I Hate

FUCKING swaggering, cock-brained cuntlicker twenty-four year olds with their fucking stupid 'did-your-Mam-cut-it' hair that probably cost about forty quid to look as shit as it does, twatting on constantly about 'their' music.

Constantly polluting the office with their unreasonably loud phone calls to their 'mates' (ie: people who wish they'd never given them their number) YEAH YEAH MAN CAN I LEND YOUR CAMCORDER. YEAH. YEAH. WANT TO UPLOAD THE GIG ONTO MYSPACE. YEAH MAN. GET OUT THERE. SHOW EM OW ITS DONE. YEAH MAN. NAH MAN. X FACTOR. FUCK OFF. DO IT PROPER. DO IT THE HARD WAY YEAH. CREDIBILITY YEAH.

Please please please die very soon you dreadful dreadful FUCKTARD. This is an advertising sales office. Do you understand? It is not an indie record company. Your 'credibility' could not be lower whilst you work here. Stop playing mp3's of your shit band through your pc speakers - THAT YOU BRING IN SPECIALLY - without comment in the mistaken belief that someone will spontaneously say 'Blimey old chap, that sounds rather spiffing. Pray tell, what enormous talent has produced that?'.

Cunt.

And have a fucking shave. You're at work.

Tales From the Pub # I Lose Track Now.

I am In the Pub.

Sat at the bar on this occasion. Me at one end, Old Guy at the End Of the Bar at the other.

I am sipping my drink, staring into space, wishing everything was different but knowing it won't be.

A girl, eighteen if she's a day, comes up to order a drink.

Tall, dark, fuck-off look about her. I've seen her a few times. She has one of those fantastic faces. Could so easily be ugly, could so easily be beautiful. And just wavers in between. Brilliant. Massive knockers, tiny waist. I say this totally impartially of course, having been ruined for all other women. But I'm not blind. Anyway, she reminds me of someone.

Old Guy fancies himself this evening. He leans over.

Old Guy: Y'naw hen, ye've got a body off of BayWatch.

Girl: Mmmm.

She is clearly less-than-bowled-over by the amorous attentions of a man at least five times her age, who is visibly pissed, and appears to have the bulk of his Sunday lunch down his shirt front.

Old Guy is a bit narked about the fact that this young lady has not immediately swooned at his best line. I wait with baited breath. My God, I think, any second now he is going to call her a lesbian.

I am wrong.

Old Guy: Aye. And a face off of bliddy CrimeWatch.

Superb!

Girl: [without any obvious malice or anger] Oh fuck off will you.

I finish my drink and leave.

Tales From the Pub # 4

I am In The Pub.

It is very late, close to closing. They all come in.

It is a grim pub. But to these late-comers it is the fucking Groucho.

Fifties. Short. As wide as tall. Suit (probably the only one they own). White hair. Chests like barrels, bellys like water-bombs. Sometimes a tie. To be quickly loosened to reveal an awful lot of gold. Not Elizabeth Duke mind. Worse. Tacky before tacky was acceptable. Not that it is.

Appear to have a slightly more glamourous version of John Prescott’s wife on their arm. Proudly.

Orange. ‘Oh we’ve been abroad’. You haven’t. Dressed the way a fourty-year-old would if they were trying to be ‘with it’. But they’re not fourty. And even the fourty-year-olds get it wrong.

Whatever.

I think nothing of these people. They are horrible men, who have worked hard their whole lives to reach this nirvana. I know they are happy with it. Their horrible wives are also probably happy with their pretend glamour. A late Saturday night drink in a shit pub with dubious opening-hours to be ignored by their husbands after they have spent two hours getting-themselves-up like a nineteen-year-old-popstar that no-one will hear of two weeks from now. And looking FUCKING RIDICULOUS.

I ignore this.

I think about, you know, my life and that. I do not advise anyone to do this. The conclusions are never good. Especially in a place where access to booze is very easy.

But I think anyway. It becomes actually quite unpleasant so I stop. Just like that. I can do it. It is one of my few skills. I can turn the ‘normal’ (ie :you know, feelings and that) stuff off like a switch.

