'Doesn't Peter Andre Look Like Charlie Brooker?'

For some reason I thought she said Carl Andre. Conceptual artists and snide newspaper columnists do not go together in my mind.

Me: WHAT?

Tired Mam: You can just see him singing Mysterious Girl can't you?

Me: Honestly. WHAT?

TM: I mean. I've seen him on Have I Got News For You and that -

Me: Peter ANDRE?

I'd never really clocked him as the 'topical debate' sort.

TM: NO! That'd be mad. Charlie Brooker.

Me: Right.

TM: And he doesn't look a bit like Peter Andre.

Me: WHAT? Wait -

I am literally lost for words. I put the phone down for a moment and stare about my office. There are various telephone conversations taking place, involving phrases like 'credit control', 'deadlines', 'servers are down' etc. None involve washed-up 1990's 'singers' and painfully amusing 'Guardian Columnists'. My normal office chat / mouth-ADHD begins to sound sane by comparison.

Me: Right. What?

TM: On the cover of his new book. He looks like Peter Andre. But he doesn't look like Peter Andre at all.

Me: Seriously. You've rung me at work -

TM: But he doesn't.

Me: What?

TM: Look like Peter Andre.

Me: I KNOW.

I feel like a simple child has chanted the words 'Peter Andre' into my ears in an annoying sing-song manner for 36 hours.

TM: But he does though.

Me: WHAT!

TM: On the cover of the book. He looks just like Peter Andre.

Me: Please don't say 'Peter Andre' any more.

TM: I thought that it was meant to be Peter Andre [FUCKFUCKFUCK] leading a charge of idiots. Like he was the leader of the fuck-witted.

Me: Ok. So Charlie Brooker's publishers are deciding upon the cover art for his new book, the general subject of which is that people in general are facile and worthless, and feel that Peter fucking Andre best represents this?

TM: Yes.

Pause. She has a point of sorts.

TM: But it doesn't really work because he doesn't even look like Peter Andre.

Me: WHO? The guy depicted on the cover?

TM: NO! CHARLIE FUCKING BROOKER!

Me: I have to go. Fuck me.

TM: What?

Me: No wonder we split up.

TM: Really though. Ask anyone you work with. They'll all say it.

Me: Say what?

TM: That Charlie Brooker looks like Peter Andre. Everyone's been thinking it, it's just that I'm the only one brave enough to say so. Like when you admit you look at the toilet paper after you've wiped.

Me: Fuck. Do you? Filth.

TM: You know what I mean. Ask around. I won't be the only one thinking it.

Me: Thinking that a writer none of them would have heard of resembles a 'singer' they're all too young to remember? I'm sure they are. They just haven't the courage to bring it to my attention for fear of embarrassing themselves.


So. Dear readers. For the sake of settling feasibly the world's most absurd argument, does or does not a Guardian writer resemble except not really resemble an ex-pop 'singer' who sung one song and looks like he should be in a Disney movie (personally I think he looks like that guy off of Lilo & Stitch).

Make it snappy, it's not the festive spirit to be not having furious rows with estranged loved-ones about things that don't matter. And I need some ammunition.

Outbursts From My Sister.

I can tell when people are on the edge. Usually I enjoy myself by saying 'Josh, your Dad's found your scooter' when they reach this point and watching them explode.

But I also know when to sit back.

Sister is in a foul temper. She is given to irrational rages at the slightest incident. I don't know where she gets it from.

We are in her van. She grinds the gears as much as her teeth.

Sister: FUCKS SAKE. I need some cocking petrol now.

Me: Em. Diesel?

Sister: Shit. SHIT. That would have been spot-on. Petrol in a diesel van. That would have been perfect. That would have been just fucking right if I'd done that. That would've been great. It would've been perfect. It would've fucking fucked fucking everything.

Me: It hasn't actually happened.

My sister appears to be hyper-ventilating.

Sister: It could have.

It seems she is furious at the very possibility.

Me: Ok.

