House Move.

It’s a pain isn’t it?

I remember once.

I was 21. My lease had run out and, being 21, I hadn’t arranged anything else.

Pants.

A guy at work was called Vaughn. But insisted upon spelling it ‘Voign’.

Bit odd. Whatever.

‘I’ve got a spare room at my place.’ He cheerfully said.

Perfect. Somewhere to live, not much money. Great.

We later discovered -at work- that according to his National Insurance details his name was Gary.

Again. Whatever.

I go to see his house. And his spare room.

‘I must warn you,’ he says, before he opens the door of the spare room, ‘I’ve been doing some extra work from home so it won’t look like this when you move in.’

He opens the door.

I am faced with a very large poster.

Of a VERY LARGE MAN.

Who appears to have shares in Baby Oil due to the amount on him.

WHO HAS A VERY LARGE COCK.

That seems to be the focal point of this portrait.

I can only assume that he was in a very warm location when the photograph was taken. Or that he was one of God’s favourite boys.

I am slightly taken aback.

Glancing around, I notice many other posters. There seems to be a common theme.

From what I can see, not only were these other photographs taken in a very WARM environment, they were also taken in a very stimulating one.

Me: Em.

V: What do you think about the room then?

I’m still trying to figure this out.

There are lots of scented candles around. And a little shelf with lots of bottles on it. They appear to be oils of some sort.

Me: Em.

I was a young man. That was a lot of big cocks – many of which were angry – to be confronting a gentleman of my tender years with.

V: Oh. Yeah. You know. I do a bit of ‘massage’ in the evenings. To make ends meet. You know. In here. But not when you’re around of course. If you moved in.

Me: Em.

V: So what do you think.

Me: Seriously?

V: Well. Yes.

Me: I’ve got some other places to look at. I’ll let you know.


He was fired the next week.

I Love You As Much As……

The odd thing about American drama series is that any scene set in a gentleman’s lavatory – usually in a place of work – involves an unfeasibly attractive gentleman walking into the lavatory purely to wash his hands. What is this? Or, in times of extreme stress, to splash some water on his face. It seems that Americans do not urinate. Or say ‘goodbye’ before hanging-up a telephone.

Anyway.

I walk into the gentleman’s lavatory of my place of work.

I need to wash my hands.

Whilst yanking paper-towels from the dispenser in a hugely devil-may-care masculine manner like that bloke who looked like a darts player in NYPD Blue, I notice that a conversation is taking place. In the Gents.

I look around. I am the only person here, save for an apparent occupant of one of the stalls, the door of which is shut.

Fuck me. He’s got another fella in there. They’re having a chat.

No. It quickly becomes apparent that the conversation is one-sided.

Unknown Gentleman: Yeah yeah I hear you but it’s all so deadline-sensitive I CAN’T just leave it. You know? It’s now or the whole thing’s blown.

I am astounded. Mobile-phone conversations are frowned-upon within the confines of the office (this is England after all, where we have perfectly good phones with wires, and if you want to talk on a phone that doesn’t have wires – like some sort of degenerate - then maybe this isn’t the place for you. Well. That seems to be the policy at my company. I’m not sure I disagree) but he could have gone outside. No need to lock yourself in a toilet cubicle.

There is the unmistakeable rattle of a toilet-roll in its industrial-quality dispenser.

Oh. Oh dear. He’s not just having a conversation.

UG: Thing is, cut-off point is today. That’s it. Or it doesn’t happen. You know how it is.

There is an additional rustle. Not of tissue. This sounds more heavy-weight.

He’s reading a fucking newspaper.

And they say men can’t multi-task.

Whilst admiring this man’s time-management skills (and whilst lurking in a public lavatory without legitimate reason) I am slightly appalled. Surely this was not the ubermensch Nietzsche had in mind?

UG: Sweetheart I know. I KNOW. But he’s just teething. HE IS. No. I’m not saying this is more important than our son. But you know he’s getting a sore tum and a temp because … ok OK. I’ll be home on time. Well. Maybe seven-ish. NO, what I do for a living is not more important. I mean, it IS important, what I do IS important and ……. Right. RIGHT. Look, I’m not arguing……

I decide to leave. I’ve been drying my hands for more time is necessary and I also feel as if I am now intruding on a family dispute. In an office lavatory. Which is a first.



