through it.

People tell me I’m spending too much time in the house.

Build A Bridge ...

2010-07-07T21:47:00.001+01:00

I’m at a cash point, trying not to worry about things too much.

Withdrawing a sensibly small amount of money, I notice a familiar face as I walk away. I’m feeling unusually garrulous, so say hello.

Familiar Face: Oh hi. God. How are you?

Me: Good. You?

FF: Oh you know. Where you working now?

Familiar Face and I worked together four years ago and were pretty friendly until he got all huffy about the fact that his girlfriend 'Curvy Girl' –who worked in the same place- thought I was quite amusing and would hang out with me from time to time for just that reason. Like I say, it was four years ago and I haven’t seen he or she since.

I tell him where I’m working.

FF: Really? I’m bored shitless where I am. I’ve been trying to get in at your place for ages. Any chance of putting a good word in?

Me: I suppose-

FF: I’m living with Curvy now. WE LIVE TOGETHER.

Me: [pause] …Ok. I’ll have a word with my boss, I know she’s, erm …. Yeah she’s looking for people … ah, now as it happens.

We exchange numbers.

It was four fucking years ago and she just laughed at my stupid jokes for fucks sake.

I never hear from him again, presumably so as to minimise any possibility of his girlfriend having humour-fuelled sex with me.

What. A. Cock.

Time To Leave

2010-07-04T22:10:00.002+01:00

I’m at work. It’s four-thirty in the afternoon. All is fairly peaceful in the office.

Blonde Colleague: Right. I’m off.

Me: What?

BC: [slinging bag over her shoulder] I’m away. That’s me.

Me: Bit early. What for?

BC: I’m a fat cunt.

I sigh inwardly. This is getting beyond a joke. It’s bad enough having to listen to her bang on about her latest diet all day every day and pointing-out that her ‘weight issues’ are entirely imaginary – the only ‘issue’ she’s had of late has been losing too much and not really looking like a proper woman anymore but you can’t say that because they never believe you – but having to leave work early? Christ.

Anyway, I reply in the only manner a sane man would when faced with a woman describing herself as above.

Me: Oh no you’re not.

BC: What?

Me: You’re not.

BC: I FUCKING AM AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.

Bit vehement.

Me: Look, you’re really not and you should just get over it.

BC: You can’t tell me what to do! This has been agreed and I’m going.

Me: Well there’s really no point. You should just accept things. You’re fine.

BC: WHAT?!

Me: You’re not a ‘fat cunt’.

BC: WHAT??!!

This is getting a bit weird actually. Normally when you tell a woman they’re not overweight they melt a little bit and make you some tea. This is not going according to the template. I resolve to give it one last go.

Me: I said you’re not a fat cunt.

BC: I know! And I’m off to Weight Watchers to make sure I stay that way. I’ll make up the time tomorrow.

Ah. Weight Watchers. That she often refers to as ‘Fat Club’.

Me: Oh. OH. Sorry. I thought you said “I’m a fat cunt”, not “I’m at Fat Club”.

BC: WHAT? YOU THINK I’M A FAT CUNT?!

Me: Well, no, of course-

BC: Wanker!

She storms out of the office. Every woman present glares at me.

I Read The Guardian So You Don't Have To #1

2010-06-26T22:43:00.002+01:00

From the readers' problems page of the Weekend magazine:

"We've just returned from Marrakech with a lovely red leather pouffe. Unfortunately, a strong camel smell emanates from it. How can we get rid of it?"

No comment need be made on my part.

I Have A Piss In My Bathroom Sink.

2010-06-25T21:04:00.000+01:00

I reflect upon my awesome Friday.

It’s been yet another long day. I give ‘myself’ a shake and run the tap. Balefully I gaze at the toilet that is still brim-full of not-entirely-clean water.

Thirteen hours previously I had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and had performed my bathroom habits before leaving for work. I had noticed that the toilet did not drain. And in fact had just filled.

“That’s fine”, I thought, “by the time I get home tonight it will have actually fixed itself. All on its own. Like that dead cat in the front garden all those years ago.”

I endure a working day dealing with small businesses who pretend not to exist after what is for them a terrifying Budget and large private businesses who are now spending money like it was some sort of competition.

And then attend after-work drinks with Newly-Gay Friend and yet another of his ‘gentleman callers’ without accidently getting pissed and offending people yet again and am now home safe and sound and need a wee.

Astoundingly nothing has resolved itself in my absence. For the eight-millionth time I reflect upon the doubly-rubbish nature of not only living alone but also being grown-up.

I arm myself with all the household disinfectant I can find and begin bending a wire clothes-hanger into the required shape.

I don’t much fancy anything for dinner anymore.

Fail.

2010-06-22T21:34:00.005+01:00

Interior. Day.

A shabby office, one phone, one desk. The year is 1986.

Barry is a failed popstar but slightly talented song-writer who carves a living writing tunes for other people. He tries not to be bitter.

[Off screen] Phone rings.

Barry: *sigh* Hi.

Listens.

Barry: Yeah whatever. What’s the pay? {pause] Yeah that’ll do. Let’s recap. Slightly saucy pop hit, not so suggestive it won’t get airplay – don’t want a repeat of that Frankie Goes To Hollywood thing – but enough to sell. Ok. Who’s it for? Cher again?

Some time passes.

Barry: Sam fucking Fox? Are you shitting me? Do you know who I am?

More silence.

Barry: Well yeah that’s who I am NOW, but I could have been…..right. Whatever. Yeah. I’ll do it.

Barry hangs up, and reaches for a folder marked ‘Absolutely Terrible Analogies For Awful Pay’

Fade to black.

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

24 years later (this is me now).

I’m in the check-out queue at Poundland during my lunch hour, faintly excited by the thought of my evening shower that I’m promised will be an ‘energising deep cleansing experience’ according to the label on my one quid bottle of shower gel.

Trying not to think of how hideously ugly the poor actually are (this isn’t John Lewis), not to mention how smelly - it’s Poundland for God’s sake and it’s 2 for 1 on deodorant – I listen to the plaintive strains of Sam Fox wailing from the speakers.

……. ‘like a tramp in the night I’m begging you’……………..

Honestly. ‘Like a tramp in the night?’ The writer was so disillusioned he went for the hobo analogy?

She got the last laugh I think to myself as I queue to pay for my purchase. All those photos making over-exciteable adolescent boys imagine she were available, the hit single entitled ‘Touch Me’ that would of CONVINCED them of it, and all the while she was a carpet-muncher.

The chap ahead of me is a disorientated Middle-Eastern who obviously hasn’t much English.

‘How much?’ he asks, gesturing at his hoped-for purchase.

The man behind the counter glances at him.

‘You’re in a pound shop sir and I’ve no time for comedians.’ Is his helpful reply.

Unlike Sam Fox, it seems some people have no sense of humour.

Stories.

2010-06-14T19:28:00.003+01:00

I love a good story, me. They serve so many purposes.

A female colleague – let’s call her Susan - has just left the company I work for to start a better-paid job at an ‘escort agency’.

Not as an actual escort – she’s nearly sixty, was never a ‘looker’ in her youth and would be a cock-wilting disappointment if she turned up at your front door for some coke-fueled anonymous ‘affection’ - more an office-manager sort of thing for the agency.

I ask her if she is not slightly concerned about long-term job security in an industry notorious for falling foul of the law. And about stuff like hygienic working environments and constant contact with people who are at best morally ‘flexible’. Including her new employer.

She is certain that her new employer is at heart a good man. She tells me his story.

He was a man of the cloth – a vicar. His wife died in a car accident, he lost his faith in God and left the clergy. And turned to drink. And gambling. Poker. Which to his astonishment he turned out to be very good at. He cleaned-up and made a fortune from cards. There is a website of a casino in Las Vegas that still lists him as their biggest winner. She’s seen it.

He bought a large, expensive quayside apartment in our city upon his return and tried to lead a blameless life.

One night he heard a terrible commotion in the hallway outside his apartment. A couple of hysterical young girls were banging on his door – they couldn’t get help elsewhere. There was a very drunk, abusive gentleman in their apartment, they couldn’t get rid of him.

The hero of our story dispatches this gentleman, advising him never to return. The girls are grateful. They tell him their own story, what they do for a living, working from their apartment. Our hero is filled with nothing but concern for the well-being of these girls – do they not have any protection, anyone to look after them, he asks.

No, they reply, we are alone and vulnerable. Will you look after us?

Our hero cannot turn his back on these poor waifs, and begins conducting their affairs for them – providing them with much-needed safety. And a steady supply of well-vetted clients. Soon other lost souls hear of this wonderful man, and before long he is taking care of many young women, and starts an agency.

It’s like he has his flock back.

In my opinion, this is an utterly brilliant story of lost faith and redemption in the unlikeliest setting.

And I wonder if even Susan believes a fucking word of it.

Hecklerspray

2010-06-11T22:09:00.002+01:00

I would like to point out that:

www.hecklerspray.com

is quite good, and if you tire of the world of modern shallow entertainment but are still sort-of fascinated by it, I would say it is a good place to go.

I, of course, have no vested interest in this statement, or indeed the website in question.

Growing Pains.

2010-06-05T22:41:00.002+01:00

Last weekend:

It’s been a long day, involving a four-hundred mile journey and much turmoil. I am tired. I stand outside a public house and think back over the afternoon. It is eight in the evening.

