Lost Post # 3: Document Created 10th December 2006, 03.20am.

Rash Decisions.

I suddenly realise that I have been praying for a road accident. Probably involving fatalities.

I am on a bus. On my way to work.

Work that I do not enjoy. And as I have sagely informed my younger siblings:

‘You’re not meant to enjoy it. That’s why it’s called work.’

Wise words. I get off my bus and head toward the other bus stop that will provide me with safe passage to the glamorous trading estate that is home to my office. That I do not want to go to.

I have under my arm a folder thick with Important Work Documents.

I have been praying for people to die, purely so I do not have to go to my place of employ.

I think about my nineteen-month old Favourite Son. Except I don’t. I’m standing in the wind (and we get proper wind here) and the rain thinking about the feel of his skin. The smell of his hair. The feel of his toes. His stupid toothy grin when he finds something new in the world. Which is probably every day. The look of ABSOLUTE delight .

I look about me. There is a queue for my bus to hell.

They do not look happy. Suits. Raincoats. Ladies with umbrellas who know their hair is FUCKED before they even get there.

Miserable.

Something clicks in my head.

I toss the folder in the nearest bin. And go into the nearest coffee house. And order something quite pleasant. And watch. People. Who are in a hurry. Who are shitty and rude. I drink my coffee.

I read the paper, enjoy my stupidly named coffee and then get the next bus home.

I get home.

Tired Mam: I knew.

She is smiling.

Favourite Son: Daddy home.

It’s the first time he has put two words together. I roll on the carpet with him. He does not often see me at this hour of the day. He is giggling like a twat. As am I.

It will be a frugal Christmas.

Lost Post # 2: Document created 22 February 2007, 01:07:00

‘That’s rubbish.’ Exclaims the girl in the seat in front of me to her companion.

I am on a bus on my way home. It is nearly dark. I am tired and discouraged. It has been a long day.

At work and that.

I focus on the conversation of the two girls (girls, tweens, teenagers? I don’t know. When you see four-year-olds wearing fuck-me shoes you lose track) of indeterminate age but who are very young in front of me. I try and listen in order to drown-out the adolescent dribbling of the two male youths sitting behind me.

Male Youth 1: Yeah but have you seen this one? She is filth.

There follows some clacking of mobile-phone keypad. Then some crackly audio, obviously accompanying video footage being vomited out of a mobile phone. I hear a breathless female voice saying ‘Do it now. Put that dildo in my arse and fuck me.’

They are laughing fit to burst.

Male Youth 2: That’s Jessica init? Does she know?

Male Youth 1: Naw man. She’d gan mental. Darren bluetoothed everyone.

They proceed to show each other video clips of people that I have never heard of and that are apparently famous engaged in similar pastimes. From what I heard of the conversation, it seems something regarding the Hilton is quite popular.

I am already feeling quite gloomy. Intimate footage of sexual relations compiled and distributed without the female participants knowledge to every boy in their year is not the most cheering thing I could be hearing.

I glance behind me. As suspected, both young men (boys, lets be honest) are wearing school uniforms.

Looking out the window, I see that some wag has placed a traffic cone, complete with blinking light to warn drivers of impending hazard, on top of a bus shelter. Ha-ha.

Some time previously I had been in a city-centre public house waiting for said bus. At the bar had been a frail elderly gentleman completing a betting-slip with all the flourishes of someone signing the Magna Carta. I purchased my drink and sat at the only available seat. Quite close to a gentleman in his sixties who appeared to be made entirely of hair.

‘Cunts aren’t they?’ He says apropos of nothing.

‘Mmm?’ Say I.

‘The Australians.’

‘I haven’t met them all. I really couldn’t say.’

He sucks on his cigarette thoughtfully, although it seems to be sucking on him.

Anyway.

Focusing now on the girls in front of me on the bus, I hope for some redemption.

What is it that her companion thinks so 'rubbish'? Maybe her conception of basic human relations, politics or meaning in a western world over-saturated with stupidity, in which the major talking points of the day are from some made-up stories flickering on a box in the corner of their front-rooms? The ‘yoot’ can see through this surely?

And I’m sure they can.

‘You see,’ says the young lady addressing her friend, whilst pulling-up the copious bangles and bracelets that adorn her wrist and best part of her arms, ‘this is how it’s really done.’

‘Oh’ Says her companion with a hint of dismay.

‘See? I got ALL his initials. Even the middle one. And you can see it clearly.’

The other girls fiddles with her bangles in a slightly-ashamed manner.

‘You are rubbish. You have to really dig the compass point in on the first try or you’ll never really scar properly. You have to try harder. Amateur.’

Her ‘friend’ falls into silent embarrassment.

My stop nears. I concentrate on pushing the button-bell-thing between the correct stops so I do not have to walk too far. I cast out of my mind thirteen-year-old anal-sex aficionados and self-harming over-competitive females of a similar age and get off the bus.

Thirteen if a day.

My stop is next to the public house that is one-minute-and thirty seconds walk away from my front door. The general street area is speckled with vomit. At six in the evening. Impressive. I enjoy a drink as much as the next man, but to have to relieve your stomach outside a public house at that early hour is above and beyond the call.

I sidestep, and walk down my street. Occasionally side-stepping the deposits of the Phantom Dog-Shitter. I get to my house, and let myself in.

It is cold. Dark. Silent. Empty.

I put on some lights. I sit down.

‘Fuck the lot of you’ I say. To no-one in particular.

Lost Posts # 1: Document Created 15th January 2007, 11.17pm.

“Pimpy Says I Am ‘Tend.”

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

And that’s all I have. Not a 'post' obviously, but a forgotten idea for one.

Casting my mind back, I recall that my daughter – probably about three years old at the time – had a number of imaginary friends. She was an only child at the time.

One was the improbably named Pimpy – I still don’t know – the other was the more domesticated Sock. They shared a common impediment of unfeasibly-long Tim Burton-esque arms in her pictures but were indistinquishable otherwise.

