This Isn’t Happy Days...

At University. [This is me now.]

Only a couple of years ago.

I am outside the Refectory.

A woman approaches. And says Hello in a cheery manner. I instinctively reply in a similar fashion.

She is one of my tutors. An American Professor quite famous in her field. I rather like her, despite the fact that she has made it clear that she considers F.R. Leavis to be something of a radical and that his new-fangled ideas will never catch on.

The very fact that she is unaware that it is actually 2005 is one of her endearing qualities.

As she gets closer, I am about to launch into conversation.

And stop.

I am not wearing my spectacles today.

It is not her at all. In fact it is a person of Oriental origin. Not to be easily mistaken for a slightly dusty American WASP.

There results some slightly awkward conversation.

She has mistaken me for somebody else, I think. And is too embarrassed to say so. And is now pretending that everything is normal and is chatting away. Maybe she is also a bit Mental.

I remember that I had cheerily greeted her as if I knew her quite well. Even so.

Strange woman says:

‘Oh. Have you got your copy of Dreamweaver yet?’

Right. That’s it. She’s bonkers. I don’t even know what that means. Is it code for something? You are mad. Is it one of those graphic novels? Why even bring it up like it was normal? Go away. Christ. For a second I thought it was me who was mad.

I make a short goodbye to the Bonkers Woman and return to the warmth and sanity of the Refectory.

Lost in my own thoughts – most of them regarding my recent peculiar social exchange – I pass by someone else who seems to know me without my really noticing.

He utters some words of greeting. Being preoccupied, the ‘talking’ part of my brain does not function properly and I utter this sound:

‘E-eyyyyyyy!’

Just like The Fonz.

The guy looks a bit perplexed and keeps walking.

I sit down with my coffee and wonder why everyone is mad.

It’s Your Funeral

My local pub is The Last Chance. That is not it’s real name but it is more accurate.

Men in acrylic and polyester. The pool table is the first thing you see when you walk in. An awful lot of children under the age of ten to be found in the front bar after ten o’clock at night.

You get the idea.

It has two redeeming qualities. It is less than two minutes walk away from my front door. And. Well. Being a perverse sort of person I strangely love it.

The other night. I pop in. This I do maybe twice a week. I have frequented more, but that need has gone. Now it is whenever there is nothing of interest occurring at home (ie: there are thick-set actors on the tele-vision informing each other that they are having a ‘giraffe’ and I feel a need to smoke a cigarette whilst sitting down with a drink in my hand. I can do these things at home, but not all at the same time).

Anyway.

I enter The Last Chance. And suddenly realise something is amiss. The bulk of the clientele are wearing suits.

This is VERY unusual. They cannot all have had court appearances on the same day.

I feel quite uneasy. The sight of a (now empty) buffet table does not reassure.

Black suits. Black ties.

At the bar, I ask the question.

Me: Erm. Look. Is this a private function or something? Should I be here?

Barmaid: Aw. Some gadgy died. We put on a spread. But they’ve eaten it now. What can I get you?

Thinking ‘Well I’m here now’ I order a drink. Sit down. And look around.

Everyone is in black. Not only black suit and tie, but black shirts as well.

That strikes me as trying too much.

He can’t be that dead.

SOMEBODY ACTUALLY GOES TO THE JUKEBOX.

I haven’t been to a Wake in some years, but I’m sure that the mixture of random members of the public and a jukebox is not the ideal.

‘Scooby Snacks’ by the Fun Lovin Criminals starts blaring. The mourners LOVE IT.
I frown and sip my drink. I feel a bit uncomfortable. Not only am I the only person in the room not to be mourning the loss of an acquaintance, I am also not dressed in wannabe gangster garb and pretending I am in The Sopranos.

And am not thinking that songs celebrating a life of crime constitute the perfect send-off.

I peer at the buffet table. I have never known The Last Chance to offer this sort of facility. And where is the pool table?

The buffet table has very thick legs.

Oh fuck. It is the pool table. They have pushed it against the wall and put a table cloth over it. In memory of a person that is dead. So they can put food on it. So that people can then eat it and put inappropriate things on the ‘jukey’.

I take another sip of my drink. I think about my house and how nice and warm and not full of twats it is. I take a gulp.

A middle-aged man and woman are at the bar drinking their drinks. They are in black. He is very ostentatiously rubbing her arse. Really comprehensively. It is a surprisingly large arse, but he is doing his best. Cheeky slip of the fingers behind the waistline of her skirt. Tongue in her ear.

Another mourner goes to the ‘jukey’. After a few moments the less-than-mournful strains of Franz Ferdinand come vomiting out of the speakers. ‘Take Me Out’.