The gist of the whole conversation seemed to be:

‘Sweetheart, I love you and our family. It’s all as equally important to me as reading the paper.’

‘In fact, a conversation with the mother of my children is as important to me as having a shit.’

Faggot.

It’s not a great word is it? Even ‘nigger’ has been appropriated by the recipient and turned against the aggressor, but this one still languishes in the hands of Dire Straits circa whenever with a mention in Money For Nothing. That no-one has yet to take offensive to.

‘Queer’ is fine because there are real academic textbooks on the subject and that. They happily use the word. It has been sanitised by universities and a guest appearance by Keith Chegwin on an underwhelming sitcom.

So this is an odd one.

I am outside my place of work. It is quarter to nine in the morning.

Present are Very Dry Colleague and Lovely But Stupid Colleague.

VDC: What do you make of that then?

He nods toward one of those huge Jeep things. Whilst my office building houses 1000 employees, we have no parking and are located on an exciting city-centre back-street where you will be killed of a Friday night. (This is true. It happened last week. No-one I knew so fuck them.)

I look at the Jeep, surprised that it is not the usual Aston Martin that is parked there. Whatever. A very large, very well-muscled man (he does own a Jeep after all) is loading some things into it.

Me: Mmmm.

LBSC: Look at the licence plate!

Ah. It is personalised. This used to be an indication of untold riches, but when you see people driving fucking fifteen-year-old Fiats with such plates it stops being a big deal and just makes you a wanker.

But this one is a thinker.

FAG40T.

We’ve a few minutes before we have to work. We discuss the various scenarios.

1.

Guy walks into License Plate Emporium.

Employee: What can I do you for?

Guy: Well. All my friends say I’m a really cool dude. Do you have one that says COOL DUD3 or something?

Employee: No. We’ve got one that spells ‘faggot’.

Guy: That’ll do. Wrap it up.

2.

Guy walks into License Plate Emporium.

Employee: What can I do you for?

Guy: I am such a faggot.

Employee: Erm?

Guy: Yeah. You know? I’ve got loads of money despite being not too sharp, and all my clever friends tell me that being a ‘faggot’ is just the absolute best. Sort me out.

Employee: Cash or card?

3.

Guy walks into Licence Plate Emporium.

Employee: What can I do you for?

Guy: I fucking love it up the arse. What’ve you got?

4.

Guy walks into Licence Plate Emporium.

Employee: What can I do you for?

Guy: They’re all fucking faggots.

Employee: Erm. Who?

Guy: Everyone on the road but me. I am so heterosexual in my driving technique it is unbelievable, and I want everyone else to know how homosexual their driving skills are in comparison. I am all Man. See my driving if you have any doubts. Really aggressive. Totally manly. That thing with Dominic in high-school was just a phase. Bit of an experiment. He was into it, I wasn’t. There’s nothing FUNNY about me. But there’ll all queers. Bunch of faggots. All looking at me like I’m some sort of Homo. I’ve a good mind to shove my cock up their arses just to teach them a lesson.

Anyway. Some sort of plate telling people they’re faggots. Compared with my brilliant manly driving. You know. ‘Cos I’m the driver usually. I mean. Not like that. I hate men. They’re all gay. They can suck me off.

Employee: Just buy it.

Anyway. We run out of ideas.

Lovely But Stupid Colleague: The funny thing is, he doesn’t even look very gay.

Me: What do you mean?

LBSC: Well. He doesn’t look like you.

Me: Fuck off. What do you mean?

LBSC: Well. He’s really big. And muscled and that. Really big. He doesn’t look gay. He’s BIG.

Very Dry Colleague: I’m not an expert on the subject, but I don’t think the Registrar of Homosexuality has an upper-body size limit.

Lovely But Stupid Colleague: So you don’t think he’s gay then? Really? What would this Registry say about his plate? Is that not wrong?