I got the distinct impression they didn’t see eye-to-eye but as they were imaginary it wasn’t a great problem.

Until.

‘Pimpy’ – who I imagined to be a trouble-maker anyway (what’s with the name?) and not the sort of imaginary person a lady of my daughter’s caliber should be consorting with anyway (I didn't like the sound of him at all to be honest) – impishly announced that it was not in fact HE who was ‘tend – pretend - but it was my daughter herself who was imaginary.

I’ve no idea what this single sentence of a silly blog idea was going to go – probably why I didn’t finish it.

Upon announcing this to me I probably glanced over my newspaper of a late morning, hungover, and informed her that ‘Pimpy’ was just being silly and she shouldn’t listen to him.

Her internal narrative had taken an alarmingly meta-textual turn for one so young and so fearsomely intelligent and I’d dismissed it.

She got over it.

Boredom / Work.

Friday afternoons are terrible - industry grinds to a halt as anyone with any money, power or decision-making ability are on a fucking golf-course somewhere.

Blonde Colleague usually takes the afternoon off when she can. She doesn't cope with inactivity very well.

Blonde Colleague: Tired?

Me: What?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet paper?

Me: ....What?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet roll? It'll be really funny. You'll look like a mummy.

Me: ....Erm. No.

BC: [throwing a biro in frustration] Well it'd be better than looking like someone out of Schindler's fucking List!

She folds her arms and glares out the window for a minute.

BC: Thug? Thug!

Thug Colleague: What man?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet roll?

TG: Fuck off will ye.

BC: Ah maaan you'll all rubbish you like.

I look at my watch. I've got three more hours of this.

It Resolves Itself As Expected.

And is probably nowhere near as interesting as people have imagined.

I’d always had my suspicions about ex-friend and ex-landlord Seven-Foot Sociopath.

Yes he’s very tall. Yes he spends an awful lot of time at the gym. Yes he favours ‘survivalist’ combat attire. Yes he has an alarming collection of knives and guns, as well as tattoos and piercings. Claims to know ‘some things’ about explosives.

But I get the feeling he’s a tourist. I know one properly mental man like this – but without the unnecessary tatts and holes in his face – and I know the real deal when I see it.

And I’d seen Seven-Foot back down from a couple of confrontational situations in the past.

“Scared of the damage I might do mate.”

Ok then. Maybe.

“Bullshit aside, we’re always mates and you’ve got to do what’s best for you. No hard feelings.” He said upon my leaving him in the lurch with his horrible flat when I moved out.

I leave his poxy gaff in much better condition than I first encountered it, and take his two large ceramic plant-pots (planters?) with me. The bulbs I planted in them cost a fortune, made the patio look ‘pretty’ and I couldn’t be arsed with the re-planting when I had sofas to move. He’s in Paris, I thought. I’ll get them back to him when I have a minute. They’ve been obviously unused for years so I doubt it’s a problem.

Five Days Ago.

I am at work, it is the middle of the afternoon.

For reasons that I shall get to another time, my little sister is renting my spare room. She is self-employed, cannot work because of the fucking weather and is at home when one would imagine my house to be empty.

There is some commotion outside my back-yard.

There is no ‘road’ on my street as it is a terrace of what used to be called ‘miners cottages’ that I believe are peculiar to the North of England. The door to our back-yard is open and Sis spies Seven-Foot in his perpetually non-road-worthy ridiculous bull-horned four wheel drive idiot wank-tank vehicle STUCK on the access road behind my home and spinning his wheels.

Sis: Seven-Foot! Do you want a hand? I’ve got a shovel.

She’s made a small side-line in digging stranded vehicles out of the virtually 45-degree slope of an access road behind my house and could do this in her sleep. (She’s more of a man than I am in this regard. I mean. I just couldn’t be bothered. You know.)

Seven-Foot: NO! I DON’T NEED ANY HELP!

Sis: If you’re sure. I don’t mind.

SF: I DON’T APPRECIATE YOU STEALING MY PROPERTY!

At this point in hearing the story I begin to wonder what the hell he’s doing behind my house anyway. It’s an access road, doesn’t lead anywhere and he doesn’t know anyone on my street.

SF: AND YOU HAD YOUR DOG IN THE FLAT.

Sis: Look. Are you sure you don’t want some help….

SF: NO! I DON’T WANT ANY HELP. GET YOUR BROTHER TO CALL ME!

Sister proceeds to retreat to the house, make herself a cup of tea and watches Seven-Foot struggle FOR A SOLID HOUR to get his foolish over-powered behemoth of an impractical vehicle moving.

As I say, not as interesting as it could have been but an Event nonetheless; nothing much happens to me.

I reflect upon Sister’s story. This much is obvious:

Seven-Foot knows what street I have moved to. As opposed to utilizing my phone number like an adult man, he has taken it upon himself to do some sort of imagined SAS-style rescue mission to liberate his fucking plant pots. And has embarrassed himself terribly.

I, on the other hand, am quite cross about this.

He can lurk about the back of my house to his hearts content. I live behind the police station and have seen said police attempt to move my new neighbours on if they take more than twenty seconds to open their front door. And on top of that I can take care of myself.

That’s not the problem. He’s been rude to a member of my family. A girl. A girl better physically equipped to take care of herself than me admittedly, but a girl nonetheless.

And I’m not fucking having it.

I scratch my head for a bit.

I could call him. A sort of ‘If I fucking see you anywhere near my home’ sort of conversation that will end in some bullshit masculine shouting and get nowhere. I could text him. Some sort of ‘odd coincidence you being out the back of my house’ passive-aggressive shit that I’m not so fond of these days.

Or I could leave it. Because it’s silly and it WILL blow over. There’s no point getting worked up when he’s embarrassed himself already.

But that would be ‘backing-down’ by default.

And he was rude to my sister. If I leave it I’ll have let that pass. And that isn’t ‘how I roll’.

Four Days Ago.

I send a simple text. “Give me a call when you get a second.”

Not aggressive as such but not friendly. I am pleased with the tone. It’s not threatening. It’s not pleasant.

