Foolishness.

Common-or-garden blog-person was Ranting Dullard. These people are the best. They don’t think they are IT because they’ve managed to get something published on the internet, there is no self-aggrandisement and they don’t bang on ad infinitum about how they do something in the media and isn’t it all amazing. There is no agenda. They just talk about their lives, their thoughts.

Ranting Dullard is/was pretty good. But in the later posts, something was amiss. Mentions of surreptitious boozing in the workplace. Not in a confessional way either. Almost boasting. And tales of visiting an anonymous fight-club of dubious reality in order to feel alive.

He’d obviously ignored the first rule of fight club.

I leave a message on his comment-thing. Nothing really rude, no swearies or anything. Just of the shape-up-you’ve-got-a-family sort of thing.

The next day his whole blog has disappeared.

I quake at my awesome power.

Then have to change Favourite Son, who is hysterical with delight at the almost-unbelievable foulness of his discharge. I realise if anyone in this house has any power at all, it’s this little sod. Get over myself.

Find Ranting Dullard chap has started another one, and the ceasing of last one had nothing to do with me. Feel slightly relieved.

Then get quite-nice email from Dullard chap. I shan’t reproduce it here – have decided that stuff in the public domain is fair game but emails are private. Apologies Coleman. Seems he was wallowing a bit, and if anything my comments acted as a much-needed kick up the arse. All is well.

Wow, I think. Maybe I’m like the Knight Rider of the internet, righting wrongs wherever I may see them. Except I don’t have a talking car. Or any firearms skills. And have no law-enforcement experience. And can’t fight. And am very skinny.

No. I am just a tired man with nothing better to do late at night.

I check the comments on his new place.

May 12
Camie Vog said...
I am a close runner up!! Dude, you freaked me out for a bit there! Saw the crap comment on your last post at the old site...I was too tired to comment on it, so I hopped on this morning to blast the guy and your site was GONE!!! Went over to Fatfiz's site to root you out, all worried and such. Glad you are here! Want me to put this site on the blogroll, or do you care to remain secret?? I have tagged a new email onto my blog...it should be up and running, so feel free to email at anytime.
6:46 AM

Dullard chap replies that he actually thought the final person to leave a comment was well within his rights. I think no more of it.

I decide to leave a comment of my own. This takes place:

Tired Dad said...
Delighted to see you didn't intentionally delete the whole thing because of some prick posting a harshly-worded comment.

What *did* happen? Oh, and no-one should ever stop, no matter how shit people think it is.

Hope small person is well, and you and Mrs can find *it*. We've all wigged - hope the second adolescence is finished.

Please leave up so all your loyal followers can insult me.
4:54 PM

Tired Dad said...
Oh, and sort out your clock on Blogger. That sort of posting-time makes me think I'm REALLY REALLY late for work.
4:55 PM


Camie Vog said...
Not that I am sitting here all guilty, or anything, T.D. Because I'm not. I didn't have a chance to respond to your harsh worded comment. If I'd had a chance to do so, I doubt you would be as paranoid as you are about being flamed.


R.D. Been thinking of removing it on my blog for the same reason.
7:15 PM

See. I am nice sometimes. But I’m genuinely puzzled by the final comment.

Leave the following at her place:

Tired Dad said...
Erm...

Carnie (or whatever) - what am I paranoid about?

And what does it mean to be flamed?

Do you possess a flamethrower? Is that what you are saying? Is it really?

Why would your replying to a comment of mine avoid any said carnage and apparent paranoia on my part?

Please explain.

Do you really have a flamethrower? Do you really? Like on Aliens? Could you send me a picture? Could you?
3:11 PM

Do you see what I’ve done? Yes, I am taking the piss. Aren’t I just completely hilarious? I have pretended not to understand internet-speak. I have deliberately miss-understood, and have not-really led myself to believe the woman has access to military ordinance. Like on Aliens. And have repeated myself like a spastic child. My word, I am one funny man.

Camie Vog said…
No, I don't own a flamethrower....a grenade launcher, but not a flamethrower...I was under the assumption that you knew R.D. in "real life", as in, outside of the blog realm....I also assumed that you were dredging in dirt on a public forum about a personal issue....Perhaps my assumptions are wrong. If that is the case, I apologize.Flaming is when you write a comment, and the other readers pelt you with comments about how you are an idiot. I wasn't going to flame you, per se, I was going to tell you that if you did indeed know him in real life, it may be better to speak your piece to him in person... Like I said, I assumed you knew him outside of the blog...that is the impression I got after reading your comment.I'm not interested in getting into it with you. If you don't like me, well, fine. No sence in being ugly to one another. Life goes on
3.06 PM

This is too good to be true. She has explained in some detail, what ‘flaming’ means. I can scarcely believe it.