I do not know if it was a joke.

Taking-in this theatre of Massive Inappropriateness, I begin to wonder about myself.

Maybe all these people have the right idea about life. It’s shit, and at some point you die. We’ll eat some food off of a pool table in a shit pub and forget about you. Whilst pretending to be gangsters because we got nicked once.

But then the coup-de-grace.

Finishing my drink very quickly, I hear the sound-system of the public house crackle into life. The landlord comes on the microphone.

‘Ladies and gentleman. As you all know…’

Thank Christ I think. He’ll mention the ‘jukey’ and general issues of ‘deadness’.

‘……at The Last Chance, Monday night is quiz night. The forms are going round, only a pound. Winner gets a round of drinks.’

The mourners all take a form.

Well. Wouldn’t do for the day to be a total loss. A ROUND OF DRINKS! It’s what he would have wanted.

I finish my drink and leave.

New Neighbours.

This occurred today.

For some months the houses to the left and right of our humble terraced abode have been vacant.

To the left due to the fact that the guy’s wife had left him and he had gone away on what one can only assume to be an extended party. (There is a longer story here but it may be for a later time).

To the right due to the ongoing not-being-aliveness of the elderly lady who had inhabited it. She was quite stubborn in the whole not-being-alive-anymore arena.

The left, I am informed by Tired Mam, saw activity of the moving-in nature today. A couple. No children. Thirties, she reckoned.

I am concerned, due to previous neighbour scenarios at other addresses. (Again, another time). It had been quite nice not having any.

Late this evening. I am in the back yard having a cigarette. Over the wall I can hear two gentlemen in the back yard of next door having what seems to be a post-moving-exertion chat. It is clear that one is New Occupant, the other is mate/brother who has helped.

In the manner of all men, they are having a conversation totally irrelevant to the task at hand. On this occasion a tele-vision show involving people who are not in the least celebrated by the general populace but are still referred to as ‘celebrities’ and that is apparently hosted by someone called ‘Antandec’.

I smoke my cigarette and listen for a bit.

Suddenly the back door of my new neighbour is flung open and a lady enters the back yard.

Unseen Lady: [Very Emotional]: Boxes. Boxes. BOXES. Everywhere. BOXES!!

Unseen lady then bursts into tears and there is the sound of a door slamming behind her as she re-enters her new abode.

There is silence for a minute.

Unseen Man: Say what you like about Antandec, he can make anything watchable.

Companion: Oh yeah.




As neighbours go, they seem quite normal.

Pulling More Than a Pint.

Bloody Hell, I think. I'm never going to win these bastards over.

There are two types of good barman.

The first is the type who can pour a drink correctly and in a timely fashion. Not the greatest of feats, one would think, but even the briefest research in any city centre drinking emporium will quickly establish what a rarity this is.

The second is the one who can do the above. But can also remember your name, what you do for a living, what you like to drink and when, will remember a snippet of a conversation you were having three nights ago, knows all of his customers, is liked by them, will introduce you to new people with common interests, will give you a few drinks 'on the house' if you nip round and collect some glasses for them and is generally knowledgeable, helpful, and will make you feel happy that you walked into the emporium in the first place. They are Very Rare Indeed.

And as such are Made Guys.

When they go out of an evening, they know everyone. They rarely pay for drinks. They get in all the clubs for free and 'lock-ins' are the norm.

I have been working behind this particular bar for a few nights now. I also live there. It is ten years before now. I know now that these were to be the last of my genuinely carefree days. (This is just an observation. There is a lot to be said for having things to care for and about.)

And I am getting NOWHERE with the regulars. It was an unusual city centre pub in that the bulk of the clientele were regulars. All of whom new each other. But did not know me. And they are not letting me in.

I will never be Made at this rate.

One witticism, one wry observation and I'll have cracked it.

Upon request, I begin pouring someone a pint. Noticing that there is more air than beer reaching the glass, I begin to feel uneasy.

I am on duty alone, and have not been shown how to change a barrel.

I am alone due to rather complicated relationship the landlord and landlady 'enjoy'.

He is Australian.

She is Enormous.

'You know,' she confided in me one afternoon in the kitchen, 'we originally got married just so he could stay in the country.'

Her hand flew up to her mouth and her eyes went wide.

'Goodness. It sounds awful when I say it like that doesn't it?'

I assure her that on the contrary, it sounds like a fairy tale and she seems content.

A person will believe anything if they need to badly enough.

Anyway. They had one of their periodic rows and she'd gone to visit her parents in Devon, and he had gone into a sulk.