Five hours previously.

I meet Favourite Son from school.

His Teacher: You should of seen his face! When he saw you!

I ignore her. Not on purpose. But I suppose I’ve more important things to give my attention to.

Favourite Son: Daddy? How come you’re here to pick me up when you live so far away?

Me: I got up really early.

This satisfies him. It’s the end of term and he presents me with a small plant-pot from which is growing a bean-shoot he has nurtured for the preceding weeks. He is chuffed.

We collect his sister, who proudly shows me her jigsaw mouth of milk- and small-adult teeth. The baby teeth are her mothers, the new jagged ones are mine.

Retiring to a public house down the road from their school that possesses an outdoor children’s area, we drink lemonade, laugh and play. We spend the afternoon together, have dinner elsewhere and at about seven meet their mother.

Favourite Son looks at me with horror.

FD: Daddy! Where’s my bean?

I’ve only left it behind at the pub down the road from his school haven’t I? He was no doubt bursting to show it to his mother. I look at his face.

He’s five now, his small body coursing with unaccustomed bursts of testosterone and every slight injustice is felt with a hammer-blow of outrage and inconsolable grief.

I look at his mother’s face. We’ve already established that I also forgot to pick up his lunch-box and PE kit so this latest testament to my incompetence is obviously no surprise to her.

Me: It’s ok. Don’t worry. I’ll go and get it.

The pub is bloody miles away and I’m exhausted and on foot.

Tired Mam: I can call them if you like. Get them to put it to one side.

Me: No. No. [To Favourite Son] I’ll get it. It’ll be ok.

He seems alright with this. They go home. I find the bean-shoot and all is well.

My lodgings for the night are at the maternal grandfather of my children, with whom I have an unlikely friendship. I look at my watch. He’ll be asleep by now. I’m alone in a town that I have not lived in for about seven years and is now alien to me. The brief sight of Tired Mam seven months pregnant has not been a soothing one. Nothing to do with me I might add. My nerves are shot. The public house is filled with people, sound and light.

Me: A pint of strong drink please.

Barman: No problem. And for your friend?

Me: Mmmm?

He gestures to the small plant-pot next to my elbow on the bar. Funny fucker.

Me: *sigh* He’ll just have some water.

Massively Unproductive Telephone Conversations.

2010-05-20T20:50:00.003+01:00

Me: Hello. Could I speak to Caroline please?

Receptionist: Oh I’m sorry she’s off until tomorrow. Who’s calling?

Me: It’s Tired at the Department.

Receptionist: Oh right, well Rachel will be able to help you. I’ll but you through? [You’re not Australian, I think. Don’t make a statement sound like a question]

Beep. Beep.

Rachel: Hello, Rachel speaking.

Me: Hello, this is Tired at the Department.

Rachel: Oh Hi. Erm. Oh. Right. It’s Caroline you really need to speak to…

Me: Is it.

Rachel: Yeah… um. She’s in tomorrow? [Christ, you as well]

Me: Is she.

Rachel: Yeeaah.

Me: Tomorrow it is.

I know I should appreciate the willingness to help, and welcome the delight of speaking to new people I would never normally encounter but really. Fuck. Off.

Two hours later.

Me: …and do you know why, ‘cos I’ll tell you. I have no interest in becoming one of those witless wonders who gaze into the neon oblong glare of their unbearable twat-machines, surrounded by friends in their favourite bar while someone normal like me sits thinking ‘Christ this is excellent, I’m so glad I came out to watch these fucknuts play Texas Hold ‘Em with a twelve-year old transvestite in Wisconsin’ and no, actually no I very much doubt that it ‘impresses the chicks’ as you suggest – I know you’re being ‘ironic’ but even so –

Female Client: You think smoking ‘impresses the chicks’.

Me: It does. It makes you look ‘cool’, ‘hard’ and ‘grown-up’. All fiddling with a fucking iPhone gets you is the utter contempt of anyone who sees you sitting on the tube swirling your fingers over the fucking thing like it was your girlfiend’s vagina which, incidently, if you gave the proper attention to you would find the desire for a smart-fucking-phone would never of crossed your mind in the first place-

FC: Tired? What did you call for?

Me: I honestly can’t remember now. You’ve made me all cross and I’ve lost my train of thought.

FC: We really should meet for a drink sometime.

Me: Sure.

Unproductive on a business front, but also an opportunity to have an ill-advised affair with a married client. So. Unproductive then.

Four hours later.

I’ve missed my normal bus home due to lengthy unproductive telephone calls, and retire to a bar across the street from the bus ‘rank’ or whatever you call them.

It’s an alright place. It’s not part of a chain, has the impression of being a bit of a labour of love and is filled with ageing indie-kids, various other ‘alternative’ types, people who refer to themselves as ‘creatives’ who are actually ‘Mac operators’ and men in suits who like to pretend they are still ‘with it’ and that the Chartered Accountancy thing is just a day job.

I sit with my drink. A song by a band I quite like comes over the speakers from what I am sure is a 'mix-tape' or whatever the current equivalent is that has been put together by a member of the bar staff. An ageing indie-kid takes the stool next to me and starts fiddling with his mobile phone. I instantly dislike him but can’t really justify it as I’m one of the suit-guys who are kidding themselves, and in my time off I’m also an ageing indie-kid. Dreadful. I need a proper reason to hate him that doesn’t reflect on myself.

He phones someone.

Ageing Indie-Kid: Steve? Steve-O! It’s Nathan! How you doin’ fella? Long time no speak, thought I’d catch up with the Stevester! Fella, you sound out of breath, you ok? Oh right. In bed? Christ. Didn’t wake you did I? No? Sweet. So listen, thing is I need somewhere to crash and…. Yeah? Really? Jesus. So how’d that work? You just say to him I need to know where this is going, will you move in with me? Oh you did? Wow. Anyway, just for a few days and……right. Yeah. Sure. Understood. I’ll let you get back to sleep.

It’s five-thirty in the afternoon. I imagine Stephen – who surely does not relish being referred to as ‘Steve-O’ or ‘the Stevester’ throwing his phone across the room and getting back to the slightly more pressing business of enthusiastically fucking his new live-in boyfriend.

Nathan: Toby? Nathan! How you doin’ fella? Yeah? Sweet. Listen. There’s this thing, and I need somewhere to crash – you know, just for a couple of days and…… Really? Christ. That was quick. Where to? Hello? No you went a bit quiet. Where to fella? Plymouth? Wow, that literally couldn’t be further away. Jesus, what a job eh? Anyway. Much love yeah?

I go from briefly despising him to noticing the array of bags around his feet and wondering where he’ll sleep that night. And then deciding that he should have got a proper job as opposed to being the musician/writer/artist/whatever he has obviously decided upon and stop being a dreadful burden to everyone he encounters and let them get on with some sex and not having to make up stories about moving to Cornwall.

My bus is due. I finish my drink and leave.

21. Again.

2010-05-12T21:25:00.001+01:00

Who'd have thought such a small question would turn out to be so interesting?

The average person - based on my hyper-scientific survey that will never trouble Ben Goldacre because it is fucking bullet-proof - has moved house on one occasion for every 2.41 years of their life.

I on the other hand have moved once for every - roughly - 1.5 years of my life. Making me intrinsically more interesting than the bulk of the population. Result.

Not quite sure what to do with this information. It will involve a new blog. And some of the comments in the last post demand a fuller story.

And there's something I'm trying to figure out for myself.

There seem to be lot of stories to be told least of all my own. Don't really know how it'll work. So I shall think for a bit.

In the meantime look below for a story about me being out-witted by a six-year old girl.

A Year And a Half Ago.

2010-05-12T20:38:00.004+01:00

I am walking down a street in the city that I have a peculiar love-hate relationship with.

To be fair, since I moved out and now just visit it's been more love than anything.

I am having a disagreement with my six-year-old daughter. I forget what it was now, but it has incurred her displeasure.

Favourite Daughter: I’m going to tell Mummy on you.

Me: Go on then. I don’t mind.

FD: [Upping her game] I’ll tell Mrs. Teacher on you.

Me: Do it. She’s not MY teacher. I don’t care.

I’m faintly surprised that she feels that her teacher is a larger threat to me than her mother but whatever.

FD: Right. I’m going to tell Mr. Headmaster on you.

Me: Fill your boots. I couldn’t care less.

I can sense her frustration and anger building.

FD: I’m going to tell the Person In Charge Of The Whole World on you!

Theoretically she would have me with this one. Who am I against the Person In Charge Of The Whole World? No-one.

Fortunately for me, she has no idea what she’s banging on about. I’ve won this one.

Me: Oh yes? And who is that?

FD: [Steely eyed. She’s not backing-down any more than I am. She’s on the ropes and she knows it] GEORGE STEPHENSON!

Me: ……

She’s FUCKING GOT ME.

I genuinely don’t know what to say.

Alright, he invented the first miner’s lamps and the fucking steam engine and all sorts of other things and he lived round here, but really. HE’S NOT IN CHARGE OF………

Favourite Daughter sees me struggle for a moment and smiles to herself.

Whatever the disagreement was she knows she’s won.

21

2010-05-07T21:16:00.002+01:00

I don't ask this normally.

But I'm conducting a survey of my readers. Please leave your answers in the comment-thing below.

I have had 21 homes. (Actually 23 but two don't count. I shan't explain. These are my rules.)