She has reassured me that she does not own a flamethrower. But jokingly (I assume, but you never know with Americans) that she has a grenade launcher. She does not mention if it is like the one in Aliens. It’s all too much.

Camie Vog, you claim to be a reader and if so I hope you will take this in the spirit it is meant – the internet is a bonkers place. I’ve nothing going-on with the person who writes Camie Vog, nor do I with any of the people that write blogs – I’ve never met any of them. Many, however, create online-personas that are shite. You, my dear woman, are not one of them. But you are easily taken in, and too-quick to point the finger.

This is at an end.

You Decide

I am dreadfully DREADFULLY tired. So.

Next.

Either a story about my interesting day at work [ I did not have an interesting day.]

Or....

How I insulted someone (yet again) on their silly-blog-thing and how people got a bit shirty and then realised they shouldn't have but me not minding anyway because it was a bit funny.

Clue: it's not the first one.

Second Clue: I'm not the sort of person that genuinely needs people to prompt his half-formed and half-arsed ideas into fruition.

Yeah. You know.

On this occasion it's nothing to do with the Duck or Biffo, Gillen etc. etc. (I could write a VERY long list) but your common-or-garden blog-person. The best type in my opinion.

Brown Sludge.

MMR-related/teething/generally-being-a-bugger whinges quelled.

Favourite Daughter's very-late-night pad down the the stairs for two second cuddle before she is happy again. Back to bed.

I fret about this. It's unusual for her. I think of a few reasons. None of which are anything to do with anyone but me and Tired Mam. This isn't that sort of place.

Upon realising the time, I retire to the bathroom.

It's there.

I thought I had seen the last of it.

Not a pint glass. Oh no. In this escalating scenario, that would appear normal.

A washed-out Hellman's mayonnaise jar filled to the brim with a dark-brown sludge. Sealed with the bright-blue Hellman's lid.

Right there. On the window-sill. Right next to the toilet.

I try not to think too hard about it. I know I will.

Do I Even Have a Bed Anymore?

MMR my arse. It can't be that bad. Give him Calpol and new bottle and all is quiet. For 15 minutes.

Tiny footsteps on stairs.

'Need a wee.'

Supervise, then carry her back to bed. Half-way downstairs:

'Firty'

Avail myself of drink in favourite cup, then back upstairs.

Downstairs again. Begin turning things off.

Tiny footsteps.

'Wanna cuddle.'

Still-asleep angel-face. Eyes all scrunched against the light. Hair like something you could happily drown in after being released from its day-long bunches prior to bed.

I cannot be cross.

I shall be in a foul mood tomorrow.

On the upside, I notice the Pint-Glass of Doom has vanished from the bathroom as mysteriously as it arrived. My mind was bloody racing about that one. Thoughts of child-psychologists or getting the missus sectioned. I feel a weight has been lifted.

Goodnight.

Mentals, Part 2

He seems inoffensive. Getting to the point of being elderly, dressed in the dapper manner of chaps that age. He orders his drink and makes his way toward me. He has one of those elbow-braced medical walking-stick things, and is not doing too well. Feeling unusually magnanimous that afternoon, I am about to offer some help. I decide not to - if I were in his place, that sort of thing would make me bloody furious. He is clearly capable of transporting a pint-glass the distance of a few feet.

He sits down at the other side of the bar, at the table opposite me. We are now pretty much alone. We exchange the obligatory glance.

'Quiet isn't it?' He says.

'Yes,' say I, and - trying not to make it sound too pointed, 'I like it quiet.'

I don't want to be rude to this chap, he seems alright. But what I want to do right now is stare at the wall, enjoy my drink and empty my mind of the day's events. If I were feeling especially chatty I would be halfway home and about to begin discussing the finer details of the economic fall-out involved in Tired Mam's latest shoe-purchasing escapades.

'Quick one after work is it?'

I sigh inwardly. Then decide to make the effort.

'Erm, yes. Snatching a few minutes to myself. I've two young children, so, you know. The real work starts when I get home.'

'Ah yes,' he says, 'been there myself young man. I have two daughters of my own. They haven't spoken to me in seven years.'

I stiffen slightly, and give him a closer look. He seems outwardly normal, but this is an awful lot of personal information to be giving a stranger in the pub. I thoughtfully take a sip of my drink, temporarily forgetting (being tricked into forgetting?) its potentially noxious contents. Seems a shame about his children though - wonder what happened? I decide to keep an eye on him.

He notices my cigarette.

'Well,' he says, 'at least you can still smoke in here. If he had his way, no-one would be allowed to do anything in this country.' I say nothing. 'Tony Blair.' He adds, by way of explanation.

