Entirely Innocent People Part 1

I realise that I am actually looking around me for something that could be used as an offensive weapon. This cannot be good.

I am In The Pub. I have a twenty-minute window between underground-mini-train-thing that stinks of piss and poorly maintained bus that stinks of unwashed-humanity in general. Of course, the sensible thing for me to do is spend this time in a hideous bar full of buffoons braying about the ‘big accounts they will land next week’ (it’s always next week) and that stinks of fag smoke, booze and a barely-disguised sense of worthlessness.

But not these two. They are in a world of their own. There seems to be a halo of innocence and hope around them.

Young. Early twenties, quite well turned out. My God, they only have eyes for each other these two. The rest of the world need not exist, because this boy and this girl are drowning in The Wonder of Each Other. It’s So Amazing, their wide eyes seem to be saying to each other. We even think the same.

They giggle now and then and when they do, they do that not-really-innocuous-it-doesn’t-really-mean-anything touching. You know, briefly touching a forearm in an oh-stop-you-are-so-funny manner. Or letting your hand fall onto someone else’s ‘accidentally’ and pretending to be a bit embarrassed about it.

Christ.

But I can’t look away.

She asks him something. He makes a face.

She then gives him that up-from-under sad girl face. Her mouth even does that upside-down smile thing. Oooh. I only a ickle gurl.

He sighs, and with mock-weariness begins trudging to the bar, shaking his head as if to say ‘oh the things I do’.

When he’s out of sight, she allows herself a small contented smile. Whatever it was, she didn’t really want it. She wanted to see if he would get it for her.

He comes back. The conquering hero. Look. I have done a THING for you. You must remember this. Me being so great and cool and that.

He thinks to himself, We both know this is a bullshit ritual, but perhaps I may have a chance of touching her lady-parts.

She thinks to herself, Dear God, what a sap. Oh. But he did go and do it. Maybe I’ll ask my friends what they think. I wonder if he has a weird cock?

I’m still looking around. There are no spare housebricks. The ashtrays are of that flimsy tin variety designed to do no physical harm.

I finish my drink and leave.

Haircuuuut.

Jesus, I think. What have I done to offend this bastard?

I am at the barbers. The Barbers, mind. Not the hairdressers.

It has been a long time coming, in two ways.

The first: I will leave it and leave it until at least three people during one single day will inform me that I look like ‘a twat’. This is because I look in the mirror once each day, mainly just to check that everything is where it should be, and sometimes to shave. Latterly, I do not look at the hair on my head.

The second: I have made a decision to have my hair cut, and am lurking outside my usual barbers, pretending to be walking past it in an unconcerned manner. It is heaving. It is one of those no-nonsense-wait-on-the-bench-no-appointment establishments. The bench has been full each time I walk past. I have walked past every 15 minutes for an hour and a half now. Of course, each time I walk away, a space at the bench becomes free and I miss it.

It occurs to me that my behaviour is verging on the OCD, so I make the brave decision to go to the Barbers (not Hairdressers mind) Round the Corner that I Have Never Been To Before.

This is a big step.

I don’t like being touched. Generally. There are situations in which it can be the best thing ever, but to my mind these situations do not take place in commercial premises. My own mother is given to hugging me on occasion; frankly, I rather wish she would not. To have people I do not know touching me in a semi-intimate manner (and let us not ignore the whiff of perfume and tit-in-the-face that usually have to be tolerated during the haircut experience) is one thing. To have it happen in a Barber Shop (not a Hairdressers mind) that I am also quite unfamiliar with is another matter.

I step inside, with the confident manner of someone who is not a bit weird about strange people touching them.

There is a space on the bench. I take it, despite the fact that a moment’s lack of concentration and thence relaxation of muscles will result in my touching thighs with the person sat next to me.

I wait my turn. Grinding my teeth. I expect the usual. Going anywhere nice on your holidays? No. I’m of to Greece next week. Amazing. Day off work is it? No, I’m actually at work and you are dreaming. Ooooh, we had a lad in here with terrible nits. Get fucking off me now.

It is my turn. I step up to the chair. A Swarthy Guy with obvious upper-body strength and an awful lot of body hair wordlessly motions me to sit.

He slings one of those black-sheet things around me.

Swarthy Guy: Whaddya wan?
Me: Shorter.

He shrugs in a contemptuous manner and grabs a pair of clippers. Having exhausted all of my best lines, I fall silent and take my usual stance of staring at a random section of wall and trying to disassociate myself from the whole experience.

He begins JABBING at the side of my head with the clippers. Like he has seen something there that has annoyed him.

It fucking hurts. And he is wasting no time either. JAB JAB JAB JAB.

Looking back, I do not remember the buzzing sound these devices usually make. I suspect he had not even turned them on, and was relying on brute force and friction to remove hair from my head. Who needs electricity?

He gets to a point where he seems satisfied with this section of my head. At which point I would expect to feel a number of gentle fingers on the back of my head along with some murmured instruction.

Not this good man.

He SHOVES a big meaty Mediterranean FIST under my chin and forcefully JERKS my head to his desired position.

And begins STABBING my head with his clippers. He finishes, and then with heel of his palm, SLAPS the back of my head so my chin near touches my chest, and sets to work STABBING the back of my head.

He shoves his FIST under my chin, jerks my head upright and grabs a random pair of scissors. There is usually some discussion regarding what should be done at this point. He delves right in without a word. I notice my heart rate is not exactly at ‘resting’. I drag my eyes away from their usual space of disassociation and look at his face. He does not look friendly. I look away. He has access to sharp things, is standing, and I am sat with my arms under a sheet.

He JABS at my hair for some time, repeating the fist-chin-thing as he sees fit.

This entire process has been wordless.

He steps back, and wordlessly looks in the mirror. I consider this ordeal near an end.

From NOWHERE he produces a CUTTHROAT RAZOR. I was not aware they even existed anymore.

He flicks it open, and twirls it in a manner reminiscent of Mexican villains in old B-movies (they were always Mexican). More of the fist-chin stuff whilst he tackles the nape of my neck and the side of my hairline. A new technique, and one I did not welcome. Perhaps would have been better if the razor had been sharpened this century, and something resembling soap/foam had been employed. It also hurt, is my point.
He whips the sheet-thing off. At this point, there is usually some nonsense with an additional mirror, some blow-dryer action to get rid of the loose hairs, or sometimes some rather inappropriate action with a soft brush and some talcum powder.

Again, not this man.

He tosses a single man-size tissue in my general direction. Very much with the air of somebody who would think me to be the ‘queer’ they had barely disguised their suspicion of my being should I decide to use it.

He tells me the price, and gives me a look that suggests I would be unwise to barter at this stage.

Less than ten minutes after first sitting in the chair, I am on the street.

I see my reflection in a shop window. I look Alright.

I shall probably use him again.


NEXT: Some entirely innocent people going about their blameless daily lives make me so cross I consider 'doing time for them'.

