Perhaps It Was Space Aliens.

Many years ago.

It is late Sunday morning. I am in bed, asleep. I awake.

‘Ouch.’ I think to myself. ‘That is quite a headache.’

I was In The Pub the previous evening.

Slowly, I sit up. I notice a number of things. First of all, my pillow is still attached to the side of my face. With some discomfort, I peel it off. It is covered in blood. As are my bedsheets.

Hmmm.

I look at my hands. They too are very bloody, and there is very little skin on any of my knuckles.

Peculiar.

I decide some pills may be in order, what with my I-am-Godzilla-you-are-Japan headache and everything. I place my feet on my bedroom floor and stand up. Except I don’t, because for some reason my right leg doesn’t work and immediately buckles under me. I can’t bend it or put any weight on it.

Strange.

I get up off the floor. There is considerable bruising to my left ribs.

Hmm.

I hop to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. Not entirely unexpectedly, my face is covered in blood. I wash it. A large portion of my face does not like the feel of the water. I look in the mirror again.

One quarter of the right of my face is smashed to a pulp. It is not recognisably human. I may or may not have two eyes. It is impossible to say.

This is quite a puzzle.

Being barely twenty years old, I decide the best course of action is to go back to The Pub and have a stiff drink.

Pub Landlord: What the fuck happened to you?

Me: I was rather hoping you could shed some light on the situation.

No. He cannot. I had left early and unscathed the previous evening. Only two or three drinks apparently. I wasn’t noticeably drunk.

Hmm.

Drinking Friend arrives. Looks at me.

DF: What the fuck is this?

Me: [gesturing] This is my face.

I stay a little longer. Complete strangers admire my new face. I feel rather roguish.

Some days later.

I remember the man at the burger van I visited on my way home giving me a very strange look as I purchased my supper. I mustn’t have looked too good at that point. It is a completely isolated memory.

Some weeks later.

I remember passing a particularly unpleasant night-club on my way home.

Bouncer: Alright are you?

Me: [Aggressive] What’s it to you?

Bouncer: Well. It’s just, you’ve got blood pouring out of your head.

Me:[checking] Oh. So I have. Thanks for that.

Again, an entirely isolated memory.

It is now.

My only souvenirs are a small scar above my right eyebrow and a small area of roughly-textured flesh on my right cheekbone. You wouldn’t even notice unless you were specifically looking.

And I’ve still no idea what the hell happened.

Yesterday.

I am being kept waiting by my country’s next Prime Minister. He is late. It is very tiresome.

Favourite Daughter: Daddy!

There are an awful lot of tall men with very short hair and enormous hands present. They wear black suits with strange bulges under the arms and 24-style earpieces. They start to get a bit animated. Something is happening.

Me: Just another minute sweetheart.

She is hopping up and down in four-year old frustration. Favourite Son is busy trying to smack his head off every single unexpected object in the building, as is the wont of most two-year old boys.

Forty minutes previously.

All three of us get off the train. We are at the city that I may have mentioned my strange love affair with. We head toward the science centre. It is a real place that does real things with genetics and that, but also has huge tourist-exhibition-type-things all the time.

Some of the way is uphill. FS is in a pushchair, FD is holding my hand. My right hand is on the right-hand handle of the pushchair, my left hand is holding FD's hand, and my right hip is pushing the left-hand handle of the pushchair. I've had practice, and find this works. Although does make one appear as though one is attempting to fuck a pushchair. Whatever. It works.

There are coppers EVERYWHERE. Favourite Daughter witnesses a man who appeared a bit out-of-place being instantly maced, cuffed and thrown into a meat wagon.

FD: Are they taking him to jail Daddy?

Me: Christ. For his sake I hope so.

Law enforcement are twitchy this afternoon. I hope he doesn’t get too much of a kicking.

FD is delighted. It is possibly the best thing she has ever seen.

FD: Policeman take the naughty people to jail he was naughty but we’re good so we’re safe.

Me: Yes sweetheart.

I’m not sure he was doing anything wrong at all. But he was unshaven. Which will not do when my children are present.

We get to the reception-type place of the science centre.

Quite Fit Woman: Can I help?

Me: I believe I’m on a VIP list of some sort? It’s Mr.Dad.

QFW: [checks] And who are you the guest of?

Me: Em. Under invite of Makepeace in Human Resources.

QFW: That’s right.

Me: Um. I know.

I am issued with much paraphernalia to indicate that I have a right to be there and will not be bombing anyone or anything. And that I don’t have to pay for anything at all. Ever. Well. Today. Not even lunch. Today.

I am told that we have to be at a specific point in the exhibition centre at a specific time. At the time the next prime minister will arrive.

Which is where we are now.

FD: Daddy!

Favourite Son: Owww!

He’s ten minutes late now. This won’t do. If he can’t keep a simple appointment I don’t know how he expects to run the country. Christ. I’m never late for anything. Maybe I should get the job. Anyway. Doesn’t he know who I am? I write a blog that gets literally tens of hits every MONTH. I bet his doesn’t.

On the gangway above us lots of the short-hair big-hand men begin approaching. All the television people around us get quite animated. I see our next Prime Minister who doesn’t even have a blog and even if he did it would be rubbish compared to mine heading this way.

My eyes and brain do that weird ‘ooh I recognize you but from tele-vision so it’s a bit odd seeing you without a tele-vision in front of me’ thing.

FD: Daddy! I want to see the monsters!

Me: Two seconds sweetheart. Look. That’s the man who is going to be the boss of the whole country.

FD: Which one?

Me: Him.

FD: Oh.

She looks at a man in a suit. She’s seen one before. This is not an event.

FS: Owww.

Me: Oh you buffoon.

Our next Prime Minister begins to head down the stairs toward us.

48 hours previously. I am on my way home from work. I share the car with sister-in-law Makepeace. I say share. I sit in the passenger seat and offer money from time to time. It is never accepted. I do not push the matter.

Makepeace: Strange request for you.

Me: Oh?