'Mmmmmm.' I say.

He looks to his left and right, and then leans toward me.

'You realise of course,' he says in a low voice, 'that Tony Blair is a criminal?'

I try not to panic at this point. The chap may still be O.K. He may just have some strident non-nanny-state opinions and have a firm position about Iraq and the dubious international legality of the action. Everything may still be alright, I think.

The chap is warming to his subject.

'He is acting outside of sovereign law. Do you know what that means? He is acting against the Queen.'

I am now starting to worry. Can I be sure this is even happening? Have the two sips of my sweating-sausage-fingers-nutjob-barman-infected drink conjured up this illusion? I try to remain calm and rational. To freak-out at this stage would only facilitate the progress of the mento-nanobots. Must remain calm.

'I've written letters,' he continues, 'to Her Majesty. I never receive a reply. It's futile. MI5 intercept all of my post.'

Oh fuck.

'You won't know this. He doesn't publicise it. Tony Blair is a 33rd-degree Mason.'

Shit. Oh shit.

'Check. It's true. Then ask yourself why he doesn't publicise it.'

'Check where?' I ask, foolishly drawing myself in. He looks at me in a benign manner, as if I were a simple child.

'Why, the internet of course.'

Ah. Yes. The internet. Of course.

'But I shan't let them stop me. I will expose the truth, no matter the cost. I have already lost my health, my wife, my house. They have bankrupted me, I currently have debts of over £70,000. But they shan't stop me.'

I am no longer curious as to why his daughters no longer communicate with him.

And now I am very worried. Is this happening, or have I lost it? If it is happening, was this chap O.K. when he came in? If so, then this is a worryingly short amount of time to succumb to evil Doctor Spazzfinger behind the bar. How long do I have?

And then it dawns on me. Oh yes, there is a conspiracy. But not in our government. No, it is right here in this very bar. This chap and the barman are acting together. It's a two-pronged Rain-Man-onslaught. No-one can withstand both the infected drink and the molecules of mouth-gibber spewing from this man in my direction.

'When I gave Northumbria Police the documentary evidence of MI6's assassination attempt against me, they did nothing. And then claimed that they had never spoken to me in the first place, and did not possess the evidence at all. I ask you - how else could you explain my bad leg?'

My palms are sweating as I pull on my coat. I mumble something about a bus, and burst onto the deserted street. I fill my lungs with good, clean, sane air. The sun is shining. Perhaps everything will be fine. I shake my head at the lunacy of the past few minutes, and at my own idiocy.

'Fuck me,' I say to myself, 'I am one cunting fucktard magnet today.'

Of course the street is not deserted. The two pearl-and-twin-set old ladies look at me as though I were some sort of abomination. The look they give states that they believe me to be irretrievably MENTAL.

Oh God. I hope there is an antidote. Some sort of serum or something.

Nothing to do with Mentals

Yet.

But I have just noticed. There is a pint glass on the window-sill in my bathroom.

Slightly unusual in itself.

But it is also filled to the brim with a dark-brown liquid sludge.

I'm going nowhere near it.

I have resolved to not mention it or ask anyone about it. I am sure it is a trick or test of some sort.

I will not be taken for a fool in my own home. I can wait. Someone will crack before I.

Mentals, Part One

Tired Mam has an unusual policy with mentals. She calls them interesting or eccentric, and takes them under her wing in the hope that they will blossom into fantastic individuals following her Pygmalion-for-Mentalcyclists tutoring.

Inevitably they turn around and bite her - because they are mental - and she gets very upset (most recent mental, after weeks of apparent friendship, accuses TM of kidnapping her daughter and FD of abusing her in, you know, a sex way. FD is three, as is Mental Woman's daughter. TM is chairperson of the committee of the nursery she had supposedly snatched MW's daughter from, and was in a meeting with the committee at time of 'snatching' to be abused by my Rose West-wannabee-three-year-old-daughter. MW has since cried, apologised profusely and admitted to going through a breakdown because her husband has left her. Because of her allegations that her uncle molested her when she was a child that also turn out to be less-than-accurate. And was really pissed when she made the original accusational phone-call at eleven o'clock at night. You get the picture. I feel for this woman, and something at some point has obviously happened to her. But I don't want her anywhere near me or mine).

The upshot of this is some very heated conversations between me and Tired Mam. Of the 'Why do you insist upon letting these people into our lives?' variety, which tend not to go down too well. Rows of spectacularly mental nature then take place - 'Well you don't like anyone - maybe you're the one who is spazzed in the head!'. That sort of thing, despite the fact that we've already had to speak to the Citizen's Advice, our Health Visitor and Her Majesty's Constabulary on the subject.