Three Days Ago.

“Perhaps he’s busy.” Says my Sister.

Two Days Ago.

“Really fucking busy.” I think to myself.

Today.

No word.

I suspect the same response tomorrow. And if I receive an invite to meet in him in a deserted car-park I would take it because he’s been rude to someone I care about and backing-down is not one of my big things.

But it seems my original suspicions were right. A coward. Brave enough to be aggressive to a girl in her twenties but not able to muster the courage to get back to her big brother who is actually half her size.

Case closed.

Absolute nonsense and anti-climax.

A Number of Exciting Developments!

1) Bully Diary.

Blonde Colleague: You remember Lovely But Stupid? Remember that 'bully diary' she used to keep?

Me: Mmmmm.

Anyone reading who is curious about the Lovely But Stupid colleague I used to work with can get up-to-date with her here:

http://tireddad2.blogspot.com/2007/09/faggot.html#links

I can't be arsed trying to remember how to do a 'proper' link so make do.

As her name suggested, she wasn't the brightest and was quite often 'teased' about it - she had the idea of keeping a diary of said teasing to present to Human Resources at some unspecified point in the future and getting everyone sacked. No-one really knew if she was joking or not.

Blonde Colleague: You know she started to put it online?

Me: [Suddenly alert] What?

BC: Yeah. Some sort of blog-thing or something. Very Dry set it up for her.

Me: Mmmmm.

Someone I knew started a blog! Mostly about the place that I spend forty hours a week in! Mental!

The blog itself takes about 45 seconds in total to read, doesn't cast anyone in a good light and is here:

http://bullydiary.blogspot.com

Difficult to believe that she is describing a professional workplace, I know. And odd that she didn't mention the incident at the Christmas party. Anyway. How mad is that?

2) Something Faintly Worthy Of Comment Is Actually Happening To Me At The Minute!

Normally I'm just a bit bored, think of something odd that happened about three months ago and tap away in the off-chance that something readable occurs.

But no! A REALLY STUPID situation has arisen, is ungoing, unresolved and a bit bizarre! Now!

And I really don't know if I should write about as I don't know in advance how it'll end - which bothers me. And it's feasible it may end with me getting my face kicked off by a man three times my size. Which will be a rubbish 'punch-line'.

Dilemma.

3) I Make a Small Discovery!

I find a USB memory stick thing that I haven't used for ages. In it are a number of blog posts from three years ago that I never used. How exciting!

But another dilemma. I am not sure if they should ever see the light of day because:

a) Some are actually quite sad. And as everyone knows, 'sad' = 'boring'

b) Some are actually quite personal and this is 'not that sort of blog'.

c) Some will make many - myself included - fear for my mental health.

d) Some are actually a bit depressing. See a).

Grrr.

Anyway. I'm off for a lie down after all the 'excitement'.

Moving.

“I didn’t know you’d moved house”. Says the World’s Most Amusing Woman.

I shan’t try and translate any of her essential ‘amusingness’ – it’s a kind of ‘how she says it’ sort of thing. Upon hearing that my Newly Gay Friend had briefly flirted with heterosexuality again before getting a new boyfriend she puffed her cheeks out, rolled her eyes, and said in the manner of an elderly Aunt, “Oooh he’s flighty isn’t he?” She’s 29 and uses the word ‘tomfoolery’ a lot. Like I say, you sort of have to hear her talk.

Anyway, it had just come up in conversation.

Me: Yup.

WMAW: But I thought you’d only just moved into that flat. You were quite pleased about the garden.

Blonde Colleague: Don’t even get me started-

Me: Shush. Yeah. But the washing-machine broke.

WMAW: So you thought ‘ah well, I’ll just move house’?

Me: Pretty much actually.

It was, of course, a little more complicated than that.

The flat was rented from a friend of mine; a situation that only the very idiotic get into but my back was sort of against the wall at the time for a number of reasons. Looking back on it, it was a fucking horrible place but was an improvement on the previous three years of shared-accommodation hell and it’s funny how quickly a person can get acclimatized to their surroundings – however unpleasant – and kid themselves that they’re acceptable.

One saving grace was the fitted kitchen complete with all white goods that came with the deal.

Except the washing-machine broke.

I explained this to my friend the Seven-Foot Sociopath.

SFS: No problem. These things happen.

Me: Thanks. So I’ll just arrange to get it repaired myself? I’ll get a receipt and take the money out of next months rent?

SFS: [Slowly putting down his pint]. No, that's on you. You have to pay for that.

Me: What?

SFS: It was rented to you part-furnished. You’re responsible for the furnishings.

Me: So when I move out I’ll be taking the furnishings with me then?

SFS: No. There’re mine.

Me: Yes. I’m not paying to maintain your kit.

SFS: Look, I did you a favour, you had nowhere else to go, I didn’t ask you for a deposit did I? Not like you can afford one either. Sooo-

Me: We’re not going to argue about this.

And we never have. And although what I said was “We’re not going to argue about this” what I was thinking was “Fuck you, fuck your flat and fuck your poxy fucking fuck of a washing machine that made my clothes smell a bit funny anyway you fucking lanky streak of cocking piss.”

Within two weeks and much negotiation with my new landlord I move into a really quite pleasant furnished house that includes a fully-functioning washing machine. Leaving an unrepaired-one behind.

The World’s Most Amusing Woman listens to this story agog.

WMAW: So rather than pay out – what? Fifty balloons or something – you MOVE HOUSE with all that upheaval and cost on a point of principal?

Me: Yes. And a washing-machine.

WMAW: [After some thought] Remind me never to give you an ultimatum. I think you are the most stubborn man I have ever met.

And perhaps I am – something that has not always gone in my favour. But what I know is this:

I would rather look at myself in the mirror at the end of the day and see the sort of idiot who would cut off his nose to spite his face than see a pussy – someone who’d roll over and take it for the sake of an easy life. I’d rather the stress, the logistical nightmare of a house move and the cost of hundreds of pounds than the knowledge that I am someone’s ‘bitch’.