I apologize to my customer, secure in the knowledge that he will now not be putting my name forward and dash to the flat upstairs whilst still pondering my strategy for conversational gold.

The living-room door is shut. This is odd. Landlord and Landlady always keep it open. I try the handle. It is locked. Very strange.

I bang on the door.

After a moment Landlord opens it, looking flustered. Well. He was probably a bit surprised.

Actually, I think to myself in the space of a few milliseconds, he looks a bit red in the face as well. And a bit sweaty.

I cannot see the television, but can hear it.

Of course. He has been working out to one of those exercise videos, I think.

Whilst fully clothed.

It must be a particularly energetic routine, because the unseen woman I would suppose to be presenting it is panting and wailing fit to burst.

This, I also think, will explain why he is clutching a rather damp-looking towel. At waist height.

I am then rather surprised to hear a deep, male, guttural German voice emanating from the unseen television:

'Aah YEEZZZ. Thass iz GUUUUDDDD!'

Rather puzzled by the whole thing, I explain the non-beer situation and return to my duties.

Beer duly arrives, and Landlord returns to his abode.

I am still puzzling over how to win the acknowledgement of my clientele. I mean. One Funny Story would do it.


***********************************************************************************


I am quite slow about this sort of thing.

It all hit home after about five minutes.

I never bought a drink again.

But did have to suffer numerous drinking sessions with Landlord (he always paid) who would inform me in some depth quite how much he 'loved his wife'.

Who? Free Willy? You'd fucking have to, I thought. But did not say it. He had just given me his Sega Megadrive after all.

'I've Just Caught My Boss Having a Wank!'

Coming soon.

As they say.

Licensed to Kill*

I need cigarettes.

My local off-licence is conveniently situated 1 minute and 32 seconds walk away from my front door.

I go there.

Woman in front of me in queue.

Troll Woman Behind Counter: Are you seeing him tonight?

Woman In Front Of Me: Aye.

TWBC: Give him theym from us.

Hands over box of Roses chocolates.

WIFOM: Aaar. Thanks.

She departs. TWBC notices that I have overheard.

TWBC: Aye. She’s the sister of one of our customers. He hasn’t got long. The drink, ya knaw. Liver’s knackered. Another operation this week. They say it’ll be a miracle if he pulls through. Nae chance, really.

Me: Em. O.K. then. Twenty Regal Filter please.

TWBC: There ya gan.

We complete our transaction.

TWBC: [quietly] Such a shame. [To herself] One of our best customers an’all.


*Title suggested by semi-anonymous reader Philip. Genius, and much better than all I had thought of.

Not very funny post-script 13/11/06. He's dead. Didn't make it throught the surgery. 28 years old. I don't know his name.

The Cigarette Incident.

Favourite Son and Favourite Daughter are at The Pond. I am in attendance. Obviously. (Fuck me. The Pond is about five miles from the house. I wouldn’t let them wander off. Unless I was having a nap.)

It’s not really a pond – it’s far too big to be described as such, but I will admit it is by no means a lake.

I am struggling. The ducks and the mallards are fine, but the geese and the swans are somewhat temperamental, as are the moods swings of my offspring. My guard is high HIGH up.

Added to which the fact that FS can barely walk, so is hands-and-kneesing it much of the time, despite the fact that the grass run-about-at-will area is littered with surprisingly large, round and firm droppings from the local bird-aristocracy.

So, I am juggling this, the fact that there is a large amount of WATER nearby (that apparently it is very easy to drown in), killer birds of huge proportion and the potential bird-flu (were it not pretend) to be contracted from all the SHITE everywhere, with attempting to provide my Favourite Offspring with an impromptu afternoon out.

But we’re O.K. We feed the ducks, I shoo-away the more fearsome birds and everything finally runs smoothly.

For about five minutes.

We run out of bread.

We are a fifteen-minute bus ride away from anywhere that sells bread.

I inform FD of this grave news.

‘We’ll just have to go sweetheart.’

She is not one to give up as easily as me. She spies another young family approaching. A young mother with her two girls.

Without a word to me, FD goes marching up to them. She is three at the time.

FD: You. Give me some of your bread now. Please.

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

Toward the end of a very long afternoon, FD has arguably robbed at least three families of some time and pleasure. And bread.

And I cannot admonisher her. She wanted something. Thought. Went and asked for it. Was not rude. Got it.

Did not cry for somebody else to sort it out for her.

Hmmm. Still don’t know if it was good or bad. Anyway.

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

Fuck. I think. It’s only fucking eleven o’ fucking clock and I’ve got NO fucking cigarettes whatsoever and there is no chance of fucking getting any at fucking all until at least half fucking one and I for cunting one am not cocking happy about the fucking situation.