I am 36 years old.

Mathematics isn't my strong suit but I'm guessing a new home for every year and a half of my life.

Is this unusual? Or quite normal?

Office Space.

2010-04-27T20:13:00.002+01:00

Work. Late afternoon. It’s already been a long day.

I receive an email from a client.

“I’m really sorry, but my email isn’t working,” explains the email, “ so I won’t be able to send you the image files you need by the end of the day as you requested.”

I gaze out the window for a while before I read the rest of it. The files in question need to be of publication standard; at least 300 dpi. I steady myself and read the rest of the email.

“Is it ok if I just fax them to you instead?”

Deadlines are circling me like vultures.

I compose an email in reply.

“So sorry to hear of your inability to communicate by email – hope this is fixed soon. Unfortunately a faxed document tends not to reproduce terribly well. As a ‘last minute’ solution – time really is short now - I wonder if it would be alright if I take some generic images from your website – assuming they are of sufficient quality?”

Send.

I scratch at my fingernails for a minute or two. They are covered in superglue which has recently oft been mistaken – to much hilarity – for nail polish.

An emailed reply.

“Ok, but I don’t see why the fax would be a problem. And I know it’s late, but I can’t help that my emails aren’t working. Could you take them from the following website – www.mybiggestcompetitor.com? I want it to look just like theirs.”

I stare out the window some more. I think of phrases such as ‘copyright issues’ and know there is no point in employing them.

Blonde Colleague: Tired? Tired! I’ve got Client Name on the phone about those files. She doesn’t understand your emails.

Me: I’m going for a smoke. Tell her all our phone lines are down and no-one can speak to her.

BC: Won’t she suss that, as she got through in the first place, there’s nothing wrong with the phones?

Me: [Over my shoulder] I sincerely fucking doubt it.

Quiet Sunday Drink.

2010-04-16T22:01:00.002+01:00

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Asks the policeman.

I look him up and down. He’s easily six foot five, can handle himself, and if he’s any good at what he does for a living is better equipped than I to assess this sort of thing.

The four squad cars, riot van and what I know to be our districts’ Armed Response Unit will no doubt help him out if things ‘go south’, as will the half-dozen representatives of Her Majesty’s also milling about looking ready to kick seven shades of shit out of anyone who ‘looks at them funny’. So I’m not really sure why he’s asking me.

Twenty minutes previously, and three years ago:

My sister and I are about to enjoy an impromptu Sunday afternoon drink at a public house near the river.

“ Two pints of strong drink please.” Say I, whilst another barmaid serves a random Asian man with his requested pint of cold tap water.

I glance at him as our drinks are being poured. He’s disheveled, is carrying a back-pack and is in a small town – small enough even for me to know that he is a stranger here.

Our strong drink arrives.

“Shall we sit down somewhere?” I say to my sister, noticing that the disheveled man is proceeding to WASH HIS HANDS in his pint of free-of-charge tap-water as opposed to actually drinking it.

We sit. But I know it’s only a matter of time.

“Do you think John Travolta felt a bit …. You know. Weird. About being sperm?” Asks my sister.

“What?” Says me.

“In ‘Look Who’s Talking’. He’s sperm and then gets to voice the baby. When it’s born. And says things about tits and that.”

“No. That was Bruce Willis. John Travolta was the guy. He drove a taxi or something.” I explain.

“Oh. Yes. You’re right. Bruce Willis was the spunk.”

I notice that we are soon to have company.

“Mind if I sit? It’s been a long day. I’ve parked by the river [you can’t park by the river-this is me thinking] and can’t find my car again. It’s down there somewhere [It’s not because you can’t park there- that's me thinking again]” Says the mental man.

It’s inevitable really. They gravitate toward me. Sister and I leave him and go for a cigarette.

I’m briefly troubled by another twat – “What have I done now?” he whines – and return to our table.

Our new-found friend has produced an enormous pair of scissors and is making what appears to be an eye-patch from some random materials he has about his person whilst informing me that he fancied a change of scenery and has randomly driven here from Birmingham. I am in the North-East of England and know that to be quite a drive for a spur-of-the-moment thing.

“I’m just going to the loo.” Says my sister. Whilst she has gone I wander to the bar.

“Errmm,” I say, “ I think it might be an idea…”

“We’ve already called them.” Says the barmaid.

I sit down again. Within two minutes a large policeman sidles up to us.

“Alright mate? Scissors is it? Can I have a look? Great. I’m just going to keep hold of these. Shall we have a chat outside? Great.”

They leave and after a while I imagine the fuss to have died down and go for a cigarette, and am surprised to witness the show of force. Thinking about it, the July bombings weren’t that long ago and people are still twitchy.

“You spoke to him yeah?” Says the policeman. I confirm this. He asks me if I thought he was dangerous.

“If anything only to himself. I got the impression he’d stopped taking his meds and didn’t really know where he was.”

The policeman nods as if I had confirmed his own thoughts and takes my details.

I wander back inside and order some more strong drink, aware of the fact that if I lived in 'that London' someone would have been shot by now.

Other People.

2010-03-30T20:27:00.000+01:00

The problem with the bulk of them is that, sooner or later, you discover they are quite mad.

My sister is in my kitchen. Also in my kitchen is a metal cylindrical thing with holes in the side in which I keep utensils too big to fit in the cutlery drawer. Wooden spoons. Potato masher. Screwdrivers. Stuff like that.

Sister: Do you know there's a teaspoon in here? Should I put it in the drawer?

Me: No. Leave it. I like to know where it is.

Sis: What?

Me: It's my Boiled Egg Spoon.

Sis: What?

Me: I eat my boiled eggs with that one.

Sis: Why don't you just use one of the other ones?

Me: They're not quite the right shape.

She looks at me as if I have lost my marbles. She was on the verge of moving it to the General Teaspoon Population for fuck's sake.

Like I say. Mentals, the lot of them.

On a completely unrelated note, I have ditched Internet Explorer in favour of Firefox 15 years after the rest of the world has done so and am delighted to notice that it has put my Favourites in alphabetical order - something IE has long refused to do.

As such I rediscover a number of blogs and sites I have forgotten about as they've not been in the right part of the alphabet and frankly life is too short to faff about.

I am even more delighted to discover NOT A SINGLE ONE EXISTS ANYMORE! Probably purely because I have ignored them for some time and the administrators have just given up! This is quite brilliant as, at a rough estimate, I ignore 99.9999999999999% of the internet! Therefore, it is surely a matter of time before I dominate the web and am given a prize of some sort!

Wonderful.

Doppelganger.

2010-03-17T19:52:00.002Z

It’s the only way to explain it.

Lunchtime today; I am in the chemist purchasing some sort of treatment for Blonde Colleague’s ‘water problems’ as she doesn’t like to answer the searching questions regarding her ‘lady-plumbing’ whenever she has to buy it. I am not fond of strangers thinking that it is I who have a urinary-tract infection, but this seems to be a moot point.

Cashier: So how are you anyway?

Me: Mmm? Oh. Erm. Fine. Aaah. Yourself?

Cashier: Ohhh. You know meee….

I don’t.

Me: Right.

Cashier: I just get on with it don’t I?

Perhaps she does. I really don’t know.

Me: Ok.

Cashier: Anyway. What are you like? Have you lost your Boots card again?

Me: It wasn’t mine and-

Cashier: Here you go. [Does some weird thing with a pretend loyalty card and laser scanner then hands it to me] All set now. You know I take care of you. See you later yeah?

I leave the chemist feeling slightly befuddled and raise my eyebrows at a Random Woman who smiles at me like she knows me. I proceed to the newsagent for my cigarettes.

Newsagent: Thought you’d quit HAHAHAHA!

Me: Ehm. No.

I've never laid eyes on him.

Newsagent: You must need these with your ‘not stressful’ job HAHAHAHAHA!

He has appalling halitosis and I wish he were not laughing so hard. In my face.

Newsagent: ‘Spose you’re just glad to HAVE a job the way things are going at your place HAHAHAHA!

How does he know where I work and what I do for a living? I pay for my cigarettes and leave my new best friend the Newsagent. Upon arriving at the door of my building I hold the door open for another Random Woman.

“Thanks Tired.” She says. How does she know my name?

I walk down a long corridor grinding my teeth. Yet another Random Woman is heading toward me.

Random Woman: [As if she’s known me for years] What’s the weather like out there?

Me: [Feeling sure she could have utilized a little-known device called ‘a window’] Oh. Erm. Not raining. Not cold.

RW: Brilliant! HAHAHAHAHA!

Me: Ok.

I get back to my office with some relief. Everyone here has known me for years – there will be few pleasantries. Thank God.

I think for a bit. I’m a rational man, but it can only be. There is some sort of ‘anti-me’ out there, being all ‘friendly’ and ‘gregarious’ all over the place and making strangers think they can talk to me as if they know me.

This will not do. And I have absolutely no idea how to fix this. I can’t be stuck in some sort of hell-hole of casual cheerfulness with people I don’t care about. That would be awful. What if everyone starts thinking I’m ‘approachable’? Christ.

I sit at my desk.

Blonde Colleague: Did you get…… you know.

Me: There you go.

BC: Did you get my deodorant too?

Me: *SIGH* Yeah. Here.

BC: What the fuck is this?

Me: [Squinting at the can] ‘Cotton Flower’.