Me: Fuck me.

VDC: I have to get to work.

Me: Me too. Christ.

Sanctuary.

I am at work.

Having little better to do, I call one of my clients upon the tele-phone.

The client is not a happy man. He has a hardened artery in his leg and has had to suffer much surgery, and even more time off work. He is self-employed. He is not content.

Me: Hi George. [His name is not George.]

George: [Remorsefully] Oh. Hi Tired.

Me: Going mad much?

George: The holidays are the worst. I mean. If I don’t work for a couple of weeks I go a bit mad anyway.

Me: With you. Me too.

George: Aye. But. The holidays. The kids are ALWAYS around. I think I’m losing it. It’s been two months now. I can’t walk far.

Me: Look. They’re your children. Enjoy the time. I know it’s tough when you don’t really think you can do anything and there’s not much money about, but take the time. Relish this time with-

George: You don’t understand.

Me: What?

George: My wife’s a nanny.

Me: Oh dear God.

George: Yes.

Me: She doesn’t-

George: Yes.

Me: How many?

George: Eight. Including my two. In the house. All the time. All summer. All day.

Me: Christ.

George: I know.

Me: I love children. If they’re actually MINE.

George: Yeah. The same.

Me: God. You know what you need? A shed.

George: Done.

Me: What?

George: Had a couple of mates build one at the end of the garden last week. I’m talking to you from there now.

Me: You've actually had one purpose-built? Superb. All you need now is one of those little fridges that you can fit six cans of lager into and you’re sorted. [I assumed I was joking at this point.]

George: Done.

Me: What?

George: I got satellite television now.

Me: In the house?

George: Naw. Got the dish put on the side of The Shed this week. Sky Sports. Plasma screen.

Me: You’re joking?

Silence.

George: [Puzzled] No.

More silence.

I’m not a big sports fan. But this sounds too good to be true.

Me: Can I come round?

George: No.

The Cliches Continue.

It's true, I've become all that I hate and have become a living blog cliche.

The MOST hateful cliche is the smug, self-satisfied 'oh, I'm away on holiday so there will be a guest blogger filling-in for me' thing.

Like you've got a column in the Guardian and you hand it over to one of your writer mates for a couple of weeks.

That's almost ok, but when you have a blog? Fucking hell. The assumption that people will wither and die if there is no content on your silly web-thing? Christ.

And the whole clique - thing. Jesus.

It makes me SICK.

My current post can be found at www.non-workingmonkey.blogspot.com

I'm filling-in for her whilst she's on her holidays.

Look. She's actually quite nice. Although the blog's a bit weak since she got happy - Dating Monkey's better and contains some sound advice and big laughs.

The Last Chance

Seriously. I know I’ve mentioned my local Emporium of Alcoholic Beverages before, but FUCK ME.

I occasionally frequent for two reasons.

1: It is situated one minute and thirty seconds walk away from my current abode.

2: The clientele are so uniformly appalling. It’s like a zoo or something. But a zoo full of people who can’t wait for the next film starring Jason Streathem. It’s like they’ve rounded-up all the twats and put them in one place so that Normal People can avoid them. I have to look. On occasion.

I HATE The Last Chance. It is a horrible place. But on the odd time I frequent, I always walk away feeling better. You know. About myself. Because I’m a prick, and think that mingling with the underclass secure in the knowledge that they’ve never read the Guardian makes me better than them. It doesn't.

Tonight.

I’ve mentioned Imaginary High School Friend I feel sure. He lives across the street from me. I am not convinced that he isn’t stalking me.

I bump into him. He insists we drink together. I have ABSOLUTELY nothing better to do. We retire to The Last Chance.

The following events occur:

1: A random woman informs me that ‘Steve’ got the job. Great. I do not know anyone called Steve.

2: A man I have never met insists I am ‘staring him out’ and attempts to head-butt me, fails terribly and falls to the floor. Apparently this means I am ‘queer’. According to him.

3: A Very Large Man also insists that I went to high-school with him. I’ve no idea who he is. He doesn’t seem to mind. But insists upon shouting my name a lot.