One peasily (it’s a fucking word now) twatting little cigarette and all would be fine. I cast about me.

The only smoker in the office is Very Scary Guy Who Killed People In The Falklands. I have never spoken to him.

For obvious reasons.

I think about my strategies for achieving the hallowed cigarette.

‘Hi, erm, I know we don’t know each –‘

SHITE.

‘So, Killer –‘

NOT MUCH BETTER.

‘Hey, erm. Cor. Smoke much do you. I can help you cut down. Just give me –‘

OH DON’T BE SUCH A CUNT.

I remember Favourite Daughter. The look of pride, youth, confidence and strength on her face.

I march up to him.

‘You. Give me one of your cigarettes NOW. Please.’

VSGWKPITF blinks, looks around him as if to make sure that this is happening and then opens a desk drawer and GIVES ME ONE OF HIS CIGARETTES!

WITHOUT A WORD!

She is a genius.

( He later revealed that he thought me a thorough cunt for asking in such an off-hand manner. He gave me the cigarette. Who’s the cunt?)

Work. Scary Man. Weird. But Sort of Not. Children.

I am at work, some time ago.

For reasons that escape me (i.e: ‘There’s a trade show on across the river! At least two hours off work so we can Network! Come on!’ You just said 'network'. No thanks.) there is only me and Slightly Scary Guy in the office.

‘Slightly’scary for a number of reasons.

He is about my height, but built like a brick shithouse. He is ex-Forces. He saw active service in the Falklands. He killed people. You know. Actually and that. And at the start of each working day, he sits with his head on his desk and growls like a dog, and then repeats the word ‘cunt’ for at least ten minutes.

SSG is on the phone. After trying not to overhear, it becomes apparent that it is not a business call.

SSG: I have to go. I’ll try and see you on Saturday. Be a good girl for your mother.

SSG: What?

SSG: Well, just try, O.K?

SSG: Make the effort will you.

SSG: [a bit exasperated] Because I’m going out on Friday. I’m entitled to a night out once a year aren’t I? I said I’d see you Saturday. Now will you be good for your Mam?

SSG: What?

SSG: Beacuase I am asking - no, I am telling you to.

SSG: Look. You are six. I am thirty four. That is why.

SSG: It IS a good reason.

SSG: [Starting to lose the upper hand] Look. Be GOOD, or I won’t take you to the Cbeebies Roadshow I’ve bought tickets for.

SSG: No, well, I hadn't told you. [Sighs. He knows what has just happened] It was meant to be a surprise but you’ve just tricked me. [He has thoroughly lost the upper hand]

SSG: Whatever. Just try and be good will you? Cos I get it in the neck when you don’t. I have to go.

He hangs up. And expels enough air to fill the office three times over. He looks at me.

SSG: You’ve got bairns haven’t you?

We have never spoken before.

(Aside from The Cigarette Incident. But I haven't mentioned that yet.)

Me: Um. Yeah.

SSG: Girl?

Me: One.

SSG: If you tell her to be good, and she says 'I don't really feel like it', what do you do?

Me: You've lost before you start. You're on the ropes and she knows it.

He nods, as if I have confirmed his worst fears.

I look at him for a bit.

He has instantly changed from being a man who can kill someone purely by driving the cartilage of their nose into their brain with the heel of his palm into a divorced man who is easily out-manouvered by a girl of six years old and does not feel he can push the issue because it’s bad enough that he no longer lives in the same house as everyone.

SSG: [Sighs again, stares out of the window with a wistful look for a second] If your girl told you she was a lezza, how would you feel?

This is a bit out of the blue.

But I’m feeling some sort of newfound affinity with this man, so I make the effort.

Me: Not one way or the other to be honest. So long as she’s O.K.

He nods again.

SSG: Aye. And at least you’ll know she won’t be getting fucked-up by twats like us.

I think for a bit. Then nod my head in the same manner he has displayed. (He has a point).

SSG: You’ve got a boy as well?

Me:[hesitant] Yeeeees.

SSG: If he told you he was a –

Me: No. NO.

SSG: [again seeming to feel that I have confirmed something for him] Aye.

How To Play Poker Successfully In Four Steps

1. You are dealt a hand. Do look at it.

2. This being the modern world, you are probably playing Texas Hold’Em. Ah well. Nothing we can do about that. But do try and look at the three cards dealt face-up on the table.

3. Think for a bit. This is important.

4. Do not do Anything Stupid.

This will work seven times out of ten.

Don’t thank me.