Bottles of what indeed? The security services have ground the country to a halt. On the basis of providing me with another excuse for a shitty story from God knows how long ago that isn’t even very good but that MAKES SENSE NOW.

I finish my drink and leave.

Tales From the Pub # 3

I Am In The Pub

It is at least eleven years ago.

On this occasion, I am actually behind the bar. I am talking to Garry The Mental.

Garry The Mental is very drunk. I am not worried.

[As any good barman will know, there are drunks to worry about, and drunks to not. Garry The Mental was not. The drunks to worry about are not such a big deal. If they get out of hand, you remove them, and they are so drunk by this stage that removing them is not difficult because they are so appallingly drunk that even if they did lash out they would miss. You grab them by their upper arm near the shoulder and dig your fingers in. It would hurt like fuck to a sober man. A proper drunkard merely gets the message. You then steer them out the door. If they kick-off before this, you slip your arms under their armpits and lace your fingers behind their neck. There is not a lot they can do at this point. I have had to do both on more than one occasion and it scared the shit out of me each time.]

GTM: Don’t tell anyone. [Looks around, as if he could see anything] I was in the SAS.

Me: Oh

GTM: I could jump out of your fridge at any time. Like Kato in the Pink Panther.

Me: I’ll look out for that. Would it be O.K. if I ask you to finish up now? Lot of clearing up to do and I’ve got to open up in the morning.

GTM: Yeah. You’re O.K. I’ll keep an eye out for you.

I had a look in my fridge that night just to be sure.

Several days later I am In The Pub with Sad Sack.

I do rather like Sad Sack. One of those men for whom life has just – well – he just hasn’t had one. And he doesn’t seem to mind too much.

And has the best record collection of anyone aside from John Peel.

I relate the Garry The Mental story. Sad Sack stiffens.

Sad Sack: I don’t like that.

Me: [jovial] I wasn’t too happy myself

Sad Sack: You know what I do for a living.

To explain. We lived in a fairly small city. It was unremarkable, but I liked it. It was a stones-throw away from the permanent base of the SAS. It wasn’t too far away from GCHQ. On the outskirts of the city, must of the work was from defence contractors, most of whom did work – indirectly – for the MOD.

Me: Erm. You work for a software design house?

SS: DO YOU THINK THAT? WHO KNOWS WHAT MY ALGORHYRIMS ARE BEEN USED FOR?? GARY THE MENTAL COULD BE A PLANT!! HE’S PROBABLY MI6!! HE'S USING YOU TO CHECK ME! I’VE SEEN CARS I DON’T RECOGNIZE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE! AND NOW YOU’VE SET GARRY THE MENTAL AND OBVIOUSLY MI5 ON ME!!! SHIT. SHIT!

Sad Sack called me the next morning and apologised. It was 1995.

I am fucking glad I do not frequent any pubs in that town now.

I finished my drink and left.

Tales From the Pub # 2

I am In The Pub.

For a change, it is not one of my frankly rather grim Local Pubs.

I am in the city. Down by the river. Late afternoon-ish. The courtyard of a slightly-swanky-but-not-unbearably-so bar.

I sip my drink. The sun hits my face and for a second –just a second mind you- I get one of those heart-surging ‘hey, everything might be O.K.’ type feelings.

They never last longer than a second.

The other side of the courtyard. A Guy and his Girl sit. They are rather well turned-out, as befits their surroundings.

The Guy takes a Device from his pocket and starts tinkering. Being a man myself, I am rather intrigued. It is, after all, a Device.

I peer at this thing. Is it a GameBoy of some sort? I keep peering. No. They don’t come in purple.

My goodness! It is one of those Blackberry-things! How exciting/annoying.

Let me make myself clear. I think that unless you are an on-call brain surgeon or something, there is no sensible reason why a person would NEED a MOBILE PHONE. They are, without doubt, RIDICULOUS devices.

