What Have I Been Doing?

I’ve been a bit quiet, and have been pestered about it by about two whole people which leads me to believe that, by extension, a total of six people in the whole world may also be interested.

And so, in short – although to be elaborated on – I have been doing these things:

• Attended stag-do of First Brother.
• My Excellent Children stay with me for very nearly a week
• Attend wedding of First Brother, with Excellent Children.
• Realise that my father, with whom I have had zero contact for 25 years is also attending said wedding. Something I should have worked out.
• As Excellent Children are present for the event, introduce not only myself but his Grandchildren to my father. Discover that he was unaware of their existence. Awkward.
• Later, much confrontation is involved. Not only with my father, but the aunts I had forgotten had existed who poke my face and infer that I am not a pleasant person.
• Return Excellent Children to their mother. This necessitates a fifteen-hour, 800-mile round-trip courtesy of our nation’s woeful rail network. Feel a bit tired. And sad.
• Worked ten consecutive 15-hour days. Felt a bit more tired.
• Attended stag-do of Second Brother. He’s getting married the same month, purely to piss me off.
• Suffer fit and brief spell of unconsciousness in the middle of a working day. Taken to hospital.
• Excellent Children come to stay for a few more days.
• Attend wedding of Second Brother, feel a bit aggrieved by the ‘usher’ duties he has thrown my way to make me feel better about the fact that I have failed in my own life at anything that has been important to me, and also the ‘reading’ I have to give at the church for the same reason.
• Excellent Children leave. Feel sad.
• Receive an email from my new MD informing me that if I want to apply for voluntary redundancy then he is ‘all ears’.
• Receive letter instructing me to attend an ‘epilepsy clinic’. The inference seeming to be that I now have epilepsy.
• Realise I have no annual leave left, and will probably not see my Excellent Children until 2012.

Basically, everything has been superb.

Stag Nights.

I've attended two this year alone.

Oh God, the bloody Stag Night. A test of human endurance that would make even the most hardened al-qaeda suspect whimper “can you please just make it stop now” if used as an interrogation technique. It’s rarely even a NIGHT, but the dreaded stag WEEKEND – 48 hours in the company of burping, vomiting, farting buffoons so horrendous that the stag practically RUNS down the aisle to get the hell away from the horrorific Clockwork Orange–style aversion experience.

Two days in a strange city in the company of men-children who think igniting their own flatulence is 24 CARAT and you would give anything to share the bulk of your life with an actual woman. Because men are idiots and stag nights are horrible.

It starts with the cut-price chain hotel so anonymous and homogenised that your very soul shrinks a little and progresses to some horrendous identikit Yates’s filled with badly-dressed dole-hounds and ageing alcoholics all of whom would think nothing of giving you the full benefit of the thick end of a pool cue after you discover that the door staff of the more salubrious establishments are reluctant to admit large groups of yowling, drooling, stinking men wearing specially-printed t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan ‘Pussy Patrol’

There’s no point sneering at the dolts in the party who spend the evening informing you of their intention to ‘destroy’ any of the ‘blart’ they espy, as you will several days later shamefully recall your own unsuccessful attempt to win the affections of a trainee beauty-therapist from Sunderland named Kylie with the generous offer of a ‘clattering’ behind the bottle-bins.

Staggering around the streets at an early hour asking innocent passers-by where “tha strippas are, like” is not an uplifting experience, nor is finally gaining entrance to Madame Choo-Choo’s and watching the youngest member of your party lose a small fortune to a young lady in underwear and high-heels in the belief that she “actually fancies me, like” Of course she does, mate.

Trying to get back to the hotel despite having forgotten it’s name and location, possessing no phone numbers of any local taxi firms and lacking the ability to single-handedly lift a twenty-stone inebriated imbecile is also a barrel of fucking laughs.

If you’re lucky you wake up in the dreadful room you share with at least three other men in a scene that would make Hieronymus Bosch balk, to the wilting prospect of using a bathroom still echoing with the noise and stench of several horrendous bowel movements.

Then you do it all again the next day, secure in the knowledge that everyone you encounter hates you.

The very worst thing? If you’re the stag, you’re statistically very likely to get divorced and to wish that your mental and emotional anguish would JUST END whilst you tragi-wank your way through the rest of your hollow life and wish that you could just see your children.

And if you’re not the stag, are unmarried and have attended a few of these things, it means you are inherently unlovable and have a stark future of solitary drinking and crushing loneliness ahead of you.

Enjoy your night.

Back To Work.

Exterior. Day.

A Highway Maintenance vehicle depot.

Two men in high-visibility jackets are staring at the back of a dirty Highway Maintenance vehicle.

Man#1: You’re kidding me with this aren’t you?

Man#2: It’s perfect. We’ll just blame it on ‘kids or something’. They’re always doing stuff like this. No-one’ll think it’s us.

Man#1: It’ll be OBVIOUS it’s us. Hang on. Not even 'us'. You, you twat.

Man#2: Nah. TOO obvious, mate. No-one would believe we’d be that blatant. We’ll be TOTALLY in the clear, and still have a chuckle. We’ll just say some radges did it, we didn’t notice, and everything’s golden.

Man#1: [Unconvinced] ‘We’? Fucking ‘we’? If it comes to it, I’m grassing you right up. RIGHT UP.

Man#2: It WON’T! We’re bullet-proof! Come on. Let’s go to work.

Both men climb into the cab of the vehicle and drive away.