Gender Studies

I am minding my own business. Unaware that at some point I am to become irrationally furious.

I shall shortly Watch Something On The Tele - Vision. It shall be the culmination of some mild grievances and general feelings of puzzlement (this is now a word). I do not enjoy the experience of puzzlement. It makes me cross. And I have not slept of late.

The build-up:

I do not pretend to be 'down' 'wit' the 'yoot', but do have a number of brothers younger than me. I do not pretend to be an expert on masculinity in our post - fin de siecle times either but do, you know, have a number of brothers.

From the younger contingent, I hear tales of moisturising. Of skin care products in general.

Of clippers. And shaving products. None reserved entirely for the face.

I know for a fact that a number of 'men' in my immediate vicinity shave, pluck, wax and highlight hair with unseemly regularity. There has been talk of fingernail care.

Don't get me wrong. About once every couple of months I will have a downstairs trim. I am a very hirsute man from the navel downward, and very often the case is that I cannot see the wood for the trees. I like to make sure that Little TD is still in attendance.

But every week? With 'special' clippers? Whilst waxing your chest? And 'doing' your eyebrows? And highlighting your hair? Whilst 'moisturising'?

Christ.

A couple of nights ago, I am doing a Google search for something obscure. One of the hits looks promising. I click. Bollocks. It is one of those discussion forum things I do not really understand. Are they like MySpace? And how does that work anyway?

Upon further examination the forum reveals itself to be an on-the-line support group for stay-at-home-Dads.

A Support Group. For MEN who have to get up fairly early and then endeavour to keep their offspring alive for a full eight hours. And not do much else.

Why, yes of course. A Support Group is the very least they deserve. Fuck me what a nightmare for them. How do they do it? Those poor MEN?

Obviously silly women have been doing it since we lived in trees. But so they should. What with being women and that. Well. That's what they're for. They know this, and hence require no support at all. MEN on the other hand require on-the-line forums in which they can discuss how hard it all is to shoulder this huge responsibility ' without any ill-will of course' instead of inventing new spaceships.

Which is what they would otherwise be doing.

Because they are great. But need to share. You know, what with it being their choice. They have to share that.

Jesus.

Critical Mass:

I am watching television. This is not something I would normally consider worthy of comment for two reasons:

1: I am fairly sure that the on-the-line 'community' are perfectly capable of watching television/seeing films/reading the newspaper and forming their own opinions without the aid of 'blogs'.

2: I never EVER watch the Tele - Vision, for reasons that shall shortly be made clear.

I am at my Mam's for a coffee. Day. I have the 'luxury' of not being at work for a week or so. In classic Mam fashion, she is in the kitchen, something is simmering on the stove, a small portable Tele - Vision is broadcasting a daytime show called This Morning and she is making some new curtains.

A faintly surly-looking chap who appears to be faintly hungover and I think is called Ey-mon is interviewing a man and a woman. The woman is a counsellor/therapist of some sort, the man a sufferer/victim of some sort.

I am only half paying attention.

The man is the classic male victim/sufferer sort. Late thirties. Middle class. Obviously sees a 'stylist' and has those fussy 'clever' spectacles that probably cost significantly more than everything I own put together.

I can see immediately that he has an 'invented' problem to justify his otherwise adequate existence. You know the sort. Couldn't bear to feel bad about people in Colombia without imagining that he too has big problems. He didn't have a copy of the Guardian on his lap but he might as well have.

Whilst my Mam wonders if the remaining fabric would be sufficient for some cushion covers, I focus on this man's 'ailment'. It is revealed.

HE HAD POST NATAL DEPRESSION.

HE did.

I am aghast.

The woman I can understand. An invented problem that she can give 'advice' on and give out a freephone number on the show that probably diverts to her mobile. She can offer 'counselling' to made-up-problem sufferers for fifty quid an hour and this is national exposure for her. We all have to earn a living.

But this chap. He explains to Ey-mon that he really 'sort of' loves his son now.

Now. But at first it was so difficult. He explains to Ey-mon that his wife underwent a thirty-six hour labour.

And that he found that very traumatic.

One assumes his wife was thoroughly enjoying the experience, and not feeling the slightest guilt at all the 'trauma' she was putting her husband through.

He'd probably bought himself a Mac G4 and was feeling that this purchase was quite enough responsibility for now.

At this point Ey-mon is perched on the end of his sofa as if about to leap at this world-class wendle. The side of his face is doing that weird pulsing thing that the faces of people who are REALLY grinding their teeth do.

I suddenly feel some sort of kinship with this faintly surly Tele - Vision presenter. We seem to be thinking the same thing.