4: I ask my ‘friend’ – the one I apparently went to high school with for several years without realising – who a guy I faintly recognize is. It transpires that said guy is the biggest coke dealer in this small town.

5: Coke Dealer and Very Large Man retire to the car park for the world’s quickest cigarette and Very Large Man goes straight to the Gents afterwards .He probably needed a wee after his two-second cigarette. He was very chatty afterwards though – that cigarette perked him up no end.

6: Very Large Man, whilst reminding me of the non-existant fun we had at high-school – where we never met – randomly thinks this would be the perfect time to take his shirt off. So we could see his tan. And the fact he’d had his back waxed. In the pub.

I’ve had a busy week. I finish my drink and go home.

Slave Friendly

Some time ago.

I am in a Conference Room. As anyone who has ever found themselves in such a place will attest, they are not good places to be.

This is not the first day of my attendance, in which me and my fellow ‘delegates’ are subjected to the relentlessly enthusiastic attentions of a gentleman in a faintly shiny suit who has armed himself with a laptop, a projector, a whiteboard that is apparently ‘interactive’, a 100-watt shit-eating perma-grin and a covert desire to rob his audience of any vestige of individual will.

He is saying something about ‘brand strategy’ whatever the fuck that is. He grabs a remote-controller type thing with a little flourish. Big deal.

‘Let me give you a flavour of what we’re talking about.’ He says as he turns to the whiteboard thing and commences a theatre of disillusionment via the gift of Power Point. ‘Flavour’? I have literally no idea what he is talking about.

I disliked him when I met him. I now idly wonder whether it would be possible to blind him using his own fucking laser-pointer.

Of course I shan’t. Whilst not actually ‘working’ I am ironically still At Work. As such, the unwritten contract between employer and employee – that employee will pretend to give a flying fuck about the company that employs him during the hours of nine and five – is still in effect.

I look around me. Black Guy, Asian Fellow, Chap Who Looks Like A Friendly Donkey and Gay Guy But Doesn’t Know It Yet are visibly suffering. But are bound by the same contract as I.

Our tormentors’ voice has become akin to the noise of a washing machine in my mind. I am conscious of it, but am trying not to let it bother me too much. But it’s not working. I try to think of nice things. This serves only to remind me how not-nice my current predicament is.

I resolve to try and think of something even more annoying than this man’s zealot-eyed babble in the hope that this will sufficiently distract me from the thought that I would currently gladly castrate myself and shove the two detached spunky pods in my ears JUST SO I DON’T HAVE TO FUCKING LISTEN TO HIM ANYMORE.

I decide to think of the more annoying thing only in italics, so I can differentiate between the noises in my ears and the noises in my head.

Here we go.

Him: prattle prattle prattle building audiences and driving response through creative thinking.

‘It’s always like this around here … but at least we can get our credit sorted.’

Yes. That works.

Him: prattle prattle creating the Yes momentum.

Well! That’s a lot less than we’re paying now!

Oh. This is good.

Him: prattle prattle prattle address the Need not the Want.

‘Josh! Your Dad’s found your scoootah!’

Excellent. I’ve gotten through it in one piece.

He lays down his remote control-thing and ostentatiously checks his unnecessarily swanky wristwatch.

Him: Right then guys. I’ve earnt myself a short break – why don’t you take one too? There’s a coffee machine in the hall, or if you want to go up to the deli [it’s not a ‘deli’, it’s a canteen] they have that really nice Slave Friendly coffee. It’s much better.

Silence.

Him: What?

Silence.

Him: That’s what it’s called isn’t it?

It appears that he is perfectly serious.

Him: You know. Slave Friendly [Christ don’t say it again]. You see it everywhere now. That’s it isn’t it?

He looks around, imploring.

Me: Em. ‘Fair Trade’?

Him: Yes yes yes. That’s it. [Panicking, red, flustered. Gestures] You all knew what I meant.

We really didn’t. He exits quickly.

Windfall.

The cashpoint asks me if I want to top-up the credit on my pre-pay pikey mobile fucking phone.