If I feel the need to speak to somebody badly enough, I will make arrangements to be in the SAME ROOM as them. If it’s not that important, it can WAIT.

Imagine my feelings regarding mobile email-sendy-type things.

I stare at the Guy, fascinated to see what sort of individual would possess such a Device. He looks around, checks to see if anyone notices he is holding this mind-boggling piece of technology (I avert my eyes) and starts tapping away.

After a moment, the Girl whips her mobile phone from her purse and starts tapping in a similar manner.

The sound of fake nails on keypad is not pleasant.

I marvel at these two. They have made the decision to go to a place together. Have ‘got ready’. Have chosen a venue. Have come here. And now sit, hip-to-hip, not speaking to each other, sending presumably very stupid messages to people miles away.

I am aghast.

The Girl’s phone makes a beep-beep noise. She reads, giggles, nudges the Guy and then begins furious clacking of acrylic nails.

The Guy’s purple thing makes a noise, he reads, giggles, nudges, and starts clacking.

It dawns on me.

THEY ARE FUCKING EMAILING EACH OTHER!

My head promptly explodes and my soon-to-be dead body starts whirling around the place like the android on Alien, smashing glasses and kicking tables high into the air.

Or not.

I finish my drink and leave.

Tales From the Pub # 1

For reasons best known to myself, I have been spending more time than is probably healthy In The Pub.

I am sipping a drink. Staring out the window across the valley. Grateful of the opportunity to be Not Thinking for a while.

Across the bar from me are three men.

You know the type. They were probably born in The Pub. Fifties probably. As broad as they are tall. Too many shirt buttons undone. No neck (Darwinian – that beer has to reach the stomach VERY quickly). Bald. Red face.

Pub Man1: Had one of theym fuckin’ phone calls last neet. [Adopts Jim Davison-style Asian accent] ‘Hello my name is Nigel. Could I speak to the person who deals with your utilities?’

PM2: Awwww. Haway.

PM1: Ah naw. Telt him to fuck off.

PM3: They’re not really called Nigel ya naw. Bah. Get paid a few foosand a yar and they want to fuckin’ BE us.

PM2: Sleepin’ giant.

PM3: Eh?

PM1: [He is obviously the ringleader and voice of authority] Sleeping Dragon he means.

PM3: Oh.

PM2 remains silent, clearly embarrassed about his lack of knowledge regarding world affairs.

PM1: [Warming to his subject] Aye. China like. We’ve given them a taste. Mistake. They’ll want the lot soon. [Drags on cigarette] Aye. They’ll tek us ower. Ya naw [leans forward in a conspiratorial manner] if all the Pakis in China jumped up and doon at the same time………THE BERLIN WALL WOULD FALL DOON!

His companions nod sagely at this astonishing piece of information.

I struggle to pop my eyes back into their sockets. And prevent my brain from doing cart-wheels and escaping through my ears.

I stub out my half-smoked cigarette.

Pub Man begins explaining to his companions that ‘the blacks’ are destroying this town’s economy and that he suspects ‘the Italians’ are involved.

Or ‘the Poles’. I forget which. I was in a hurry to be somewhere else.

I finish my drink and leave.

Top Ten Appalling Blog Cliches

Don’t feel the need to thank me.

1. Sitemeter. Wow. I just checked my stats and some people have typed really weird things into Google and have come here. Really? Honestly? Goodness. Is the world a big place with some odd people in it? Amazing.

2. Public transport1. Those kids (I am in my twenties) with their mp3 players. Faintly annoying background noise. Really? Tell us more.

3. Public transport2. Never mind that. What about the kids (I am in my thrirties) who play their mp3s through the ‘speaker’ function of their mobile phones. Grr. That is astonishingly interesting.


4. Blog posts about the nature of blogging. Could your head be any further up your arse? Could it?

5. People at work. They’re a bit funny and that. Goodness. Have you just watched your DVD of The Office?


6. BBC Radio Nowhere has mentioned your blog. Here is 2000 words on the subject. Honestly. Could it be any further?

7. Links to funny things. Thanks for that. And glad to see that you are funny also.


8. Photos of skylines. Very interesting. Why not write a post titled ‘I Have a Digital Camera And Am About To Spunk-Up with Excitement’?