Fade to black.

………………………………………………………………………………………......

I’m on my way to work (this is me now) travelling on a bus that is making excruciatingly slow progress.

To be honest it’s been a weird couple of weeks, but the worst seems to be over (well, not really, but more on that later) and I just want to get back to my office and back to normal. On time.

I lean into the aisle and peer ahead of me in much frustration to see what the problem is.

Ah. We are behind a local council Highway Maintenance vehicle that is making very slow progress in whatever it is they do.

Screwed onto the back of the vehicle is an official-looking sign that reads:

“Highway Maintenance Apologise For Any Inconvenience Caused To Your Journey”

Beneath this, someone – probably kids or something – has written in bold block caps into the accumulated grime such vehicles attract:

“LIKE FUCK WE DO”

I smile to myself. It IS quite funny. No-one will get in trouble for that – it’s too obvious. Probably some radge-packets did it.

Random Unconnected Conversations.

Some time ago:

Thug Colleague: ...Aye so I've got mesell a one terebyte external hard-drive

Me: ...

TG: Filled it with porn, y'knaw.

Me: ...

TG: Aye, in case the internet RUNS OUT.

Me: ...

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

Some time earlier...

I'm at work, talking on the phone.

Me: What do you mean, 'Why are you being horrible'? I'm not being horrible, I'm just being the way I always am. [Pause] What do you mean 'exactly'? Oh yeah, 'exactly'. 'EXACTLY' YOURSELF. Fuck you. Hey. Does your phone do THIS? [Hang up] FUCK!

My boss passes-by at exactly this moment and looks at me with interest.

Me: Oh. It wasn't a business call.

Boss: Wouldn't surprise me if it was.

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

Anyway, I'm off for a bit. Probably a week or so. Whatever.

Tact and Diplomacy.

One thing I’ve always been good at is diffusing potentially combustible situations.

The days in the murky world of Corporate Whoring plc continue to be dark, and I find myself attending yet another post-redundancy leaving party. It’s in honour of Uncannily Similar’s wife on this occasion. I know his feelings to be mixed – he’s worried about money, but is looking forward to not working in the same building as his wife. His reasons for that are his own.

Our venue is a tavern of low standing named The Smack Rat. Spirits are surprisingly high and strong drinks with equally high spirit content are consumed. As are even stronger drinks with only one ingredient.

I retire outside for a cigarette, soon to be joined by a couple of female colleagues. The cracked-tarmac street outside is as insalubrious as the venue.

The inevitable radge-packet weaves toward us, tracky-bottoms tucked into sport socks, shaven of head and belligerent as hell. He makes some unflattering comments, directed at the women.

I know exactly how to handle this. In a previous life I worked in the ‘licensed trade’ and have dealt with many a drunkard, despite – or because of - my less than towering height and slim build. Keep your voice low, steady and firm. No aggressive body language, do not encroach on personal space. Maintain regular eye-contact but don’t stare. Be polite, do not get annoyed. Easy.

Me: [Stepping to within 6 inches of his face and firmly planting my hand in the middle of his chest] Listen, chief. Why don’t you fuck OFF back home to your pregnant girlfriend and your fucking STAFFY BULL TERRIER?

I pause to consider my words. I feel I may have forgotten to include something. Ah. I know.

Me: You CUNT.

Astonishingly this does not have the becalming effect I imagined.

A split second later it occurs to me that the strong lager, stupid gay mojitos and tequila shots may have dulled my faculties a little. It’s possible I have misjudged the situation.

Suffice to say, after much escalated confrontation involving door-staff, several burly male colleagues and the two female colleagues insisting I hide behind their skirts, the radge is sent on his way and all are unscathed.

I am surprised that no-one thanks me for my intervention. I did, after all, heroically make myself the target for the ruffian’s ire, hence sparing the blushes of the ladies. None of whom swoon, but merely refer to me as a ‘cock’.

The following morning I resolve to work on my negotiating skills. Or to just never leave the house again.

Brimstone.

“Do you know who I am?”

I’m in one of those road-side diners you find in dust-bowl shit-holes like Arizona, which is where I assume I am. I’m sat on a high stool at the counter drinking coffee, which I never do, and smoking a Chesterfield, which I never smoke.

I glance at the man who has just spoken. He’s catching the eye of the check-shirted woman behind the counter as he sits in the stool next to me.

Me: Yes. You’re the actor John Glover. You played the devil in that awful series ‘Brimstone’ they used to show late night on Channel 4.

The Devil: [very casually, given the gravity of the whole thing] No, I am the Devil. You just see me like this [gestures at himself] because this is how you imagine I’d look, you being an obtuse fucker who used to watch too much late-night television. No cloven-hooves or pitch-forks for you, you awkward twat.

Me: It wasn’t actually that bad a show, just seemed to lose its way. If you wanted ‘bad’ you should have checked the king of late-night bad drama series ‘Highlander’. They put that on at about three o’clock. Adrian Paul – fuck – he made you look good.

TD: Yeah, it wasn’t me, it was the actor John Glover. I’m the Devil.

Me: Alright. Touchy.

TD: I have a deal for you.

Me: Thought you might.

TD: It’s – [to the waitress] – could I get a black coffee? It’s simple. Two million pounds. In return for one memory.

Me: Which one?