Is He Still Shouting It?

Pants, I think to myself.

I use one of those underground-railway-type things to get from the very glamorous trading estate that is home to my office building to the centre of the city - the part that is populated by real people.

As I get to my tube station platform my mini-underground-train-thing-that-doesn’t-to-my-knowledge-have-a-proper-name departs seconds before I arrive.

Pants.

No matter. They are very good. Only a couple of minutes waiting time normally. And it’s not so bad. This is one of the stations that aren’t actually underground. So. You know. That’s a bonus. I suppose.

There is a fellow staring intently into one of the rubbish bins that are strangely allowed on our city’s tube stations despite the fact that they vanished from real train stations in 1978 so the IRA could not put bombs in them. That scuppered them. I understand that the al-qaeda are also a bit stuck for ideas as a result. Don’t tell them about our underground for Christ’s sake.

This fellow then emits a long trail of saliva into said bin and stares at that intently. He is about 45, wearing a shell-suit (A SHELL SUIT) that does not reach his ankles and appears to be slightly cross-eyed.

Oh No, I think. It is a Mental.

I adopt Mental Alert standard procedure and pretend not to notice him and think to myself Do Not Look Him In The Eye.

I look at the timetable board. I have a few minutes. Hmm. Perhaps a cigarette.

As I take the packet from my pocket he begins RUNNING directly at me, skidding to a halt less than one foot in front of me in a Wyle E Coyote manner.

Mental Bloke: [Very excitable] How. Gie ayes one a theyme.

Me: [Calm] No.

MB: What?

Me: No.

MB: [Forcefully] Gie ayes one a theym. Please.

Me: No.

MB: [Looking quite perplexed at the injustice of it all] I sayed please.

Me: And I said no.

At this point he takes a step toward me.

(The rank amateur would feel this invasion of space and instinctively take a step back to retain their comfort zone. THIS IS A SCHOOLBOY ERROR. Never step back. They’ve got you on the fucking ropes then.)

I too step forward. He blinks. It slowly dawns on me that I am squaring-up to an obvious mental at a tube station. Perhaps not one of my more considered moves.

MB: [Actually very aggressive now, and still pursuing his God-given right to cigarettes from strangers] I’m in the middle of nowhere here.

He is not.

Me: That’s neither my concern nor responsibility.

The combination of foolishly aggressive body-language and use of words unique to non-mental people is successful.

He steps back.

MB: Aye well. [With menace] I’ll see you LATER.

Heads toward the stairs out of the station. On his way, he looks over his shoulder and delivers what would be his parting shot.

MB: If you’re lucky.

I take a drag on my cigarette. MB’s pace slows a little.

He is obviously mulling-over the impact of his parting shot and the relative logic thereof. I get the feeling he does not think it was as strong as it could have been.

MB reaches the stairs, and also some sort of decision.

He turns, and looks me right in the eye. He takes a very deep breath. And opens his mouth.

MB: CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNT!

It goes on for about 10 seconds. It is actually rather impressive.

He walks up the stairs and vanishes. I consider the incident closed. A moment later I hear a disembodied voice:

CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNT!

I smoke some more of my cigarette. Several minutes pass. The tracks start to hum, indicating the arrival of my mini-train-underground-thing.

From far off, like the lament of a lost love, carried on the breeze, I hear:

Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnt.

I am now properly pissing myself laughing. Stood on my own.

There are many people on the platform that did not witness the earlier exchange.

They pretend not to notice me. They make a point of not looking me in the eye.

Not Really a Tale From the Pub

Not really because on this occasion I am not sat on my own, staring intensely at the wall and brooding about things that will never have a happy ending.

I am In The Pub.

More accurately The Pub garden. The sun is shining. I can see the river from where I sit.

Unusually, I am surrounded by people. People I know fairly well. And actually quite like.

This is a strange situation for me. It is the middle of the day.

I have been laughing. Not something normally worthy of comment, but it has been some time. Proper laughing mind. The aching-ribs variety. The totally infectious sort. That continues for far longer than it should purely because of the very fact that several people are uncontrollably laughing for no reason anyone can remember.

Pub garden. River. Woodland very close.

Suddenly a Vauxhall Cavalier screams to a halt. We stare. It is not a place where 'The Sweeney' -style driving is expected.

All three occupants are well muscled, heavily tattooed, are wearing vests, and have expressions that suggest it would not be wise to meet their gaze.

Immediately upon the car stopping, two of the occupants leap out and run into the woods.

We look at each other for a bit.

Less than one minute later, both occupants emerge from the woods. Running. Each holding one handle of a wheel-barrow. As they approach, the driver pops the boot.

We are rather surprised by the sight of a wheelbarrow at this stage.

They reach the car, and from the wheelbarrow begin dragging four rather heavy (judging by the grunting) plastic bags - all of which make an alarming clanking noise - from the wheelbarrow into the boot of the car.

The two gentlemen then leap into the car. None of them says 'Go go go' but they really didn't have to.

A squeal of tyres, gravel and gears and they are gone.

There is a short silence.

I light a cigarette.

Someone scratches their ear.

After a while someone else says:

'That was a bit odd'

There is a general murmur of concurrence.

I Hate

FUCKING swaggering, cock-brained cuntlicker twenty-four year olds with their fucking stupid 'did-your-Mam-cut-it' hair that probably cost about forty quid to look as shit as it does, twatting on constantly about 'their' music.

Constantly polluting the office with their unreasonably loud phone calls to their 'mates' (ie: people who wish they'd never given them their number) YEAH YEAH MAN CAN I LEND YOUR CAMCORDER. YEAH. YEAH. WANT TO UPLOAD THE GIG ONTO MYSPACE. YEAH MAN. GET OUT THERE. SHOW EM OW ITS DONE. YEAH MAN. NAH MAN. X FACTOR. FUCK OFF. DO IT PROPER. DO IT THE HARD WAY YEAH. CREDIBILITY YEAH.

Please please please die very soon you dreadful dreadful FUCKTARD. This is an advertising sales office. Do you understand? It is not an indie record company. Your 'credibility' could not be lower whilst you work here. Stop playing mp3's of your shit band through your pc speakers - THAT YOU BRING IN SPECIALLY - without comment in the mistaken belief that someone will spontaneously say 'Blimey old chap, that sounds rather spiffing. Pray tell, what enormous talent has produced that?'.

Cunt.

And have a fucking shave. You're at work.

Tales From the Pub # I Lose Track Now.

I am In the Pub.

Sat at the bar on this occasion. Me at one end, Old Guy at the End Of the Bar at the other.

I am sipping my drink, staring into space, wishing everything was different but knowing it won't be.

A girl, eighteen if she's a day, comes up to order a drink.