9. Taking a sabbatical for personal shit. What are you? Some sort of fucking baby? Oh boo-fucking-hoo. And post about it as well. Write your blog or don’t write it. Don’t wank on about whether-or-not you’re going to write it so you can then tug yourself off to all the ladies who offer emails of concern.


10. Top ten lists of Appalling Blog Cliches.


With apologies to the rather excellent DatingMonkey (or whatever she calls herself this week. Having two blogs is so 2005) who pointed-out to me some time ago when I discussed this post with her (YES! I actually correspond with people that are quite good at writing!) that publishing such a list would be an Appalling Cliché in itself.

Ahh. But do you see what I’ve done?

I’ve actually included it in the list itself. Hence, via the power of being-an-unbearable-smart-arse, have cancelled-out all the negative aspects of such an enterprise.

Haha. It’s ace being clever. I can explain Post-Structuralism to you if you like.

Oh. Hang on. It’s still a list isn’t it? Lists are shit. And rather clichéd. Shit. Shit.

I score a 7/10.

The Best Bloody Marys in the World

Were mixed by the proprietor of our favourite Chinese restaurant.

We would be seated instantly. Have several waiters make a fuss over us but in a not-too-fussy way. The food was always ALWAYS excellent.

This is not a small thing. I can cook. Quite well in fact. My ratio of quality regarding meals I have eaten out compared with meals I have eaten at home cooked by my own fair hand is not a good one.

Suffice to say, I usually come out on top.

I’m not a snob this way. I love a McDonalds. (Sorry). I do not believe there is a meal in the world that cannot be improved by putting a fried egg on top of it. A fish supper of a Friday does not bother me (has to be Friday mind. Old Catholic hang-up. Have they abolished the meat on Friday thing? I lose track)

It’s just. You know. The menu says ‘Penne pasta with a rich tomato and basil sauce generously topped with Parmesan.’

That is not a difficult meal.

You are presented with some re-heated pasta (one of the many things on God’s earth that cannot be reheated) topped with some Ragu (the bottle sauce and not the Italian recipe) with a liberal shaking of that stuff that comes in white pots that smells of vomit that they have long since given up even calling Parmesan any more.

You feel a bit let down. A bit.

This place though. Excellent service. Top notch food. I can cook a Chinese meal if pressed. On one occasion dining partner actually said ‘How do you make it so Chinese?’.

I am happy eating here. We sit down.

Owner/Manager type who always deals with us, settles us in and asks about everyone we know (don’t ask me how he knew) then says ‘Anything to drink?’

I order a Bloody Mary.

No. He says.

What?

I am RUBBISH at making them, and would rather not upset.

NOW THAT IS ONE OF THE BEST BLOODY MARYS YOU WILL NEVER DRINK.

I would have that answer a million times instead of a shit drink. I would have a McDonalds anytime over a menu that promised something the chef could not deliver.


One wonders why fast-food and carbonated piss-water dominates.

Because they do what they say.

Shit.

Grumpy old man.

Anyway.

Bit of a hiatus. For now. Or forever.

I don't really know yet.

Rather unpleasant things at home.

As a result: feeling neither whimsical nor irrationally angry.

The above post is something I found that I hadn't even realised I'd written (must sleep better - had dreamt I had written it) so make the most.

And no. Fuck off. This isn't that sort of blog.

Technical Support

The phone rings. Being at a loose end, I pick it up.

Me: Support

Blustery Fellow: Now. Then. What has happened?

I should be used to this. I am not. I look at the wall for a second.

BF: Hello?

Me. Support. How can I help?

BF: Well the bally DVD's broken isn't it? Don't you know?

I rub my eyes. I've not had much sleep of late.

Me: I am assuming you mean the DVD drive of your computer? And not your DVD player.

It's best to be on the safe side. You'd be surprised.