TD: Well – [to the waitress] – thanks. A few months ago, your six-year old son and eight-year old daughter are staying with you for a few days. One afternoon, daughter goes to visit one of her old friends and your son and you spend time alone for only the second occasion in your lives. He chose to do so - knocking-about in the park, having your first falling-out, making-up, braying the hell out of each other in the soft-play centre, indoor-rock climbing and him generally thinking everything was awesome.

Me: Yeah, I remember.

TD: Thoroughly sickening so far. So. Five in the morning, he has a bad dream, and clambers into the camp-bed you are sleeping in. That you have set-up in the spare room that is meant to be their room but you’re too much of a fuck-up to buy bunk-beds so they sleep in the double-bed in your room –

Me: HEY. They’re not cheap, bunk-beds. There’s a recession on. I’m not earning ..

TD: Whatever. I can fix all that for you. So there’s no room at all in this camp-bed, and he lies flat-out on top of you and he’s not a little boy anymore but he knows just being close to you will make the bad dream go away and you spend the night with your arms wrapped around him smelling his hair in your face and just as you’re about to sleep at six in the morning his sister wakes and climbs in as well and the camp-bed creaks and you think it’ll break and you can’t remember the last time you were so tired and so happy?

Me: Yeah.

TD: Two million pounds. Buy a house. And some decent beds. And a little flat near where they live so they don’t always have to travel hundreds of miles just to spend a couple of nights with you. Just that one memory.

Me: I’m quite fond of that one, as it happens. And we're talking about two million IMAGINARY POUNDS - this ISN'T EVEN HAPPENING.

TD: You’re a prick, do you know that?

Me: You're not the first to have mentioned it.

TD: Fucking time-waster. Cock. See you around.

Me: You were great in ‘Heroes’…

TD: That wasn’t me, that was the actor John Gl….oh fuck off.

Comments.

Google is being a complete dick and is 'moderating' my comments willy-nilly and I'm not noticing because I'm busy and such. That is all.

I Mow My Lawn And Quietly Despair.

Regular readers with long memories and no lives or friends will recall my ‘lawn situation’, and my gratefulness levelled at the two shirtless radge-packets who last summer came round twice a month and strimmed said lawn in return for enough money to buy some cigarettes or cider and for not putting my windows in.

This year, I approach the assembly of my new lawnmower with some trepidation. To be honest, I’m astonished it needs any input on my part construction-wise at all. Shouldn’t it already come in one piece? It’s one of the largest functional item’s I’ve ever owned and I’m becoming concerned about a future in which I purchase a car or a house and find it comes requiring a degree in Air-Fix. Is this how it works now? You pay people for stuff you then need to build?

Oh well. It’s not the most dispiriting birthday present I’ve ever had but at least it serves a function.

Blonde Colleague: [Several days earlier] But what about the radgies? Where are they going to get their White Lightning money now?

Me: It’s not my problem anymore.

B.C: They’ll probably start mugging old ladies for their pension again.

Me: You don’t know that. [They probably will.] And to be honest, it’ll be a relief not to have a couple of shirtless fourteen-year-old boys knocking on my door – the door of a single adult man – anymore. People talk.

B.C: But they were canny! Doing all that work for a couple of quid instead of going on the rob!

And she’s right. As I heave my new lawnmower onto the front lawn I admit to myself that I am now depriving some local delinquents of legal employ. But it’s a gift – I have to use it.

I reflect to myself that it would be funny if they came down my street now and saw me with my new lawnmower.

The radge-packets walk down my street. “This is ridiculous,” I think. “If I write something on the tedious subject of mowing my lawn no-one is going to believe this is happening. Fuck.”

Radgie 1: Alreet, like?

Me: Yeah, um…

Radgie 2: Lawnmower is it?

Me: Aaah…

Radgie 1: WE’D do THAT [gestures at lawn] for ya!

Me: I know but [gesturing at offending lawnmower] it was a present so I’ve got to use it, you know?

Radgie 2: Aye. Right then. Used it before?

Me: NO! First time! I’ve just put it together!

They shrug.

Me: Here we go!

I pull at the ‘power’ handle attached to the real handle. Nothing happens. I release the safety-thing that allows you to ACTUALLY pull the ‘power’ handle and it whirs into life. I grin at the the radge-packets. They scowl.

After mowing for a bit I feel oddly content. Adult. Capable. I glance back. THEY’RE JUST STANDING WATCHING.

I realise they are going to watch me mow MY ENTIRE LAWN.

I manfully shoulder-on, aware that every square-foot of grass represents a mouthful of Diamond White to them. They’re gone by the time I finish. I collect the grass clippings with my newly-acquired rake (get me) and bag it. Judging by the weight it’s at least equivalent to twenty Lambert & Butlers.

I feel DREADFUL. I am convinced the local crime rate will soar. And am also dismayed that this is the only interesting thing to have happened to me in some time.

NEXT: I take the sunflowers back inside, realise I'm being silly and put them back on the patio again. REALLY.

Checking-out.

An early Saturday afternoon. I’m in the queue for the checkout at my local ‘super’ market armed with some eggs, a loaf of bread, a newspaper and a monstrous hangover.

I’m in no mood.

A man I sort-of know joins the queue behind me.

Namesake: Alright mate?

I’m going to be forced to have a conversation, aren’t I?

I glance at the length of the queue ahead of me, briefly calculate the number of items each person has and the resulting transaction time and come to the conclusion that it’s going to be far too long.

Me: [With heavy heart] Mmm?