This is odd. I wanted some cash. Hence my frequenting said cashpoint.
But. Well, yes. I would actually. Thanks. This has saved me a visit to some News Agent Emporium where I will have to suffer old women stinking of piss purchasing unfeasible amounts of National Lottery scratch-cards and teenage girls sniggering at me.

Splendid.

I choose my network and tap in my mobile fucking phone number. Twice.

Thanks, says the screen. You’ll get a text in a minute confirming this marvellously futuristic transaction.

Ace.

Two hours later. No text.

Three hours later. No text. No credit.

Grrrr.

I phone the customer services people of my mobile fucking phone’s network provider. Who will not speak to me, as I have no credit.

After much keypad-tapping, I discover the mobile fucking phone has an overdraft of sorts. Which I cannot activate. Because I don’t have enough credit.

GRRRR.

I check the receipt-thing the cashpoint had given me.

If you’re reading this, I hope you appreciate the fact that I have managed to gift you with talk-time to the tune of ten English pounds.

I hope you applaud the stupidity of a man who typed in an incorrect phone number not once but twice, making the identical mistake each time (what are the odds?).

I hope you have some good mobile fucking phone conversations. I hope you have a good life, and that similar good things will continue to happen to you, despite the fact that you have yet to reply to the voicemails of an irate stranger insisting that you owe him ten pounds and what are you going to fucking do about it.

Millionaires Have No Manners.

My sister and I have made a pact.

We are at a garden party. At a large Country Estate owned by a millionaire client of my Sister the Gardener. You’ve probably eaten some of his ‘gourmet’ crisps. Fucks sake. Whatever. Big deal.

It is a charity auction also. Where braying inbreeds bid buttock-clenchingly large amounts of money on things that are not really worth it.

There is music also. I’ll get back to the fucking music in a moment.

This being a charity event, there are an unrepresentative number of spastics in attendance. Well. There are two. If it were just a garden party for the gentry there wouldn’t be any.

One asks our table for money for some unspecified coming attraction. She tried to explain it but her enunciation wasn’t all it could have been. Sister, sister’s boyfriend and sister’s best friend all pay up. I don’t, on the grounds that I have no idea what I’m paying for. Not unreasonable.

Millionaire Lady on table opposite decides she needs an extra chair. Without a word to us, she grabs one from our table, tosses my sister’s bag from it and onto the grass and takes it away.

A chap with a violin ambles casually about, making an excruciating noise. Apparently he is the brother of a famous person. Well. Not famous as such. But she is on speaking terms with Sting. He finally passes by. I am relieved. But the noise remains. Oh. He’s actually plugged into the PA. There is to be no respite.

We drink Pimms and lemonade. We are on our best behaviour. Sister and I have made a pact. We both suffer from what I suspect is a mild form of Tourettes in that whenever we find ourselves in social situations that we are not 100% comfortable with we will tend to behave in the most inappropriate manner possible and offend quite a lot of people.

So today we have made a pact. I will wear my best suit. She will actually trouble herself with make-up and nail polish. And we will Behave. We both have university educations and know how to conduct ourselves. This is an important client to my sister. This is an opportunity to acquire many more. We have made a pact.

It’s a very genteel event. I understand a Duke is present. He has a castle and everything. We shall act accordingly.

Four hours later.

I have physically prevented my sister from placing any further bids on what she drunkenly believed to be one of those sit-in-and-drive-around lawnmower things and have narrowly prevented her from purchasing a £300 bottle of wine. Which is what she was actually bidding on. And not the big shiny thing worth a lot of money that was in her head.

I have uttered the word ‘cunt’ more times than was strictly necessary. Loudly. To the palpable disgust of the people around me who would fire their servants for even imagining such words exist.

Highlights:

Me: [To band playing something appalling involving Northumbrian Pipes] You’re SHIIIIIT!

Sister’s Boyfriend: [upon hearing that someone had just bid two grand for a painting I could have done myself with a brush attached to my penis] Now that’s just taking FUCKING LIBERTIES.