BC: Cotton fucking Flower? I’m a ‘Sensual Blossom’ girl!

Me: They didn’t have any.

BC: Did you ask?

Why do women always say that?

Me: No I didn’t ask. Do you know why? Because it’s not important to me. I’d have got some ‘Unbearable Hermaphrodite Who Keeps Forgetting To Take Her Mood Stabilisers’ but they were all out of that as well. Should I have asked if they had also stockpiled that in a secret location purely to annoy you?

BC: What?

This could go either way. We both start cackling at each other. It’s fine.

I instantly feel better and stop worrying about the doppelganger. No matter how hard he tries to fool people into thinking that I’m an acceptable person, die-hard bastards like this will never have the wool pulled over their eyes.

Everday Idiocy.

2010-03-07T21:00:00.002Z

An astonishing thing about living (mostly) alone is that you slowly begin to realize just how phenomenally stupid you actually are. You know. What with there not being anyone else around to blame and that.

Today.

It is three o’clock in the afternoon, the sky is blue and the sun is shining. For the first time in five months after the coldest, bitterest, most unforgiving dark winter ever in the world I am sitting outside, looking at greenery whilst the sun shines on my face and warms my bones whilst I sip a pleasant drink.

I feel relaxed for the first time in forever. The beer garden – a fifteen minute walk away from my house (long enough to qualify as ‘a walk’, not too long to be ‘a chore’) contains a couple of young girls (three, maybe four) who make a big thing of smiling at me and then being ‘shy’ whenever I glance at them which amuses their respective mothers no end and who then smile at me benignly.

I finish my drink and return home to the dinner I had left on a low heat in the oven. The house is spotless after my ‘it’s spring!’ efforts and smells mildly and not unpleasantly of Zorflora and home-cooking. I turn the oven off. My washing and ironing is done and I have attended to my ‘personal grooming’. I feel o.k.

One hour previously.

This is shit, I think to myself. I’ve done all my fucking chores, figured-out how to copy rental dvds from the garage, the place is spotless and I just want to get out in the fucking sun ‘cos I feel like Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison. I just want to feel the sun on my face and I’m tied to this fucking cooker.

I glare with resentment at my captor. The casserole will take at least another hour. Blonde Colleague better fucking appreciate it for her lunch tomorrow after all the fuss she made last time she tasted it.

An hour. Christ. It’s not worth chancing it with a gas cooker though. There could be a supply surge, the gas could blow out and if the central heating kicks in or I unwittingly flick a light switch or light a cigarette when I get back in I'm done for.

Outside birds are singing, for what seems like the first time since last year. I can hear children playing in the distance. I want to go out.

I check the progress of my dinner, and am greeted by the reassuring hum of the fan when I open the door of the oven. All is well.

They’re brilliant, fan ovens, I think to myself. Even temperature, so much quicker.

I think a bit more.

A fan oven? Which wouldn’t work too well with a gas flame. An oven that, thinking about it, I’ve never had to light.

The hob is gas. The oven has ALWAYS been electric.

I start pulling my coat on. At this point, I would round on someone – anyone- and say-

“Why didn’t you tell me it was an electric oven? We could have gone out AN HOUR AGO! It’s perfectly safe! IDIOT!”

But there’s only me.

Brainstorm.

2010-03-02T20:17:00.002Z

Client: We need a new slogan for our advertisement. The old one's a bit .... erm. I'm not very good with words... erm...

Me: 'Old'?

Client: Exactly. See what you can come up with.

Me: What?

Client: See you tomorrow.

Me: [Into a now silent phone] For fuck's sake.

This is terrible. The client in question believes me to be a 'creative'. I am not. I have people who can be creative on my behalf but they can't 'magic things up' in one day flat - they need to go shopping for moccasins for at least a week to enliven the imagination before they come up with anything. I'm going to have to do this myself. And, if anything, I'm a 'destructive'.

I canvass the opinion of my colleagues.

The client has the largest taxi firm in the sprawling city that I have a peculiar love/hate relationship with. They're not, but let's just say they're called 'City Cabs'. And I want to keep on the right side of him for two reasons:

1) I pay next to fuck all for taxis these days.

and

2) Like any cash business of that size, it's fucking rife with organized crime.

Thug Colleague: 'Pulled a munter? Be a punter of City Cabs'?

Me: Thanks for your help. No. Really.

Lovely But Stupid: [Back from maternity leave] What about safety? You've read about these pretend mini-cab drivers who assualt drunk girls who think that they're getting into real taxis?

Me: [Quite surprised. This is sounding sensible. Maybe motherhood has sharpened her wits] Ok. All the drivers are CRB checked [amazingly] as it happens.

LBS: [Not joking] Well there you go. How about - 'City Cabs - We Won't Rape You'?

Unless anyone comes up with anything better before 10.00am tomorrow morning that's what I'm walking in there with.

Things I Must Never Forget # 2

2010-02-19T20:22:00.001Z

Four-year old Favourite Son comes down the stairs.

He and his sister are staying with me for a few days and I am stupidly happy at having a sensible reason to live for a change.

He’s always been very good at dressing himself but this morning he looks exceptionally dapper.

Me: Wow! You look very smart.

(I would like to stress that I rarely use the word ‘wow’ in a non-ironic sense. This was an exception.)

He shrugs and busies himself with something that doesn’t involve him being made to feel self-conscious in front of his Father.

We’re off on an Outing, but as I have explained to both of them, I need to quickly drop into my office for half an hour to Do Some Things because I’m the sort of cretin who can’t organize some simple time off without leaving things to do.

Less than an hour later we’re in my place of work. Favourite Son charms all around him without even trying, Favourite Daughter busies herself with doing my job better than me despite not having the slightest idea what I do for a living.

Favourite Daughter: [Looking up from her ‘work’] What are those?

Me: Um. Sweets.

FD: Who’s been eating them?

Me: Not me.

FD: Who then? Can I have one?

Me: No. You’ve not had lunch and you’ve had enough sugar. And I don’t know. Have a look around and see who you think looks like the sort of person that would steal my sweets.

Her eyes immediately flick at Blonde Colleague and dart away again. She shrugs.

Me: For what it’s worth I think you’re right.

I complete my ‘should have been done already’ tasks and we leave once I drag Favourite Son away from his new female admirers.

As we leave –

Favourite Son: Daddy?

Me: Yes?

FD: You have to be smart for work don’t you?

Me: ….. Oh. Yes.

As we head toward the local science center I now realize why he made such the effort - with his smartest pants, best shirt and co-ordinated ‘tank-top’ or whatever they’re called this year - earlier that morning.

His four-year old brain knew that we were ‘going to work’. I remember now that he said as much himself the night before as I outlined our activities for the day. I know now that he was probably more concerned about that than anything else.

And that he wanted to make the right impression. Perhaps for himself but maybe for his father as well.

Masturbation.

2010-02-16T19:47:00.002Z

Thug Colleague is waxing lyrical on one of his favourite subjects.

Thug Colleague: …. And you’re sitting there in the bathroom with your troosers roond yur ankles and spunk all ower your hand thinking ‘this is proper sordid this like’….

We’re in a pub, it’s a lunchtime. Normally I would never drink during the day but the previous evening had been a ‘staff do’ and we are all cripplingly hungover to the extent that a couple of midday refreshments are the only way of getting through it. I’ve conducted a survey and none of us can clearly remember our journey into the office that morning -which is not a good sign.

Thug Colleague: ….and you’ve covered every mirror in the bathroom with towels so you don’t catch a glimpse of yoursell deein’ it……

I’m only half-listening but he seems to be having quite the trip down memory lane. Although, he still lives with his parents so maybe not. It could have been last night.

Thug Colleague: … and whenever yer Mam looks at the Littlewoods catalogue she cannit understand why it alweys oppins on the underwear pages …

Grant From Work: I was always more of a Freemans man myself.

TC: Aye, that was some quality grumble that like …

I’m thinking back over the previous evening. I remember dancing on smashed glass with a female colleague. There is something about red wine down the front of my trousers as well. Also helping myself to the ‘one complimentary glass of champagne upon arrival’ half a dozen times and getting into a foolish confrontation with a member of front-of-house staff on the subject. All in all, not too bad.

TC: … like, when you find an auld copy of Razzle in some bushes and you fuckin’ think it’s Christmas come soon …

Perhaps inappropriately I start thinking of my son. It’s probably Thug’s childlike delight and stupid toothy grin.

It occurs to me that Favourite Son will - once he becomes interested in such pastimes - probably not enjoy the illicit pleasures of the Playtex section of the Kays catalogue as virtually every young man in the United Kingdom of my generation has.

I’m sure that once he reaches that age of curiosity technology will have advanced to the extent that all he will have do is press the red button on his digital remote control and whoever is presenting CITV that day will appear in a pop-up window fellating an alsation.

Which simultaneously makes me feel both a bit sad, and also a bit worried about myself for even thinking like this.

Thug Colleague [clearly moving-on from his festival of Masturbation Nostalgia]: Tired? That lass ye were dancin’ with? Well, she was dancin’ anyways, Ah divn’t knaw what you would caaall what ye were dein’ – did ye shag her?

Me: No.

It Gets Worse.

2010-02-10T22:05:00.001Z

Today.

Blonde Colleague: Right. That’s it!

She’s just ended a telephone call with Insane Client and is glaring at me.