Makepeace: Gordon Brown’s visiting our place. Some sort of meet-and-greet thing. It’s just. We’ve had a call and he wants plenty of children there. For him to be seen with. It’s his thing. Only photogenic ones though. He wants to be seen chatting to them. What do you think?

Me: Do I have to pay anything?

Makepeace: No. You’ll have to security vetted, but otherwise it’s a free day out.

Me: Fill your boots.

Makepeace: I’ll put your name down.

Me: Great. And I don’t have to pay anything?

Makepeace: Not even lunch.

Me: Great. Although I’m not the biggest fan of Dave Cameron.

Makepeace: It’s Gordon Brown.

Me: Mmm?

Anyway. He’s heading down the stairs toward us.

FD: Daddy!

Me: He’s coming now sweetheart.

FS: Owww!

Me: Silly sod.

FD: Daddy! I want to see the monsters!

Apparently it’s a very good exhibition. Life-sized models of mythical creatures.

He looks shorter than on the tele-vision. But also bulkier. He gives the impression that he is made of very dense Lego.

FD: Daddy!

In fairness we’ve been waiting fucking ages.

FD: Monsters!

There’s a dragon I’m told. I’m quite anxious to see it myself. Animatronic. Apparently there’s real smoke. It’s supposed to be huge.

Our next Prime Minister heads our way. But is distracted by a family consisting of slightly-less-attractive-than-my-own children.

FD: Daddy!

Do you know what? Fuck it. I want to see the fucking dragon as well.

Me: Come on you.

FD: Yaayy!

FS: Owww.

We walk off. He had his chance.


And there was real smoke and everything. Favourite Son was terrified. Favourite Daughter was ‘middle-scared’. It was brilliant.

TV.

I bloody love the city me. I love the stink, the fumes, the crowds, the noise, the heat. I love the riot vans, the mounted police and the tramps. I love the mentals who ask you for cigarettes because ‘I’ve just split up with me burd and I’m having a really hard time like’. So hard they haven’t got round to actually purchasing some cigarettes.

I even love the throngs of Poles who hang around outside employment agencies at 8.30am and assume that because I wear a suit I can secure them employment on a building site for the day.

I love the fact that there is a certain ‘quarter’ of the city that I cannot set foot in because for reasons I have yet to fathom I am like catnip to homosexuals.

I am walking to my office. It is morning.

Here she comes, I think.

And like clockwork, she strides toward me. I could set my watch by her. Proper strides, mind you. She is nearly seven foot tall. Really. The perm would shame Elkie Brooks. Facially, she resembles an un-surgically enhanced Roger Daltry.

Being of very broad shoulder, many people who step near her are sent reeling.

I say ‘she’ and ‘her’. I have no idea if she is entirely post-op and have no strong desire to find out. But if I’d had implants, hormones and my cock split in half and shoved back inside me, I’d feel I’d earned the title as well as anyone else.

I reach the building that I work in.

The colleague that I work most closely with is the same height, age and build as me. And has the uncanny ability of making people feel unsure as to whether he is about to propose to a person or murder them. I like him.

Uncannily Similar to Myself Colleague: Morning Tired.

Me: Yeah. You know transvestites?

USTMC: I can find out for you. Jesus. I had no idea.

Me: Fuck off. I mean, you know, those men that decide they should actually be women and have surgery?

USTMC: They’re transsexuals.

Me: That’s fucked the title then.

USTMC: What?

Me: Nothing. But. Look. Have you ever seen a transsexual that didn’t look like a goalkeeper? Seriously. They all look like rugby players in drag.

Silence.

Some thought takes place. This is a serious matter and nobody has drunk any coffee yet.

USTMC: No.

Me: Mmmm.

This is going to trouble me all day.

USTMC: But.

Me: Yes?

USTMC: If they didn’t look like centre-forwards, how would you even know they were transsexuals?

More silence.

Me: Of course. I’ve probably seen and met and known thousands and not even known.

I feel a huge weight has been lifted.

Monkeyface.

I am at work. It is morning. As I take my chosen employ very seriously, I am checking my email accounts. All of them.

First personal email account. Nothing. Hmm.

Second personal email account that I had created specifically for recieving junk whenever I need to supply an address to a site that requires one in return of information I need. Hmmm. Several women who are apparently very eager to perform fellatio upon me. Astounding. Otherwise nothing.

Third personal email account that I often forget exists. Nothing.

Email account connected to Shite Blog I sometimes write. Nothing.

Email account of university I sometimes attend. Nothing. I’ve forgotten my password.

This is desperate. As a last resort I check my Actual Work Email Account.

There is a message!

Sadly from a Public Relations Buffoon that I am required to deal with in the short term. It contains phrases such as ‘event critical’ and ‘time sensitive’ and mentions some concern regarding ‘corporate sponsors’.

I read it twice. And then come to the conclusion that if this message were at all important the writer would have employed plain English. I resolve to ignore it until something along the lines of ‘I need such and such and can you do this specific thing. Fucking now’ arrives. Which I shall probably also ignore.

Frankly, I would have preferred nothing.

Spent, I cast about me. At this rate I may have to do some Actual Work.

I begin ‘generating’ some ‘revenue reports’. This is a real thing, and can be very easily mistaken for Actual Work, and is genuinely quite complicated and time consuming.

Whilst I am engrossed in this, Thug Colleague wanders by.

(Do not mistake me. He is perfectly pleasant. He has the vocabulary of Favourite Son [two years old], the appearance of any character you choose from Viz and is self-appointed Class Clown. Now. Every class needs one. But no-one particularly wants to be fucking friends with the Class Clown.)

Thug Colleague: By I’m busy like Tired.

Me: Mmm. As am I, you loud-mouthed imbecile.

TG: Aye. Good one like. How. Have ah eva telt ye aboot my mate Monkeyface?

This is a tough one. Had Thug ever mentioned his acquaintance Monkeyface, I would surely have remembered. It is one of those names. So, if I lie and tell him I am fully appraised of the activities of Monkeyface, I shall be left alone. But will unfortunately have to then Do Some Work.