As a postscript to this absurd episode; I did fret a little about telling Seven-Foot Sociopath that I was moving out with less than two weeks notice a fortnight before Christmas. He was out of order, but it’s a hell of a time to land someone in it.

Upon telling him, he replied with-

SFS: Actually I was wanting to talk to you anyway. We’re putting it on the market in January.

He had some bullshit idea that I'd buy the misery-pit from him. With all my millions I can only presume.

Which sort of vindicated my general pig-headedness. If I hadn’t been quite so stubborn, hadn’t possessed the small amounts of resourcefulness, ability and determination that I occasionally rely on, I would have been well and truly fucked.

So perhaps there’s a moral there somewhere.

And no. I don’t think we’re friends anymore.

"Eeee, are ye alreet, pet?"

I am lying flat on my back on a sheet of ice and snow, an old woman of about ninety-thousand is peering down at me with concern. She leapt about a hundred yards with the grace of a gazelle and is now offering to help. Brilliant.

Yes, I think to myself. I am fine. Why would you ask? It’s very comfortable down here. I just fancied a little lie down.

It is 8.40 in the morning.

“It’s OK.” I inform her as I begin moving upright again.

Fortunately she moves on before she sees me perform the ‘Spastic Duck’ – an odd move performed when attempting to stand up again on a sheet of ice whilst your feet splay away from you before you can gain any sensible purchase and you find yourself briefly dancing on the spot like Donald fucking Duck.

She’s nowhere to be seen by the time I right myself. Amazing.

Sadly the surprisingly attractive woman who got on my bus (most people who use public transport in my neck of the woods have weird teeth and eyes that point in different directions) and sat opposite me for my journey is still in witness distance.

I resolve to regain some dignity and make it the rest of the way to my office upright so as to massively impress this creature with my ‘walking like a normal person’ abilities.

And promptly perform the ‘Idiot Crab’.

This is mastered by arranging to have your feet slip into the air in front of you and to begin falling backwards. The trick is to then put your arms back to break your fall and briefly scuttle on the palms of your hands and heels of your feet whilst facing the sky.

I pull it off perfectly.

I arrive at the office to discover that almost everyone in the building has had to stay at home because of the fucking snow the pussies.

This will be an excellent day, I think.

Merry Christmas.

I have developed a worrying fascination with the tramps that occupy the city that I work/spend most of my time in.

The thing that sparked it off was a brief incident in a subway in Sunderland when a gentleman of the street wondered if I could ‘spare’ him a few pounds in order to top-up his mobile phone.

True.

I ask you. Where did he charge it?

Don’t even ask me about the absurd script I began writing for a pilot episode of a television show entitled ‘HoboCop’. The central character had amazing investigative skills based on his experience of rummaging through bins and astounding observational and surveillance techniques – no-one pays any attention to a tramp. He hid lock-picks in his beard. The young ‘maverick cop’ type he teamed-up with had a long-lost father and everything – could it be HoboCop himself? I actually gave this some thought.

Anyway.

The other morning I walk to my office past the sleeping homeless person who makes his night-time abode in a sheltered area across the street from my staff entrance. As ever I am irrationally narked about the fact that he is enjoying a lie-in when I have to be at work. Upon reflection one presumes that if he did have a job to go to he would be up by now. And would have somewhere to live.

Another tramp approaches him. Wearing a Santa hat.

Honestly. Where did he get that?

They have a chat about something or other. Private investigation techniques probably.

I pause outside the door to my office to finish my cigarette. Professional Wendy is there, doing the same.

Professional Wendy: Morning.

Me: Fuck off will you.

Some silence. I’m not a morning person.

PW: Did you see that tramp?

He is 'used to me' and doesn't realise that I am 'not joking'.

Me: [sigh] Which one?

PW: Santa.

Me: Yes. But I don’t actually think it was Santa.

PW: How do you know?

Me: Christ. Are you still stoned?

PW: Think about it. He's UNEMPLOYED three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year. And the ONE day he works he doesn’t get PAID FOR! That COULD BE HIM!

We both stare at the strangely jolly gentleman with the white beard spreading a bit of goodwill with his fellow homeless folk whilst wearing his Santa hat.

Me: Mmm. So far as I know he doesn’t have kids. It’s not like he’d get Housing Benefit. Not on his income. Or Family Tax credit. He must me on his bones.

PW: [Very excited] Oh my God! That's why he always insists upon sherry! THE TRAMPS FUCKING LOVE THEIR FORTIFIED WINE! THEY LIVE OFF IT! IT ALL MAKES SENSE!

Me: Lay off the green. See you later.

I Decide Never to Leave the House.

I’ve often been told that I can change the atmosphere in a room just by walking in to it – the manner in which people tell me this suggests to me that I rarely change it for the better – but this is just ridiculous.

I’m sitting on a bench in a barber-shop (not a hairdressers) waiting to have my hair cut; a necessary evil I have yet to find any way of avoiding.

The barber and his lady colleague are having quite the chuckle, loudly joking with each other and their respective customers. The barber himself is shouting at passers-by on the street asking if they still believe in Santa Claus, his colleague is singing to the unbearably up-beat music blaring from the stereo.

It seems this will be more of a chore than usual.

I’m in no mood for spontaneous jollity with strangers, especially whilst being touched in a ridiculously over-familiar manner by someone I’ve not even met.

The lady barber is – without consent – giving her young customer a bizarre mullet-type thing clipped around the edges that makes the boy resemble a foolish badger. I am hoping her colleague is finished first.

My God they’re loud. These really are a couple of happy cunts.

She finishes off, gives the boy a lollipop and announces that she is off to get a coffee. Thank Christ.

In a moment or two the barber is also finished with his customer and cheerily bids him farewell. I take my seat. There is now only the two of us in the shop. The compact disc in the stereo comes to an end. It suddenly seems very quiet.

Barber: [Needlessly jovial] So! What’s it to be.