BC: You’re having her back!

Me: No, I don’t want-

BC: I’M GIVING THE ACCOUNT BACK TO YOU AND THAT’S IT. SHE’S NUTS.

Me: I know, that’s why-

BC: I’m not even listening.

Occasionally we have clients that are not fond of our credit-checking procedure and will pay for our services over the telephone by credit-card instead. Insane Client is one of these. Blonde Colleague has just phoned her to attempt taking payment:

Blonde Colleague: So if I can just take your card number…

Insane Client: Why? Don’t you know it?

BC: Um. Well, no.

IC: *sigh* Why not? I just gave it to you last week. You should know it. I don’t see why I should have to tell you every week.

BC: We don’t keep that sort of information. You know. For security?

IC: *sigh* Well I really don’t ….. this is all….

BC: If I could just take the number then I’ll get things moving ….

IC: *sigh* This is very …. 079-

BC: Hold on. That’s not the right number.

IC: What? How do you know? Of course it is.

BC: Credit card numbers never start with zero. You must have the wrong one.

IC: This is confusing me. Of course it’s right. This is very confusing.

BC: Look-

IC: 079-

BC: That really isn’t right.

IC: [volume and tone of hysteria increasing with each syllable] Of course it is! 079 [proceeds to loudly recite an eleven-digit number].

BC: [Quietly stunned for a moment or two] Insane? That’s your mobile phone number.

IC: WHY ARE YOU CONFUSING ME? THIS IS - AAARGH! [Slams phone down].

Blonde Colleague is having no more of this and is glaring at me as though I were personally responsible for this woman’s psychosis. Professional Wendy was meant to be handling this crackers account but gave it up because – well, because he’s a Wendy. It gets given to me. “You’re good with these people Tired,” I am informed. “All the crazies like you. It’s as though you speak their language or something.”

I give it a couple of hours. Then pick up the phone.

Me: Hello is that Insane?

Insane Client: [immediately suspicious and adversarial] WHO IS THIS?

Me: It’s Tired from the Department-

IC: OH NONONONONONO I DON’T NEED A TALK TODAY- [slams phone down].

I shrug apologetically at Blonde Colleague. She rolls her eyes. I notice the Fucking New Kid hovering by my desk. He has a DVD in his hand.

Fucking New Kid: You were saying on Friday you wanted to see this? You can borrow it if you want.

Great. We’re ‘mates’ now, obviously.

Lunatic Asylum.

2010-02-06T21:45:00.002Z

I have a job, and a tiresome by-product of this job is that I am required to speak to people. As some of these people are 'clients' it means I also have to speak to them pleasantly. This would not be a problem for most normal people, but unfortunatly for me I am a divining rod for mentalists.

I used to think that this only applied to my personal life, but it seems that it has extended itself to the workplace also. I do not know if this is good or bad. However, it does mean that I spend much of my working day speaking to the sort of people who occupy themselves of an evening by howling at the moon whilst masturbating over photographs of wellington boots. Or something.

With one exception.

I have been out of the office for a few days, and in my absense the following telephone conversation takes place:

Blonde Colleague [answering telephone]: Good afternoon, you're through to the Department.

Insane Client: Oh. Oh. Hello. Um. Could I speak to Tired please? I normally deal with him.

Insane Client has long been the bane of my life, and when not being irretrievably difficult, slamming the phone down for no good reason, informing me that alien visitors to our planet show no respect for God (a genuinely true conversation) and sagely informing me that we are, in fact, 'not robots' (yes, she did mean it in a literal sense) probably fills her days making papier mache cats to keep her imaginary ones company.

BC: I'm sorry, he's on holiday at the moment. Can I help?

IC: I'm sure you can. It's just .... how long has he been away?

BC: Oh, just a couple of days.

IC: Right. Right. Well. Anyway, could you .... do you know where he's gone?

BC: He didn't say. How can I help?

IC: He didn't? It's just .... well, there's been a couple of murders.

BC: ....What?

IC: In the papers. Did you not read? Not too far from here.

BC: Riiight...

IC: I'm just saying. You have to admit it's a bit odd. Him being off work at the same time.

BC: ..........Err.

IC: I'm not accusing him of anything, it's just ...... well, it seems strange is all.

BC: Ok then. Anyway, what can I-

IC: Actually is it alright if I just deal with you now? Like I say, I'm sure he had nothing to do with it, but .....

To this day the client in question has refused to speak to me. Her and the woman who won't deal with me because she doesn't think I'm suitably sympathetic when she tells me in detail about her hormone-replacement therapy makes two, now I think about it. The only thing I now have left to do is to push the sanity envelope of the rest of them and then I shan't have to speak to anyone at all.

Brilliant.

Ghost of Christmas Past.

2010-02-06T21:18:00.003Z

Five weeks ago.

I am walking up the stairs on a railway platform, preparing to cross the tracks. I am weary, unhappy, have traveled 1,200 miles in the past five days and am looking down the barrel of 400 more. Experience of my country’s excellent rail network tells me that I shall be alone with my own rather unpleasant thoughts for between four and seven hours. Excellent.

Still. At least I’ll be traveling alone. I don’t mind the anonymity.

A random man is coming down the same stairs toward me.

Random Man: Hello Tired!

What the fuck is this now? I’m several hundred miles away from home in a town I have not lived in for five or six bloody years. No-one knows me here.

Me: I don’t know who you are.

I don’t have the energy to be any less direct than that. I find it's often the best approach anyway.

Random Man: It’s Gareth!

Oh my sweet shitting Baby Jesus up in his heaven sitting on his cloud, it can’t be.

Please take a moment to check my post of June 6th 2006 to find out who ‘Gareth’ is. I’d do one of those ‘link’ things but can’t be arsed.

I blink at Gareth for a while. This really is too much.

Gareth: [Very excitable for some reason] Are you getting the 11.12?

Me: [Stupidly] Yes.

Gareth: Great! Me too! Loads to catch up on! Just going to the cash-point! See you in a minute!

I stand stupidly blinking with my mouth open for a few minutes. This is terrible.

Of course, being a grown man I handle the potential awkwardness of sitting on a train for God knows how long with a person I really cannot bear in a perfectly adult, sensible manner.

By standing out of sight smoking a cigarette outside the station until the last possible second before the train departs and then jumping into the carriage furthest away from the one ‘Gareth’ has joined purely so I can avoid talking to the man, who is now on my very extensive list of people I have to avoid forever.

Awkward.

2010-01-27T20:48:00.002Z

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.

2010-01-27T20:15:00.003Z

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.

2010-01-23T22:43:00.003Z

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

2010-01-23T22:19:00.002Z

‘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.

2010-01-23T22:06:00.002Z

“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.

2010-01-23T21:56:00.002Z

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.

2010-01-18T22:57:00.002Z

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!

2010-01-14T18:37:00.003Z

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.

2010-01-09T18:30:00.009Z

“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?"

2010-01-07T21:14:00.001Z

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.

Merry Christmas.

2009-12-24T21:15:00.007Z

I have developed a worrying fascination with the tramps that occupy the city that I work/spend most of my time in.

The thing that sparked it off was a brief incident in a subway in Sunderland when a gentleman of the street wondered if I could ‘spare’ him a few pounds in order to top-up his mobile phone.

True.

I ask you. Where did he charge it?

Don’t even ask me about the absurd script I began writing for a pilot episode of a television show entitled ‘HoboCop’. The central character had amazing investigative skills based on his experience of rummaging through bins and astounding observational and surveillance techniques – no-one pays any attention to a tramp. He hid lock-picks in his beard. The young ‘maverick cop’ type he teamed-up with had a long-lost father and everything – could it be HoboCop himself? I actually gave this some thought.

Anyway.

The other morning I walk to my office past the sleeping homeless person who makes his night-time abode in a sheltered area across the street from my staff entrance. As ever I am irrationally narked about the fact that he is enjoying a lie-in when I have to be at work. Upon reflection one presumes that if he did have a job to go to he would be up by now. And would have somewhere to live.

Another tramp approaches him. Wearing a Santa hat.

Honestly. Where did he get that?

They have a chat about something or other. Private investigation techniques probably.

I pause outside the door to my office to finish my cigarette. Professional Wendy is there, doing the same.

Professional Wendy: Morning.

Me: Fuck off will you.

Some silence. I’m not a morning person.

PW: Did you see that tramp?

He is 'used to me' and doesn't realise that I am 'not joking'.

Me: [sigh] Which one?

PW: Santa.

Me: Yes. But I don’t actually think it was Santa.

PW: How do you know?

Me: Christ. Are you still stoned?

PW: Think about it. He's UNEMPLOYED three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year. And the ONE day he works he doesn’t get PAID FOR! That COULD BE HIM!

We both stare at the strangely jolly gentleman with the white beard spreading a bit of goodwill with his fellow homeless folk whilst wearing his Santa hat.

Me: Mmm. So far as I know he doesn’t have kids. It’s not like he’d get Housing Benefit. Not on his income. Or Family Tax credit. He must me on his bones.

PW: [Very excited] Oh my God! That's why he always insists upon sherry! THE TRAMPS FUCKING LOVE THEIR FORTIFIED WINE! THEY LIVE OFF IT! IT ALL MAKES SENSE!

Me: Lay off the green. See you later.

I Decide Never to Leave the House.