Tall, dark, fuck-off look about her. I've seen her a few times. She has one of those fantastic faces. Could so easily be ugly, could so easily be beautiful. And just wavers in between. Brilliant. Massive knockers, tiny waist. I say this totally impartially of course, having been ruined for all other women. But I'm not blind. Anyway, she reminds me of someone.

Old Guy fancies himself this evening. He leans over.

Old Guy: Y'naw hen, ye've got a body off of BayWatch.

Girl: Mmmm.

She is clearly less-than-bowled-over by the amorous attentions of a man at least five times her age, who is visibly pissed, and appears to have the bulk of his Sunday lunch down his shirt front.

Old Guy is a bit narked about the fact that this young lady has not immediately swooned at his best line. I wait with baited breath. My God, I think, any second now he is going to call her a lesbian.

I am wrong.

Old Guy: Aye. And a face off of bliddy CrimeWatch.

Superb!

Girl: [without any obvious malice or anger] Oh fuck off will you.

I finish my drink and leave.

Tales From the Pub # 4

I am In The Pub.

It is very late, close to closing. They all come in.

It is a grim pub. But to these late-comers it is the fucking Groucho.

Fifties. Short. As wide as tall. Suit (probably the only one they own). White hair. Chests like barrels, bellys like water-bombs. Sometimes a tie. To be quickly loosened to reveal an awful lot of gold. Not Elizabeth Duke mind. Worse. Tacky before tacky was acceptable. Not that it is.

Appear to have a slightly more glamourous version of John Prescott’s wife on their arm. Proudly.

Orange. ‘Oh we’ve been abroad’. You haven’t. Dressed the way a fourty-year-old would if they were trying to be ‘with it’. But they’re not fourty. And even the fourty-year-olds get it wrong.

Whatever.

I think nothing of these people. They are horrible men, who have worked hard their whole lives to reach this nirvana. I know they are happy with it. Their horrible wives are also probably happy with their pretend glamour. A late Saturday night drink in a shit pub with dubious opening-hours to be ignored by their husbands after they have spent two hours getting-themselves-up like a nineteen-year-old-popstar that no-one will hear of two weeks from now. And looking FUCKING RIDICULOUS.

I ignore this.

I think about, you know, my life and that. I do not advise anyone to do this. The conclusions are never good. Especially in a place where access to booze is very easy.

But I think anyway. It becomes actually quite unpleasant so I stop. Just like that. I can do it. It is one of my few skills. I can turn the ‘normal’ (ie :you know, feelings and that) stuff off like a switch.

Bottles of what indeed? The security services have ground the country to a halt. On the basis of providing me with another excuse for a shitty story from God knows how long ago that isn’t even very good but that MAKES SENSE NOW.

I finish my drink and leave.

Tales From the Pub # 3

I Am In The Pub

It is at least eleven years ago.

On this occasion, I am actually behind the bar. I am talking to Garry The Mental.

Garry The Mental is very drunk. I am not worried.

[As any good barman will know, there are drunks to worry about, and drunks to not. Garry The Mental was not. The drunks to worry about are not such a big deal. If they get out of hand, you remove them, and they are so drunk by this stage that removing them is not difficult because they are so appallingly drunk that even if they did lash out they would miss. You grab them by their upper arm near the shoulder and dig your fingers in. It would hurt like fuck to a sober man. A proper drunkard merely gets the message. You then steer them out the door. If they kick-off before this, you slip your arms under their armpits and lace your fingers behind their neck. There is not a lot they can do at this point. I have had to do both on more than one occasion and it scared the shit out of me each time.]

GTM: Don’t tell anyone. [Looks around, as if he could see anything] I was in the SAS.

Me: Oh

GTM: I could jump out of your fridge at any time. Like Kato in the Pink Panther.

Me: I’ll look out for that. Would it be O.K. if I ask you to finish up now? Lot of clearing up to do and I’ve got to open up in the morning.

GTM: Yeah. You’re O.K. I’ll keep an eye out for you.

I had a look in my fridge that night just to be sure.

Several days later I am In The Pub with Sad Sack.

I do rather like Sad Sack. One of those men for whom life has just – well – he just hasn’t had one. And he doesn’t seem to mind too much.

And has the best record collection of anyone aside from John Peel.

I relate the Garry The Mental story. Sad Sack stiffens.

Sad Sack: I don’t like that.

Me: [jovial] I wasn’t too happy myself

Sad Sack: You know what I do for a living.

To explain. We lived in a fairly small city. It was unremarkable, but I liked it. It was a stones-throw away from the permanent base of the SAS. It wasn’t too far away from GCHQ. On the outskirts of the city, must of the work was from defence contractors, most of whom did work – indirectly – for the MOD.

Me: Erm. You work for a software design house?

SS: DO YOU THINK THAT? WHO KNOWS WHAT MY ALGORHYRIMS ARE BEEN USED FOR?? GARY THE MENTAL COULD BE A PLANT!! HE’S PROBABLY MI6!! HE'S USING YOU TO CHECK ME! I’VE SEEN CARS I DON’T RECOGNIZE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE! AND NOW YOU’VE SET GARRY THE MENTAL AND OBVIOUSLY MI5 ON ME!!! SHIT. SHIT!

Sad Sack called me the next morning and apologised. It was 1995.

I am fucking glad I do not frequent any pubs in that town now.

I finished my drink and left.

Tales From the Pub # 2

I am In The Pub.

For a change, it is not one of my frankly rather grim Local Pubs.

I am in the city. Down by the river. Late afternoon-ish. The courtyard of a slightly-swanky-but-not-unbearably-so bar.

I sip my drink. The sun hits my face and for a second –just a second mind you- I get one of those heart-surging ‘hey, everything might be O.K.’ type feelings.

They never last longer than a second.

The other side of the courtyard. A Guy and his Girl sit. They are rather well turned-out, as befits their surroundings.

The Guy takes a Device from his pocket and starts tinkering. Being a man myself, I am rather intrigued. It is, after all, a Device.

I peer at this thing. Is it a GameBoy of some sort? I keep peering. No. They don’t come in purple.

My goodness! It is one of those Blackberry-things! How exciting/annoying.

Let me make myself clear. I think that unless you are an on-call brain surgeon or something, there is no sensible reason why a person would NEED a MOBILE PHONE. They are, without doubt, RIDICULOUS devices.

If I feel the need to speak to somebody badly enough, I will make arrangements to be in the SAME ROOM as them. If it’s not that important, it can WAIT.

Imagine my feelings regarding mobile email-sendy-type things.

I stare at the Guy, fascinated to see what sort of individual would possess such a Device. He looks around, checks to see if anyone notices he is holding this mind-boggling piece of technology (I avert my eyes) and starts tapping away.

After a moment, the Girl whips her mobile phone from her purse and starts tapping in a similar manner.

The sound of fake nails on keypad is not pleasant.

I marvel at these two. They have made the decision to go to a place together. Have ‘got ready’. Have chosen a venue. Have come here. And now sit, hip-to-hip, not speaking to each other, sending presumably very stupid messages to people miles away.