YOU DID NOT HAVE CUNTING POST NATAL DEPRESSION. I DO NOT BELIEVE DEPRESSION TO BE A SUBJECT TO BE TAKEN LIGHTLY; IT CAN BE AN AWFUL AFFLICTION. (BUT NOT A FUCKING 'DISEASE' MIND YOU. IT IS NOT COMMUNICABLE, AND IT IS NOT SOMETHING YOU CAN ONLY MENTALLY SUBJUGATE YOURSELF TO AS IF THERE WERE NOTHING IN YOUR POWER TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. HIPPY).

POST-NATAL DEPRESSION IS ACTUALLY PROPERLY REAL. AND PROPERLY DEBILITATING.

YOU DID NOT HAVE POST-NATAL DEPRESSION. YOU WERE 'A BIT FREAKED-OUT'. GET OVER YOURSELF YOU DREADFUL LIMP PRICK OF A TWAT.

YOUR WIFE IS NOTICEABLE BY HER ABSENSE. SHE IS PROBABLY FUCKING THE PLUMBER. POWER TO HER.

YOU NEEDN'T WORRY.

YOU'RE SO SHITTING SPINELESS YOU CAN PROBABLY NOSH YOURSELF OFF. WHICH IS ALL YOU'LL EVER BE GETTING AFTER YOUR TELEVISION DEBUT.

FUCK OFF.


Really though. What happened to men?

Anyway, I'm off to have a belching contest with Jodie Kidd. She'll probably win, and then show me how to make a car.

The Unpleasant Stain

‘You’re not wearing that?’ she says.

I consider the options. I could reply that, in actual fact, I am not and the whole thing is a figment of her imagination. Experience has taught me that although this may be personally satisfying, it is not a recipe for long-term conversational pleasure.

I remain silent.

‘Look at that.’

I admit there is An Unpleasant Stain of some sort near the lower portion of my shirt.

I scratch at it with a thumbnail in an absent-minded manner. After a while it is gone. I am now wearing a Clean Shirt.

It leads me to think. And here we have the significance of the Unpleasant Stain throughout the major stages of one’s life:


Stage 1: There Is An Unpleasant Stain. You are a child. You are ‘clarty’.

Stage 2: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are an adolescent. You have been masturbating.

Stage 3: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are in your early twenties. You are beginning a career, and realising your degree is not worth the paper it is written on (if you have a brain). You have been masturbating.

Stage 4: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are in your late twenties. In classic Gerry Rafferty ‘Baker Street’ style your life after work (you are now doing quite well) consists of bars, take-aways and taxis as you try and turn your brain off at the end of each day. Bars and take-aways lead to Unpleasant Stains. And you have probably been masturbating. (Nobody believes that ‘it is toothpaste.’)

Stage 5: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are in your early thirties. You have a number of children under the age of five. They are ‘clarty’. It rubs off on you. A pleasant evening’s masturbation is the stuff of your wildest dreams.

Stage 6: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are old. You are ‘clarty’.

Stage 7: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: It is You. You are dead.

I Am Hugely Successful. You Know, Sexually And That.

*Bang*

Colleague With Unusually Large Face brushes past me with unnecessary force.

A bit odd. I think nothing of it. I finish my cigarette and go inside. Curvy Girl comes with me.

I am troubled by recent show of force by Colleague With Unusually Large Face. It is out of nowhere.

I mock his frankly ridiculous Mekon head each day. He is generally good-natured about it.

Except.

Office conversation. Along the lines of what a big happy family we are. Attributes are given to each member of staff present. Grumpy But Fair Dad, Nurturing Mam, Scampish Brother are all accounted for.

From nowhere, Colleague With Unusually Large Face pipes up:

‘Yeah. And Tired is like that really awkward cousin who comes round now and then that no-one really likes but feel obliged to play with.’

Silence.

We all get back to work.

CWULF: Are we O.K?

Me: Fuck off.

Anyway. I am outside again. Talking to Curvy Girl. I am unreasonably cross about something. Fuck knows what.

She finds this funny.

This makes me more cross. I am not here to amuse.

She finds this even funnier. I give up, and go back to my job.

Lunchtime. CWULF says:

‘You know me and Curvy Girl are, you know, at it and that’

Bit boastful I think. And I’m sure Curvy Girl would burst with pride upon hearing your relationship described in such a manner.

Whatever. He then tells me quite a funny story about a spastic, so everything is fine.

Some days later. Again, smoking fags in car park. Me, Curvy Girl, CWULF and Strange Little Man I Would Like To Kill.

Curvy Girl is eating a Mars bar.