I give my standard ‘amusing’ response that if he were to make my hair longer and untidier that would be ideal.

Barber: HAHAHAHAHA! Just a bit of a tidy-up then!

Me: Please.

He starts snipping away. I pretend I am somewhere else.

Barber: So! [Here it comes, I think.] All ready for Christmas then?

I’m going to have to embark on a short period of fake cheerfulness with this fool aren’t I? I really haven’t the energy.

Me: No. I haven’t done a thing. I’ve been moving house this week so I’ve had other things on my mind.

Idiot. IDIOT, I think to myself. You’ve just given him some PERSONAL INFORMATION! He’s fucking got you now. It’s going to be ‘amusing house-move anecdotes’ a-go-go from now on you prick.

He pauses for a minute and looks at me in the mirror.

Barber: [Quiet now] Yeah. I know what you mean. Had a lot on my mind myself this week.

He silently snips away some more, with a troubled expression on his face.

Barber: It’s been the worst week of my life to be honest. My wife had a miscarriage.

It’s silent for some time.

Me: [Helpfully] Oh.

Barber: It was early on but …. Our first you know. I was all excited about being a Dad, just getting my head round it when ….. Don’t suppose you ever really get over …. you know.

Me: [Still helpful] Mmm.

I suppose I could have come up with something supportive, some learnt experience that I could have passed-on but really, I’ve come for a haircut and on top of that he’s really making a meal of trimming the hair on and in my ears – something no-one has yet been insensitive enough to do. He’ll be offering to dye my grey pubes next.

Having wordlessly completed his task, I settle-up with this gentleman.

It is for many an unpleasant time of year and he’s obviously not had the best of it anyway.

I give him a tip of fifty pence.

I Accidentally Do Something Nice and Live to Regret It.

“Alright Tired? Going for a drink after work tonight?”

It’s not an odd question given that it is a Friday afternoon and a few of my colleagues and I regularly gather for drinks after work at the unbearably swanky bar next to our building.

What is odd is that a man I barely know is asking it of me. Perhaps he is just making conversation.

Me: Expect so.

Shaved Chimpanzee: See you there then.

I imagine this to mean that he is meeting his own acquaintances there and that perhaps we will – literally – ‘see’ each other.

But no. He tips up and joins my actual friends and me without knowing any of us and believes himself to be ‘one of the boys’. He has ‘invited himself’. That is ‘against the rules’. You wait to be asked. This went on for three weeks. And I hate him. We all hate him.

How can I even begin to describe the extent of the unbearable nature of this gentleman? To assume you are ‘mates’ with people you don’t know and invite yourself out with them is a bit ‘off’, but forgivable if you are a half-way bearable human being. But he isn’t.

He’s a boor. And a bore.

Again, you could forgive the fact that he is a human slouch, that his absurdly-shaped head does not suit the buzz-cut, especially when he has so much stubble (which is not of the ‘designer’ variety but of the ‘homeless’ type) that it makes his head look a bit ‘upside down’ and that he genuinely believes that dress trousers, brown BROWN shoes and a white shirt that resembles something his Mam would have bought him for school topped with a FUCKING white and gold NYLON ANORAK is suitable attire for the workplace.

But not the boorishness.

There is a special category of ‘stupid’ for people like this. The man has an opinion on every conversation, whether or not the conversation includes him. And insists upon giving it from some imagined lofty height as if gifting us with wisdom from his imaginary ivory tower whether anyone is interested in hearing it or not.



He is the genuis-type who will inform us that the Middle-East situation is 'all about oil' as if we would all shit ourselves with surprise and suddenly understand the world because of that when actually it is down to such complicated religious, tribal, cultural, economic and political factors that NO-ONE in the western world will ever fully understand it.

Don't even get me started on the al-qaeda who apparently live across the road from his bed-sit.

Unaware that actually he is THICK AS SHIT and everyone is so embarrassed by the nonsense spilling from his foolish hole of a mouth that they dare not say anything at all for fear of making him feel small. Which gives him the impression that he has silenced everyone with his massive intellect.

He is beyond ‘stupid’. There are individuals in the world who are non-too-bright and are aware of it. I know a few. They are unassuming, work hard, probably earn much more than me and are fantastic fathers to their children and are great fun to be around.

This individual however is SO stupid HE DOESN’T EVEN REALISE HOW DENSE HE IS. He’s so mentally retarded he THINKS HE IS ACTUALLY QUITE FUCKING CLEVER.

I would like to murder him. Not because of the above – although that is a perfectly good reason - but because he has insinuated himself into my small, selectively-chosen social group and most of us are too nice to tell him to Fuck Off.

The Friday Before Last:

I’m outside said swanky bar having a cigarette with Uncannily Similar and the Fucking New Kid.

Uncannily Similar has one difference from me in that he always takes the new recruits under his wing. Hence the presence of Fucking New Kid, which I tolerate.

Shaved Chimp ambles out, grazing his knuckles on the ground as he walks.

Realizing that he is getting no conversation from either Uncannily Similar or myself, he turns to Fucking New Kid, who is in his early twenties, is probably tweaking from having his first proper job and has worked in our dauntingly large building for three days.

Shaved Chimp: [Unwarranted superior smirk] So what is it with you young fellas anyway? Don’t you realize your hair makes you look a bit gay?

The hair on Fucking New Kid’s head is more than an inch long and he seems to have made some effort to make it look as though he has not just got out of bed. He may as well be George Micheal as far as this cunt is concerned.

Do not misunderstand me. I have no special love for the Fucking New Kid. He’s ‘new’ and that bothers me – I don’t like people I don’t know. But this is out of order. And I’ve had more of the Chimp than I can bear anyway. I have a tipping point.

The following exchange is based on hazy memory and eyewitness reports.

Me: Chimp. Yeah. You. Can’t be many mirrors in YOUR house.

Chimp: Eh…What?

Me: You look like a PILE OF DIRTY FUCKING LAUNDRY.

Chimp: Err…

At this point I am told that I am almost nose-to-nose with the man. I remember losing my peripheral vision and my heart pounding quite a lot.