Some back-story is required. A couple of years ago I did the hellish ‘flatmate’ thing and moved into the spare room of a ‘lively lady’. She’d had a number of ‘flat-mates’ in the past, and had agreed to ‘take me on’ as I was a ‘fella’ and she felt she didn’t ‘get on’ with her female lodgers.

It was ok until she perplexingly got quite ‘keen’ on me and that. Which was awkward for a bit, but then she pulled herself together and got herself a new bloke with the same name as me. And, I assumed, lived happily ever after once I moved-out and got my own place because I couldn’t tolerate all the ‘happiness’ going on.

Anyway. This is him. He's not a 'bad' bloke I suppose.

Namesake: Been up to much? Still in the same place?

Two questions at once. The bastard.

Me: Mmph. Yeah. Out last night though. Bit delicate.

Namesake: [Needlessly enthusiastic]Gotta be done though, yeah?

Actually, could you just not talk?

Namesake: Don’t know if you heard?

Me: …

Namesake: Yeah, me and Lively split.

Me: Oh.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information. The fucking queue isn’t moving any quicker and the conversation is quickly getting into a place that is ‘not my area’.

Namesake: Yeah. I mean. I moved out, then we weren’t together.

Yeah, that’ll do it, I think to myself. Especially if you try it in that order.

Namesake: We were still seeing each other after I moved out and that – her idea for me to go, you know – money and that, I’ve not done well after the divorce - and…

The old woman two spaces ahead of me – after paying for her shopping - is now paying her utility bills on those pre-payment card things. One-by-one. Marvellous.

Namesake: …so she got a new lodger but he didn’t work out. This is before we officially split and that. Apparently he didn’t like having the flat to himself ‘cos she was always round mine…

Yeah, no doubt mate. ‘He hated having the place to himself’. That was his problem.

Fuck me, Mum-Ra has been replaced by Discount Coupon Lady who is taking even longer.

Namesake: …but she’s got a new one now and it seems to be going well. I mean. I don’t see her much anymore, but sometimes I see them and they’re even out together. You know? Of a night-time and that? Seems like a nice chap, actually.

I think of the Friday night texts I used to get from Lively Lady.

Namesake gazes thoughtfully into the middle-distance. The poor bastard.

Thankfully, I have been served.

Me: Anyway.

Namesake: Oh. Yeah. Good to see you again mate.

Me: Yeah.

I don’t then grab his shoulder and say “At least I didn’t fuck her” because I’m far too hung-over.

Under-Krackers.

I’ve a tiresome work-related problem to deal with and it involves Blonde Colleague.

We’ve been put-back a good couple of days by some absurd ‘training’.

Me: [Brandishing a memo from Accounts] Now then –

Blonde Colleague: [Squirming in her seat] I’ve got the mother of all wedgies.

Me: *sigh* Right. Accounts have been on at me and –

B.C: [Wriggling] Friggin’ hell, if they were any further up they’d be in my mouth.

Me: Ok. It’s just there’s a query on –

B.C: If I coughed they’d come flyin’ out my gob.

Me: Yeah. Apparently you spoke to Client X and agreed –

B.C: [Standing-up and doing a weird thing with her hips] They’re big pants, you know – like boxers but for girls?

I can’t remember when it happened, but either I became ‘one of the girls’ or she became ‘one of the boys’.

Me: Ah. I need to get this sorted today, so –

B.C: They cost two pound and one-seventy-five of them are up my arse.

Me: No doubt. Can we get this –

B.C: It’s nae good, I’m going to have to sort this.

She heads-off in the direction of the ‘ladies powder-room’. Or the ‘can’ as she prefers to call it.

Me: [To her rapidly-disappearing back] I’ll talk to you later, yeah?

“Motivational Seminar”.

Are there any two words in the lexicon that can chill the blood more? I suspect not.

“Motivational” is bad enough - if you need ‘motivating’ to do something then it’s because it’s something you don’t want to do. Ask yourselves; do you need ‘motivating’ to spend all Saturday in your pants on the bean-bag playing video games? No you don’t – you’d be doing that anyway.

“Seminar”? Basically slang for ‘making a short conversation last a thousand years by inviting a bunch of twats you don’t care about to give their worthless opinions’.

Anyway. I have to subtract two days from my life to attend one of these dreadful things.

I’ll not bore the world with it’s eight-gagillionth blog post about ‘how corporate working life is a bit pants and that’ because – lets face it – wearing a suit every day and working in an air-conditioned office isn’t really as bad as fruitlessly hacking-away at an unforgiving coalface, but I will gift you with a series of ‘motivational’ bullet-points I have been supplied with to ‘keep with me’ during this dreadful seminar next week.

The following BBFC-style advisory does apply:

1) Reading further will potentionally cause your brain tissue to melt into a watery-grey semen-like substance that will begin seeping from the tear-ducts of your eyes, causing you to weep hot bitter spunk and cerebrospinal fluid down your cheeks - making the lower part of your face resemble one of the melting Nazis at the end of Raiders Of The Lost Ark

and

2) Actually make you shit your pants.

What follows have been cut-and-pasted and not embellished in any way. Connesiurs will recognise the wearingly constant exclamation marks. The bracketed comments are my own, where needed. You have been warned:

“People will never consistently do who they aren’t!” [I’m not convinced that this is anything other than a random collection of words. Unless it is the colloquial ‘do’ in which case it means ‘fuck yourself’. Hmm.]

“People remember the experience long after they remember the price!”