If I tell the truth, I will be excused from Actual Work, but will have to suffer the presence of a man who assumes that being referred to as a ‘loud-mouthed-imbecile’ is actually O.K.

Me: Do you know what? I’ve been tortured by this. I honestly don’t believe I have.

TC: Aye. Reet. Do you knaw why we call him Monkeyface?

Me: Does he have a face like a monkey?

TC: Naw.

Me: Of course not. That would be too easy. Do tell.

TC: Reet. Well. We were at university together reet?

Me: You went to university?

TC: Aye. Why?

Me: No reason. Amazing.

TC: Aye Reet. So he’s in his room in halls reet, and there’s this lass geing him a noshy. Ya knaw? A noshy?

Me: I think I get the picture. As memory serves.

TC: Aye. Piping him off an’ that.

Me: I am now definitely on the same page as you.

TC: Reet. Thing was, he’d trimmed his pyubs beforehand like.

Me: The age of chivalry is not dead it seems. I’m sure no self-respecting young lady enjoys the sensation of going down on what is essentially a camel-hair sweater with a bit of gristle in the middle. What a gent.

TC: Eh? Anyways. He gets there and then pulls it oot and whacks-off all ower her face.

Silence.

I am unsure as to how to respond. In mitigation, I am sure that such things have happened to the best of us. Although thinking back, I do not recall ever having specifically taken aim.

Me: O.K. then. As I say, I really am quite busy.

TC: Aye. Reet. And then, reet, he grabs this pile of pyubs that are still on his bedside table and he hoys then straight into her face. And all the hair sticks cos of all the spunk like and he gans ‘Monkeyfaaace’, ‘Monkeyfaaaaace’.

Silence. For some time.

Me: O.K. then.

I look at my computing machine. It appears my revenue report is complete.

Jumping the Shark

Appalling Blog Cliches#2

The worst is the My Blog is Now One Year Old and Here is What I Have Learnt Post. To be followed closely by the I Have Just Received My One-Thousandth Hit and am Dead Chuffed Post.

To avoid this, I am doing my One-Year-Learnt thing late. Ha-ha.

I have learnt that:

Being as rude as you please to people you believe to deserve it is almost as pleasurable as it is in real life. But not quite. And then they turn out to be very gentlemanly and ruin it all.

Lots of nice ladies will send you emails saying nice things.

One of those nice ladies will bully you so much you feel compelled to get a bit drunk with them. In person and that. And eat in an average but nonetheless perfectly pleasant restaurant with them. And suffer being repeatedly referred to as a ‘cunt’. And rather enjoy yourself for the first time in ages.

Somebody will thank you for giving them a much-needed kick up the arse and say that their marriage is now back on track.

Somebody else will thank you for other reasons that are far too personal to mention here, but will say that your words prompted him to talk to his family about something that bothered him all his life. You will feel simultaneously brilliant and shit.

A number of people will say ‘Hey, this is quite good’.

A number of people will say ‘Hey, this is very shit’. (They are often the most entertaining. Lots of people get cross and it goes on for ages. It’s brilliant)

You will correspond with Americans. And Canadians.

You will be quite obsessed about your ‘stats’ for two months and then forget to check them. Ever. Unless you are a twat.

You will enjoy the contents of your ‘comments’ more than you enjoy writing your shit blog.

Rather dubious-sounding insurance companies will offer to advertise on your shit blog in return for foolish amounts of money. You will decline because you are not a ‘cunt’.

People will request that you put ‘links’ to their shit blog on your own shit blog. You may or may not decline, for reasons best known to yourself.

You find yourself with not much to say for yourself.

Oh. And it’s actually quite good fun. And you’ll kid yourself that you’ll get a Real Writing Job like Mil Millington or Charlie Brooker or the Playground guy. But you won’t.

It doesn’t matter. Because it’s Quite Good.


Sorry. I know. I'll delete it.

Charity Shop

As has previously been mentioned, my Saturday morning is filled at an unreasonably early hour with the attendance of Favourite Daughter’s ballet class and the necessary trawl, at FD’s insistance, around town that takes place afterward.

Which includes the Charity Shop. And the Woman In The Charity Shop.

Each Saturday she looks at her watch. And thinks to herself ‘Oooh that bleary-eyed man with the really beautiful little girl (she’s not his in my opinion) will be in soon. It’s nearly quarter past twelve.’

She fusses with her hair a bit.

‘I’ve got this wonderful connection with that young lady,’ she thinks to herself. ‘Our little game when I pretend to get her name wrong every time really delights her. Every week. For the last six months. Oh she loves the game, and, by extension, me. And I’m sure her Dad feels it to be the highlight of his day. Although he could have a shave. And comb his hair. And do a little more than grunt at me. Anyway. They’ll be here in a minute. What shall I call her today? She’s so funny though. Pretends not to be interested in my joke. Silly girl. I’m so good with kids me.’

Anyway.

Favourite Daughter: Daddy! Charity Shop!

Me: Christ. Must we?

FD: Daddy!

Me: O.K.

My teeth are already clenched in anticipation of the forthcoming Theatre of Non-Cross-Generational Communication between Favourite Daughter and Mental Charity Shop Woman. I mean. It’s been close to a fucking year now.

If either I or FD were to find that a shop-keeper’s pretend inability to remember a name were comedy gold, we would have perhaps laughed by now. Once. For the look of it.

We never have.

Mental Charity Shop Woman usually spends at least ten minutes following FD around chanting a number of intentionally inaccurate names as FD absent-mindedly chants ‘no’. And very obviously wishing she would Go Away.

It’s a difficult thing really. She (Mental Charity Shop Woman) is obviously doing her best to be nice. And has taken an obvious shine to FD. Which she cannot be blamed for in my eyes. She is also at the cutting edge of customer service. Remembers her customers and that.

Christ I wish she would die.

So. Anyway. We walk in.

I am bracing myself for the charade of politeness in which she pretends to forget my daughter’s name and neither me nor my daughter think anything of it and pretend to correct her for the EIGHT BILLIONTH TIME.