We pull into a petrol station. My sister jumps out of the van, forgetting that her bag is on her lap and is wide open.

Bag and unusual contents (secateurs, lip-gloss, twine, nail polish, a screwdriver and insect-repellant) spill dramatically across the forecourt.

I am entranced by the bulging arteries and veins that appear about to burst.

There comes a strange roaring noise from my sister. I think it is directed at her bag but I can't be sure.

Sister: Oh you fucking SHITWHORE.

Re-fuelling completed, we continue on our way.

Me: Really though. 'Shitwhore'?

Sister: I know. It just came out of nowhere.

Me: It was very good.

Sister: Thanks bro.

Danger Wank.

I am At Work.

It has been a long morning.

Not only have I had to pretend to do some work (which is genuinely quite draining) but I have actually been required to do some Real Work as well. It has involved some tele-phone calls and my clicking upon the mouse of a computing machine whilst saying things like:

'Time is a real issue here so ASAP otherwise we both have to actually speak to the client, which neither of us want.'

And trying hard not to feel like the world's biggest cunt.

Inbetween saying cuntish corporate-things on the phone, slamming through double-doors and sending people I briefly percieve as being less important than me flying, talking-down to people who probably have more qualifications yet earn a lower wage than me (and I have an MA from a real university) and generally being all 'executive' (it's on my business card, it must be true) I am approached by Thug Colleague.

(Regular readers may remember Thug and his Jim Davidson Humour. He is in his early twenties and as such still retains a sparkle of life in his eyes.)

TC: Allreet Tired like.

Me: Christ.

I instantly feel more weary than I did.

TC: How's it gannin?

Me: Worse now. What's up?

TC: Have you ever had a Danger Wank?

Many things have been darting through my mind that morning.

Will I get through the day without spazzing the wishes of half a dozen clients and fucking-off every single person I work with and burning whatever slender rope-bridges that are left between me and every department in the hideous conglomerate I work for?

Will my daughter ALWAYS love me? Will my son ever see me for what I am as I did my own father?

The very concept of a 'Danger Wank' has not been at the fore-front of my mind.

Me: [Resigned. I know from experience that it's best to get this over with] Define 'Danger Wank'.

TC: Reet. Well. When I was home from university-

Me: Seriously though. You went to university?

TC: Aye. You keep asking. Why?

Me: Really no reason. Anyway.

TC: Aye well. The point was. A 'Danger Wank' is when you're in your room, and you call your Mam, and you've got to tug it off and then clean up before she's got from the kitchen to your bedroom.

Silence.

I suddenly feel about six thousand years old.

Conversations With My Sister.

Sister: They're rubbish aren't they?

We are In The Pub. It is our second drink, the one that ensures that Everything Makes Sense. Unless you are drinking with my sister.

Me: What?

Sis: Blokes.

We have some chat as to whether or not this is a sweeping statement or a blanket statement. After some consultation (two drinks remember) we decide it is a Magic Carpet statement. Something about sweeping under carpets and something else. It made sense at the time. It always does.

Me: What do you mean?

Sis: Well. You know.

It occurs to me that as she is happy to have this tentative conversation with me, I must not qualify as a 'bloke'.
In my sister's eyes, I am 'non-male'.

I am unsure as to whether this is good or bad. My sister has lots of fit mates. Does she also tell them that I am non-male?

Sis: [Suddenly brandishing mobile phone] I just got a bit of wee on my leg when I went to the toilet.

Me: I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING SEE THAT! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Sis: Keep your voice down. I've got a picture of the bridesmaid's dress I have to wear next week on my phone. I wouldn't take a picture of wee on my leg. Well. I would. But I wouldn't show it to you. You spastic.

Me: You can't say 'spastic'. It isn't funny anymore.

Sis: Yes it is.

Me: You've got me there.

I look at the picture.

Me: You actually look like a woman in that.

Sis: [As astonished as me] I know!

Me: Anyway.

Sis: Aye. Men. They're rubbish.