“When you increase the amount of time you think about things you start to add in other dimensions!” [The only thing 'increasing' here is 'fear'. What other 'dimensions'? If Doctor Who is not hosting this seminar I shall feel let-down}

“If you don’t know where you’re going all the roads lead there!” [To where? That literally makes no sense.]

“If my life was a business would I invest in it?” [Currently, I'm not even investing in you mate - and I've not even met you.]

“What you say… will be the way!” [Ok then. "I'm the next James Bond."]

“Pain is the catalyst for action……Pleasure is the continuation of action” [What? Really. What?]

“What you think about you become!” [See above. I am still awaiting my MI6 invite.]

“If you think you can or you think you can’t… your probably right!” [Although the author of this Motivational Speaking seminar ‘pre-prep’ document is hardly motivating me with the fact that he doesn’t know his “you’re” from his “your”]

“Amateurs practise till they get it right – Professionals practise till they can’t get it wrong!”

“The quality of your life is in direct proportion to the quality of the questions you ask yourself and others!”

“It’s not about doing major things differently… It’s about small changes which together have a compounding effect on the end result”

“In a world where the BIG things make little difference it’s the little things that make a BIG difference!”

As of Tuesday, I’ve got two solid days of this. They’re (not ‘There’ or ‘Their’) not even providing lunch. Pray I do not murder someone.

Sunflowers.

I am re-potting some sunflowers. There are about eighteen of them, roughly ten inches high and they currently reside in just two pots, originally planted as seeds by my son and daughter respectively.

They’re getting a bit crowded.

I select the tallest from each pot and re-plant them, placing the two small sticks each of my children have written their names on into the compost of the plant they belong to.

Chatting under my breath to myself, I refer to each of the plants with the christian names of both my son and daughter as I have done throughout the growing process. If I did not live alone, someone would probably tell me that not only is talking to plants a bit odd, but talking to them as if they were actually your absent offspring is even odder.

And I would tell them to fuck off.

So they don’t feel left out, I also re-pot the remaining, less successful sunflowers, and put them and their larger siblings in the sun on the patio. They’re getting big now, and I think they’re ready to leave the house and amuse themselves outside on their own.

It’s a task I’ve been putting-off for over a week now - despite acquiring the compost, pots, bamboo cane and twine - without really knowing why. But of course the reason is obvious, as any Oliver James-reading armchair psychologist would point out:

I just don’t want them to grow up.

Silently nodding my head at my own insightfulness, I head back into my living room and gaze at my unkempt lawn. I wonder why I haven’t got round to mowing it, despite the still-boxed new lawnmower residing in the shed.

Again, the reason is obvious:

I just can’t be fucking arsed.

'Nice' People.

Blonde Colleague and I are out the back of the building we work in, smoking cigarettes and scowling at strangers.

Blonde Colleague: Anyways. Did you go for a drink with that lass then?

Me: Mmm hm.

B.C: You did? God, you tell no-one nothing you. So? Any good?

I shrug and make a face.

B.C: No?

Me: Naaaw.

B.C: It’s like pulling teeth with you. So – why, like? Aside from her obviously being blind or a mental or something if she’s giving you the time of day.

Me: No. It’s just…she was ‘nice’, you know?

B.C: What’s wrong with that? A nice lass wouldn’t do YOU any harm. Level you out a bit.

Me: I just don’t really like ‘nice’ people.

B.C: YOU DON’T LIKE ANYONE! God. You’re going to die alone, do you know that?

Me: Rather that than knock-around with some ‘nice’ girl who’ll end up making me pray FOR an early demise.

B.C: What do you mean anyways? ‘Nice’?

Me: Well. [Begin counting bullet-points on my fingers] 1) She works for a charity and –

B.C: [Screwing her face in disgust at the very idea of ‘altruism’] What sort of fucking charity?

Me: - oh I don’t know, spastic kids or something I’d stopped listening at that point. 2) She’s also a part-time student and –

B.C: [Equally appalled] Fuck! Studying what?

Me: Psychology and child-care.

B.C: Jesus fucking Christ. What’s that going to get her?

Me: Dunno. A free copy of the Guardian and a pair of moccasins when she graduates I’d have thought. And 3) she does volunteer work for her local Girl Guides.

B.C: Fuck off!

Me: I’m not even joking.

B.C: [Flicking her cigarette across the street and not noticing it hit an elderly woman’s wheeled-shopping-basket thing] Fuck me you’re better off out of that.

Me: Tell me about it.

We head back into our office, a place of dreadful raw-nerved competitiveness and awful pressure where we would each fuck the other over without a second’s thought, far, far away from any horrendous ‘nice’ people. We sit down, stinking of cigarette smoke and cynicism and glare at people.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I Receive A Text Message.

I'm not hugely mourning the loss of my daily contact with Thug Colleague, Grant From Work and Silent Ben since their rather ignoble departure from my workplace, but it is quite odd and I don’t like change.

As such I’ve uncharacteristically been in quite regular contact with them as we do the odd thing of changing from work ‘mates’ to actual friends. The last time I did this was with Gay Mark and look how that ended. He wasn’t gay before.

Not that I'm saying being friends with me turns you gay. I'm not saying that at all.

Anyway. I now find myself ‘organizing things’ and that. Not my forte, but I’m rather enjoying it.

Oh and let me make it clear - the ‘ignoble’ aspect was not down to them at all and actually I think they’ve acted rather impressively but that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want to be one of those ‘bloggers’ who gets sacked for jabbering about their workplace and then gets a book deal as a result. I’d hate that.