Mental Charity Woman: Aaah. It’s Annabel isn’t it? [FD’s name is not Annabel]

FD: [Very VERY loud] Gaaah! [Looks with total contempt at MCW and then me]. Not this AGAIN?! [Very VERY loud]

And then storms around for a bit, ignoring any retard adults.

I clench my teeth. Roll my eyes apologetically at MCW.

MCW is visibly taken-aback.

I wait until we are outside before I smother her with kisses.

She tells me to get off.

Work.

It is morning. I am at a desk. Colleague Who Ressembles a Hobgoblin But Is Very Pleasant arrives, looking a bit flustered.

CWRAHBIVP: Morning Tired.

Me: Yeah.

CWRAHBIVP: Do anything nice last night?

Me: No.

CWRAHBIVP: By, I was in a rush this morning like. Nearly didn't have time to straighten my hair.

Silence.

After a moment or two his head sinks and he stares with desolation at his desk-tidy. He knows what he has just done.

More silence.

Me: [Quitely] You're a good man and I like you. I am going to just pretend this didn't happen.

He nods moresely.

Me: But if I ever hear that sort of fuckery again you and I are going to have a little chat, like men, in the carpark. Are we understood?

He nods silently. His eyes are glistening.

Colleague Who Is Also Very Nice Despite Being American But She Has Apologised So That Is O.K. has overheard the exchange, and comes over.

CWIAVNDBABSHASTIOK: I just want to say, I think you're totally right Tired. [She is very good like this]. You guys round here do too much grooming and it just isn't right.

I nod sagely at this validation of my extreme wisdom.

CWIAVNDBABSHASTIOK: I mean, look at you Tired, right?

I do look good, I think to myself. She's right. I do like her.

CWIAVNDBABSHASTIOK: You're like so obviously not someone who spends a lot of time on their appearance.

Silence.

Me: Fuck off.

It is seven minutes past nine.

Trapped.

Three-and-a-half months ago.

Upon realising that I have been twatting about on the Inter-Course until the early hours of the morning yet again, I decide it may be wise to turn the computer off and retire to bed.

As usual, I am not in the slightest bit sleepy, but have made some rather rash promises regarding by activities for the coming day. I should at least try and sleep.

Having had a shower some time previously, I am wearing only a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. No pants. The t-shirt is fine but the jeans are not fitting night attire. I cast about for something more suited to the lower regions.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not some Victorian sort who believes that sleeping with one’s undercarriage exposed is some form of degeneracy.

But the feeling when a small child creeps into the bed at God knows what hour and Little Dad is flopping about unrestrained is not one of well-being.

Ah. Upon the clothes-horse that does not in the slightest resemble a horse is a pair of my boxer shorts. Ideal.

I whip my jeans off, pausing only to be amused by the fact that I have no trousers on in the sitting-room before a Christmas tree, and begin pulling on my boxer shorts.

This proves problematic. They seem unusually tight and do not progress much higher than halfway up my calves.

I am now hopping about. With no trousers on. In front of a Christmas tree. There is some flapping.

Taking a closer look at my boxer shorts, I have something of a surprise.

They are not, in fact, boxer shorts. Nor or they mine.

I wonder how my nineteen-month-old Favourite Son would feel knowing that at two o’clock in the morning his half-naked Father could be found hopping around in front of a Christmas tree desperately trying to pull on a pair of Favourite Son’s trousers.

Personally, I felt rather uneasy.

I put my jeans back on. I am trapped. I do not know where alternative night-time attire would be located.

I cannot go to bed.

Service/Retail Grief.

‘I’m sorry,’ says the Unsympathetic Woman, ‘but we can’t do anything with that. It is far too dirty.’

I blink for a bit.

‘Pardon?’ I say.

‘Your coat. You’ll have to clean it before we can do anything with it.’

I am in a Dry-Cleaning Emporium. Brandishing an overcoat. My only overcoat. It is apparently offensive in that it is not in pristine condition.

‘I need to take my coat away. And then clean it myself. With my hands. And then bring it back. So that you can then clean it?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes. It is far too dirty for us to consider.’

‘Right.’

I then proceed to the You Can Purchase Anything Imaginable Emporium. I require a new keyboard for my computing machine so that people reading my emails do not suspect me of being a drunkard/imbecile when they see that every other letter of each word is missing.

In order to acquire this I have to leaf through a laminated catalogue until I see a picture of my desired item. I then have to write an arcane code onto something that resembles a betting slip.

Taking the betting slip to a troglodyte behind a small computing machine of her own results in my paying for the item. After queuing for a bit. Despite never having even seen it.

The troglodyte then refuses to surrender my coveted purchase.

It seems I have to join another queue. And wait to receive the item I have just paid for. Strictly speaking my keyboard has been stolen before I have even touched it. After suffering wipe-clean magazines and arcane rituals involving betting slips.

Three people before me are informed, before their stolen goods are presented to them, that the goods themselves are not exactly as they would have imagined. In that they are different items altogether. And is that O.K?

When I reach the desk of Kidnapped Goods That Rightly Belong To Someone Who Paid For Them Fifteen Minutes Previously the following exchange takes place:

‘Seems like a bit of a lucky dip here.’ Say I.

’43?’ Says he.

It has been an unsatisfactory afternoon.

Go And Buy This Book.

I'm in it so it must be O.K.

www.shaggyblogstories.co.uk

Girls Are Scary

I head into my Local Shop, side-stepping the youths who darkly demand cigarettes and/or the purchase of Smirnoff Ice.

Having recently experienced an unpleasant episode involving a football, I now just want to purchase some cigarettes and return to the safety of my home.

Heading toward the counter, my heart sinks as I see an Elderly Person engaged in the purchase of every single lottery ticket available in the country. Perhaps the machine will run out of paper.

Also present are a group of schoolgirls, milling around being girly. I glance at them.

Shit. They are THAT age. Not women by any stretch of the imagination. Technically still girls, but girls who have realised they have some strange influence on adult men. That they can make them go red. And perspire. I’m not sure if they even now how or why.

I start to worry. Although by no means a matinee idol, I am not ugly. I am their ideal target. Thirties, not hideous. Christ.