I have no great arguement. I spend three whole seconds thinking about all the great things men do, but they all centre around discovering the world is not flat and stuff. Things that do not ring true when you are talking to a woman.

Me: Ok.

Sis: I need a new challenge. A new game.

Me: Other than Men?

Sis: Aye.

Me: Honestly. You're worn out with the whole Men thing? You've done the lot?

Sis: Yeah.

I believe her.

Sis: They're just- You know. [I don't] So Easy. It's dead obviouse. They're really simple and boring. I get bored and then I break them.

We retire for a cigarette and I re-consider my Sister as we smoke.

Sis: What should I do?

Me: Well. You've discounted the male of our own species. Have you considered rattlesnakes?

Sis: [Suddenly resembling shit comic strip character 'Nemi' from rubbish Metro newspaper] Oooh.

There is some thought and some drinking.

Sis: Maybe that's setting my sights too high.

Me: What do you mean? In the whole 'come to me pretty snake, let me make you mine like I do all the boys OUCH oh you've BIT me and now I will DIE' way?

Sis: Yeah. Like that.

Me: Right.

Sis: Actually.

Me: What?

Sis: I need a shit.

Conversations With My Daughter.

Favourite Daughter is five years old.

I know not to succumb to her every whim and hint of affection. Because it is too easy for fathers. Too easy to sickenly dote upon our daughters. We are faced with a miniture version of the woman we first fell in love with but who has no adult faults and is essentially perfect.

And it is too easy to fall head-over-heels in love with these beautiful small women. And no good will ever come of such a scenario.

I am lucky however.

Favourite Daughter: [I have been kissing her neck] Get OFF.

I get OFF.

FD: You're prickly.

It's the weekend. I have not shaved.

She suddenly grabs my face with both hands and stares at me with the completely unselfconscious manner that only children possess. And I know my heart will break the minute she loses this ability.

FD: Some of your prickles in your beard are black, but LOADS are yellow! But most are silver.

Me: Em.

She peers at me a little longer. And alters the angle of her head. Her eyes go wide.

FD: You've got a beard IN YOUR NOSE!

Me: Right.

She shakes her head in astonishment.

And without warning pulls my bottom lip down.

FD: DADDY! Your TEETH are yellow TOO! But only the bottom ones. You know. The ones that are all crossed-over.

Me: Right.

And we continue our day.

Problem.

I know some things about computers.

In much the same way that men who have the original manual for their vehicle know some things about cars.

Which is essentially fuck all.

Last week. I lose my internet connection.

Grr.

ipconfig. All as should be.

/release /renew.

No difference.

Re-install the drivers for the network card. No joy.

Re-set the router. (Should have done that first. It's always the obvious things.) No.

Change cable. No.

192.168.0.1.

All as should be.

Hmm.

Device Manager still not too happy with one of the cards even though it is not in use.

Do you know what? Fuck it.

Age-old pc technician technique for fixing everything. Delete the partition and do a clean install. You cannot fail.

I have two hard-drives. One for the operating system and fuck all else, one for all documents of any sort.

When I ran fdisk to delete the drive, guess which one I deleted.


6 years gone. Fuck the pictures of my children and newborn son, there were some quite good blog stories about confrontations with tramps that smelt of wee that were lost.

Suffice to say, we're all going to have to wait until something actually interesting (unlike this post) happens to me. Which is rarely. I have to save things up usually.

Unless I get permission for a very amusing incident involving a hospital and an American singer popular in the early eighties.

The DVD Incident Part 3

Six months later.

I have stared at the DVD case every night. I have dreaded coming home. Knowing it is waiting for me.

Staring at me.

Mocking me.

The DVD represents weird and unwelcome social interaction. It is potent. It has a terrible power over me.

I fear it.

‘Have you watched it yet?’ Asks Makepeace. I mumble. I am a rational man. I can’t admit that I fear the DVD.

What if I do watch it?