BF: Well bloody obviously. Don't you know? You bloody supplied it.

Me: I don't believe it was me personally sir but I will attempt-

BF: THE WHOLE BALLY SYSTEM'S DOWN. BECAUSE OF THIS BALLY DVD!

This does happen. When attempting to open say, My Computer, your PC will briefly flash all drives associated. If one is malfunctioning - your dvd drive for example - the whole system can lock.

I feel I am Getting Somewhere.

Me: Previous to this have you had any video playback problems? Or has it been problematic reading any kind of data, either from cd or dvd?

I'm thinking about a firmware upgrade.

BF: What the hell are you blithering about man?

Me: *SIGH* O.K. Lets go back a bit. When you say the whole system has gone down, what EXACTLEY do you mean? Do you get a blue screen? Does it just lock? Does it restart?

BF: My Christ young man, I have NO IDEA what you are talking about. I just want the DVD to start working so I get the BBC page.

I notice I have been clenching and un-clenching my right fist for some time.

Me: Sir. Are you having trouble accessing the internet?

BF: WHAT HAVE I JUST BEEN TELLING YOU?

Me: Mmmmm. When you say DVD, are you referring to a box between your PC and phone line? What we would call a router?

BF: How in jerry would I know. Good God, what do I pay you people for?

Me: Let's try resetting it.

BF: Settling WHAT?

Me: Sorry. Just turning it of for about five seconds or so.

[pause]

BF: Right. It's off. The screen's black.

Me: You've turned of your PC?

BF: YES. I want the SYSTEM to work. That's what we are trying to do. That's what you said.

Me: Could you turn it all back on again please?

BF: Again? You've only just told me to turn it off. You don't sound very knowledgable young man.

[Pause]

BF: Right. What this time?

Me: The router. A box between your phone line and, erm PC [cough]system could you just turn that off. Just the small box.

BF: Where is the switch?

Me: I'm not sure. Do you know the exact manu- forget it. Just pull out the power cable.

BF: Which-

Me: IT IS THE FU- it has a black cord. The end of it will be cylindrical as opposed to oblong or square. It will not be transparent.

BF: Right. Now what.

Me: Put it back in.

BF: Do you KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING YOUNG MAN? I'VE ONLY JUST TAKEN IT OUT?!

[Some fumbling sounds]

BF: Right. Now what.

Me: Why don't we try again. Open Internet Explorer.

BF: WHAT?

Me: It's a big blue 'e'

BF: You needn't talk down to me young man.

[Pause]

BF: Doesn't matter. It seems to have sorted itself out. Waste of time this has been. Good day.


Average week: repeat by one hundred.


Worst one:

Phone rings.

Me: Support.

Random Person: I seem to have a bit of trouble with my anti-virus software...

Me: Oh? What do you use?

RP: Norton-

Me: AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!" IT'S FUCKING SHIT THAT'S FUCKING WHY!!!


Average per week: about a fucking million.


I do not do this for a living any more.

I Am a Stone Cold Killer

Don't get too excited. Not of actual people.

Christ. I'd be up before the Hague.

But of suburban-dwelling animals.

I have felled more of those fuckers than I care to admit, and never once actually made the effort.. It just happened. On my KillBoard are one badger, one cat and four of our feathered friends.

I didn't even try. There they were, dead. In very close proximity to me. Perhaps it was not me. But no. The statistics speak for themselves.

Number of corpses of suburban-dwelling creatures I have had to dispose of before becoming a father: 0.

Number of corpses of suburban-dwelling creatures I have had to dispose of SINCE becoming a father: 6.

You CANNOT argue with numbers like that. Have children=death around you. It's like a non-Disney circle of life.

The cat was not the best. The birds=bin. They are small. They fit on shovels. Badger=not my problem. There is a special LAW ABOUT BADGERS. Some MEN came and sorted it. Looked at me a bit suspicious like. They have nothing on me. I front it.

But the cat.