2009-12-19T23:45:00.001Z

I’ve often been told that I can change the atmosphere in a room just by walking in to it – the manner in which people tell me this suggests to me that I rarely change it for the better – but this is just ridiculous.

I’m sitting on a bench in a barber-shop (not a hairdressers) waiting to have my hair cut; a necessary evil I have yet to find any way of avoiding.

The barber and his lady colleague are having quite the chuckle, loudly joking with each other and their respective customers. The barber himself is shouting at passers-by on the street asking if they still believe in Santa Claus, his colleague is singing to the unbearably up-beat music blaring from the stereo.

It seems this will be more of a chore than usual.

I’m in no mood for spontaneous jollity with strangers, especially whilst being touched in a ridiculously over-familiar manner by someone I’ve not even met.

The lady barber is – without consent – giving her young customer a bizarre mullet-type thing clipped around the edges that makes the boy resemble a foolish badger. I am hoping her colleague is finished first.

My God they’re loud. These really are a couple of happy cunts.

She finishes off, gives the boy a lollipop and announces that she is off to get a coffee. Thank Christ.

In a moment or two the barber is also finished with his customer and cheerily bids him farewell. I take my seat. There is now only the two of us in the shop. The compact disc in the stereo comes to an end. It suddenly seems very quiet.

Barber: [Needlessly jovial] So! What’s it to be.

I give my standard ‘amusing’ response that if he were to make my hair longer and untidier that would be ideal.

Barber: HAHAHAHAHA! Just a bit of a tidy-up then!

Me: Please.

He starts snipping away. I pretend I am somewhere else.

Barber: So! [Here it comes, I think.] All ready for Christmas then?

I’m going to have to embark on a short period of fake cheerfulness with this fool aren’t I? I really haven’t the energy.

Me: No. I haven’t done a thing. I’ve been moving house this week so I’ve had other things on my mind.

Idiot. IDIOT, I think to myself. You’ve just given him some PERSONAL INFORMATION! He’s fucking got you now. It’s going to be ‘amusing house-move anecdotes’ a-go-go from now on you prick.

He pauses for a minute and looks at me in the mirror.

Barber: [Quiet now] Yeah. I know what you mean. Had a lot on my mind myself this week.

He silently snips away some more, with a troubled expression on his face.

Barber: It’s been the worst week of my life to be honest. My wife had a miscarriage.

It’s silent for some time.

Me: [Helpfully] Oh.

Barber: It was early on but …. Our first you know. I was all excited about being a Dad, just getting my head round it when ….. Don’t suppose you ever really get over …. you know.

Me: [Still helpful] Mmm.

I suppose I could have come up with something supportive, some learnt experience that I could have passed-on but really, I’ve come for a haircut and on top of that he’s really making a meal of trimming the hair on and in my ears – something no-one has yet been insensitive enough to do. He’ll be offering to dye my grey pubes next.

Having wordlessly completed his task, I settle-up with this gentleman.

It is for many an unpleasant time of year and he’s obviously not had the best of it anyway.

I give him a tip of fifty pence.

I Accidentally Do Something Nice and Live to Regret It.

2009-12-11T20:24:00.002Z

“Alright Tired? Going for a drink after work tonight?”

It’s not an odd question given that it is a Friday afternoon and a few of my colleagues and I regularly gather for drinks after work at the unbearably swanky bar next to our building.

What is odd is that a man I barely know is asking it of me. Perhaps he is just making conversation.

Me: Expect so.

Shaved Chimpanzee: See you there then.

I imagine this to mean that he is meeting his own acquaintances there and that perhaps we will – literally – ‘see’ each other.

But no. He tips up and joins my actual friends and me without knowing any of us and believes himself to be ‘one of the boys’. He has ‘invited himself’. That is ‘against the rules’. You wait to be asked. This went on for three weeks. And I hate him. We all hate him.

How can I even begin to describe the extent of the unbearable nature of this gentleman? To assume you are ‘mates’ with people you don’t know and invite yourself out with them is a bit ‘off’, but forgivable if you are a half-way bearable human being. But he isn’t.

He’s a boor. And a bore.

Again, you could forgive the fact that he is a human slouch, that his absurdly-shaped head does not suit the buzz-cut, especially when he has so much stubble (which is not of the ‘designer’ variety but of the ‘homeless’ type) that it makes his head look a bit ‘upside down’ and that he genuinely believes that dress trousers, brown BROWN shoes and a white shirt that resembles something his Mam would have bought him for school topped with a FUCKING white and gold NYLON ANORAK is suitable attire for the workplace.

But not the boorishness.

There is a special category of ‘stupid’ for people like this. The man has an opinion on every conversation, whether or not the conversation includes him. And insists upon giving it from some imagined lofty height as if gifting us with wisdom from his imaginary ivory tower whether anyone is interested in hearing it or not.

He is the genuis-type who will inform us that the Middle-East situation is 'all about oil' as if we would all shit ourselves with surprise and suddenly understand the world because of that when actually it is down to such complicated religious, tribal, cultural, economic and political factors that NO-ONE in the western world will ever fully understand it.

Don't even get me started on the al-qaeda who apparently live across the road from his bed-sit.

Unaware that actually he is THICK AS SHIT and everyone is so embarrassed by the nonsense spilling from his foolish hole of a mouth that they dare not say anything at all for fear of making him feel small. Which gives him the impression that he has silenced everyone with his massive intellect.

He is beyond ‘stupid’. There are individuals in the world who are non-too-bright and are aware of it. I know a few. They are unassuming, work hard, probably earn much more than me and are fantastic fathers to their children and are great fun to be around.

This individual however is SO stupid HE DOESN’T EVEN REALISE HOW DENSE HE IS. He’s so mentally retarded he THINKS HE IS ACTUALLY QUITE FUCKING CLEVER.

I would like to murder him. Not because of the above – although that is a perfectly good reason - but because he has insinuated himself into my small, selectively-chosen social group and most of us are too nice to tell him to Fuck Off.

The Friday Before Last:

I’m outside said swanky bar having a cigarette with Uncannily Similar and the Fucking New Kid.

Uncannily Similar has one difference from me in that he always takes the new recruits under his wing. Hence the presence of Fucking New Kid, which I tolerate.

Shaved Chimp ambles out, grazing his knuckles on the ground as he walks.

Realizing that he is getting no conversation from either Uncannily Similar or myself, he turns to Fucking New Kid, who is in his early twenties, is probably tweaking from having his first proper job and has worked in our dauntingly large building for three days.

Shaved Chimp: [Unwarranted superior smirk] So what is it with you young fellas anyway? Don’t you realize your hair makes you look a bit gay?

The hair on Fucking New Kid’s head is more than an inch long and he seems to have made some effort to make it look as though he has not just got out of bed. He may as well be George Micheal as far as this cunt is concerned.

Do not misunderstand me. I have no special love for the Fucking New Kid. He’s ‘new’ and that bothers me – I don’t like people I don’t know. But this is out of order. And I’ve had more of the Chimp than I can bear anyway. I have a tipping point.

The following exchange is based on hazy memory and eyewitness reports.

Me: Chimp. Yeah. You. Can’t be many mirrors in YOUR house.

Chimp: Eh…What?

Me: You look like a PILE OF DIRTY FUCKING LAUNDRY.

Chimp: Err…

At this point I am told that I am almost nose-to-nose with the man. I remember losing my peripheral vision and my heart pounding quite a lot.

Chimp: Well…..I think it’s a waste. Em. Ur. You know. I don’t make an effort for WORK.

Me: Fucking CLEARLY. Where’d you get the ANORAK? Fucking CUNTS R US? And who FUCKING INVITED YOU AND YOUR FUCKING OPINIONS ANYWAY? NOBODY LIKES YOU!

He steps back and goes inside. I finish my cigarette. Uncannily Similar silently shakes my hand.

When we return to our Goodfellas-style reserved table we find that the dreadful baboon is wordlessly necking his pint of idiot juice and leaves without another syllable. Never to return.

This Friday afternoon.

Blonde Colleague squints at me after hearing this silly story from Uncannily.

BC: [With a mixture of confusion and surprise] Eh? You did a nice thing?

Me: No. I told a prick to fuck off because no-one else would.

BC: No. You stood up for the Fucking New Kid. You stuck up for him.

Me: Shit. SHIT. You’re right. That’s EXACTLY WHAT HE’LL THINK. Bollocks.BOLLOCKS.

BC: Hahahahahah. He’s your friend now!

She’s wrong, I think to myself. It’s fine.

I go for a walk down a random corridor to clear my thoughts. By astonishing coincidence Fucking New Kid is coming my way.

FNK: Alright Tired? Going for a drink after work tonight?

Me: Expect so.

FNK: See you there then.

And so it transpires that the weak of will, the hangers-on, the people that no-one really want but who are half-way smart enough to make you feel bad for them never really go away – like Energy, they just change form.

I don't know what I'm going to have to do to get rid of this fucker.

Small Moments at Work #2

2009-11-25T22:42:00.001Z

There is a plumbing problem of some sort in the building that I work in.

Or perhaps a ventilation problem.

It’s a fairly large building with about a thousand staff. It could be anything really. But the odour in some of the corridors is not exactly that of wild roses at times.

Grant From Work: …so I was talking to a guy from maintenance about it and he was all like ‘well, it’s an old building you know’…..

This is sort-of true. It was built in the nineteen-sixties.