I begin to wonder. Is Mentalism a communicable disease? For a short time it infected our household through contact with MW. If you spend any time around a nutloaf, to you become a flidder yourself? This is brought to mind the other week.

I pop into the pub round the corner of my place of work. I can either hang around at the bus-stop for quarter of an hour waiting for the early one and tolerate the standing-for-the-duration-of-the-journey-whilst-suffering-the-high-school-students-playing -unspeakable-mp3s-on-their-mobile-FUCKING-SPEAKERPHONES - because-why-invest-in-a-pair-of-£1.99-earphones-when-the-SHITE-tinny-speakers-on-your-Motorola-will-do-the-trick-with-the-added-bonus-of-fucking-off-anyone-with-ears or I can have a crafty drink in a deserted lounge, contemplate the day's events and ride the almost-empty later bus home.

I'm standing at the bar. I exchange the usual raised-eyebrows, half-nod and half-smile with The Old Guy Who Sits at the End of the Bar - the one you have to demonstrate you have access to before you are granted a liquor license.

The barman ambles over. My heart sinks. It's the fucking mental one.

To justify.

He's significantly younger than me, probably early twenties. But going VERY bald. Not at the crown. But front and middle. If you have seen any pictures of the Tunguska blast site it looks a bit like that. But normal at the sides and back. What little hair he has on top is grown at normal length in a nothing-odd-here manner. Despite the fact that comparative acres of pale whiteness shine through these pitiful shreds.

Not only is this man a FREAK OF NATURE, but is obviously mentally troubled, as evidenced by the fact that he has not done what any sane man would and just shave the lot off.

But there is more.

Several weeks previously, I was enjoying my increasingly guilty pleasure at the pub across the road, not the one round the corner. For the lark. I purchase my drink, and sit in a quiet corner. There's another guy there but he doesn't look in the mood for conversation so that's O.K. He receives a mobile call. Of the 'yes, I'm here' variety.

A few minutes later in staggers Mental Barman. Who cannot talk. Who sloshes his pint all over the gaff (how he even got served is a mystery I have yet to solve).Mental Barman's companion listens to his tale of woe with the resigned but patient air of someone who has done this more than once.

The upshot is that Mental Barman had been on the lash the night previously, turned up to work still pissed, had recieved reprimand on the subject and had been invited to leave the premises. I think. The man could barely speak. According to Mental Barman he then proceeded to 'smash the place up' and 'deck the cunt'.

His companion made 'mmmm' noises. I suspect these tales were equally familiar to him. Feeling that the ability to consume such heroic amounts of alcohol by five in the afternoon was not evidence of a happy mind, I left my drink untouched and managed to catch the early bus.Anyway.

My heart sinks. It's the mental one. I order my drink, and feel the same involuntary shudder between me picking-up said drink and him pouring it. I sit down and think. I realise that this shudder - something I have long experienced - is my subconscious fear that - in some some way - even touching the same glass as this man will lead to the communication of spazz-brain.

I stare absently at a framed painting of a man in a red coat on a horse surrounded by dogs whilst I think about this. Somebody has gone to the trouble of of placing a gold-coloured light fixture of some sort to further illuminate this depiction of all that is good about provincial pubs. This is not important.

Perhaps, I think, the minute amounts of sweat and nutter DNA of the man's hands, mingled with the pleasing over-spill of froth could travel into the contents of the glass itself. Perhaps tiny nano-bots of loony-tunes could then populate my otherwise pleasant drink, only to invade my body when I begin drinking and attack my cerebral cortex. Attacking the strong core of rationality that I have always insisted exists even when people give me funny looks when I say such things.

(Note to any lady readers:

If you see the gentleman in your life sitting quietly, with a serious expression and a faraway-look in his eyes, you will - without exception - ask him what he's thinking about. He will - without exception - reply 'Nothing'. Accept this. He does not want to admit to thinking about something so mind-bogglingly foolish as the above - which he invariably will be. We're not emotionally retarded per se, we're just idiots. Don't force the poor bastard into making something-up on the spot about 'thoughts' and 'feelings'. That just isn't fair.)

I take an exploritory sip. And monitor my thoughts.

Insomnia I think. Life-long affliction. Always tolerable, but a bit worse now that I get to the point of exhaustion and two small people seem to sense this and then think it's play-time despite the fact that I'm ready to sleep on a washing-line at that point. Result: General ill-temperedness.

What else. Oh, have recently started not-very-good-blog. Have long been rude to internet-people, and have guiltily admitted it through not-very-good-blog. I think about this. The insomnia; that's genuinely a life-long thing. I can't put that on the door of Mad Barman. But this inter-net stuff.