Me: I don’t fucking believe it.

She starts laughing.

CWULF: What? What?

Me: [ignoring him] It’s a fucking Mars bar. You are not normal.

Curvy Girl is near hysterical.

CWULF: WHAT?

Curvy Girl explains to CWULF that I had noticed her peculiar habit of eating her food 'at-a-time'. You know. Peas first. All of them. Then chips. All of them. Then…you get the picture. It absolutely horrified me for a number of reasons.

And that she is now eating her Mars bar by first nibbling-off the chocolate coating and then….again, you get the idea.

Me: Shitting Christ. How long does it take you to eat a bowl of muesli?

CWULF: [very quiet] I didn’t know that about you.

He gives me A Look and storms back into the building.

And it dawns on me. You know, his funny moods and that (I am this slow).

I have been fucking his girlfriend.

Of course. Well, there is no other explanation, is there? It’s not possible that we have the odd conversation, occasionally laugh, and notice peculiar things about each other and that is that. Oh no. Because Curvy Girl has breasts and – I suspect – a vagina.

There MUST be something darker taking place.

This has been a constant throughout my adult life and I would like it to stop now please. In the imaginations of the excitable, I have been fucking a grand total of about twenty women. Without any physical contact.

Total Bullshit

I am seven.

I am at Sunday School. (Really. Every week).

It was Catholic. My father would dump me and my younger brother there each week. I suspect Younger Brother does not remember.

Father would collect us afterwards very cheerful and stinking of booze.

But this school. Water. Wine. Fishes. Loaves.

Nonsense, surely? I mean, I was at that age. I was doubting the magical ability of Paul Daniels. This Jesus guy had a long way to go. I thought it was all rubbish. I was seven.

Consigned to hell before we start? Erm. Can I go C of E? They seem slightly more forgiving. (As it happened I did get to go to a C of E school and in many ways it was worse.)

Anyway:

Interior. Evening.

Lackey: How do Pope-Meister.

Pope: What!?

Lackey: Sorry. You know, like Brent-Meister off of the Offi-

Pope: SILENCE! Bit too close to the bone.

Lackey: Sorry.

Pope: How goes my latest WORD.

Lackey: What? You mean like the WORD of God?

Pope: You know. Don’t fuck about.

Lackey: The abolition of Purgatory thing?

Pope: That is my WORD.

Lackey: Em. Yeah. Like the WORD of God and that.

Pope: Indeed. I have said, and so it will be written and so it will be shall.

Lackey: Em. Look. I Get It and that, but the whole Purgatory thing……..I mean that is old stuff. It’s been going years. People will think it odd if we abandon it now.

Pope: Look. I need to reform. Look at that guy in England erm Great Britain erm what the fuck is it called?

Lackey: I believe it is the U.K. this week sir.

Pope: Indeed. Look at that guy. He had to shake things up a bit. Say it’s time to ‘put up or shut up’. Just look at him now.

Lackey: Em. That was John Major.

Pope: Who am I talking about?

Lackey: I don’t know. Currently, I’m not sure they do either.

Pope: Whatever. There’s going to be some changes around here. Oh yes.

Lackey: It’s just. You know. Well. You remember the whole not eating meat on Friday thing?

Pope: Fuck me yeah. Loud of shit that was. I get home from work on a Friday I want a bloody steak.

Lackey: O.K. Em. Yeah. But folk thought us a bit silly for casting that aside instantaneously. We are now talking about casting aside an ENTIRE METAPHYSICAL REALM, CORNER-STONE OF FAITH AND SOMETHING WE HAVE PREACHED AS BEING PART OF OUR SILLY PLANES OF EXISTENCE. In effect, we are giving Hell a promotion!

Pauses for breath.

Lackey: It’s just, if we keep doing this, they might realise that it’s all bullshit.

Pope: [Not listening] No. I’ve checked the paperwork. It’s Heaven who get the bairns. They get the promotion.

Lackey: Was it you who gave The Exorcist your approval?

Pope: No. The other guy.

Lackey: I quit.

Pope: You will burn.

We Did Not Go To High School ‘Together’.

‘Well,’ I say, gazing blankly at the Strange Man, ‘you must have a very good memory, because I have no idea who you are.’

Honestly though. If you saw a man you DID NOT EVEN KNOW sixteen years previously, introduced yourself without provocation by bellowing said man’s surname and were given, in return, the above statement, you’d probably feel a bit silly and cut the conversation short.

Wouldn’t you?

He sits down, slams his pint glass on my table and starts talking. For forty minutes. I have genuinely no recollection of him. He talks about a number of people that I also DID NOT KNOW sixteen years ago. His eyes are wide with the wonder of our reunion. He can scarcely believe it.