Grant From Work: …. And I’m thinking "Eh? Castles are ‘old’. They don’t ‘smell of shit’".

Small Moments at Work #1

2009-11-25T22:37:00.002Z

Thug Colleague: Either somewheyns mekkin the bread tae big, or somewheyns mekkin the toosters tae smaall. And ah divn’t care whey it is, ah just reckon they shud git thar heeds t’githir and sort it oot.

Thug has a capacity for massively angry over-reaction to the smallest things - a quality I am beginning to quite admire. He is actually smashing things around his desk. It is five minutes past nine in the morning.

He fixes his glare on me.

TC: What dae yea reckon?

Me: Do you buy that ‘Toastie’ bread?

TG: FUCKIN’ AYE! Theym cunts fit intae NAE TOOSTER ON EARTH! Why fuckin’ call it that?

He throws a biro at his monitor in frustration.

I have no answer for him.

But am convinced he has also imagined the same ‘Annual Toaster Manufacturer and Baker Conspiracy Meeting’ that I have, in which leaders of their respective industries get together in Geneva each year to figure out new ways of pissing us off.

I just haven’t the heart to get that cross about it anymore.

Insomnia. Fucking again.

2009-11-22T23:50:00.002Z

Seriously. What the cock is up with this shit?

I'm boring myself now. It's not the first time I've written about this I'm sure.

The last time monkeymother came up with the initially helpful suggestion of listening to Radio 4. Which I did this evening at nine and fell fast asleep.

And here I am. With, after some weeks of unsuccessful Radio 4 fandom, a worrying fascination with the Shipping Forecast.

Have you heard it? It must be CODE for something surely. Who can sleep after listening to that?

Anyway. Instead of staring at the inside of my eyelids and listening to my heart pounding I get up and do this and think aloud and delete it all in the morning.

Why can't you sleep you twat?

I miss my children something dreadful.

Given. But you couldn't sleep when they lived in the same house as you. Prick. Next?

If I'm honest I miss their mother as well.

See above. And you had your chance.

I hate the night. I used to love it so this is a new torture. I love the day, and work. At work I'm surrounded by men with gambling addictions and women with shining eyes and sharp tongues. And they can do anything. And so can I.

Gay. So what?

This isn't like me. Not now. I've worked hard to not be like this and it frightens me.

Really REALLY gay. Have you been drinking?

Now you mention it.....

Oh you WEAPON. Mister fucking 'sleep disorder expert'. You know that's the worst thing you could do. Go and do some ironing, read a book or something. Cock. And stop having imaginary conversations with yourself on the internet. It makes you look nuts.

“If you were a cheese, what sort would you be?”

2009-11-19T15:45:00.002Z

It must be a slow day if Professional Wendy has come up with one of these again.

I call him this because if he were to excel in any profession, it would be ‘being a complete Wendy’. He’s just had TWO MONTHS off work with ‘the depressions’ for fuck’s sake. Here’s an idea son – stop spending every evening sitting about in your pants smoking weed all night, put in a full months work for once and earn your way in the world instead of relying on hand-outs from your mates and you might find you fucking cheer up a bit. Anyway.

Blonde Colleague: Just cheddar I suppose.

PW: Why?

BC: I’m straightforward and you know what you’re getting. You?

PW: Mozzarella.

BC: Why?

PW: Because I’m a bit boring but I’m really nice.

He’s got a point and I suddenly realize why he annoys me so much. He is genuinely quite a ‘nice’ bloke. And I dislike ‘nice’ people – they bore me and I find myself tormenting them just to pass the time. It also occurs to me that this may be a personal character flaw of some sort. Oh well.

PW: Tired?

Me: What?

PW: What about you?

Me: Mmm? Dunno. Parmesan I suppose.

BC: You and your fucking parmesan. ‘Freshly grated’ I suppose you twat.

Me: I say that so as to differentiate it from that horrible stuff in the white tubs-

BC: NO-ONE CARES you cock. And who says ‘differentiate’ anyway? ‘I’m Tired Dad, would you like to listen to my stupid words and taste my fresh basil?’ We all know you eat Findus Crispy Pancakes every night anyway. Knob jockey.

PW: Why?

Me: Why what?

PW: Why parmesan?

Me: Oh. Emm. Because I’m quite hard work but there are times when nothing else will do.

BC: WAAAAH-HAHAHA! Where’d you get the last bit? Fucking www.opposite-is-true.com?

Me: That’s my line.

BC: Fuck off is it. You probably stole it from someone anyway – you’re always stealing mine.

Me: No I’m not.

BC: What about ‘I suggest you build a bridge….and GET OVER IT’?

Me: That is quite good. But I gave you ‘shitweazel’.

BC: It’s hardly a ‘line’ is it?

PW: [quietly] It was like this just before my parents divorced.

BC: Anyway. I thought you were going to say you’d be parmesan because you FUCKING SMELL OF VOMIT.

Me: It’s only the stuff in the little white tubs that smell-

Without warning BC throws a tightly-screwed Post-it at me with such ferocity it makes an entirely unexpected ‘clacking’ noise as it ricochets off my forehead. She storms out of the office.

PW: Christ. That wasn’t very nice.

I check my emails.

It's Saturday Night.

2009-11-14T20:11:00.000Z

And I'm cleaning the cooker.

Bring it on.

"Some Bloke's Just Shown Me His Cock!"

2009-11-05T20:32:00.002Z

I put my drink down at gaze at Newly-Gay Friend for a moment or two whilst I process this information.

As my pretend name for him suggests, he has recently been a man of some surprises.

He announced his new lifestyle decisions to me some months ago whilst we were enjoying Uncannily Similar’s stag weekend. After an evening that involved – in no particular order – lap-dancers, cocaine, prostitutes and foolishly heavy drinking – it was an additional new experience that pretty much ended my patience with the whole night. After a man-hug that went on longer than strictly necessary I put him to bed and then had to deal with the police who raided the apartment the eight of us had rented for the weekend. (One of us tried to break in. Someone reported it.)

But that’s another story. And is not as interesting as it sounds.

I look around me. We and three other friends are in a cosy public house in the Lake District - the former stamping ground of the Romantic poets which is now mainly occupied by middle-aged people clad in Berghaus and sporting unkempt beards.

It does not strike me as a hot-bed of cock-waving.

Me: You fucking what?

To be honest, after nearly four years of knowing this man the whole ‘gay’ thing is a bit of a thinker after zero indication whatsoever. Presumably his wife of sixteen years and ten-your-old son are also scratching their heads.

NGF: Seriously. Some bloke just got his cock out right in front of me!

I don’t really understand ‘how you roll’ when you become ‘gay’. Maybe this alleged incident happens to you all the time once you go down that road. But I think it unlikely.

I glance around me. Absolutely no-one has their cock out, but there is a stunning view over Lake Bowness.

Me: Where exactly did this happen?

NGF: In the Gents.

Me: Oh for fu-

Glancing over the lake I notice a boat named The Silly Sausage glide by. True.

Me: Right. You’ve been in public lavatories before you were all gay and that? You must be familiar with the phenomenon of men taking ‘themselves’ out of their trousers before now? You can’t have just noticed?

NGF friend starts singing very loudly. Once again I take him to our accommodation and put him to bed. Since his recent decisions he has become a full-blown alcoholic, but for a drinker he is shit at it.

Me: [we are sharing a twin room] I’m not going to have a problem with you tonight am I?

NGF: [amid much drunken burbling] Fuck off. I’d never fancy you.

I get back in my taxi and rejoin the rest of my friends. But find myself irrationally irritated.

“He could fucking do worse” I think to myself.

I Have Two Followers.

2009-11-05T20:29:00.001Z

I have no idea what this means and it sounds faintly sinister. But 'hello' whoever you are.

Books.

2009-10-11T04:20:00.001+01:00

Nicholson Baker may not be the greatest novelist in the world. He’s certainly better than me. I’ve never bothered.

But by God his choice of reading is dreadful.

He wrote a piece recently in the Guardian about eBooks and that.

He didn’t go so far as to say that the complete digitization of all literature would be good or bad, he just described his experience of the new methods of reading novels. Digitally. If one felt so disposed. On a screen. A screen that only Amazon would sell you, and only Amazon would supply content for.

This screen would allow you to download any novel you fancied – so long as Amazon stocked it – anywhere you liked. Anywhere with a broadband connection. Or free wi-fi.

I’m not as widely read as Nicholson Baker (he seems rather fond of ‘thrillers’) but here’s some of my experiences of books:

1) A paperback copy of Life of Pi by Yann Martell. Bought in a charity shop for next to nothing. A fabulous book about belief, stories and faith. And not what you would think upon initial reading. The inside cover was written upon in biro-

‘Rose – get beyond the first hundred pages and it really picks up.’

I’ve no idea who Rose is. Or the (I assume) man was who gave it to her. But it was sensible advice. I don’t know why Rose then gave it away to a charity shop.

But I think of them, whoever they are.

I then lend it to somebody else. Because I like the book and I like the person I lend it to. Like the person who gave it to Rose. Although I’m guessing Rose wasn’t too fond of it.

2) An Encyclopia in my Grandfathers ‘study’. It was really his front room, but even then he didn’t set foot in it. Amazing to a ten-year old boy. All the knowledge in the world, in one massive tome. The pages smelt of wisdom and escape.