But I’d started – after nearly five years – to decide they were ‘alright’. Thug was exactly the sort of person I’d never get on with, Grant was so dry he made me look like Timmy Mallett and Silent Ben has – to my knowledge – never spoken to anyone ever.

But still I send a text to Thug offering some gesture of solidarity following a night of cold-drinks related entertainment neither of us could attend. Unfortunately for me, he texts as he speaks so I have little idea what the following reply means:

“Wey ner hit it like mark hits his balls off male anus na cudnt make it had ma fitness class on till 8 wud have been owa late we shud sort owt a gud drink soon mate get all the gud ones owt minus Hitler and ginger Claire haha.”

After several readings I can only assume that a night out of some sort is in the offing.

I think.

More things to organise. *sigh*

Something Odd Happens.

Are you a woman? Do you have breath-takingly low standards and want to know how to snare yourself a damaged ill-tempered skinny man who spends his down-time scowling at people on public transport? Then read on.

Tuesday evening. I’m on my way home from work but will be getting off the bus a few stops early to visit a hideous shopping centre to buy a cheap DVD player to replace the one that done broke and that. It’s a massive inconvenience and I’m tired.

I move toward the doors of the bus as it approaches the shopping-centre. Someone places their hand on my arm.

I don’t like people touching me at the best of times and this is the last place I expect such unwarranted intimacy. I flinch, jerk my arm away and stop just short of punching Captain Touchy square in the face.

Vaguely Familiar Woman: Hi!

Me: Err…

The bus has stopped and we go through the rigmarole of getting off, entering the hideous shopping emporium and side-stepping all the old people and ‘wheelchairs’ that always hold-up the normal pedestrian traffic in such places.

It’s all a bit disorientating and I’d already retreated into a private mental-place as I usually do when visiting this awful citadel-of-hatefulness so I now have to unexpectedly ‘snap out of it’.

VFW: [Beaming at me like I’ve known her for years despite my only slightly recognising her from somewhere or other] So! What you doing?

Me: Ah. DVD. Ehm. I mean. It broke. [Clears throat and pulls self together. Still a bit rattled about all the ‘touching’ business] I need to buy a new [actually, WHO THE FUCK IS THIS WOMAN?] DVD player, I had a box-set delivered and I’ve not been able to watch it – bit frustrating – so I’m ahhh…

VFW: [Astonishingly not losing interest] Ok. Well I just need to pick up some things from Boots The Chemists then I can give you a lift home.

Me: [Glancing behind me at the bus station] Urrr..

VFW: Oh I park the car here and get the bus to and from town.

Me: Ahhh…

VFW: Currys would be best. Or Argos. [Proceeds to give me in-depth directions ‘in case you get lost’ as I probably would]

VFW: I’ll just drop you a text when I’m done in Boots yeah?

Me: [Still massively befuddled. Who the fuck is this person? She does look familiar. And is quite pretty] Yeah.

I’ve said ‘yeah’ purely to end the conversation without really thinking about the consequences

VFW: What’s your number?

I see what she’s done now. And I’ve already said ‘yeah’. So I can’t not give her my number. And of course I now have to give her my name. Because it would now be ‘silly’ not to. She’s good.

Forty minutes later.

We’re now in her car approaching my street.

Me: Anywhere here is fine.

It’s far enough away from my house for her not to know exactly where I live. She stops the car, after a twenty minute journey during which she has acquired my life-story after a asking a few simple questions and making me feel so awkward that I cannot stop talking.

Me: Ah. So. Thanks for this. I must owe you a drink or something.

That’s something you just say isn’t it? No-one takes that as a commitment surely?

VFW: This Friday or Saturday. Either are good.

Me: [Oh, I’m wrong] Ahhh. Ehm. Ok then.

I get out of her car, dragging my new DVD player with me, and let myself into my empty house and look at my reflection in the mirror. I look haggard, confused and startled.

Me: [To my own reflection] What the fuck just happened?

Nothing Interesting Happens.

A bleary-eyed Saturday morning. I take the washing from the line, carefully fold it and toss it onto the patio table which promptly collapses sending rusty screws, splinters and planks of dry wood aloft which a sickening crash.

I stare at it for a bit, but it does not magically re-assemble itself.

If I were married or had a girlfriend someone would now be saying:

“Well don’t just stand there staring you idiot!”

But I don’t even have that as a distraction.

Taking my splinter-strewn washing indoors I then make myself some boiled eggs that are not boiled satisfactorily. I begrudgingly eat at my dining-table and not in the sun on the patio.

There is a ‘thud’ from the letter-box.

A new box-set. Things are looking up.

The DVD player no longer works.

Brilliant.

I go out to buy some compost. I have sunflowers to re-pot. There isn’t any compost to be found in a 5-mile radius. At all. Nor is there available any generic ‘No-More-Nails’ – style wood glue to allow me to clumsily transform what is now a small amount of kindling into a table-shaped object.

Attempting to purchase the Saturday edition of my favourite newspaper, I am thwarted by the fact that it is now actually Sunday because I’ve lost track of the whole thing what with all these bloody Bank Holidays.

I arrive home empty-handed.

Scratching at my partially-successful beard I reflect that the day is not going as I would wish.

NEXT: As an indirect result of nothing interesting happening, something odd – but not terribly interesting - happens!