I am aghast.

The Girl’s phone makes a beep-beep noise. She reads, giggles, nudges the Guy and then begins furious clacking of acrylic nails.

The Guy’s purple thing makes a noise, he reads, giggles, nudges, and starts clacking.

It dawns on me.

THEY ARE FUCKING EMAILING EACH OTHER!

My head promptly explodes and my soon-to-be dead body starts whirling around the place like the android on Alien, smashing glasses and kicking tables high into the air.

Or not.

I finish my drink and leave.

Tales From the Pub # 1

For reasons best known to myself, I have been spending more time than is probably healthy In The Pub.

I am sipping a drink. Staring out the window across the valley. Grateful of the opportunity to be Not Thinking for a while.

Across the bar from me are three men.

You know the type. They were probably born in The Pub. Fifties probably. As broad as they are tall. Too many shirt buttons undone. No neck (Darwinian – that beer has to reach the stomach VERY quickly). Bald. Red face.

Pub Man1: Had one of theym fuckin’ phone calls last neet. [Adopts Jim Davison-style Asian accent] ‘Hello my name is Nigel. Could I speak to the person who deals with your utilities?’

PM2: Awwww. Haway.

PM1: Ah naw. Telt him to fuck off.

PM3: They’re not really called Nigel ya naw. Bah. Get paid a few foosand a yar and they want to fuckin’ BE us.

PM2: Sleepin’ giant.

PM3: Eh?

PM1: [He is obviously the ringleader and voice of authority] Sleeping Dragon he means.

PM3: Oh.

PM2 remains silent, clearly embarrassed about his lack of knowledge regarding world affairs.

PM1: [Warming to his subject] Aye. China like. We’ve given them a taste. Mistake. They’ll want the lot soon. [Drags on cigarette] Aye. They’ll tek us ower. Ya naw [leans forward in a conspiratorial manner] if all the Pakis in China jumped up and doon at the same time………THE BERLIN WALL WOULD FALL DOON!

His companions nod sagely at this astonishing piece of information.

I struggle to pop my eyes back into their sockets. And prevent my brain from doing cart-wheels and escaping through my ears.

I stub out my half-smoked cigarette.

Pub Man begins explaining to his companions that ‘the blacks’ are destroying this town’s economy and that he suspects ‘the Italians’ are involved.

Or ‘the Poles’. I forget which. I was in a hurry to be somewhere else.

I finish my drink and leave.

Top Ten Appalling Blog Cliches

Don’t feel the need to thank me.

1. Sitemeter. Wow. I just checked my stats and some people have typed really weird things into Google and have come here. Really? Honestly? Goodness. Is the world a big place with some odd people in it? Amazing.

2. Public transport1. Those kids (I am in my twenties) with their mp3 players. Faintly annoying background noise. Really? Tell us more.

3. Public transport2. Never mind that. What about the kids (I am in my thrirties) who play their mp3s through the ‘speaker’ function of their mobile phones. Grr. That is astonishingly interesting.


4. Blog posts about the nature of blogging. Could your head be any further up your arse? Could it?

5. People at work. They’re a bit funny and that. Goodness. Have you just watched your DVD of The Office?


6. BBC Radio Nowhere has mentioned your blog. Here is 2000 words on the subject. Honestly. Could it be any further?

7. Links to funny things. Thanks for that. And glad to see that you are funny also.


8. Photos of skylines. Very interesting. Why not write a post titled ‘I Have a Digital Camera And Am About To Spunk-Up with Excitement’?

9. Taking a sabbatical for personal shit. What are you? Some sort of fucking baby? Oh boo-fucking-hoo. And post about it as well. Write your blog or don’t write it. Don’t wank on about whether-or-not you’re going to write it so you can then tug yourself off to all the ladies who offer emails of concern.


10. Top ten lists of Appalling Blog Cliches.


With apologies to the rather excellent DatingMonkey (or whatever she calls herself this week. Having two blogs is so 2005) who pointed-out to me some time ago when I discussed this post with her (YES! I actually correspond with people that are quite good at writing!) that publishing such a list would be an Appalling Cliché in itself.

Ahh. But do you see what I’ve done?

I’ve actually included it in the list itself. Hence, via the power of being-an-unbearable-smart-arse, have cancelled-out all the negative aspects of such an enterprise.

Haha. It’s ace being clever. I can explain Post-Structuralism to you if you like.

Oh. Hang on. It’s still a list isn’t it? Lists are shit. And rather clichéd. Shit. Shit.

I score a 7/10.

The Best Bloody Marys in the World

Were mixed by the proprietor of our favourite Chinese restaurant.

We would be seated instantly. Have several waiters make a fuss over us but in a not-too-fussy way. The food was always ALWAYS excellent.

This is not a small thing. I can cook. Quite well in fact. My ratio of quality regarding meals I have eaten out compared with meals I have eaten at home cooked by my own fair hand is not a good one.

Suffice to say, I usually come out on top.

I’m not a snob this way. I love a McDonalds. (Sorry). I do not believe there is a meal in the world that cannot be improved by putting a fried egg on top of it. A fish supper of a Friday does not bother me (has to be Friday mind. Old Catholic hang-up. Have they abolished the meat on Friday thing? I lose track)

It’s just. You know. The menu says ‘Penne pasta with a rich tomato and basil sauce generously topped with Parmesan.’

That is not a difficult meal.

You are presented with some re-heated pasta (one of the many things on God’s earth that cannot be reheated) topped with some Ragu (the bottle sauce and not the Italian recipe) with a liberal shaking of that stuff that comes in white pots that smells of vomit that they have long since given up even calling Parmesan any more.

You feel a bit let down. A bit.

This place though. Excellent service. Top notch food. I can cook a Chinese meal if pressed. On one occasion dining partner actually said ‘How do you make it so Chinese?’.

I am happy eating here. We sit down.

Owner/Manager type who always deals with us, settles us in and asks about everyone we know (don’t ask me how he knew) then says ‘Anything to drink?’

I order a Bloody Mary.

No. He says.

What?

I am RUBBISH at making them, and would rather not upset.

NOW THAT IS ONE OF THE BEST BLOODY MARYS YOU WILL NEVER DRINK.

I would have that answer a million times instead of a shit drink. I would have a McDonalds anytime over a menu that promised something the chef could not deliver.


One wonders why fast-food and carbonated piss-water dominates.

Because they do what they say.

Shit.

Grumpy old man.

Anyway.

Bit of a hiatus. For now. Or forever.

I don't really know yet.

Rather unpleasant things at home.

As a result: feeling neither whimsical nor irrationally angry.

The above post is something I found that I hadn't even realised I'd written (must sleep better - had dreamt I had written it) so make the most.

And no. Fuck off. This isn't that sort of blog.

Technical Support

The phone rings. Being at a loose end, I pick it up.

Me: Support

Blustery Fellow: Now. Then. What has happened?