Sister: [Very loud] I’ve just farted. Can you smell it?

Sister: [Again] I can’t believe you were the only one who didn’t buy whatever that mong was selling.

Me: Mong? Listen. That is no way to refer to that poor potato-head. She was doing her best. God only knows what she was on about.

Me: [Very drunk. Pimms. Do not underestimate] Is it just me or are all these people utterly unbearable? Aside from the retards they’ve wheeled in to make then look forgivable?

Sister’s Boyfriend: [Directed at Sister’s Best Friend and myself who had been arguing about, I don’t know, chewing gum or something] Why don’t you two just fuck and get it over with ‘cos you’re driving me mad.

We don’t want to be here anymore. We covet the LandRover in the carpark that is our transport for the day.

To leave by the normal route –a long very obvious walk around the grounds- would be a great big ‘I don’t care’ to the local artistic/spastic community. Which would be true.

We begin to wonder if we can get over the fence instead without the ladies present showing their knickers

Lady who is not my sister states she could not care less. As I have already seen my sister’s bottom whilst changing her nappies I am also content. Fences are vaulted. Eyes are averted.

We retire to Pub Not Very Far Away.

It is full of Normal People.

We buy drinks and sit down.

A stranger asks (ASKS) if a spare seat is reserved for someone. The reply is in the negative. They ask if they can take the chair.

I say yes.

My Services Are No Longer Required.

On an average working day I am often found walking very quickly down corridors. My speed of movement gives the impression that I am in the middle of something Important. The truth is that I strongly dislike most physical activity and prefer to get it out of the way as quickly as possible.

Often I will find myself heading toward Odd-Looking Colleague, shambling along the opposite way with his usual air of being slightly put-upon.

I will feel my shoulders involuntarily tense. Here it comes, I think.

We begin to pass each other. On cue, he raises his eyebrows in a world-weary manner and says

‘Alright fella?’ in a tone that suggests some mutual complicity in his woe.

Fella. For goodness sake.

Anyway.

It’s the middle of the afternoon. Something has been troubling me. I realise what it is, and turn to Uncannily Similar to Myself Colleague.

Me: I haven’t seen Odd-Looking all day. Do you know where he is?

USTMC: [With an entirely unwarranted explosive vehemence] In HELL I fucking hope.

Silence.

Me: Ehm.

USTMC spins in his chair and fixes me with an alarmingly intense stare.

USTMC: Fella. Fella! He must be some sort of cock if he thinks it’s ok to fucking call anyone ‘fella’. Fuck me. Either you know someone well enough to have learnt their name, or you just don’t fucking TALK TO THEM AT ALL. I don’t know who the fuck he is. So why’s he walking around like some sort of fucking I don’t fucking know what calling me fucking ‘fella’?

USTMC fixes Odd-Looking’s empty desk with a look of the blackest malevolence.

USTMC: [Clearly re-living a past situation involving the use of the word ‘fella’] Cunt.

He swivels back to his own desk and resumes whatever it was he was doing. And is promptly completely alright again.


Identity theft is one thing, but this man has stolen my personality. Who do I call for that one?

Breathing Difficulties Part 2

Favourite Daughter is not breathing.

And has not been for some time.

There are many things They do not tell first-time parents. Because they are Bastards and want you to suffer terribly.

They do not tell first-time mothers that actually it is going to hurt LIKE FUCK. Really. And that odd things will happen to their brain when the tiny life they have been carrying is plopped on their strangely flat belly.

And that they will never want to sleep ever and just stare and hold this small life.

They do not tell first-time fathers that they will never feel so helpless and proud. And that if you delve in with the scissors too quickly the umbilical will actually EXPLODE with pus and blood and give them such a bad fright that they foolishly jump back and have to then go in for an embarrassing second attempt.

And that they will be made to feel quite rude when they are confronted with the news that ‘the head is crowning’ and do not then enthusiastically head south to relish the mind-boggling sight of a PERSON emerging from somewhere they had been previously accustomed to entering in a lesser capacity themselves.

Frankly, in the weird-but-good trauma stakes, the ladies win. Obviously.