It’s O.K. I think to myself. Just do not look at them.

I can already hear them whispering. Already. I know it’s about me. I start to feel quite warm.

God. They must be thirteen if that. Just don’t look at them. It’ll be O.K. It’ll be fine. Fuck me this hag is taking an aeon with her lottery tickets.

They start to giggle. The whispering continues. ‘He fancies you.’

Christ, I think. Just don’t look. Everything normal here.

My eyes do a spastic thing and, without warning, point themselves directly at the TITS of one of these barely pubescent girls.

Shit. SHIT.

They explode in a combination of laughter and whispers.

Fuck. FUCK.

I am now VERY hot. I really would like to be elsewhere, but would also quite like some cigarettes. Fuck me Miss Havisham is taking fucking forever with her cunting lottery tickets.

The laughter and whispering intensifies. Kinell, I think. I should tell them I’ve got a daughter. That’ll help.

Whilst thinking about my tormentors, my eyes unconsciously swivel toward them. And point directly at the ARSE of one of their number.

I’m dead in the water and all concerned know it. They have beaten me. Actually quite LOUD laughter and pointing of fingers ensues.

'He's got a hard-on!'

I have not.

Elderly Person completes her additional purchase of an entire roll of scratch cards and departs. I step to the counter.

Shop Assistant woman looks at me with distaste.

I decide that this will not do. I shall explain to her that this is just what girls of that age DO. That they have tricked and humiliated me because they have just discovered they CAN. Without fully realising why. Yes. I will do that.

Me: Um. Twenty Regal Filter please.

Shop Assistant: Uh-huh.

I make my purchase and head toward the door. My palms are wet. I stand in front of the glass door for a moment or two.

Nothing happens. I step back. Nothing happens.

Oh you twat. It was NEVER an automatic door.

More girlish laughter.

It is getting dark now. I head toward the door to open it manually but notice someone on the other side heading toward it at the same time. Being a gentleman I wait for this person to come in first.

And then realise that said person is merely my reflection in the glass that has, in the dark, become a mirror.

Considerably more girlish laughter.

I RUN home.

Comic Relief Is Shit.

But this might not be:

http://troubled-diva.com/labels/rednoseday.html

*SIGH* I'll be noshing-off real publishers next.

I swore to myself that I'd never get involved in this sort of hippy-internet-we're-all-mates nonsense. But it is for the starving. Or the spastics. Lesbians maybe. Mentals. Oh I don't know.

Anyway. Have a look. I suppose it's a jape, and anyone who doesn't want to see their stuff in REAL print is a liar.

More on the personal humiliation front soon.

Throw / Catch.

I am walking down my street. On my way to my Local Shop.

I don’t know what it is. I’ve never had much interest in the physical pursuits. I don’t know why. My Grandfather (don’t even get me started on that grand old bastard. There’s a permanent blog in it) continues to study and practice Art decades after he retired from teaching it. And has read Everthing. Maybe it is from him. Or maybe it is because I am not tall and built like a pencil.

Anyway.

I pass by the waist-high wall of the back-garden that belongs to one of our neighbours. In attendance are several children playing football and, at the bottom of the garden, several Dads observing. Adopting the classic stance. Legs wide, arms crossed aside from the right hand which clutches a can of Stella Artois.

The ball gets away from them. And sails over the wall. Toward me.

I start to panic. I may be required to Do Something.

In slow motion the ball heads toward me.

Assorted Children: Mate. MATE. Can you get our ball?

I reach out to catch it. It scrapes my hands and begins bouncing downhill.

I tried to catch it. Hence I am now committed. I go running after it. I catch it. And walk back to their garden.

I attempt to drop-kick the ball and miss. My foot flails in mid-air whilst the ball bounces away. Again. Once more I run and catch it.

Accepting my limitations, I now throw it over the wall. Well. I say over. It clips the top of the wall and bounces back toward me.

I duck so it does not smack me in the face.

And then go running after it. AGAIN.

I then HAND it to one of the children.

Child: [With tears in his eyes] Yeah. Thanks a lot.

Parent-type: [Desperately trying to breath normally and slightly doubled-up] Yeah. Cheers for that.

Me: Um. Yeah.

I proceed to the Local Shop.

Where things actually get worse.


To be continued.

Everyone Needs Good Neighbours.

She giggled in a girlish manner unbecoming of her age and physical repugnance.

It had not even been a very good joke, and to see someone in their early forties with sunbed-brown skin and a ‘wet-look’ black perm laughing like a twelve-year-old with a crush on her English teacher at one of your not-actually-funny jokes is not terribly pleasant.

But we’ll get back to this.

Our current house is not terribly unpleasant.

So far as I can see.

It has the correct number of walls and the roof has remained attached for two years. We have gas, electric and, briefly, telephone. It is a pleasant street, six-year old boys complain to me as I collect my daughter from school that the Fire Engines woke them up, we like our neighbours on our left and LOVE our empty-house-no-neighbour scenario on our right. This ticks all the boxes to my mind.

Tired Mam believes that it is akin to the Amytiville Horror. That is her concern.

Anyway.

It was not always thus. We had different left-hand neighbours once.

Oh dear God. Where do I start?

I am playing in the backyard (a proper northern-England terrace, mind. Built for miners. No luxuries like back gardens) with Favourite Son. He is only a few months old. He cannot even crawl.

A football comes sailing over the wall from said neighbours’ yard and narrowly misses FS’s skull. That does not even have bone at the top of it.

I furiously yank open gate to back street and address next-door kids:

Me: Look [Brandish child] He doesn’t even have bone at the top of his head. I don’t mind you having a kick-about. Just do it a bit further down the street. He is out here a lot.

Two months after this conversation. I have eleven confiscated footballs in my outhouse. Eleven. I had tried being reasonable. I wonder. As a mother (a single mother, so money must have been an issue), when you bought the tenth football you must have been thinking about cost.

The joy of realising I am The Grumpy Guy On The Street Who Won’t Give Balls Back is tempered by the hours in which Neighbours Children are In Their House.