I should be used to this. I am not. I look at the wall for a second.

BF: Hello?

Me. Support. How can I help?

BF: Well the bally DVD's broken isn't it? Don't you know?

I rub my eyes. I've not had much sleep of late.

Me: I am assuming you mean the DVD drive of your computer? And not your DVD player.

It's best to be on the safe side. You'd be surprised.

BF: Well bloody obviously. Don't you know? You bloody supplied it.

Me: I don't believe it was me personally sir but I will attempt-

BF: THE WHOLE BALLY SYSTEM'S DOWN. BECAUSE OF THIS BALLY DVD!

This does happen. When attempting to open say, My Computer, your PC will briefly flash all drives associated. If one is malfunctioning - your dvd drive for example - the whole system can lock.

I feel I am Getting Somewhere.

Me: Previous to this have you had any video playback problems? Or has it been problematic reading any kind of data, either from cd or dvd?

I'm thinking about a firmware upgrade.

BF: What the hell are you blithering about man?

Me: *SIGH* O.K. Lets go back a bit. When you say the whole system has gone down, what EXACTLEY do you mean? Do you get a blue screen? Does it just lock? Does it restart?

BF: My Christ young man, I have NO IDEA what you are talking about. I just want the DVD to start working so I get the BBC page.

I notice I have been clenching and un-clenching my right fist for some time.

Me: Sir. Are you having trouble accessing the internet?

BF: WHAT HAVE I JUST BEEN TELLING YOU?

Me: Mmmmm. When you say DVD, are you referring to a box between your PC and phone line? What we would call a router?

BF: How in jerry would I know. Good God, what do I pay you people for?

Me: Let's try resetting it.

BF: Settling WHAT?

Me: Sorry. Just turning it of for about five seconds or so.

[pause]

BF: Right. It's off. The screen's black.

Me: You've turned of your PC?

BF: YES. I want the SYSTEM to work. That's what we are trying to do. That's what you said.

Me: Could you turn it all back on again please?

BF: Again? You've only just told me to turn it off. You don't sound very knowledgable young man.

[Pause]

BF: Right. What this time?

Me: The router. A box between your phone line and, erm PC [cough]system could you just turn that off. Just the small box.

BF: Where is the switch?

Me: I'm not sure. Do you know the exact manu- forget it. Just pull out the power cable.

BF: Which-

Me: IT IS THE FU- it has a black cord. The end of it will be cylindrical as opposed to oblong or square. It will not be transparent.

BF: Right. Now what.

Me: Put it back in.

BF: Do you KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING YOUNG MAN? I'VE ONLY JUST TAKEN IT OUT?!

[Some fumbling sounds]

BF: Right. Now what.

Me: Why don't we try again. Open Internet Explorer.

BF: WHAT?

Me: It's a big blue 'e'

BF: You needn't talk down to me young man.

[Pause]

BF: Doesn't matter. It seems to have sorted itself out. Waste of time this has been. Good day.


Average week: repeat by one hundred.


Worst one:

Phone rings.

Me: Support.

Random Person: I seem to have a bit of trouble with my anti-virus software...

Me: Oh? What do you use?

RP: Norton-

Me: AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!" IT'S FUCKING SHIT THAT'S FUCKING WHY!!!


Average per week: about a fucking million.


I do not do this for a living any more.

I Am a Stone Cold Killer

Don't get too excited. Not of actual people.

Christ. I'd be up before the Hague.

But of suburban-dwelling animals.

I have felled more of those fuckers than I care to admit, and never once actually made the effort.. It just happened. On my KillBoard are one badger, one cat and four of our feathered friends.

I didn't even try. There they were, dead. In very close proximity to me. Perhaps it was not me. But no. The statistics speak for themselves.

Number of corpses of suburban-dwelling creatures I have had to dispose of before becoming a father: 0.

Number of corpses of suburban-dwelling creatures I have had to dispose of SINCE becoming a father: 6.

You CANNOT argue with numbers like that. Have children=death around you. It's like a non-Disney circle of life.

The cat was not the best. The birds=bin. They are small. They fit on shovels. Badger=not my problem. There is a special LAW ABOUT BADGERS. Some MEN came and sorted it. Looked at me a bit suspicious like. They have nothing on me. I front it.

But the cat.

Saturday morning. I leave the house to buy eggs and quality newspaper. I enjoy the fact that I insist upon a breakfast of dippy-eggs-and-soldiers whilst reading a not-very-good broadsheet newspaper.

I am stopped in my tracks. It appears to be a very pleasant cat. Bit cheeky, mind. Just kipping on my front lawn like he owned it.. With his eyes open. Staring at some spot well beyond the front wall of my house. Who is in fact dead. And not very cheeky at all.

I continue to buy my breakfast provisions (I am a man of routine) and think some more about this.

Whilst the cat (a very BIG cat I might add) has obviously done this to annoy me, the point at which he could have enjoyed the results of this prank have long since been and gone.

I do what any other brave man would do.

I take myself, Tired Mam and toddler Favourite Daughter out for the day. And most of the evening.

Upon our return at the dead of night, against all expectations, the cat is still there. And is still dead.

I had convinced myself that it would have got better and gone away.

We get FD to bed and consider the situation.

I discovered it on Saturday morning. It was not there quite late Friday night. It is now Saturday evening.

The 24-hour-this-is-now-no-longer-a-dead-animal-but-is-in-fact-an-epidemic-of-maggots-and-other-stuff-that-will-cause-a-dead-animal-to-move-like-it-was-alive moment is not far off.

It is Saturday night. It is dark. Whilst I ready myself with gloves and bin-liners, I thinks of all the fun things I have done in the dark of a Saturday night. On occassion a lady has been involved.

Rigour Mortis. Just words, until you have to deal with it. The fucker might as well been made out of clay. I snap his tail to get the thing into the bin liner.

A fifteen-minute walk to the canal.

*BANG* I forget for a second what I have in the bag.

*Bang* IT keeps clunking upon my leg. Every time I relax my grip, the bin-liner bangs my legs reminding me of its cargo It is a long walk.

Heave-ho.

I get home. Naked as soon as. Clothes into machine. Bath.

Congrats at huge manly dealing-with capabilities non-forthcoming as my Dr.Crippin-style body disposal has taken place at the dead of night. Everyone is asleep.

Some sleep. Not much. Usual.

Monday.

Work. How was your weekend Tired?

I'll tell you.

Gareth: No! Why didn't you call the RSPCA of something?

Me: What?

Gareth: They do that sort of thing.

Me: Do you think the Royal Society of the Prevention of Cruelty of Animals would have prevented actual DEATH and ACTUALLY turned back time like Doc off of Back to the Future?

Gareth: You could have at least tried.

I am lost for words.

I get on with my job. Late that same afternoon, I recieve a call from Tired Mam.