I’ll be accepting the Weird. Welcoming it. BECOMING IT. I shall become a Sci-Fi person. I shall cling to strangers in pubs in an embarrassing manner. I shall accept this odd man and become his Friend. I will be ONE OF THEM. I shall purchase miniature lead figures of wizards from places called something like GAMESWORKSHOP that smell of feet and cheap deodorant.

The very sight of the DVD case begins to make me feel ill.

I hide it. From myself.

I actually put it under a cushion.

Friday last.

Makepeace: Em. That bloke was asking after his DVD. He seemed a bit cross. It’s been half a year.

I feel like someone has punched a hole in my stomach.

The moment of crisis has arrived.

I have to give it back. But on the off-chance that I ever see this man again, I shall have to watch it.

Which will be voluntarily accepting his offer of membership into the Theatre Of Odd.

He’s got me on the ropes. I’ve got nowhere to go. I can’t give it back without even watching it. It’s too damning. It would be essentially telling him how thoroughly worthless his existence is. But I CAN’T watch it. Because it would be to accept that random over-familiar social situations with odd people are actually OK. The act of watching it will be succumbing to him. He now has power over me. I am genuinely afraid.

Five minutes ago.

I read the plot synopsis on IMDB.

Ha. I am victorious. If I ever see him again, I can discuss the film with him. With some authority. And he WON’T KNOW I NEVER EVEN WATCHED IT!

I win.

For the first time in six months, I sleep easily.

I could do with a decent crisis now. Something to get my teeth into.

The DVD Incident Part 2

I had previously been fretting in a Jon Ronson sort of way about a Random Bloke threatening to lend me a DVD in a pub. Which is bollocks, and only idiots think like that, so I pull myself together.

I'll never see the bloke again, so I cease to worry about the DVD-lent-by-odd-strangers ramifications. Because there shall be none.

Monday morning.

Makepeace [Brother’s fiancé and lady who drives me to work]: That Random Bloke knocked on our door last night. He wanted you to have this DVD.

She hands me it in the car.

I feel the hairs on my arms rise. This is Not Right.

Me: Em. Keep hold of it until tonight will you? Then I’ll take it home. Don’t want to cart it around work. (And have the questions. ‘What’s that then Tired?’. ‘Oh, it’s just a DVD a Mental lent me.’)

I get home. I put the DVD next to the others that rest against my little-used tele-vision.

Sitting on the sofa, I stare at it in a troubled manner.

That night, I have a quite vivid dream in which Random Bloke fucks the eye-sockets of a decapitated pig head and repeatedly howls my name. Whilst watching a copy of the DVD he has just lent me.


To be continued.

The DVD Incident

It’s the small things that trouble me really.

I’ve had alarming house fires, impossible decisions regarding unborn and very-newly born children, career-threatening personal anguish, potential homelessness for me and my family and all sorts of grown-up-man things.

That I’ve dealt with. Without a thought.

Lend me a DVD though. I’m a wreck for half a year. It’s just too much responsibility.

Six months ago.

I am In The Pub.

Surrounded by brothers,other family and friends. There is no reason for anything Odd to occur. We are obviously safe from random events of minor importance but enormous Strangeness.

The things that REALLY trouble me.

A classic scenario ensues:

You’re stood around having a drink with a load of people you know. Random Bloke joins you and stands, drink in hand, nodding enthusiastically at anything said whilst grinning in a ‘hey I’m cool’ manner. After some time you feel compelled to include him in the conversation, assuming he must know at least one of your number.

Random Bloke goes to the Gents.

Me: Seems like a nice chap. How do you know him?

Dempsey [My Brother]: I don’t. He lives across the street from me I think. I thought you knew him. You’ve been quite chatty.

Me: Christ. Only because I thought he was your mate. I didn’t want to piss you off by being rude to him. I take that Public Information Broadcast really seriously. I NEVER talk to strangers.

Dempsey: What?

Me: Before your time. Christ. He might be a Mental. Jesus.