I know. I have two children under the age of five myself and they are bloody NOISY. Not like these fucked-up little cunts though. Jesus. I don’t know what the Nazis heard when they gassed all those kids, but it can’t have been as bad as this shit. For three solid fucking hours. Every night. I’ve never heard so much screaming and hammering on walls in my life.

It relents at about 10 o’clock. Ten. I know the age of these kids. Ten is too late. No wonder they’re hyper. Whatever.

This brief respite is then replaced by the soothing sounds of ‘Bat Out Of Hell’ at volume turned to ‘eleven’. Or the greatest hits of Olivia Newton John. I do not know which is worse.

After three occasions of knocking on neighbours door at eleven-thirty at night and explaining the non-sleeping situation of all in my household, I resort to merely banging upon the wall.

Not activity for a civilised man but having seen the less-than-pleasant face of Next Door Neighbour, I am not anxious to ever see it again.

They move out, and all is well. I have more footballs than I know what to do with and do not have to listen to anyone’s dreadful records. New neighbours are perfectly pleasant.

Anyway. Now.

I have some lime. But a sad lack of either vodka or indeed tonic.

The only off-licence now open is fifteen-minutes walk away. I hurry.

I get there in reasonable time.

Me: Smirnoff. 35cl. And some tonic water.

Woman: [I do not look at her] It’s two-for-one on tonic water.

Me: O.K. Lets go crazy.

She giggles. She is being coquettish, with her face like an unnaturally brown paving slab and her hair so tightly permed it resembles an unrealistically large number of pubes sprouting from her head.

She pretends not to remember that we were neighbours. She is doing a menial job.

I give her some money.

Whilst she simpers.

Outdone.

I fancy some cigarettes. I wander to the off-licence conveniently situated one-minute and thirty-seconds walk away from my front door.

It is shut. As I am informed by the very serious-looking Police Officer standing outside the door. He volunteers no further information.

I light my second-last cigarette and think for a bit.

Random Youth: How. Gie ayes one a theym.

I normally decline such requests, but as he is a ‘yoot’ and has probably been standing around outside this off-licence for the past twelve hours, he may be able to shed some light on this whole non-cigarette-purchasing nonsense. I give him a cigarette.

Me: What's going on.

RY: Hah ya not hurd? The choppers an that? [I had been irritated by a low-flying helicopter that was quite rudely brandishing a searchlight around the back of my street. I had yet to get around to composing a letter about it.] Thu’ve bin robbed. Shooters an at.

Me: Oh. Right.

I now have no cigarettes and am quite unhappy.

The next day.

I give the off-licence the benefit of my custom in order to purchase a newspaper.

Troll Woman: £1.40 hen.

Me: Working last night?

TW: Aye.

I expected more than this. I am slightly irritated. My recent kitchen fire had been the talk of the off-licence for five whole minutes, despite my being very stoical about the whole thing.

Me: Have they got them?

TW: Divn’t knaw.

Me: [Getting quite exasperated now. Christ. I thought I was deadpan.] I say ‘them’. How many was it?

TW: Just the one.

It is clear she is not going to elaborate. Bloody hell. At least I managed to get a matter-of-fact story out of it and put it on my shit blog. This woman is just not making the effort. I try and wheedle further information from her.

Me: Really?

TW: One’s enough.

Some time passes.

Me: Thanks then.

TW: Seeya hen.

I leave.

A man had pointed a GUN at her. She might have elaborated. I’ve got a BLOG to write for God's sake.

Is Shit the New Good?

I am In The Pub. Frankly, wishing I were elsewhere. My experience started thus:

Slothful Barman: [After chatting to his mates in the corner for a couple of minutes and then ambling in my direction like it was some sort of chore] Whatcha after?

What am I after? What is my desire? How about an afternoon in a locked Hilton room with all the members of Girls Aloud (except the ginger one) and a big pile of coke?

Or an assurance that my children will always see me as ‘Dad’ and never the hugely fallible ‘man’ I actually am? (Although I fear that ship has already sailed.)

Failing that how about a Travelodge with Holly Willoughby?

Failing all of that, how about a fucking drink?

I obtain my drink and find myself a quiet table. Somebody puts a song on the jukebox.

It’s quite good. Interesting guitar riff, not ripped-off from anyone. Lyrics concerning the essential emptiness of modern icons. And how they are merely useless tools of capitalilism. The essentially empty nature of advertising and commercialism.

Who is this radical band, you would think. The Manics? The Whoever Else Who Is A Bit Gobby?

Genesis. Phil Collins. Genesis.

I finish my drink and leave.

Later that evening I listen to the debut album of Del Amitri and am stunned by the level of insight that would not even see the light of day today. It is a Shit Record. But it is Very Good.

I physically prevent myself from listening to my old Lloyd Cole and the Commotions records. Because they are properly shit. But also very good compared to the output of, I don’t know, Pete Doh- no. Forget it. Too easy.

Later.

Tired Mam: Was he up for long last night?

It is a sensible question regarding the well-being of Favourite Son. Unfortunately, I have no idea what she is talking about. I decide to front it.

Me: Em. Not long.

TM: Oh good.

It seems that Favourite Son suffered some unrest during the night. And that I resolved it. Without fully Waking Up myself. Or remembering. Because I was sleeping.

Does this mean I am Shit? As a Father? Or so Good I can actually resolve things without even being fully awake?


And is Shit the new Good?

Signifier / Signified.

I stare at the sign distractedly, for a number of reasons.

TopShop have less chance of seeing it now that it has been blown over, I think to myself. That’s a small mercy. But it is still a terrible thing to exist.

I am on a suburban street, looking at the front garden of a house.

Although having nothing against these sort of less-than-ten-year-old houses, or indeed the streets that they are on, I find the huge ‘developments’ that contain them deeply alarming.

I get lost in them. Very easily. Everything looks the same and there are – intentionally, I think – no landmarks. You feel as though you may never leave.

Everybody drives the same car, all of which are parked on identical driveways. The cars may be very different for all I know, but they all look the same.