But. They do not tell you that a tiny person the size of a fat cat is capable of covering a full-grown adult with vomit from head-to-toe. And that always happens to the gentleman. So it’s not like we don’t have to pay for not having stitches in our nether-regions.

Anyway.

Many years ago.

Favourite Daughter is very tiny. She sleeps in a cot.

One night. She just stops breathing.

They don’t tell you about this. Nobody says in any of the ‘classes’ you attend - where you are nervous and over-chatty - and make the other expectant Dads feel o.k. because you are stupid enough to say:

Me: What? Nipple stimulation? You must be joking. That sort of thing has got us in quite enough trouble thank you. Why do you think we’re here? Jesus. And I doubt either of us would be much in the mood for that kind of thing at such a time!

Silence.

I think for a bit.

Me: Oh. Right. I see. Yes. Right. That makes more sense. Sorry. Not me doing the stimulating. The baby. To encourage the afterbirth and that. Ur. Right. Obvious when you think about it. What? No I can’t really see the video terribly well. Real childbirth is it? Mmm. No, I don’t need to move. The sound is quite enough. No. Really. I don’t actually want to see. She doesn’t sound happy does she?

Anyway.

They just don’t say ‘Good luck then with your new infant. They’ll probably never stop breathing ever but if they do try not to panic too much. It’ll probably be ok.’


Favourite Daughter is panicking. What with not being able to breath.

Tired Mam is panicking. What with our daughter not being able to breath. It is two o’clock in the morning.

I am oddly calm, as I am in all such situations.

Coughing had turned to hyper-ventilating which had turned to non-breathing which had turned to general blue-ness and boogly eyes.

At least her head was not hanging by a single thread.

Frankly, I feel inconvenienced. I was fast asleep. ‘Trouble breathing’ for fucks sake. It’s not as though a drug addict with what turned out to be a rather lengthy criminal record has anyone by the throat in some rubbish public house after losing an argument over the price of a drink.

I take Tired Mam to one side before she turns blue.

I take Favourite Daughter and hold her infant precious body close to my chest. I let her feel my warmth, steady breathing and slow heartbeat.

Tired Mam is tweaking. This is a reasonable reaction. One that adds to FD’s panic. What FD needs now is a bleary-eyed man who doesn’t get worked-up about important things but will fly into irrational rages concerning his inability to find his nail clippers.

TM steps back, and FD is left in the arms of a perfectly calm although half-asleep man.

Favourite Daughter relaxes. She begins breathing normally. I feel a hand smaller than my ear on the back of my neck. A room filled with tension and panic is slowly filled with my doziness.

Croup. According to NHS Direct at three in the morning.

They don’t really mention that one before they let you take them away. Bastards.


There was no mention of the fact that they may acquire undesireable boyfriends when they are thirteen either. It’s like They actually want us to breed.

Breathing Difficulties Part 1.

A man has me by the throat.

I am unconcerned. Oddly. He begins to squeeze and I feel his fingernails closing around my windpipe.

I become slightly concerned. What with not being able to breath and that.

It is was many years ago. When I ran pubs for a living. I didn’t think then that ‘blogging’ about the incident in the future would highlight the lie in a previous post about not hitting someone since I was a teenager when this obviously occurred in my twenties. Grrr.

Anyway.

The not breathing thing is becoming something of a chore and without really thinking I reach back and land this gentleman a good one straight on the cheekbone and he briefly disappears from sight.

I am eight stone and five foot eight. I am pleased with myself. I’ve floored someone. I haven’t done this since high school.

Some days previously. Myself and colleague invite favourite customers from our previous Public House to our current Public House in nearby town. They attend.

‘Wow this is a bit rough.’

Us: No no. We’ll sort it. It’ll be quite nice soon.

I had to remove needles with rubber gloves from the toilets every morning because the cleaners, somewhat understandably, weren’t too keen.

So they were all there. And I smack a guy in the face. In front of them. They know me as chatty friendly guy. Hmm.

Within seconds tables are flying. Recently twatted gentleman gets up with alarming ease. Police are summoned. Upon their arrival half the clientele vanish. As they are all Wanted.