TM: Erm. A little boy- he couldn't even be ten - has just walked up our garden and posted a flyer through our door -

Me: Oh no

TM: 'I love my little Mickey. I want him back so. Has anyone seen him??' That is what it says. Contact numbers and that.

Me: [Fronting it] Well tell him, 'mystery fucking over! I know exactly where he is! Because I hoyed him into the bottom of the canal last night!'

TM: [Silence]

Me: Right [Suddendley realising I may still have some sort of upper-hand because I am AT WORK] I'll talk to you later.

I hang up. I think for a bit.

Sales Director comes in. He hears the story. It is a favourite of the day.

Sales Director: Your are a sick heartless fuck Tired.

That is a lot coming from him.

I get home. I kiss my daughter.

And then I make the PHONE CALL.

I have the number. And I have several years of watching E.R. I know how to break bad news.

RING

Unkown Woman: Hello?

Me:[Sombre tone] Hi. It's about Mickey [Notice I do not say the 'cat']. I'm afraid it is not good news. [See what I've done? Dashed hopes from second one but still being a gentleman.]

Me: He was found [do you see? not I found him or We found him but 'he was found'] not far from our front door. Obviously, we have a toddler so we had to make arrangements. I am so dreadfully sorry.

UW: Goodness. I am so glad you called, that is all. Any evidence of obvious injury?

Me: If there were I would be fucking telling....erm no. Odd thing, actually. Looked like Mickey had found himself a good patch and just caught himself some sleep. I'm so sorry.

UW: Well, at least we know. What did you do? Did you get the council out?

Me: Erm. Yes. That is what I did.

It's Been Bothering Me For Months

Sandwich/Coffee Shoppe.

(Oh yes. Shoppe. It was THAT sort of town).

I am on my lunch break. I require FOOD NOW.

The Woman In Front Of Me Standing In The Way Of My BLT says:

Can I have a black coffee.........................................................With milk.

Nobody kills her.

Somebody fills her (it is now hers) little cardboard cup with coffee, seals it, and then, after her just-long-enough-pause-for-her-drink-to-make-its-way-to-the-counter-exactly-as-ordered and then requires poor-sod coffee-person to swap-it-mid-service-and-put-her-precious-milk-in-it.

I am hungry and cross.

I order my usual BLT but without the lettuce and tomato.

You know. For a joke. To show a bit of solidarity against the awful Black Coffee.....With Milk Woman.

They do not get it. They look at me like I was odd.


Next: Oh I know. I promise.

Taking the Piss

Tired Mam believes there is some sort of conspiracy of silence surrounding young first-time mothers-to-be.

If there were not, the species would never propagate itself.

No young mother-to-be is told of the appalling mood swings. The violent rages against the entirely innocent. The irrationality. The sheer fucking unbelievableness of all the astounding things their bodies start to do, all of which are just fucking WEIRD beyond description. The likes of which would make any man go insane. I mean, we take a good few weeks to get over the horror of spunking-up for the first time. Now THAT is traumatic.

And the most dreadful indignity, agony and general expulsion of various things that are hard to fathom. Imagine pulling an Action Man out of your Japs eye. Followed by half a pound of liver. Proceeded by a lot of snot-type stuff, some blood and an awful lot of fish-water.

I have to agree with Tired Mam. If this were made clear from the outset, the abortion rate would be through the roof, no-one would have children anymore, the population would drop and we could afford to buy a house.

Young first-time Fathers-to-be are another matter.

We are informed in advance that EVERYTHING is our fucking fault. And to take it on the chin for nine months. And then the rest of your life.

But there is a conspiracy of silence regarding first-time fathers as well. Oh yes

No-one NO-ONE informs you that it is almost impossible to avoid urinating upon the head of your young child.

Once they learn to crawl/walk I mean.

It's perfectly avoidable otherwise: unless you are strange.

EXAMPLE.

Three years ago. I am on the first floor of the house we lived in at the time. I am playing with barely-one-year-old Favourite Daughter in her bedroom. I need a wee.

I leave her to her devices, and wander across the hall into our bathroom. Tired Mam is well out of the way, so I feel no need to shut or indeed lock the door. (I know, of course, that Tired Mam is aware of the fact that I possess a penis. This is clear. But she has not seen wee coming out of it nor never will. It is not THAT SORT of relationship.)

I am having a wee. I have forgotten that FD can now crawl. She thunders in, intrigued by this new noise. She grabs the toilet bowl so she can stand up.
There commences an awful lot of me gently shoving her with my thigh, but being careful enough to not knock her over. I must at all costs avoid her being visually exposed to my penis. It is large and hairy and unpleasant to look at. She is small and beautiful. And I must avoid urinating upon her.

I am successful on all counts.

A few days ago.

Me and Favourite Son are home alone.

I am on the sofa reading a book. Favourite Son staggers across the floor in his 'I am Godzilla, you are Japan' new walking style and clambers up beside me. Just before he sits, he does his 180-degree turn and sits down with the proper finality a man of his position deserves. Glances sideways at me and then gives the whole room a steely look as if to say DO NOT PANIC. Men are here now. Fear not. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL. And then glances back at me. As he always does.

He is a one-year old. Poor fucker. He's got a lot to learn.

I decide that, actually, this is a bit too much too young so play silly Aaaarrgh games with him for a bit. I can run like fuck when he does that. Scares the shit out of me.

I need a wee.

We are in the unfortunate position in our current house of having a ground-floor bathroom. Great in the evening, shite at the dead of night.

Anyway.

I go and have a wee.

I do not lock or indeed shut the door. Why would I? There are only MEN in the house.

And not the sort of men who stand next to you at the urinals in public houses and say things like 'Kinell. Busy tonight or what?' to which you can only reply 'I have got my cock in my hand. Why are you talking to me? Are you a bit strange? Because if you really want to spend your evening talking to men who have their cocks in their hands, then I suspect you are in the wrong place.'

I have a wee. With my legs appropriately wide. There is not a man on earth who has had a wee with his knees together. Because we have such large giblets you see.

The patter of feet. Attracted to this new noise. I have three-year flashback.

At this point, there is no chance of my stopping. And then closing the bathroom door.

He storms in. I am in full flow. I am ready to gently nudge him out of the way with a thigh/knee.
He is made of sterner stuff than his sister at his age. He has anticipated my every move.

I feel two small hands clasp the back of my knees.

He FUCKING STICKS HIS HEAD BETWEEN MY LEGS.

I liberally douse the top of his head in PISS.



It's all right at the end. Only a few drops, and he has an unreasonably healthy mop of (suspiciously) fair hair. Which bears the brunt. It looks like pale yellow dew on strawberry-blond grass.

Within a ¼ of a second I have him in the shower, out, dried, and dressed in original clothing.

Hahahahahha.

No-one will know otherwise. When Tired Mam gets home, it will be like nothing happened.

'Everyting O.K?' she asks in her hugeley patronising manner as if I could not go a couple of hours without, say, pissing on someone important.