3) The works of A.A.Milne. Worn and battered by generations. Red hardback covers hanging off, spines barely clinging. Read to my mother, read by my mother to me, read by me to my younger brother and sister and one day hopefully to my own children. Old books, literally falling apart and smelling of love, however misplaced.

4) Bookshelves. I’ve been massively fortunate growing up for one reason. There were always books. I doubt my mother or indeed any of the illiterates she married ever read any of the books they populated the book-shelves they insisted upon, but at least they were there. And for every three Jackie Collins (deeply alarming to a thirteen-year-old-boy) there was at least one Angela Carter (slightly more alarming but for better reasons). There was some Thomas Hardy, Sylvia Plath and Raymond Chandler. At least they were there.

But now they’ve invented this ‘Thing’. Upon which you can see any book anytime, like the online catch-up service of the BBC or 4 on-demand or whatever it’s called this week.

Sony have a competitor model called the ‘Kill all emotion and meaning let’s just digitize it all MK2’ or something. KAEAMLJDIA#2 is the production name.

They’ll probably win. And the losers will be people like me, who quite like seeing the odd coffee-cup ring on the page of a well-loved book. Who like giving or lending or reading to someone a book that they adore.

And Nicholson Baker will no doubt get by.

If It Weren’t For the Photographs I Would Deny It Forever.

2009-10-07T20:16:00.003+01:00

I am making my way from my office to my bus stop. A female colleague rushes up to me. She has not uttered a word to me in three years. Something I have not lost sleep over.

Female Colleague: Tired! I just wanted to say you were brilliant on Friday night! Really convincing.

Me: You what?

Roughly forty-eight hours earlier.

I am standing in a beer cellar with Uncannily Similar, taking alternate large swigs from a pint of lager and very large vodka and tonic. He is gazing forlornly around us.

Uncannily Similar: This is a nightmare isn’t it?

Me: Mmm.

U.S: I mean. Surrounded by all this drink. And we can’t have any of it.

Me: [Adjusting my skirt] Not really what I thought you meant.

U.S: Oh. This? Yeah. Do you think I need some more lippy?

Me: I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. Be a man. How has this happened by the way?

Two years ago I had resolved to start doing things that were a little out of character as my default behavior hadn’t really worked out as well as it could have. These ‘things’ usually involved daredevil antics such as sitting on a different seat on the bus to work or eating feta cheese. But this is just silly.

U.S: [Glancing at my legs] You’d have looked better in the fishnets.

Me: [Irrationally insulted] You fucking what?

U.S: Well. The black-and-purple stripes aren’t doing you any favours. You look like Beetlejuice.

Me: Fuck off do I.

The door to the cellar opens a crack. We are due to emerge from this and then from behind the bar and behind the audience who will be expecting us to emerge from the stage in front of them. In terms of 'stealth' it would probably be the strangest Splinter Cell add-on pack ever downloaded.

Our Boss: Five minutes girls. You look fabulous.

She vanishes again.

Me: Anyway. Your tits are wonky.

U.S: Don’t tell me that now!

Hearing our ‘theme’ we dash onstage and make complete buffoons of ourselves in front of several hundred of our peers.

Fourty-eight hours later.

Me: What do you mean, convincing?

FC: Oh. Emm. Nothing. Just you were really good.

Me: Fucks sake.

FC: Really. It was just a funny panto. Loved your dance at the end. Did it take long to rehearse?

Me: I have to catch a bus.

Six hours earlier. I walk down a corridor past two gentlemen I do not recognize. Assuming they are past my earshot one of them turns to the other and says:

“You should have seen him on Friday night. FUCKING TERRIFYING.”

Football.

2009-09-30T22:10:00.001+01:00

This is the last thing I fucking need, I think to myself.

I have the sort of job that sometimes you just can’t walk away from at five-thirty. It involves things that sometimes can’t be left until the morning. The morning will be too late.

This is one of those sometimes. The public transport system in the city I work in tends to think ‘fuck it’ after business hours in the assumption that anyone needing to travel after six is either a drunkard or a pervert. As such I have a wait on my hands.

Raymond Chandler wrote an excellent passage about the alchemic pleasure of a bar that had just opened for the evening. ‘Farewell my Lovely’ I think.

It’s not the same now. They never really close. But there is still something about a two-thirds empty bar early in the evening – usually populated by disoriented commuters far from home, burnt-out business types and hard-core alcoholics. A stillness, a melancholy. A place to reflect in peace, populated by people who want nothing more than that themselves. People who want to be elsewhere but are either temporarily or permanently stuck. It can be quite soothing if you know you’re only visiting.

Having half an hour to kill I decide to visit a quite-nice one near my bus stop. It’s either that or the only other place open is Starbucks and I’m not that fucking far gone. Those cunts are really lost.

I push through the glass doors to be greeted by a wall of noise and approximately eight million braying lumps of flesh yowling at a plasma screen as though it were some sort of vengeful god.

Having stepped through the doors I am past the point of no return. No man in history has ever walked into a bar and then promptly turned around again.

I order a drink, making a point of not purchasing a big pint of idiot juice. Fortunately I’ve been here before and am aware of the perpetually empty ‘snug’ area which I promptly make for.

It is removed from the main bar, contains big leather chairs and only a couple of tables. The ‘wall’ facing the street is plate-glass. It is relatively quiet. I take a comfy leather chair and sit, determined to ignore the gurning festival of homoeroticism in the main room. I place my drink on a glass table-top that turns out to be one of those old arcade machines. I find this not amusingly ‘ironic’ or ‘retro’ as I’m sure I should but actually faintly depressing.

I sip my drink and stare at the skyline. My thoughts are far from here.

A man the size of a small outhouse comes barreling in and looks directly at me. He is wearing a football shirt which is puzzling as his physique is not one of an athlete. Or indeed of most normal humans.

Random Man: Thank fuck for that!

As he has not introduced himself I can only assume he imagines he has known me for some time. This is, however, not the case so I do not reply. I am not about to be involved in some nightmare scenario in which two strangers act as if they have been acquainted for years. That would just be weird. We’d be wanking each other off next.

Random Bloke: [Undeterred by my lack of response] Did you hear? [Insert name of football player here – I don’t know any] just scored! Fucking brilliant!

I gaze levelly at him and don’t respond. I can’t say if I actually shrugged, but it sounds like the sort of thing I would do.

Random Bloke: [Showing a firm grasp of the available evidence] You’re not watching it then?

Me: No.

He physically staggers for a second, but I think it’s the drink.

RB: So what you’re saying…. You’re…. Is that you just don’t give a shit about the football?

Me: Yes. I suppose so.

He steadies himself on a table. Must be the booze.

RB: But….. Fuck, man………Just trying to be friendly…….Christ……..have a bit chat and that. Jesus. Don’t have to be a CUNT.

He staggers away, his face a mass of confusion. I swear there were actually tears in his eyes.

I finish my drink and wait for my bus outside.

Escalation.

2009-07-27T01:33:00.003+01:00

It all started quite normally and then went terribly wrong.

Interior. Office. Day.

Me: [Gazing out the window] It’s a nice afternoon actually. I’m looking forward to getting home and sitting in the garden for a while.

Blonde Colleague: [Looking at me as though I’d just announced that gang-raping her mother would be quite the chuckle] You fucking what?

Me: Em. Well. I’ve a back garden now. Bit of a novelty. Thought it would be nice. Seems like quite a pleasant evening. Maybe.

BC: What the fuck do you want to do that for?

Me: Em. Because. You know. Sit in the garden. Glass of wine. Cigarette and that. Just relax I suppose.

BC: Oh yeah? You’ll be fucking freezing. You can do all of that in your front room AND watch television.

Me: I don’t really watch televi-

BC: Don’t even get me started on that one you fucking freak.

Me: Anyway. It’s July.

BC: Yeah? And in the winter? Genius?

Me: Well –

BC: Oh. You’re going to get one of those fucking gas heaters [said as though her mother had indeed been gang-raped by some awful gang of libidious gas heaters] aren’t you?

Me: Now you mention it. That would be good.

BC: WHY?!

Me: Well. I could sit outside in the winter as well.

BC: WHAT?! You can sit inside! And not have bats in your hair!

Me: It wouldn’t be the same. [I am sensing that this is becoming an ‘outdoors versus indoors’ argument and that I have not made my case sufficiently strong. And that I’d only said that it would be quite nice to sit in my new back garden anyway.]

BC: So you’re going to spend money to sit all year round in your garden doing EVERYTHING NORMAL PEOPLE DO IN THEIR FRONT ROOMS without being able to see your telly with bats in your hair and moths and butterflies living in your silly beard?

Me: Look-

BC: And do you know what’ll happen? ‘Cos I’ll tell you. Your neighbours will be on the phone and they’ll be all like “ Hello is that the police? It’s just I think the man next door is a peeping-tom. He’s really skinny so he thinks I can’t see him hiding behind his fucking gas heater but I can see his beady little shrimp-eyes sticking out and his weird E.T. fingers. Can you send a car straight away?”

Me: Ok.

BC: Good?

Me: Not as good as when you told me I look like a cross between Pierce Brosnan [good] and Stephen Hawking [bad].

BC: [Small amount of snot coming out of her nose] Did I say that? I am ON FIRE! You do look a bit crippled though.

Me: Mmmmmm.

I’d just said about the garden and that.