Nor can I.

This has occurred with unpleasant regularity during the past two years since I returned to the area where I grew up after an absence of 14 years.

I have had quite enough of it.

I know how pregnant women feel when complete strangers find it perfectly acceptable to strike up a conversation based solely on the fact that they are, well, pregnant. O.K, it’s a bit of a stretch comparing that to attending the same high school. And admittedly no-one asks me ‘how far along’ I am (meaning ‘how long ago did your husband/boyfriend put his spunky cock in your vagina?’) but………no, forget this one. It’s just tiresome, is all I’m saying.

Please go away Imaginary High School Friends. We spent some time in the same building half our lives ago. That is all. There is no ‘connection’ between us that dictates that your attentions are welcome.

If I did not go to the trouble of getting to know you when I was sixteen – when I had some spare time on my hands – do you really feel I’m going to make the effort now?

The Mushroom Doubters

*Bleep* One tub of double cream. *Bleep* A wedge of stilton. *Bleep* A bag of spinach. *Bleep* A bag of tagliatelli

I am staring at nothing. My brain is on screen-saver, lulled by the bustle and the bleeps of the supermarket experience.

There is no reason why I should get A Bit Cross.

The cashier woman reaches for the next item. It is a brown bag that I have half-filled with mushrooms. It has the word ‘mushrooms’ on the front of it. On the back is a recipe for mushroom risotto. To even the casual observer, this is clearly a bag of mushrooms.

She pauses, opens the bag and peers inside. Technically, I cannot object. Up until the point of payment, this bag and its contents are the property of the supermarket and, as an employee of said establishment, she can do whatever she wants with ‘my’ goods.

Satisfied, she weighs and *bleeps* the bag.

It’s just the inference of the whole ritual. I have tolerated it for years, but I feel this is getting silly.

Does she really think I have stuffed the bag with supermarket gold, frankincence and myrrh and am trying to pass it off as not-as-expensive mushrooms?

I have never been charged, let alone convicted, of non-mushroom fraud in my life. If I had, I would probably accept this level of suspicion.

What do you expect to find in there, you bottle-blonde slattern? One of your shitty DVD players?

I shall write a letter.

Entirely Innocent People Part 2

'Eeeeee, I'm not being a bother am I?'

Oh no my good woman. No bother at all. I mean, I've seen you WALKING around town before now, but I can think of no good reason why today you should not choose to use your little sit-down-scooter-thing to get around. Perhaps you are a bit tired. And let's face it, you are OLD. So you can do pretty much whatever you like. If I had a sit-down-scooter-thing I would ride upon it EVERYWHERE. And hold people up on the bus when the driver has to get out of his cab to let the little ramp-thing down, hence making EVERYONE late as you quibble about the various fares on offer and ask intensive questions about your return journey of which the driver has no knowledge.

No. Honestly. No Bother At All as you park yourself diagonally on the pavement to conduct a conversation of great and time-sensitive import to an equally Old Person who has made the effort to actually Walk Around today. No bother that you have booked the entire pavement as your own personal conversation point. Would you like me to fetch you both a cup of tea? Because I'm at a bit of a loose end now. What with the pushchair and that. Were I alone, I could probably nip round you. I can be quite nimble. Not with a pushchair however. Do you see the child in it who cannot walk safely for any distance who will be five years old when you are dead?

No, of course you and your conversation are far more important. Do not spare a thought for people who will not be dead in one year's time. The pedastrian crossing that we need to get to is two foot beyond your Oldsmobile. It is now beeping. I have missed it. It will take another 15 minutes before it will let me cross again. Unless I play chicken with half a tonne of moving steel and a child. Which I am not anxious to do.

I am out of breath, hot, and eager to get home. Things being well, I expect to live at least another 50 years.

So no. No bother at all.

Fucking crippled cunt.

I am Stupidly Proud of My Daughter, And Rather Surprised By My Son.

I've been trying to keep this stuff to a minimum.

But she is strong, brave and proud. For reasons I shall not bore anyone with. Suffice to say, both me, Tired Mam and Favourite Daughter have made a frankly rather marvellous young lady.

Favourite Son did That Thing today.

I can't explain it. I remember when Favourite Daughter did it.

It probably happened weeks ago and I missed it.

I was just looking at him. He wasn't far from bed. Chatting with his mother. Chatting mind. Not real words, but you could tell he was having what to him was a perfectley sensible conversation.

And before my eyes he became A Little Boy.

Just like that.



This is getting deleted in the morning.

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.