'YES. FINE.' I will then say in the immensely capable manner of a person who has never accidently pissed on anyone.







Oh.


Next: Things They Never Told Prospective Fathers #2: You Become a Stone Cold Killer.

Moving?

I don't know if anyone has seen that film Insomnia. The one with Al Pacino, not the original.

It's O.K.

The man Nolan tries hard to visually reproduce the actual effects of insomnia. It works quite well, but never really matches the being-in-a-virtual-reality-machine-that-recreates-your-normal-enviroment-but-in-a-manner-that-is-just-not-quite-right way that is the genuine experience of someone who doesn't sleep well.

Today/yesterday (oh, you sort of lose track of time as well) Tired Mam returns from her Saturday job. I have had three hours not-really sleep the previous evening.

I am informed that Dempsey and Makepeace are coming around for nibbles and drinks this/that evening.

What fun.

Actually, I always enjoy the half-hour that myself anf Dempsey steal in the pub that is conveniently located 1.5 minutes walk from my front door, but this is not the point.

After some time, all four of us fall silent for a moment. I welcome such silence.

Getting Favourite Daughter and Favourite Son fed, bathed, dressed in P.J's, given milk, tucked into bed, read story, do tidying-up, do hoovering (I'll teach Tired Mam how to turn it on one day. Funny, it's actually her hoover from long before she knew me. You would think she would know) and make sure I do not resemble Wurzle Gummage. It's a lot to do. I welcome the silence. (I fail at the personal appearance thing.)

Silence. It's been a whole four seconds now.

Tired Mam: Well. Go on then. Be funny Mr. Entertainment.

I can't be doing with this. It is true that, when surrounded by a limited amount of people I know quite well I am often Mr. Amusing Anecdote and Funny Story. But I am not some sort of comedy whore. I cannot perform at will.

Tired Mam: You've always got a funny story when we have people round.

I sigh. I look at my brother and his girlfriend.

Me:[with great sense of all sorts of not-good-sensations] I bought a Stanley Knife the other day.

I then explain that it was a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Having started, I have no choice other than to tell the rest of my shit story. My younger brother at least has common courtesy

Dempsey: NO WAY!!

at the moment I explain that I was quite innocently brandishing a very sharp knife at an innocent check-out girl with an open till.

Tired Mam quitely watches this, aware of the fact that she has already heard this story. From reading my shit blog. And has now heard me say it out loud, almost word-for-word. Knowing that there is so little in my life at the minute, nothing worthy of comment occurs more than twice a week.

Do I stop this silly thing? I started it as a deadtime not-sleeping filler but it's grown a bit.

Do I move, and hide the new url?

I can't do that.

School Boy Fags

I am barely sixteen years old. I am IT.

Do you get me, rest of school? Has it sunk in?

Oh yes. I am plain-clothes.

I come-and-go pretty much as I please.

Not really. But good enough. I have 'study breaks'. I am allowed to leave the premises during lunch hour. You aren't. I am. You know those study breaks? That means I don't have to be here at all. You do.

I am SIXTH FORM. The ELITE.

Have you seen TopGun? We are like Tom Cruise after he proved himself to be not gay and just had some non-gay father-issues and that the IceMan chap was just generally frustrated. About non-gay things. It is by no means a homoerotic film. Kelly McGillis actually looks very feminine in that basebal cap. And bomber-jacket. And not like a drag-queen at all. Not that it would matter. It is my understanding that neither Tom Cruise nor Val Kilmer have the slightest interest in ladyboys or drag-queens. At all. They have both been married and that. Anyway, TopGun is not a gay film. But I wouldn't watch it now of course.

Anyway.

Of a lunch-time, me and my friends, after our lunch, fancy a smoke.

We're all grown-up now don't you see. All of sixteen-getting-on-seventeen-some-of-us.

We retire to our 'spot'. Said 'spot' is a fairly pleasant suburban street not too far from the school.

We call it the 'Wall.'. Because, if we are flat on our arses, the 'wall' covers our entire existance.

To us, our presense on this FOOTPATH (which it was) meant nothing to us. This was our space. There were between half- and one-dozen of us.

To the outside world it probably meant 'Hello. We are here. And any other citizens of this street that has decent business here can fuck off.'

There were probably plenty of people who felt us a menace. We were just having a cigarette.

Anyway.

One afternoon.

There's about a dozen of us. A FIGURE appears around the corner.

General exodus. Leaving only me and Fuck Off. (So named with reference to his general attitude. He's in prison now. Heroin and that.)

Me and FU decide against running. I mean We're sixteeen. It's just undignified. And scarpering when you're trying to finish a cigarette is just not cool..

FIGURE resolves itself. It's only the fucking HEAD.

INTERLUDE:

Previous Headmaster was a fool. Short. Balding. Obssessed about the rubbish out the front of our school street. Empty of soul. The 'rubbish thing' beacame the hole that would fill his heart. No-one had the nerve to tell him it was just a dirty street.

INTELUDE OVER:

Anyway.

This guy took over. His hair was great. He had that ability to say whatever would agree with whoever was in the room at the time.

He was way ahead of his time.

'My office. 30 Minutes..'

Bollocks.

Fucked.

Images of all sorts of unappealling stuff.

No matter how Blairite this man was - and these were days long before anyone knew who Tony Blair was - the Head's Office is the Head's Office.

Shit shit shit. We are fucked fucked fucked.

We sculk. 'Here to see the Head' we mutter.

Headmaster's Secretary looks at us like the scum we are. Well, we must be. We're here to see the Head.

'Sit.' She says. Barbara Wodehouse and that.

'Wait.' We wait. Shit. It works.

Her phone buzzes. She listens.

'In.'

We knock.

'Come.'

We enter the Head's office. Nobody good ever sees the inside of the Head's Office. No-one except the very awful see the inside of the Head's Office. I would like to say that 'it was fun - we got to make like we were notorious'. But we were shitting our pants.

'Sit.'

We sit in front of his desk.

This is the closest I have ever been to the Head. He doesn't look good. Being sixteen, I am quite familiar with this particular look.

HE WAS ON THE LASH LAST NIGHT!

It occurs to me that he needs this petty shit about as much as we do. Is it possible he is human?

The Head rubs his eyes.

'Look,' he says, 'I know you are desperate for a fag about lunchtime. But the staff [he says the word as if it causes him some distaste] - the staff are really making this their mission at the minute. My advice. If you go a bit further up the road, there's an alley they never check.'

Silence.

'OK?'

Silence.

'OK?'

We mumble agreement and, sensing the conversation is over, bumble our way to the door.

The Head runs a hand through his very-good hair. 'Thanks guys.'

'Erm. Oh. I mean. Yeah. Thanks. No. Erm. You're wel - shut up you twat - come on.'