I Send Some Text Messages.

Last Thursday. There are plans for ‘cold drinks’ involving myself, Grotbags (resplendent in spray-tan for the event), Blonde Colleague, Uncannily Similar, Gay Mark, Grant From Work and Thug Colleague. I am rather looking forward to it as I’ve known each of them for over five years and have now decided I quite like them.

And then realise that I have a previous work commitment and can only join them for about an hour. Deeply unhappy about this, I send a group text to those concerned after I get on my bus:

Tired Dad: Enjoy the rest of your evening fuckers. Think of me pulling pints for a bunch of 60-year old cunts with no crack.

I get a number of surprisingly sympathetic replies, except from Grotbags, who is pretending she has forgotten I even exist:

Grotbags: Who is this?

Funny lady. I reply:

TD: It’s Tired you knob.

G: Tired who?

She’s milking this.

TD: Oh fuck off will you. I’m in no mood. Dale Winton called – he wants his tan back.

G: What tan?

This isn’t right. She should have bitten. I think for a bit.

I’ve recently had a harrowing 14-hour train journey during which I now remember receiving a rather significant text message from an unfamiliar number:

Unknown Number: Grotbags – new number.

I start to feel quite uneasy and send the following text to what I now know to be Grotbags’ new number:

TD: I’ve just sent a lot of quite insulting messages to your old phone by accident. Please apologize to whoever has it now.

I receive the following, quite chilling, two-word reply:

Grotbags New: My daughter.

Her very beautiful daughter is 11 years old.

I madly send messages of apology to all concerned and explain to daughter that I work with her mother and am also a fool.

I am not looking forward to my return to the office tomorrow.

You Don't Really Want To Ask.

Classified advertisement spotted in my local 'sales and wants' paper:

KARCHER SC1020 STEAM CLEANER. Good steam cleaner. New costs £130. Valentine gift from my husband, used only once, not my forte. Durham.

I strongly suspect the back-story is not a happy one.

Small Coins.

Like the shiniest coins in your money box as a child they may have little real value or significance, but sometimes the small incidents, the small memories, are the best and you’re afraid to touch them or revisit them too much in case they become dull.

This evening. I’m walking through the grass-lined war memorial outside the bus station that will provide me with transport home. It’s late, I’ve been kept back at my office two hours longer than need be and I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep well the previous evening and am generally in a foul mood.

The memorial, at this time of night, is home to every cider-head, smack-rat, emo, goth, chav, homeless, skater-kid and radge-packet in the city. Basically they are representative of all the various tribes of humanity I despise and I just want to negotiate it in one piece without losing my temper and getting into a situation I will doubtless not come out the better of. I really don’t have the build for it.

I’m near the pillared-entrance to the small shopping centre at the back of the memorial that leads to my bus station when I notice an elderly man in ragged clothes and a bobble hat taking a circuitous route around the pillars, staring intently at the ground.

I come to the conclusion that he is either a) mental or b) homeless and is searching for money or viable cigarette-ends or c) most likely both. I alter my path to avoid contact with him. I can’t help him, it’s late and – do you know what – he’s not my problem.

Almost simultaneously a small group of radgies clock him as well. They’re the very worst sort. With an average age of fourteen years by the look of them, they are clad head-to-toe in either Bench or Kangol, dripping in Elizabeth Duke and have obviously been wagging-off school all day and stink of Lambert & Butlers.

And they’re girls. Which is so much worse. Empowered by the effect of their new-found hips, tits and arses they know they have a terrible influence over men that they do not yet fully understand, but still they know it’s there. And they also know that no man will strike either a child or a woman on the street. Being a strange mixture of both, they are fucking untouchable and they know it. They’re terrifying.

One of their number detaches herself from the radge-hive and starts heading toward the elderly mental homeless guy. Her shoulders are squared, her stride argumentative and she is reeking of fake tan, hormones, aggression and whatever they use to fix hair-extensions with.

Radge-Packet: [At Elderly Homeless Mental] You! Aye. You. What ye dein’ like?

I slow my pace and turn around. It’s none of my business. And I may not have been prepared to do anything for the man, but I’m not going to stand by and watch him be tormented by an ASBO kid. Christ. All I wanted was to get home.

R.P: [Shouting] Aye. Yeah. Ye, like. Ah’m talkin’ to yuh.

It never happens often, but in situations like this I never know WHAT I’m going to do. I just know I’ll do something.

R.P: [Now squaring-up to Elderly Homeless Mental in the most confrontational manner possible] Looking for pennies are yu? Eh? I said- are you looking for coins?

My jaw is clenched. I start to walk over.

Elderly Homeless Mental: [Confused, frightened] Oh, er, yes ….

R.P: Reet. Well have this. [Proffers a small coin] It’s only ten pence but it’s all I’ve got. [With undiminished aggression] One of my stupid mates hoyed five pence ower there [gestures] so yu can probly find that too an’ aaal. Reet?

E.H.M: Oh bless you. You’re an angel.

R.P: Aye well.

She heads back to her cohorts and I trail behind as she’s on the way to where I need to be.

One of her companions asks her what the guy said. She replies with the same borderline-furious tone I now realise she has used all her life, and that her mother and father have probably used all their lives before her.

R.P: Aye he said I was an angel, like.

Companion: Aw.

I look at my watch. I’ve still time for not only my bus, but also a brief re-evaluation of humanity. I shall try and remember this. But not too often.