It does seem to coincide. Maybe he's been slowly infecting me with his mento-bots over a long period of time.I think some more. No. I have long been rude to the slightly less-than-deserving throughout my natural life. For example.

Years ago. I am in my place of work. A visiting IT tech that I am more than familiar with sticks his head round the door of me and my staff.

Me: Oh here we fucking go. Fucking Harold Shipman.

IT Tech Guy: What?

Me: You, you cunt. Every time you come here to 'cure' something, the fucker dies the minute you get back in your car.

IT Tech Guy: What?

Me: (noticing his shoes) Shitty shoes, you shitty-shoe bastard.

IT Tech Guy: What?

I then went back to work.

This is not boasting. I say these things before I even realise my mouth is moving. Neither big nor clever, I know.

Sitting in the pub, I look back at this and numerous other exchanges. He was shite at his job. And they were genuinely appalling shoes. The fact that I always say these things to people in a jovial manner and a big smile on my face also means that the whole thing has a veneer of social acceptability. No-one believes that a person can be honest, forthright and not have the patience to mince their words. They just assume you are joking. Which is lucky for me because I'm built like a toothpick.

No, this is O.K. and also proof that I am not Tyler Durden. I start to relax, and light a cigarette with the flourish of a man unaccustomed to being allowed to smoke indoors.

And then.

A man walks in.

More tomorrow. Or whenever.

Another Intermission

Mentals on the way. Very long. Be warned.

In the interim.

What is more annoying?

People who think they're clever, but aren't?

Or people who think they're funny, but aren't?

Don't try this at home

Bloody birds. How they can sound so cheerful at this hour of the day is beyond me.

As a child, I decided that the only way to know for sure was to conduct an experiment. There was something troubling me about my Lego-men. Not the fact that their entire head would come off when you tried to remove their space-helmets - although that was tiresome and probably quite inconvenient for them - but something else.

I retrieve a long length of thread from the old biscuit tin that served as my mam's sewing box, and tie one end securely around space Lego-man's head. And wait.

When the time comes, I retire to the bathroom and perform some rather lengthy ablutions. Before leaving, I drop Lego-man into the Bog of Eternal Stench and, keeping hold of one end of the thread, flush.

The thread spools out in a pleasing Jaws - type manner, and I wait for the foam to settle.

Slowly, carefully, I pull him back out. I dangle him in front of me without touching him. I am astonished.

The little FUCKER is still BLOODY SMILING.

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

Next: Mentals.

Easily Pleased

Have only just been awakened, and looks like it may be the last time tonight.

Massive lie-in until 10.00am this morning. Completely un-interrupted sleep the previous night.

Leisurely stroll hand-in-hand with Favourite Daughter to her morning ballet class. Kiss her goodbye whilst ignored in favour of far more interesting ballet friends.

Saunter *alone* to very good local Italian deli who sometimes put tables out and let you pretend you're in the Sopranos. One cup of bloody excellent coffee, quick scan of the Saturday paper. Just me. Twenty minutes. Proprieter asks after offspring (once a person establishes that you have children, this becomes the sole topic of conversation for the casual acquintance. Which is as things should be). I try and chat. His English is not brilliant, my Italian non-existent. He has such a 'mama-mia' type accent I often wonder if he is actually Italian - he sounds like one of those 'foriegn-type' characters they occasionally wheel-out on Eastenders. On the occassional time I watch it.

Full-pace run along dance-hall - 'Da - deeeee!' - good-byes to all concerned. A walk into town. Hand once so tiny it would only grip my little finger now holding mine like any normal-sized person.

'Firty. Stawbry dink from supermarket then look in chaddy shops.'

The charity shops are great. Shunned them for years. Wherever I lived, whether I was a student, rich or poor. But they're ace. Go into FD's favourite (RSPCA - she thinks the lady with the white hair is a bit weird, but quality of the kit seems to override this).

Immediately notice DEMPSEY & MAKEPEACE THE bloody MOVIE on VHS. How brilliant? That's not the first thing you see when you walk into HMV.

I laugh. First because it's just such a funny thing to even exist. Secondly because I have a younger brother. His girlfriend works in HR, is very level-headed and seems very much in control of her life. He, on the other hand, is no stranger to lap-dancing establishments and will happily spend a mortgage down-payment on an overly-powerful car that he is barely capable of controlling. He is a loose canon.

We often have them over. I refer to them as Dempsey and Makepeace. To my missus. Not to them. I have to explain it. She is much younger than I. 'Oh yes', she says, 'that is funny'. She does not smile.

FD finds nothing she immediately covets, and so we walk home hand-in-hand. Talking non-stop. The sun is shining. Sky blue. Birds singing. She points out all the things you see every day but never really notice. This is nice.