Chimp: Well…..I think it’s a waste. Em. Ur. You know. I don’t make an effort for WORK.

Me: Fucking CLEARLY. Where’d you get the ANORAK? Fucking CUNTS R US? And who FUCKING INVITED YOU AND YOUR FUCKING OPINIONS ANYWAY? NOBODY LIKES YOU!

He steps back and goes inside. I finish my cigarette. Uncannily Similar silently shakes my hand.

When we return to our Goodfellas-style reserved table we find that the dreadful baboon is wordlessly necking his pint of idiot juice and leaves without another syllable. Never to return.

This Friday afternoon.

Blonde Colleague squints at me after hearing this silly story from Uncannily.

BC: [With a mixture of confusion and surprise] Eh? You did a nice thing?

Me: No. I told a prick to fuck off because no-one else would.

BC: No. You stood up for the Fucking New Kid. You stuck up for him.

Me: Shit. SHIT. You’re right. That’s EXACTLY WHAT HE’LL THINK. Bollocks.BOLLOCKS.

BC: Hahahahahah. He’s your friend now!

She’s wrong, I think to myself. It’s fine.

I go for a walk down a random corridor to clear my thoughts. By astonishing coincidence Fucking New Kid is coming my way.

FNK: Alright Tired? Going for a drink after work tonight?

Me: Expect so.

FNK: See you there then.

And so it transpires that the weak of will, the hangers-on, the people that no-one really want but who are half-way smart enough to make you feel bad for them never really go away – like Energy, they just change form.

I don't know what I'm going to have to do to get rid of this fucker.

Small Moments at Work #2

There is a plumbing problem of some sort in the building that I work in.

Or perhaps a ventilation problem.

It’s a fairly large building with about a thousand staff. It could be anything really. But the odour in some of the corridors is not exactly that of wild roses at times.

Grant From Work: …so I was talking to a guy from maintenance about it and he was all like ‘well, it’s an old building you know’…..

This is sort-of true. It was built in the nineteen-sixties.

Grant From Work: …. And I’m thinking "Eh? Castles are ‘old’. They don’t ‘smell of shit’".

Small Moments at Work #1

Thug Colleague: Either somewheyns mekkin the bread tae big, or somewheyns mekkin the toosters tae smaall. And ah divn’t care whey it is, ah just reckon they shud git thar heeds t’githir and sort it oot.

Thug has a capacity for massively angry over-reaction to the smallest things - a quality I am beginning to quite admire. He is actually smashing things around his desk. It is five minutes past nine in the morning.

He fixes his glare on me.

TC: What dae yea reckon?

Me: Do you buy that ‘Toastie’ bread?

TG: FUCKIN’ AYE! Theym cunts fit intae NAE TOOSTER ON EARTH! Why fuckin’ call it that?

He throws a biro at his monitor in frustration.

I have no answer for him.

But am convinced he has also imagined the same ‘Annual Toaster Manufacturer and Baker Conspiracy Meeting’ that I have, in which leaders of their respective industries get together in Geneva each year to figure out new ways of pissing us off.

I just haven’t the heart to get that cross about it anymore.

Insomnia. Fucking again.

Seriously. What the cock is up with this shit?

I'm boring myself now. It's not the first time I've written about this I'm sure.

The last time monkeymother came up with the initially helpful suggestion of listening to Radio 4. Which I did this evening at nine and fell fast asleep.

And here I am. With, after some weeks of unsuccessful Radio 4 fandom, a worrying fascination with the Shipping Forecast.

Have you heard it? It must be CODE for something surely. Who can sleep after listening to that?

Anyway. Instead of staring at the inside of my eyelids and listening to my heart pounding I get up and do this and think aloud and delete it all in the morning.

Why can't you sleep you twat?

I miss my children something dreadful.

Given. But you couldn't sleep when they lived in the same house as you. Prick. Next?

If I'm honest I miss their mother as well.

See above. And you had your chance.

I hate the night. I used to love it so this is a new torture. I love the day, and work. At work I'm surrounded by men with gambling addictions and women with shining eyes and sharp tongues. And they can do anything. And so can I.

Gay. So what?

This isn't like me. Not now. I've worked hard to not be like this and it frightens me.

Really REALLY gay. Have you been drinking?

Now you mention it.....

Oh you WEAPON. Mister fucking 'sleep disorder expert'. You know that's the worst thing you could do. Go and do some ironing, read a book or something. Cock. And stop having imaginary conversations with yourself on the internet. It makes you look nuts.

“If you were a cheese, what sort would you be?”

It must be a slow day if Professional Wendy has come up with one of these again.

I call him this because if he were to excel in any profession, it would be ‘being a complete Wendy’. He’s just had TWO MONTHS off work with ‘the depressions’ for fuck’s sake. Here’s an idea son – stop spending every evening sitting about in your pants smoking weed all night, put in a full months work for once and earn your way in the world instead of relying on hand-outs from your mates and you might find you fucking cheer up a bit. Anyway.

Blonde Colleague: Just cheddar I suppose.

PW: Why?

BC: I’m straightforward and you know what you’re getting. You?

PW: Mozzarella.

BC: Why?

PW: Because I’m a bit boring but I’m really nice.

He’s got a point and I suddenly realize why he annoys me so much. He is genuinely quite a ‘nice’ bloke. And I dislike ‘nice’ people – they bore me and I find myself tormenting them just to pass the time. It also occurs to me that this may be a personal character flaw of some sort. Oh well.

PW: Tired?

Me: What?

PW: What about you?

Me: Mmm? Dunno. Parmesan I suppose.

BC: You and your fucking parmesan. ‘Freshly grated’ I suppose you twat.

Me: I say that so as to differentiate it from that horrible stuff in the white tubs-

BC: NO-ONE CARES you cock. And who says ‘differentiate’ anyway? ‘I’m Tired Dad, would you like to listen to my stupid words and taste my fresh basil?’ We all know you eat Findus Crispy Pancakes every night anyway. Knob jockey.