Saturday morning. I leave the house to buy eggs and quality newspaper. I enjoy the fact that I insist upon a breakfast of dippy-eggs-and-soldiers whilst reading a not-very-good broadsheet newspaper.

I am stopped in my tracks. It appears to be a very pleasant cat. Bit cheeky, mind. Just kipping on my front lawn like he owned it.. With his eyes open. Staring at some spot well beyond the front wall of my house. Who is in fact dead. And not very cheeky at all.

I continue to buy my breakfast provisions (I am a man of routine) and think some more about this.

Whilst the cat (a very BIG cat I might add) has obviously done this to annoy me, the point at which he could have enjoyed the results of this prank have long since been and gone.

I do what any other brave man would do.

I take myself, Tired Mam and toddler Favourite Daughter out for the day. And most of the evening.

Upon our return at the dead of night, against all expectations, the cat is still there. And is still dead.

I had convinced myself that it would have got better and gone away.

We get FD to bed and consider the situation.

I discovered it on Saturday morning. It was not there quite late Friday night. It is now Saturday evening.

The 24-hour-this-is-now-no-longer-a-dead-animal-but-is-in-fact-an-epidemic-of-maggots-and-other-stuff-that-will-cause-a-dead-animal-to-move-like-it-was-alive moment is not far off.

It is Saturday night. It is dark. Whilst I ready myself with gloves and bin-liners, I thinks of all the fun things I have done in the dark of a Saturday night. On occassion a lady has been involved.

Rigour Mortis. Just words, until you have to deal with it. The fucker might as well been made out of clay. I snap his tail to get the thing into the bin liner.

A fifteen-minute walk to the canal.

*BANG* I forget for a second what I have in the bag.

*Bang* IT keeps clunking upon my leg. Every time I relax my grip, the bin-liner bangs my legs reminding me of its cargo It is a long walk.

Heave-ho.

I get home. Naked as soon as. Clothes into machine. Bath.

Congrats at huge manly dealing-with capabilities non-forthcoming as my Dr.Crippin-style body disposal has taken place at the dead of night. Everyone is asleep.

Some sleep. Not much. Usual.

Monday.

Work. How was your weekend Tired?

I'll tell you.

Gareth: No! Why didn't you call the RSPCA of something?

Me: What?

Gareth: They do that sort of thing.

Me: Do you think the Royal Society of the Prevention of Cruelty of Animals would have prevented actual DEATH and ACTUALLY turned back time like Doc off of Back to the Future?

Gareth: You could have at least tried.

I am lost for words.

I get on with my job. Late that same afternoon, I recieve a call from Tired Mam.

TM: Erm. A little boy- he couldn't even be ten - has just walked up our garden and posted a flyer through our door -

Me: Oh no

TM: 'I love my little Mickey. I want him back so. Has anyone seen him??' That is what it says. Contact numbers and that.

Me: [Fronting it] Well tell him, 'mystery fucking over! I know exactly where he is! Because I hoyed him into the bottom of the canal last night!'

TM: [Silence]

Me: Right [Suddendley realising I may still have some sort of upper-hand because I am AT WORK] I'll talk to you later.

I hang up. I think for a bit.

Sales Director comes in. He hears the story. It is a favourite of the day.

Sales Director: Your are a sick heartless fuck Tired.

That is a lot coming from him.

I get home. I kiss my daughter.

And then I make the PHONE CALL.

I have the number. And I have several years of watching E.R. I know how to break bad news.

RING

Unkown Woman: Hello?

Me:[Sombre tone] Hi. It's about Mickey [Notice I do not say the 'cat']. I'm afraid it is not good news. [See what I've done? Dashed hopes from second one but still being a gentleman.]

Me: He was found [do you see? not I found him or We found him but 'he was found'] not far from our front door. Obviously, we have a toddler so we had to make arrangements. I am so dreadfully sorry.

UW: Goodness. I am so glad you called, that is all. Any evidence of obvious injury?

Me: If there were I would be fucking telling....erm no. Odd thing, actually. Looked like Mickey had found himself a good patch and just caught himself some sleep. I'm so sorry.