Pressure.

“You might feel a bit of pressure.” Says the woman sticking a scalpel in my eye.

“Pressure?” I think to myself. “You know nothing about it, love. I’ve got a workload you wouldn’t believe and I’ve had to take an hour off to come here so a swarthy lass who could obviously beat the shit out of me if I looked at her funny with my good eye can stick needles in me and start fucking about with a sharp fucking knife. At my fucking eye. Fuck. It’s not like I can even look away. Shit”

“That’s a good result.” She says to no-one in particular as the vision in my left eye goes blood-red. With blood as it turns out.

Being an obviously considerate sort, she tapes an eye-patch big enough to take care of Geoff Capes onto me, despite the fact that my entire head is about the size of my eight-year old daughters. So I don’t look in the slightest bit foolish.

“Now, if you have to come back…..”

“Don’t worry. I AM NEVER FUCKING HAVING THAT DONE AGAIN.” I say.

She and her assistant laugh. This is a big load of TEH FUNNY for them. They cut cysts from the under-sides of eyelids all the time.

I return to the office, tripping down stairs and bumping into door frames.

It’s not the first time I’ve had to have things hacked from my body because they’re doing more harm than good, and I wonder how long it’ll be before I have a bathroom cabinet like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly packed with discarded pieces of me.

After much hilarity caused by my appearance, four of my colleagues are – without warning or explanation – escorted from the premises. Two of them I happen to have quite a lot of time for.

I’m told I shall be taking over the accounts of one of them. As I’m obviously at a loose-end these days. And don’t have enough to do.

Finally, I get a bus home. It’s the same service upon which I had an alarming seizure and convulsed on the floor of for a full five minutes some months ago. People look askance at my patched face and shuffle out of my way.

I take out my much-hated mobile phone and send a couple of texts of concern and support to Thug Colleague. I remember how much I used to dislike him, and how perplexed we both must be about the massively unlikely friendship we have grown in the last twelve months – sparked by a mutual admiration of the recording artist Kunt And The Gang - after four solid years of being deeply suspicious of one another.

It seems I have developed ‘empathy’ quite late on in life. As if I didn’t have enough to do, it seems I am now ‘caring about people’ all over the place. The selfish bastards. Christ.

Impromptu Telly Review.

I’m having an unbelievably stressful afternoon having taken on an unnecessarily ambitious project just to prove a point and also because neither backing-down or admitting defeat are one of my big things.

Thug Colleague: How. Tired. Y’want in on this?

Me: FUCK. What?

T.C: Top five most hated television programmes?

It’s better than his enquiry as to who my ‘arch-nemesis’ in the workplace is, but I have deadlines screaming at me like I owe them money, three different departments of my silly company doing the same, six clients who do not seem to know what the term ‘deadline’ actually means and ninety minutes to tie the whole thing up.

Me: Yeah, O.K. then.

Here are my answers, and reasons (if required):

Popworld, Channel 4.
Two charisma-free mannequins perform the most painfully over-rehearsed ‘spontaneous’ banter whilst pretending to laugh at their own obviously scripted and unfunny ‘jokes’ whilst asking uninteresting questions of uninteresting popstrels and banging on about ‘festivals’ and stuff. They wouldn’t be invited round my house in a million years. I don’t hate it because it was once quite good. I hate it because it is shit.

Anything Featuring the ‘Talents’ Of Alex Zane, Any Channel.
No explanation required.

That Dreadful Bob Grundy-Hosted History of the North of England Thing, BBC1
I can’t even be bothered to look-up it’s real name. It makes Countryfile seem avant-garde. Do you know that feeling of dread that used to creep into the pit of your stomach on a Sunday night before school when Bullseye came on the telly? It’s like someone distilled that, cooked it up and fucking mainlined it into you. In a massively unlikely footnote, Thug Colleague has had business dealings with the man in question (attempting to flog his DVDs to an uninterested public) and reports that he is ‘a cunt’.

Something for the Weekend, BBC2
I can only assume that the sorry enterprise was born of this scenario:

Exec 1: We need some sort of Sunday-morning ‘magazine show’ made-up of clips from the previous week’s telly that is totally unlike the omnibus This Morning on the other channel which features the deep likeability of Philip Schofield and the unique combination of sexiness and equal likeability that is Holly Willoughby. You know, the one people actually enjoy? But have it be almost identical to that. Whilst being different.

Exec 2: No problem. We’ll just assemble a bunch of feckless z-list celebrities and no-marks with all the charm of my foreskin and with no chemistry whatsoever to pretend they don’t secretly hate each other any more than the general public actually hates each and every one of them individually and then – twist coming – throw in a cocktail-maker who appears to be a hairs-breadth away from downing a mojito in a one-er and chinning the lot of them.

Exec 1: Perfect.

Any Cookery Show Featuring Rick Stein. Any Channel, But Usually BBC2.
A controversial choice as it turned out. But let me ask you this: could you spend more than an hour in his company without wanting to grind your teeth on his worthy skull? No, you couldn’t. And he always smells of fish, whilst constantly quacking-on about it. It’s fish, Rick. Get over it.

Several people list that “fuckin 10 O’Clock Show shite” in their top five, and I briefly argue. But even I have to concede that I WANT to like it more than I ACTUALLY do.

I look at my watch and realise I shall now be working late or face the wrath of a client named Wayne, who is built like a brick-layer and sports the name ‘Miss Kitty’ after dark. True.