PW: Why?

Me: Why what?

PW: Why parmesan?

Me: Oh. Emm. Because I’m quite hard work but there are times when nothing else will do.

BC: WAAAAH-HAHAHA! Where’d you get the last bit? Fucking www.opposite-is-true.com?

Me: That’s my line.

BC: Fuck off is it. You probably stole it from someone anyway – you’re always stealing mine.

Me: No I’m not.

BC: What about ‘I suggest you build a bridge….and GET OVER IT’?

Me: That is quite good. But I gave you ‘shitweazel’.

BC: It’s hardly a ‘line’ is it?

PW: [quietly] It was like this just before my parents divorced.

BC: Anyway. I thought you were going to say you’d be parmesan because you FUCKING SMELL OF VOMIT.

Me: It’s only the stuff in the little white tubs that smell-

Without warning BC throws a tightly-screwed Post-it at me with such ferocity it makes an entirely unexpected ‘clacking’ noise as it ricochets off my forehead. She storms out of the office.

PW: Christ. That wasn’t very nice.

I check my emails.

It's Saturday Night.

And I'm cleaning the cooker.

Bring it on.

"Some Bloke's Just Shown Me His Cock!"

I put my drink down at gaze at Newly-Gay Friend for a moment or two whilst I process this information.

As my pretend name for him suggests, he has recently been a man of some surprises.

He announced his new lifestyle decisions to me some months ago whilst we were enjoying Uncannily Similar’s stag weekend. After an evening that involved – in no particular order – lap-dancers, cocaine, prostitutes and foolishly heavy drinking – it was an additional new experience that pretty much ended my patience with the whole night. After a man-hug that went on longer than strictly necessary I put him to bed and then had to deal with the police who raided the apartment the eight of us had rented for the weekend. (One of us tried to break in. Someone reported it.)

But that’s another story. And is not as interesting as it sounds.

I look around me. We and three other friends are in a cosy public house in the Lake District - the former stamping ground of the Romantic poets which is now mainly occupied by middle-aged people clad in Berghaus and sporting unkempt beards.

It does not strike me as a hot-bed of cock-waving.

Me: You fucking what?

To be honest, after nearly four years of knowing this man the whole ‘gay’ thing is a bit of a thinker after zero indication whatsoever. Presumably his wife of sixteen years and ten-your-old son are also scratching their heads.

NGF: Seriously. Some bloke just got his cock out right in front of me!

I don’t really understand ‘how you roll’ when you become ‘gay’. Maybe this alleged incident happens to you all the time once you go down that road. But I think it unlikely.

I glance around me. Absolutely no-one has their cock out, but there is a stunning view over Lake Bowness.

Me: Where exactly did this happen?

NGF: In the Gents.

Me: Oh for fu-

Glancing over the lake I notice a boat named The Silly Sausage glide by. True.

Me: Right. You’ve been in public lavatories before you were all gay and that? You must be familiar with the phenomenon of men taking ‘themselves’ out of their trousers before now? You can’t have just noticed?

NGF friend starts singing very loudly. Once again I take him to our accommodation and put him to bed. Since his recent decisions he has become a full-blown alcoholic, but for a drinker he is shit at it.

Me: [we are sharing a twin room] I’m not going to have a problem with you tonight am I?

NGF: [amid much drunken burbling] Fuck off. I’d never fancy you.

I get back in my taxi and rejoin the rest of my friends. But find myself irrationally irritated.

“He could fucking do worse” I think to myself.

I Have Two Followers.

I have no idea what this means and it sounds faintly sinister. But 'hello' whoever you are.

Books.

Nicholson Baker may not be the greatest novelist in the world. He’s certainly better than me. I’ve never bothered.

But by God his choice of reading is dreadful.

He wrote a piece recently in the Guardian about eBooks and that.

He didn’t go so far as to say that the complete digitization of all literature would be good or bad, he just described his experience of the new methods of reading novels. Digitally. If one felt so disposed. On a screen. A screen that only Amazon would sell you, and only Amazon would supply content for.

This screen would allow you to download any novel you fancied – so long as Amazon stocked it – anywhere you liked. Anywhere with a broadband connection. Or free wi-fi.

I’m not as widely read as Nicholson Baker (he seems rather fond of ‘thrillers’) but here’s some of my experiences of books:

1) A paperback copy of Life of Pi by Yann Martell. Bought in a charity shop for next to nothing. A fabulous book about belief, stories and faith. And not what you would think upon initial reading. The inside cover was written upon in biro-

‘Rose – get beyond the first hundred pages and it really picks up.’

I’ve no idea who Rose is. Or the (I assume) man was who gave it to her. But it was sensible advice. I don’t know why Rose then gave it away to a charity shop.

But I think of them, whoever they are.

I then lend it to somebody else. Because I like the book and I like the person I lend it to. Like the person who gave it to Rose. Although I’m guessing Rose wasn’t too fond of it.

2) An Encyclopia in my Grandfathers ‘study’. It was really his front room, but even then he didn’t set foot in it. Amazing to a ten-year old boy. All the knowledge in the world, in one massive tome. The pages smelt of wisdom and escape.

3) The works of A.A.Milne. Worn and battered by generations. Red hardback covers hanging off, spines barely clinging. Read to my mother, read by my mother to me, read by me to my younger brother and sister and one day hopefully to my own children. Old books, literally falling apart and smelling of love, however misplaced.

4) Bookshelves. I’ve been massively fortunate growing up for one reason. There were always books. I doubt my mother or indeed any of the illiterates she married ever read any of the books they populated the book-shelves they insisted upon, but at least they were there. And for every three Jackie Collins (deeply alarming to a thirteen-year-old-boy) there was at least one Angela Carter (slightly more alarming but for better reasons). There was some Thomas Hardy, Sylvia Plath and Raymond Chandler. At least they were there.

But now they’ve invented this ‘Thing’. Upon which you can see any book anytime, like the online catch-up service of the BBC or 4 on-demand or whatever it’s called this week.