Home. Favourite Son - 'aaaaaaaahh' - impressively deft all-fours run-up and then scooped-up to adult level to plant big-kiss (fortunately he has decided to forego the teeth for now).

Tired Mam has lunch ready. FS devours in about three seconds flat and looks at me as though I'm Next. FD claims to be too tired. I cannot argue, and we snuggle on the sofa. About four pages into the Review section, I notice FD is fast asleep. The sun hits us both, and the repetitive white-noise from the washing-machine is impossible to overcome. We both fall asleep for the next three hours.

As, I'm told, does FS. His 'push-chair' - which is slightly larger than the mini cooper my mam owned when I was his age - has a 'bed' option that allows him to nod-off in the sun-trap of our backyard.

This is the longest, dullest post ever. Suffice to say, Mr & Mrs Tired even had time for a little cuddle (literally), there were murals drawn in chalk in the back yard, the house was full of laughter.

FS and FD in bed at sensible hour. TD and TM watch Don't Look Now for reasons beyond comprehension.

Despite night-terrors, all has been quite tha-neet. Maybe I'll even sleep.

A good day, for no reason. I shall delete all this.

Time Is On my Side

Fixed. Please ignore all previous posts suggesting the ineptitude of the multi-billionaires who are responsible for this rare opportunity to the world at large to spazz out their least interesting thoughts.

I would delete previous entries regarding their lack of support, but they are far too funny in their impotent rage. Goodnight.

For Fucks Sake

I post the previous after getting son (oh, he has asthma now) to sleep, and recieving from daughter the most throat wrenching bear-hug known to man (from her, not me - this isn't that sort of emo blog. Yet) to be informed yet again that I've posted at four in the afternoon.

It's two in the bloody morning and I have a real job. I'm not fucking tapping away because I've run out of wank material and Trisha isn't on yet (I have never seen Trisha, have no idea what it is or when it is on. I have heard people I dislike talk about it).

Donna - you've attempted to offer some advice (and dissappointing lack of insults) - can you get back to me? Or any of the other two-hundred fuckers who drop by each day for no reason I can fathom. At least say hello. Or I'll find the rest of your IP address, and then say that your blog is a bit pants too. Then you'll be sorry.

Bugger.

'Someone' beat me to it. Perhaps we have awakened a sense of mutual wrath in each other. Stuff it. Wasn't the best story anyway. Nor is this.

Swagger

Many years ago, I worked in Media Sales. I know. I became quite important, to the extent that publication editors would buy me drinks - stuff the appreciation of publishers: this was the true watermark of success. Everyone in the empire loved me - credit control, journalists, page-planning, subs ... the lot. Even ad-design, and those fuckers love no-one (three years at university to essentially learn how to use PhotoShop and then get a job where they would utilise one-tenth of that meagre skill only to be talked-down-to by twats like me. For four quid an hour).

Everyone in town new my name. Everyone that mattered. By that I mean motor dealers, estate agents and the owners of divan-, soft-furnishing- and carpet-emporiums. I know.

I work in an office populated by more-than-averagely attractive women. They also love me. My suits are 100% wool (aside from a rather natty linen job I save for the summer to really devastate them with my total amazingness), designer, and cost far in excess of the weekly (and I suspected monthly) salary of the excellent ladies on our reception. My ties are Italian, pure silk. Shirts are Yves Saint Laurant. All-in-all, I wear more than the data-inputter earns in about ten years.

AND BY GOD I SWAGGER.

One morning on the way into work, I stagger out of the taxi that I get into work instead of the bus ( I could get the bus for one hundredth of the cost but when you're SUCH A FUCKING BIG DEAL you don't really like to do these things) I decide to - in an ironic manner - dash into the Somerfields near my place of work to purchase some hilarious things-that-normal-people-eat goods for our morning snack.

Whilst I examine shelves full of Kelloggs cereal bars (whatever the hell they are), some slack-jawed cretin asks me where the bleach is. As if I, who with a single copy-writing error can alter the financial status of one of the regions most highly-regarded restaurants (Tureen of Dick if you must know. It's right next to 'u' on the keyboard, could of happened to anyone. They proofed it) would care one jot about such things.

Then it hit me.

To the casual observer, the Omnipotent Master of all Businesses Within his Publication's Footprint and the Regional Somerfield Store Manager were totally indistinguishable.

As they should very well be. To this day, I have no idea where the tampons are. Or anything else for that matter. Information probably far more important than anything I learnt in advertising sales.

I HAVE NOT SWAGGERED SINCE.