UW: Well, at least we know. What did you do? Did you get the council out?

Me: Erm. Yes. That is what I did.

It's Been Bothering Me For Months

Sandwich/Coffee Shoppe.

(Oh yes. Shoppe. It was THAT sort of town).

I am on my lunch break. I require FOOD NOW.

The Woman In Front Of Me Standing In The Way Of My BLT says:

Can I have a black coffee.........................................................With milk.

Nobody kills her.

Somebody fills her (it is now hers) little cardboard cup with coffee, seals it, and then, after her just-long-enough-pause-for-her-drink-to-make-its-way-to-the-counter-exactly-as-ordered and then requires poor-sod coffee-person to swap-it-mid-service-and-put-her-precious-milk-in-it.

I am hungry and cross.

I order my usual BLT but without the lettuce and tomato.

You know. For a joke. To show a bit of solidarity against the awful Black Coffee.....With Milk Woman.

They do not get it. They look at me like I was odd.


Next: Oh I know. I promise.

Taking the Piss

Tired Mam believes there is some sort of conspiracy of silence surrounding young first-time mothers-to-be.

If there were not, the species would never propagate itself.

No young mother-to-be is told of the appalling mood swings. The violent rages against the entirely innocent. The irrationality. The sheer fucking unbelievableness of all the astounding things their bodies start to do, all of which are just fucking WEIRD beyond description. The likes of which would make any man go insane. I mean, we take a good few weeks to get over the horror of spunking-up for the first time. Now THAT is traumatic.

And the most dreadful indignity, agony and general expulsion of various things that are hard to fathom. Imagine pulling an Action Man out of your Japs eye. Followed by half a pound of liver. Proceeded by a lot of snot-type stuff, some blood and an awful lot of fish-water.

I have to agree with Tired Mam. If this were made clear from the outset, the abortion rate would be through the roof, no-one would have children anymore, the population would drop and we could afford to buy a house.

Young first-time Fathers-to-be are another matter.

We are informed in advance that EVERYTHING is our fucking fault. And to take it on the chin for nine months. And then the rest of your life.

But there is a conspiracy of silence regarding first-time fathers as well. Oh yes

No-one NO-ONE informs you that it is almost impossible to avoid urinating upon the head of your young child.

Once they learn to crawl/walk I mean.

It's perfectly avoidable otherwise: unless you are strange.

EXAMPLE.

Three years ago. I am on the first floor of the house we lived in at the time. I am playing with barely-one-year-old Favourite Daughter in her bedroom. I need a wee.

I leave her to her devices, and wander across the hall into our bathroom. Tired Mam is well out of the way, so I feel no need to shut or indeed lock the door. (I know, of course, that Tired Mam is aware of the fact that I possess a penis. This is clear. But she has not seen wee coming out of it nor never will. It is not THAT SORT of relationship.)

I am having a wee. I have forgotten that FD can now crawl. She thunders in, intrigued by this new noise. She grabs the toilet bowl so she can stand up.
There commences an awful lot of me gently shoving her with my thigh, but being careful enough to not knock her over. I must at all costs avoid her being visually exposed to my penis. It is large and hairy and unpleasant to look at. She is small and beautiful. And I must avoid urinating upon her.

I am successful on all counts.

A few days ago.

Me and Favourite Son are home alone.

I am on the sofa reading a book. Favourite Son staggers across the floor in his 'I am Godzilla, you are Japan' new walking style and clambers up beside me. Just before he sits, he does his 180-degree turn and sits down with the proper finality a man of his position deserves. Glances sideways at me and then gives the whole room a steely look as if to say DO NOT PANIC. Men are here now. Fear not. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL. And then glances back at me. As he always does.

He is a one-year old. Poor fucker. He's got a lot to learn.

I decide that, actually, this is a bit too much too young so play silly Aaaarrgh games with him for a bit. I can run like fuck when he does that. Scares the shit out of me.

I need a wee.

We are in the unfortunate position in our current house of having a ground-floor bathroom. Great in the evening, shite at the dead of night.