The front garden of this house is not obviously unremarkable or unwelcoming. No wall or fence around the front. An expanse of grass, with some inoffensive evergreen shrubbery. There is, in the centre, a small wooden placard with some text upon it staked into the lawn and that has been blown over in the recent gales. However, it is still readable. I stare at it. I start to think about the occupants of the house attached to this garden, and the general thinking thereof:

Mildred: Maurice?

Maurice: Oh God Mildred. It can’t be Saturday already. We did it last month surely?

Mildred: No no. Not that. I can see you’re busy with your Hornby train set so I shan’t trouble you for long…..I SAY! Is that a papier-mâché evocation of the Penines?

Maurice: [Smug] Mmmm.

Mildred: VERY good if I may say. Anyway. Our front garden.

Maurice: Hardly the Penines is it?

Mildred: Quite right. QUITE RIGHT. Oooh if you keep agreeing with me Saturday may come early.

Maurice: [Under his breath] Oh sweet Jesus no.

Mildred: Anyway. It just doesn’t seem very welcoming at the minute does it?

Maurice: What the hell? What is this nonsense now woman? And where is my dinner? ‘Welcoming’ for the love of our Lord Jesus Christ. What are you blathering about? It’s the front garden. Put a sign up or something.

Anyway.

I am staring at the little wooden sign that has been staked into the centre of the garden of this particular abode. Although it has blown over, the pedestrian can still read it. As I can.

I realise that although this is not America, and that this particular estate may not employ a private security firm that will shortly Taser me, it may be time to move on.

Whatever. The seasonal North Wind has made this scenario a very distant possibility:

Interior. Day. Corporate Headquarters of TopShop or any other manky High Street clothing emporium selling dreams of whoredom to twelve-year-olds. And that, oddly, are only actually frequented by slightly tense-looking women in their forties who can be seen asking after Size 12’s and getting laughed at.

Exec 1: We are running out of disgustingly suggestive slogans to put on pastel-pink size 8 crop-tops that are ‘aimed’ at women in their ‘twenties’ but that we cannot ‘prevent’ 11-year-old girls from buying.

Exec 2: Tell me about it. That one that was an anagram for ‘EASY’ took forever.

Exec 3: It’s a headache now. They’ve stopped selling. You know the problem? They’re not subtle enough. I mean. The last one said ‘I will merrily take it up the wrong’un for no babies’. That’s not even a play on words.

Exec 1: He’s right. These are size 8 for fucks sake. No ADULT is going to buy them, and no adult will buy them for their pubescent daughters – no matter how much they pester them – if they allude REALLY OBVIOUSLY to minge- or indeed bumhole-activity.

Exec 4: [He has remained silent until now. He knows he has the upper hand.] Yeah. Subtle. So that a kid would know it were filth, but it could easily not be, so that she could get ‘cross’ if some bloke took it the ‘wrong way’. And still get their mother to buy it them when Mam realises t’won’t fit’em emselves.

Exec 2: Alright Madchester. Affecting a Mancunian accent is totally 1998.

Exec 4: As is saying ‘totally’, Beverly Hills 90210.

Exec 2: Fuck you.

Exec 4: Naw man. Fuck YOU.

Exec 1: Fucks sake come on. I want to score some toot before the day is out. What is it big shot?

Exec 4: I saw it on way ‘ome. A sign in a front lawn that ‘ad almost blown down. The kiddy-fiddler-wannabee-victims will lap it up and their Mam’s will never get it.

[Everyone is holding their breath]

Exec 4: ‘Welcome To My Garden’

CEO walks in.

CEO: I’ve been listening. Exec 4, you are promoted. Your ideas of over-sexualising the barely adult will, if accepted by society in a relatively short period of time, help my upcoming court case – I can’t talk about it really. She looked at least 13. Here is a one hundred thousand dollar bonus.

Fade to black.

Day Four.

At this point the amateur insomniac has to bow out.

Four days. Oh yes I have slept. I shall tell you about this 'sleep'.

You taste metal in the back of your mouth. You start to sweat so badly you would think you were doing something fun. You have an awful dream about a bird.

Then one of your limbs twitches without your permission and wakes you. After less than an hour. And it’s nearly dead so you have to shake it with your other arm to get it to work again.

And then you can’t sleep.

And every part of you feels...just…not…right.

And your mouth feels funny. And your eyes feel like they belong to someone else.

And you just want to sleep. Because you are cross. And it has been three – or is it four (you can’t think properly when you are this tired) – nights now and you don’t want to make anyone unhappy so just some sleep will do but you can’t because there is always Noise and it’s no-ones fault but you just need some sleep.

Just some peace.

And you try and find a quite corner of the house during the day. And try and sleep.

But it is day. And the weekend. Children jump on you. You cannot be cross.

Adults need access to the bedroom you are in just as you are drifting, and if they don’t get it now they never will. There is no point in getting cross.

You give up, and resign yourself to the fact that not only do you have trouble formulating thoughts, but actual vocal expression is something of a chore. Whilst you ignore the weird things that flash in the corner of your eyes that are not actually there.

And try not to flinch when they reach for you. In my experience, they’ve got lots of legs but it doesn’t matter because as soon as you look at them they’re gone.

Ballet / Twat.

Saturday morning. An unreasonably early hour.

I am sitting in the draughty ante-room of a Church of England–owned Village Hall. From the main hall, behind closed doors, comes the sound of classical music and frantic foot-falls.

It is Favourite Daughter’s ballet class. I am surrounded by a dozen or so Mummies discussing the relative merits of various forms of child discipline. And the general usefulness –or otherwise- of Men.

I have opted-out of this debate, and immerse myself in my newspaper.

An opinion-piece suggests that a contestant on a recent reality show is in fact not racist, but is merely stupid. So that is O.K. then. The inference is that only university-educated middle-class wankers actually know how to be properly racist, and that anyone else who has a crack at it are not privileged enough to do it right. What with racism and stupidity being mutually exclusive and that.

Fucking hippies. With some irritation I cast my newspaper to one side and look about me.