We both spend a week walking about with a what-the-fuck-just-happened look about us. And then, out of respect, gratitude and deference to our new personal hero, made extra care that our cigarette-smoking habits did not infringe upon local residents and - most importantly - the staff.


Note to any managerial-types: I'm not saying it works. But why not try? What have you got to lose? People calling you a wanker behind your back for ever? You can live without that, surely?

Not that I can talk. I had staff and was awful. It made me feel like a BIG MAN.

(That last bit is not true. I mean, I had staff and that. I was important you know. Actually yes, I was quite horrible. But in a 'I'm being ironically horrible' way and anyone who didn't get it was 'FUCKING FIRED!'. But not really. Until they got the joke. People just started being very quiet around me.)

Checking Out

[Interior. Courtroom. Day. Up before the beak: Tired Dad.]

Judge:You sir have heard the charges. Please state your name for the record.

Tired Dad: My name is Ti-

Judge: SILENCE!

TD: Sorry.

Judge: Was that silence?

TD: No. Oh. I see. I mean, Mmmmm.

Judge: What is your name?

TD: My na- oh. Mmmmmm.

Judge: YOUR NAME IS BITCH.

TD: Kinell.

Judge: WHAT?

TD: Nothi- mmmmmmm.

Judge: What is your name?

TD: (Now?) [Judge nods] My name is, erm, Bitch.

Judge: And what business are you in sir?

TD: Well, a bit difficult to say, currently I am-

Judge: SILENCE! YOU ARE IN THE GETTING FUCKED BY US BUSINESS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

TD: Bit ‘Usual Suspects’ but I get the gist-

Judge: SILENCE!

[Pause. The tension is unbelievable.]

Judge: You speak when I allow you to speak. You are now the property of the state. Do you understand? We OWN you.

[Pause.]

Judge: Good. You have heard the charges Mr.Bitch. How do you plead?

TD: Thing is, it’s all a bit silly really. There’s been a huge misunderstanding and-

Judge: ENOUGH! [He has grown tired of his ‘SILENCE’ catchphrase].

[Pause.]

Judge: What was it? Did you have a craving? Did you need the money for rock?

TD: Rock? I don’t even like Blackpool. Believe me, I’ve been more times than-

Judge: ENOUGH! I mean ROCK. Rock cocaine. CRACK.

[Pause. Silence.]

Judge: You, my good man, are going down. And not in a ‘about to orally pleasure a lady’ way. Oh no. You can kiss goodbye to those days. Those tomato, mozorella and fresh basil salads you like? You know. With just ‘a bit’ of olive oil? Kiss those fuckers goodbye an’all. We’ve got a nice cell ready for you. Do you know a chap named Johnny?

TD: I don’t believe so.

Judge: No? Apparently he is quite partial to the rock himself. Do you know, he’ll even su-

TD: NOOOO!

Judge: Ah. So you have. I’m sure you will both get along famously. SEND HIM DOWN! WHEN I SAY DOWN I DON’T MEAN IT IN A GOOD WAY.


……………………………………………………..

It all starts quite normally.

I am in our local supermarket. I don’t truly feel it has earnt its ‘super’ status, but it's not a corner shop either. Tired Mam craves yeast and tomatos. This does not bode well for dinner.

On my way, I stop at Local Hardware Shop. I wander the aisles. I savour the smell of oil. I love these places. Never used to.

I longingly finger some contraption I will never know the purpose of. I eventually decide upon a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Christ – the actual Stanley Knifes are four quid more expensive. I mean. Sharp is sharp.

Head toward the counter, flushed with my new purchase.

The effete intellectual-type I was several years ago would sneer at me. The handy-round-the-house-family-man I have become would promptly kick him in the bollocks.

I pay. Being a handy pocket-sized item, I slip it into my pocket. In the bag they supply me, I keep the four high-ball glasses I have also purchased. For our Bloody Marys you know. Fuck off.

Anyway.

I’m at the checkout (this is the supermarket now).

I am sure I have forgotten something. I keep looking around in a distracted manner, hoping to see something that may jog my memory.

The woman shows my few items to the ‘bleep’ machine. Tells me price. I hand over card.

She puts it into thing (am I meant to put it in? Am I causing an inconvenience to her by superciliously making her do it? Modern fucking life).

Cashback? No. And it isn’t really having it BACK is it? So don’t phrase it like that.

PIN number. Beep beep beep beep.

Receipts spool. She pops open the till for said receipts.

It occurs to me. Actually, walking about with a not-really-Stanley-Knife in your trouser pocket isn’t the best move. I mean. I am short, skinny, relatively well-dressed and white. I could be stop-and-searched by the police AT ANY TIME.

I take out the not-really-Stanley-Knife in preparation for putting it into the hardware shop bag.

TIME FUCKING STANDS STILL.

I am at the till.

I have been acting nervous, and looking around a lot.

The till drawer has just popped, exposing Christ knows how much in fives, tens and twenties.

I have a fucking sharp knife in my hand.

A not-really-Stanley-Knife no less.

If anyone notices, things will not go in my favour.








No-one did. Put it back in my pocket. Walked free.

No trial. No kangaroo-court judge who keeps referring to me as bitch. No prison cell with a crack cocaine addict convinced I have some ‘rock’ secreted in my sphincter and forcefully insisting that he fellate me in return for a ‘hit’ on it.

Everything is GREAT!

I get home.

SEVEN FUCKING TOMATOS!

Little Bastards and Instant Regret.

Some days it just gets too much. The constant care and attention. The coaxing. The financial cost. The time. The love. And some days you just feel you get so little back. And something just snaps. And you instantly regret it, but you know you can't take it back.

My head and chest are throbbing with the controlled un-controllableness. I crouch down in front of both the little bastards. And it just starts

Me: Do you think I fucking do this for fun? Fucking do you? I didn't really want either of you in the first place. I just mentioned it to Tired Mam once on a whim and now here you fucking are.

So we're stuck with it. But do you know what? I think I'm making the effort. I care for you both. I support you. I make sure you're fed properly. Do you think that fucking formula is cheap?

I talk to you, care for. Take an interest It isn't easy you know. I put a lot of time into this. And what do I get back?

They both remain silent. I am not surprised.

Me: Fuck all, that's what. You're both a couple of selfish, greedy little shits. When you're poorly, who takes care of you?

Silence.

Me: Who makes sure you get plenty of sun? When your little arms get a bit weak, who supports them for you? Who took care of your greenfly?

Silence.

Me: ONE fucking tomato! Is that how you repay me? ONE, between the fucking two of you. I am making the effort here. YOU are taking the piss. Both of you. It's not even red! You've been here fucking WEEKS! What do you think you're playing at?

I can no longer bear to look at them. I storm into the house to play with my children.

Tired Mam: Hey your tomato plants are doing well! One of them has THREE tomatos now.

Me: Three?

TM: Yeah, the two flowers above the one big tomato have started to bear fruit. You wouldn't notice unless you were really looking.

Me: oh

I feel awful.