I am nicked. And carted-off to the nearest Police Station. For assault. I smacked someone who was attempting to choke me to death over a brief dispute over the current price of a pint of Stella Artois.

It is decided that I am not a major menace to society and am DRIVEN (they gave good service in those days) back to my Pub.

Assorted previous customers of Quite Nice Pub In Which No-One Died Or Tried To Kill Anyone Or Inject Heroin Ever are leaving never to return.

I don’t really blame them. ‘Good luck’ they say.

Oddly they never returned.

And we weren’t there long..

Love / Hate.

I am about to hit a man on the head with a hammer.

Except that I don’t happen to have a hammer on me. And I haven’t hit a man since I was a teenager. And I’m in a perfectly civilised mobile phone shop. And I don’t really want to know what Prison Love is actually like.

I hate my mobile phone. Because. You know. It’s a mobile phone and that. They are essentially hateful items.

But I also love it. It was a Christmas present. It is shiny and looks nice. And. Get this. Not only is it a mobile phone – it’s a bloody camera as well!

Let the good times roll.

It is also my only means of internet access, for reasons too tiresome to recount here.

But there is a cloud upon this utopian horizon.

I don’t really know how it works. I am reliably informed that people can send me messages of a text variety that also include pictures. Imagine it. Words and visuals. It’s like fucking Buck Rogers or something. But without the whole spaceshuttle-being-frozen-for-five-centuries tiresomeness.

Somebody sends me such a message, and I cannot open it. Grr. I could refer to the manual, but am not yet ready to taste those bitter ashes of defeat.

I do some research on the inter-course. It takes ages and I get nowhere. The phone’s GPRS thing is only faintly more frustrating than Ceefax.

I resolve to go into the shop it was purchased from and demand to know why I have no idea how to use it. And they’d better read the manual themselves quick-smart and tell me the things that I don’t know because I’m a busy man, am wearing a suit so therefore must be Important and have a limited amount of time.

Walking into the shop. I locate the poorly-signposted Customer Services desk. And stand there for five minutes. Whilst several youths with ‘interesting’ hair and who sport clothing bearing the insignia of the mobile phone shop mill about in a disinterested manner.

It is clear to them that I am not here to sign-up to an eighteen-month contract named, inexplicably, after an animal.

I am grinding my teeth.

Staff to customer ratio is eight to one. Me being the one.

Me: HELL-OOOH.

Somebody lopes resentfully around the counter.

I am already clenching and un-clenching my fists. Without realising.

He looks at me in a vacant, slack-jawed manner.

Mobile Phone Youth: ‘Sup.

Me: What?

MPY: ‘Sup fella?

Me: What?

Silence for a while. His name tag states, improbably, that its wearer is named Cornelius.

MPY: What can I do for you?

Me: Right. [Brandish phone] There’s something wrong with the MMS er thing. Could you have a look? It was purchased here.

MPY gingerly takes phone and taps at the keypad for some time.

I begin to let out the knots of tension from my shoulders. There is a professional on the case. Everything will be Fine.

Some time passes.

MPY: Do you know how to unlock it?

Me: I’ve no problem with the network provider. So I don’t care.

MPY: Yeah. But do you know how to?

Aha. He is testing me. He is trying to get the measure of me as a customer. Wants to know my level of mobile phone knowledge and, by extension, my knowledge of all things Manly.

Me: I’m sure I could generate an unlock code from the IMEI number but that really isn’t the issue in this case.

He looks taken aback. Ha. Got you, you young scamp. Just because I don’t have a stupid haircut and don't have excellent sex with beautiful 20-year-old Vanessa Paradis looky likeys every Saturday night doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two.

He brandishes my phone at me.

MPY: Can you unlock it for me? Please.

Me: What?

Oh fuck. Oh surely not.

Me: The keypad?

MPY nods.

Me: You want me to show you how to unlock the keypad?

MPY nods, looking at me as though I were an idiot.

I take my phone from him. I do not have a hammer.

Me: ‘Bye.

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.