I notice that there is another Man in the room, about my age. He does not look happy, and after a moment leaves the room to –I assume- get something from his car.

From the main hall I hear ‘Oooh-be-doo, I want to be like you-hoo-hoo’. For the two-dozenth time I try and recall a National Ballet production of the Jungle Book. I cannot. But tap my foot anyway.

The Man returns, brandishing a Man Bag.

Fucking hell, I think.

He unzips it and produces a laptop-computer. Oh. It wasn’t a Man Bag. It was a Laptop Bag. Is that better or worse?

Powering-on said laptop, he begins to earnestly tap away. Occasionally glancing around to make sure everyone can see that he owns an expensive computer, and is a person of such importance that he needs to use it now. There is a whole forty minutes until the end of his daughter’s ballet class. Valuable time. Time a gentleman of his stature cannot waste.

I try and ignore this Master of the – well, not Universe but perhaps Village Parish – but am consumed with curiosity. What with not being able to read the newspaper because it makes me cross and not being able to partake in Mummy conversation of this variety-

Random Mummy: ….And do you know, the odd occasion Brian DOES do the washing-up, he does it so badly I have to spend half-an-hour yelling at him afterwards pointing-out all the things he’s done wrong. I mean, I could do it MYSELF in that amount of time!

-for obvious reasons.

Perhaps he’s checking some important emails, I think to myself. Really time-sensitive ones. (Fucking hell. ‘Time Sensitive’. Even being near this man is turning me into a cunt.) I mean, really urgent ones.

I examine his laptop for evidence of one of those PCMCIA GPRS cards. Nothing. Upon reflection, I find it unlikely that this Village Hall is a Wi-Fi hotspot. They don’t have heating for goodness sake. Besides, the owners have a direct line to God. An internet-connection without-the-wires would surely be a secondary consideration.

Ruling-out any online activity, I can only assume that Master of the Village Parish is so dreadfully important that he is actually working on a Saturday and is preparing some sort of PowerPoint presentation for a meeting he has this afternoon.

Yes. That must be it. Blimey. And he finds the time to squeeze-in taking his daughter to her ballet class. What a gent.

I shift my chair a little, so as to better shower this man with my gaze of new-found admiration. From my new vantage point I can actually see the screen of his computer.



I should have known.

Solitaire.



Fuck me, I think. Do you know how much a pack of cards costs? Jesus, I knew I was going to have a bit of time on my hands so I bought a newspaper. It cost £1.40.



No-one gives a tepid shit about you or your fucking WANKY two-grand computer you hopeless hopeless FUCK. I myself possess a laptop-computer. And do you know what? I have never felt the need to use it in a public place. Do you know why? Because I am not a CUNT. If a person were to pull out their cock and begin vigorous rubbing their wilted miniscule genitalia they would be arrested before they had chance to lovelessly dribble their watery grey useless spunk down the front of their Next casual slacks. And yet TWATS like you get to walk free.

I rather miss Enchanted Dad. He was nowhere near as tiresome as this gentleman.

Work/Flu.

I am At Work. Some time ago.

I have The Flu.

The phone rings. I look about for a bit. No-one leaps to answer it. Bugger.

Me: Support.

Bonkers Woman: Windows is broken.

Me: [Pause]. How can I help?

BW: I’ve told you. It’s broken.

Me: I’m afraid I’ll need a little more than that. What EXACTLY has happened?

BW: Well it doesn’t work obviously. Why do you think I’m calling? Don’t you know? YOU put it on.

Me: Well, not me perso- [SIGH]. What is it you are trying to do?

BW: I have been writing a letter. I have printed it. And now I just want THIS to go away.

Me: You mean Word. You want to shut it down.

BW: Isn’t that what I just said? You must pay attention young man. How much do I pay you?

Me: Pay me? Nothi-[sigh]. Again. Tell me EXACTLY what is happening.

BW: Well. I go to close it. Click on the thing to close it. A box I don’t want comes up. I don’t want it so I click Cancel and around we go. This has taken half my day. It doesn’t work. This computer. With your Windows thing.

Me: [Long pause. I try and think about nice things. Like me not actually inventing Word and not being held personally responsible for its quirks.] You are trying to close a Word document?

BW: Well obviously. Good God young man, do you know what you’re doing?

Me: Mmmmm. When you click on the cross to close the application, do you then get a small window asking you if you want to save and giving you the options of ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘cancel’?

BW: Obviously. Can I speak to your supervisor?

Me: Mmmmmmmm. One moment. Do you keep clicking ‘cancel’?

BW: Well of course. WHAT ELSE WOULD I DO?

Me: Have you saved it?

MW: Do not take me for an idiot.

Me: THEN CLICK ‘No’.

Pause.

MW: Mmmm. It seems to have fixed itself. Goodbye.

The Flu is very pressing, and I make my excuses. I go to the Chemists.

Me: I have The Flu. I require your best medicine.

Fat Chemist Woman: You don’t have the flu.

Me: [Taken aback] I bloody do.

FCW: Do you have a fever?

Me: Well. I’m quite hot.

FCW: You’ve got a jumper on. No wonder.

Me: Look. I’m not well. And I’ve not had much sleep. I just want to get through the day. I need some medicine. What have you got for The Flu?

FCW: Paracetemol.

Me: Is that a joke?

FW: The joke is your pretend illness. You are just like my husband. You’re about as ill as I am.

Me: Look…

FCW: Do you want the pills or not?

I go back to my office.

With my pills.



She was fired a month later.

Thieving.

Firestarter.

I am at work.

Having a cigarette with a man I have known for one week. And have instantly liked. This is not an everyday experience for me.

Instantly Likeable Man examines his cigarette.

ILM: You know, you can accidentally start a fire without even thinking about it.

Me: Mmmm.

ILM: I mean. If I were to pop into the kitchen leaving a lit cigarette in the sitting-room, the house would instantly burst into flames.

Me: Mmmmm.

ILM: Now. On the other hand. If you want to intentionally start a fire …..

Me: Mmmmmm.

ILM: It takes bloody HOURS.

Me: Mmmmmm.