Sony have a competitor model called the ‘Kill all emotion and meaning let’s just digitize it all MK2’ or something. KAEAMLJDIA#2 is the production name.

They’ll probably win. And the losers will be people like me, who quite like seeing the odd coffee-cup ring on the page of a well-loved book. Who like giving or lending or reading to someone a book that they adore.

And Nicholson Baker will no doubt get by.

If It Weren’t For the Photographs I Would Deny It Forever.

I am making my way from my office to my bus stop. A female colleague rushes up to me. She has not uttered a word to me in three years. Something I have not lost sleep over.

Female Colleague: Tired! I just wanted to say you were brilliant on Friday night! Really convincing.

Me: You what?

Roughly forty-eight hours earlier.

I am standing in a beer cellar with Uncannily Similar, taking alternate large swigs from a pint of lager and very large vodka and tonic. He is gazing forlornly around us.

Uncannily Similar: This is a nightmare isn’t it?

Me: Mmm.

U.S: I mean. Surrounded by all this drink. And we can’t have any of it.

Me: [Adjusting my skirt] Not really what I thought you meant.

U.S: Oh. This? Yeah. Do you think I need some more lippy?

Me: I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. Be a man. How has this happened by the way?

Two years ago I had resolved to start doing things that were a little out of character as my default behavior hadn’t really worked out as well as it could have. These ‘things’ usually involved daredevil antics such as sitting on a different seat on the bus to work or eating feta cheese. But this is just silly.

U.S: [Glancing at my legs] You’d have looked better in the fishnets.

Me: [Irrationally insulted] You fucking what?

U.S: Well. The black-and-purple stripes aren’t doing you any favours. You look like Beetlejuice.

Me: Fuck off do I.

The door to the cellar opens a crack. We are due to emerge from this and then from behind the bar and behind the audience who will be expecting us to emerge from the stage in front of them. In terms of 'stealth' it would probably be the strangest Splinter Cell add-on pack ever downloaded.

Our Boss: Five minutes girls. You look fabulous.

She vanishes again.

Me: Anyway. Your tits are wonky.

U.S: Don’t tell me that now!

Hearing our ‘theme’ we dash onstage and make complete buffoons of ourselves in front of several hundred of our peers.

Fourty-eight hours later.

Me: What do you mean, convincing?

FC: Oh. Emm. Nothing. Just you were really good.

Me: Fucks sake.

FC: Really. It was just a funny panto. Loved your dance at the end. Did it take long to rehearse?

Me: I have to catch a bus.

Six hours earlier. I walk down a corridor past two gentlemen I do not recognize. Assuming they are past my earshot one of them turns to the other and says:

“You should have seen him on Friday night. FUCKING TERRIFYING.”

Football.

This is the last thing I fucking need, I think to myself.

I have the sort of job that sometimes you just can’t walk away from at five-thirty. It involves things that sometimes can’t be left until the morning. The morning will be too late.

This is one of those sometimes. The public transport system in the city I work in tends to think ‘fuck it’ after business hours in the assumption that anyone needing to travel after six is either a drunkard or a pervert. As such I have a wait on my hands.

Raymond Chandler wrote an excellent passage about the alchemic pleasure of a bar that had just opened for the evening. ‘Farewell my Lovely’ I think.

It’s not the same now. They never really close. But there is still something about a two-thirds empty bar early in the evening – usually populated by disoriented commuters far from home, burnt-out business types and hard-core alcoholics. A stillness, a melancholy. A place to reflect in peace, populated by people who want nothing more than that themselves. People who want to be elsewhere but are either temporarily or permanently stuck. It can be quite soothing if you know you’re only visiting.

Having half an hour to kill I decide to visit a quite-nice one near my bus stop. It’s either that or the only other place open is Starbucks and I’m not that fucking far gone. Those cunts are really lost.

I push through the glass doors to be greeted by a wall of noise and approximately eight million braying lumps of flesh yowling at a plasma screen as though it were some sort of vengeful god.

Having stepped through the doors I am past the point of no return. No man in history has ever walked into a bar and then promptly turned around again.

I order a drink, making a point of not purchasing a big pint of idiot juice. Fortunately I’ve been here before and am aware of the perpetually empty ‘snug’ area which I promptly make for.

It is removed from the main bar, contains big leather chairs and only a couple of tables. The ‘wall’ facing the street is plate-glass. It is relatively quiet. I take a comfy leather chair and sit, determined to ignore the gurning festival of homoeroticism in the main room. I place my drink on a glass table-top that turns out to be one of those old arcade machines. I find this not amusingly ‘ironic’ or ‘retro’ as I’m sure I should but actually faintly depressing.

I sip my drink and stare at the skyline. My thoughts are far from here.

A man the size of a small outhouse comes barreling in and looks directly at me. He is wearing a football shirt which is puzzling as his physique is not one of an athlete. Or indeed of most normal humans.

Random Man: Thank fuck for that!

As he has not introduced himself I can only assume he imagines he has known me for some time. This is, however, not the case so I do not reply. I am not about to be involved in some nightmare scenario in which two strangers act as if they have been acquainted for years. That would just be weird. We’d be wanking each other off next.

Random Bloke: [Undeterred by my lack of response] Did you hear? [Insert name of football player here – I don’t know any] just scored! Fucking brilliant!

I gaze levelly at him and don’t respond. I can’t say if I actually shrugged, but it sounds like the sort of thing I would do.

Random Bloke: [Showing a firm grasp of the available evidence] You’re not watching it then?

Me: No.

He physically staggers for a second, but I think it’s the drink.

RB: So what you’re saying…. You’re…. Is that you just don’t give a shit about the football?

Me: Yes. I suppose so.

He steadies himself on a table. Must be the booze.

RB: But….. Fuck, man………Just trying to be friendly…….Christ……..have a bit chat and that. Jesus. Don’t have to be a CUNT.

He staggers away, his face a mass of confusion. I swear there were actually tears in his eyes.

I finish my drink and wait for my bus outside.