Dempsey: Sup up. We’ve got cabs. We’re going.

We depart in a fleet of cars and arrive at an Emporium of Alcoholic Beverages I would happily burn to the ground.

Some more drinks are consumed and I shout at strangers who bump into me and fortunately they do not hear me.

After fifteen minutes Random Bloke arrives.

RB: Must have got left behind. Whose round is it? Mine?

We chat for a bit. At this point I am beginning to feel bad for RB. Unsurprisingly, he turns out to be a big sci-fi fan. I am not, but I humour him. He talks about a show called Firefly.

I have not seen it as I am in my thirties and have had sex with real women.

He offers to lend me the DVD of the movie version.

I accept, secure in the knowledge that this is a lot of Big Talk. There shall be no lending of DVDs, no unwritten social contract that is usually involved in the lending of things, and I shall never see this man again.

It’s late. I’ve shouted at a number of large men who have felt that the quickest way to the gents is THROUGH anyone in my vicinity and decide it is time to retire. Before Something Bad And Bigger Than Me happens.

After embracing many lampposts I retire to my bed, content that I am safe and that no further oddness shall trouble me.

OR SO I THOUGHT.

Conversations With My Mother Vs. Conversations With My Daughter.

Mother:[41 years of age] Can you help with this blue tongue thing?

Me: [Suddenly feeling about a trillion years old] What?

Mother: It’s just. I want the pictures off my phone and on to my laptop. But the blue tongue thing doesn’t like it.

I stop grinding my teeth and stare at the wall for a while. I think of happier times.

Me: Blue tongue?

Mother: I thought you knew about this stuff.

Me: I’m not a vet.

Mother: What?

Me: It’s ‘blue tooth’.

Mother: Well I’m not an effing dentist so there’s no need to be sarcy.

Me: I’m going for a cigarette.


Some time later.


Favourite Daughter:[Five years of age] Have you had your hair cut Daddy?

Me: Yes sweetheart.

FD: Why?

Me: Because it looked stupid.

FD: It looks even stupider now.

Pause.

Me: ‘More stupid’. Not ‘Stupider’.

FD: Oh. Ok. Your hair looks more stupid now Daddy.

Me: That’s better.

You decide.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name.

I am outside a university library. It is more years ago than I care to remember. I'm 20.

I am sharing a cigarette in a world-weary-student-with-the-weight-of-the-world-on-his-shoulders-goodness-me-it's-a-hard-life-all-this-studying-cultural-theory-AND-'real'-books-at-the-same-time manner with Best Friend. (He remained Best Friend even after drunkenly informing me that if he absolutely had to fuck a man, I would be his first choice. We pretended he hadn't said anything.)

Best Friend: You know 'Cheers'?

Me: Mmm.

BF: You know the song at the start?

Me: Has a sort of world-weary charm but is otherwise shit.

BF: Yeah. But. That bit. 'Sometimes you want to go where everyone knows your name'?

Me: Ok.

BF: Fuck me can you think of anything worse?

Me: Em.

BF: Honestly. Where EVERYONE knows you.

I think for a bit, and try to ignore the fact that Best Friend always leaves an unneccesaryly large amount of saliva on the cigarette-butt when he hands it back to me.

I love the city we live in. And the best thing is that, it being a city, you can conduct your day unmolested by people you vaguely know asking after 'Dave' when you have no idea who 'Dave' is. Anonymity is a powerful friend. He's quite right. EVERYBODY knowing you is DREADFUL.

Me: Ok.

BF: Like Sartre said-

Me: Oh for FUCK'S SAKE.

BF: 'Hell is other people.'

Me: Why am I even mates with you?

BF: Christ. We are SUCH students.

Me: I know. Lets get out of here and hang about in absurdly rough pubs.

BF: Ok. Look, that thing I said the other night-

Me: Rough pub. Now. And let's not get almost killed this time because you insist upon quoting Kierkegaard to strangers. Christ. I wish I'd learnt a trade.

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?