Second Intermission

I doubt anyone is actually interested in the results of my Biffo/Rose critique, but the sheer enormity of the fall-out is making me think that there may be some mileage in insulting 'celebrity' bloggers and cutting-and-pasting the results. Maybe I'll get a book deal!!! For a really pitiful advance!!! And really shitty residuals!!! That no fucker will buy!!! Because why would they; if they're web-literate, they can read it all online. If they're not, then chances are they couldn't give a shit anyway. Brooker, Blyth et al : honestly, have you even sold enough of the things to pay for a Kings Cross tit-wank (not Blyth obviously).

Anyway. Next, whilst I consider my next move: FIGHT!

Don't Be Shy

I am delighted to be recieving any comments at all at this early stage - please don't delete them. Good people of super-Ceefax, please feel free. If anyone thought they were being a bit rude and thought better of it, please do your worst - I am made of sterner stuff than most.

Assuming no-one has gone to the trouble of checking it out themselves, more on the man Biffo very soon. (It's Friday night, give me a break). Suffice to say that I've had many hits from his forums, but quite why this would be I don't know because he's locked that out to all but his best mates as well. Oh dear.

5.42 My Arse

It's two o'clock in the sodding morning, sleep is a distant fantasy and everyone EVERYONE but me is deep in slumber until the minute I put my foot on the first of our flight of stairs and then all hell breaks loose.

I'm the one awake - I have to deal . O.K.

But to be then told that, when I get a spare moment inbetween this to write a rubbish story about my Mam potentially having traces of my semen on her hand, I'm doing all this at the down-time chill-out hour of HALF PAST FUCKING THREE IN THE AFTERNOON OR WHENEVER THE FUCK THEY AND I MEAN THEY RECKON IT ACTUALLY IS WITH THEIR ONLY ONE DOLLAR A YEAR FUCKING SALARY OH REALLY BECAUSE WHEN YOU HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO ACTUALLY FUCKING BUY AFRICA THEN A LITTLE THING LIKE THE TIME IS PROBABLY SOMETHING YOU CAN SNAP UP LATER.

It's either two in the morning and I've several more requests for my company before I am late for work, or it really is five in the afternoon, our hemisphere is affected by some sort of catastrophy so acute it has not only blocked out the sun, but has also knocked PAUL O' GRADY off our screens.

At this late (or early hour) I really don't know what to think.

What Time Is It?

Not in the Flavour Flav sense, but in the pocket calculator-to-Ceefax sense. BIOS is fine, Windows clock O.K. Yet posting time from Blogger is hours out of date.

Hate for anyone to think that my-middle-of-the-night efforts (not those, they've already been spurned one time too many) would be mistaken for late afternoon student-listlessness.

A Story About Wanking

I am fourteen. It is ten past eight in the morning, I am in bed. To recline much longer will result in my being late. However.

I am fourteen.

The Beast of Gristle torments me. To ignore it will result in day-long torment. As a school colleague had recently said with remarkable matter-of-factness, "It's always a shame to waste it".

(I would like to point out that this is not the same colleague who unzipped his flies in the library to show his reading companion the majesty of his adolescence in a fit of miss-placed pride - NONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WERE ME).

I set to work. Must quell the beast. Must cast out its demons. Must do so fairly quickly or shall miss school bus up huge hill and then be be punished by huge banger on end of fork just like at start of comic-book-intro to Grange Hill.

Despite the pressure, am doing quite well.

To interrupt the narrative for a moment, some background is required. We were a comparatively large family in a comparatively small coonsill hoose on a not well-regarded coonsill as-tayte. My unlucky-in-love-and-judgment mother was on her second alcoholic-I-work-hard-eight-hours-a-day-so-if-I-want-to-drink-myself-spastic-for-the-remaining-sixteen-then-I-will husband. Except he'd long since excused himself from the eight hours non-drinking bit as well. Things were grim, but our mother was proud and strong. Working three part-time jobs a week, and single-handedly bringing-up four children, she brought about the time that ended my daily shame, ridicule and embarrassment.

I WAS FINALLY OFF SCHOOL DINNER VOUCHERS.

Oh the voucher. The voucher that entitled you to the most basic meal off the already-basic menu. That entitled you to no pud. That was handed to you at the start of the day, already dog-eared, and that you then had to redeem at the canteen till in view of all your peers. That may as well have been a neon sign reading "My Parents Are Dossers and Pykies" floating above your head. That was FUCKING PINK. It bloody was you know.

But it was gone.

A glorious, unspoken morning bond developed between me and my mam. Just prior to my putting on my coat and leaving the house, she would wordlessly had me my dinner MONEY. I've done this, she would wordlessly say. For you.

He's a wanker, I would wordlessly say. And in this silent moment, we both know it. I love you.

As previously mentioned, I was running a bit late this particular morning.

Mam busts into room. "You're late", she says, oblivious to the fact that at this point I was ironically early. "Here's your bloody dinner money". She was in rush herself for one of her half-dozen jobs.

Faced with the sight of my mother, red-faced and flustered at the final lap of my self-appeasement, my testicles retreated into my stomach and I became limp as a Rich Tea dunked for too long. No mental image of Vanessa Paradis was strong enough to overcome this. I resigned myself to a day of troubled throbbing and got dressed.

Down the stairs to the front hall, where my coat always hung. Whilst reaching for it, Mam emerges from kitchen.

My Mam: Are you sure you're O.K. to go to school today?

Me: ...

My Mam: You don't think you might have a temperature?

Me: ...

My Mam: Only, when I gave you your dinner money just then, your hand felt a bit clammy.

Me: ....................................................................................

A difficult decision. The certainty of a day off schoool without having to intentionally pretend to be unwell, weighed against the immediate need to put as much distance between me and my mother who - I suddenly realised - having given birth to me, must also have a vagina. JUST LIKE VANESSA PARADIS.

I grabbed my coat and ran.

Intermission

I'm knackered, so those of you (ie: me) panting to hear the result of my feeble Paul Rose baiting shall have to wait. However, to say he is a fragile man will be putting it lightly. Hope this whets the appetitite.

The extent of the damage I seem to have inflicted makes one wonder at the power of super-Ceefax. Honestly, they're just words and pictures. If someone wants to send hugely insulting mesages to Tired Dad, I'd be pleased. I am not Tired Dad. Tired Dad is some words.

Language is the medium by which we communicate. Language is also what guarantees that we will always be distant from one another.

Next: A story about wanking.

Chastised

Dear Tired

Thank you for your valuable input on the Scaryduck forums. Keep it up!
Alternatively, if you don't like what you're reading, you might want to go off quietly and do something better.

I haven't got time for customer relations, so...AC

What a gent! No whining other than a general suggestion on the forum that I may be suffering from a mid-life crisis (20 years too soon but he may be right). Hats off to the duck - having suffered an unprovoked attack of some vitriol, he's still alreet.

Quick note on blogging etiquette:

Unlike many in the 'community', I have real friends and am not looking to find any here. If something is pants, it will be noted. I will -probably- not be providing links in the hope that people will link to me and that I can then persue a pretend relationship with such people for the hits. The world is generally selfish, unfriendly and rubbish. I shall not pretend this 'slightly-quicker-than-ceefax-but-no-more-useful' version is any different.

I am anxious, though, that this not turn into a 'well-known-blogger' attack forum.

With that in mind, Mr. Biffo.

The last time (for now) I shall post in this manner.

Can't remember the url of the top of my head, but easy to find I should imagine. Sub-headed 'Bafta-nominated screen writer' or some such. The word 'legend' is mentioned. Fuck me. Brings to mind a twatty 22-year-old trainee recruitment consultant who insists upon having 'BA(Hons)' printed after his name on business cards.

Wouldn't be so bad if he'd written Edge of Darkness or something. My Parents Are Fucking Aliens on CiTV? Not even series originator? On CiTV??

Benefit of the doubt, thinks I. Before reading several posts of such life-sapping banality that I begin to doubt that the gentleman is a professional scribbler at all. Hence the following - inevitably - late-night post on his comments thing:

Tired Dad said...
Could you send me a list of the half-dozen people who may find this interesting? Perhaps - easier for you - could you just save it for when you see them in the pub? And well done for locking comments for non-bloggers. Scaredy cat. Afraid anyone other than your six mates will find you less than fascinating?

Mild by previous standards. But the reaction is inversely spectacular. Find out more soon. Late, I'm tired, favourite son has croup and I will not be sleeping any time soon.

Not what this will be about

But, every now and then, I read the occasional blog.

Sometimes quite late. When I've not had much sleep. And I feel a bit ill-tempered.

One of the many pleasures of the internet is that, unlike television, those that you percieve to have offended you can actually recieve information on the subject. Calling Jeremy Clarkson a twat whilst watching TopGear is a very unsatisfying experience - he can't hear you, and you look like a mental.

Blogs however ...

Very late one evening, I am reading scaryduck. Often banal, but has quite often made snot come out of my nose with mirth (a very hairy nose, according to favourite daughter). The duck is in something of a slump - tedious anecdotes for days on end, topped-off with a hugely self-congratulatory post about the fact that he's managed to get something or other published in the Guardian, and isn't he great.

Good for him, I would normally think. But after four days of no sleep, I fire off a comment. I no longer have any record of it. But it was very rude. And insulting. And contained the phrase 'puffed-up little twat'. I can't find it now - he's deleted the entire post and all comments.

But he replied by email.

Tune in tomorrow for more.