Anyway.

I go and have a wee.

I do not lock or indeed shut the door. Why would I? There are only MEN in the house.

And not the sort of men who stand next to you at the urinals in public houses and say things like 'Kinell. Busy tonight or what?' to which you can only reply 'I have got my cock in my hand. Why are you talking to me? Are you a bit strange? Because if you really want to spend your evening talking to men who have their cocks in their hands, then I suspect you are in the wrong place.'

I have a wee. With my legs appropriately wide. There is not a man on earth who has had a wee with his knees together. Because we have such large giblets you see.

The patter of feet. Attracted to this new noise. I have three-year flashback.

At this point, there is no chance of my stopping. And then closing the bathroom door.

He storms in. I am in full flow. I am ready to gently nudge him out of the way with a thigh/knee.
He is made of sterner stuff than his sister at his age. He has anticipated my every move.

I feel two small hands clasp the back of my knees.

He FUCKING STICKS HIS HEAD BETWEEN MY LEGS.

I liberally douse the top of his head in PISS.



It's all right at the end. Only a few drops, and he has an unreasonably healthy mop of (suspiciously) fair hair. Which bears the brunt. It looks like pale yellow dew on strawberry-blond grass.

Within a ¼ of a second I have him in the shower, out, dried, and dressed in original clothing.

Hahahahahha.

No-one will know otherwise. When Tired Mam gets home, it will be like nothing happened.

'Everyting O.K?' she asks in her hugeley patronising manner as if I could not go a couple of hours without, say, pissing on someone important.

'YES. FINE.' I will then say in the immensely capable manner of a person who has never accidently pissed on anyone.







Oh.


Next: Things They Never Told Prospective Fathers #2: You Become a Stone Cold Killer.

Moving?

I don't know if anyone has seen that film Insomnia. The one with Al Pacino, not the original.

It's O.K.

The man Nolan tries hard to visually reproduce the actual effects of insomnia. It works quite well, but never really matches the being-in-a-virtual-reality-machine-that-recreates-your-normal-enviroment-but-in-a-manner-that-is-just-not-quite-right way that is the genuine experience of someone who doesn't sleep well.

Today/yesterday (oh, you sort of lose track of time as well) Tired Mam returns from her Saturday job. I have had three hours not-really sleep the previous evening.

I am informed that Dempsey and Makepeace are coming around for nibbles and drinks this/that evening.

What fun.

Actually, I always enjoy the half-hour that myself anf Dempsey steal in the pub that is conveniently located 1.5 minutes walk from my front door, but this is not the point.

After some time, all four of us fall silent for a moment. I welcome such silence.

Getting Favourite Daughter and Favourite Son fed, bathed, dressed in P.J's, given milk, tucked into bed, read story, do tidying-up, do hoovering (I'll teach Tired Mam how to turn it on one day. Funny, it's actually her hoover from long before she knew me. You would think she would know) and make sure I do not resemble Wurzle Gummage. It's a lot to do. I welcome the silence. (I fail at the personal appearance thing.)

Silence. It's been a whole four seconds now.

Tired Mam: Well. Go on then. Be funny Mr. Entertainment.

I can't be doing with this. It is true that, when surrounded by a limited amount of people I know quite well I am often Mr. Amusing Anecdote and Funny Story. But I am not some sort of comedy whore. I cannot perform at will.

Tired Mam: You've always got a funny story when we have people round.

I sigh. I look at my brother and his girlfriend.

Me:[with great sense of all sorts of not-good-sensations] I bought a Stanley Knife the other day.

I then explain that it was a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Having started, I have no choice other than to tell the rest of my shit story. My younger brother at least has common courtesy

Dempsey: NO WAY!!

at the moment I explain that I was quite innocently brandishing a very sharp knife at an innocent check-out girl with an open till.

Tired Mam quitely watches this, aware of the fact that she has already heard this story. From reading my shit blog. And has now heard me say it out loud, almost word-for-word. Knowing that there is so little in my life at the minute, nothing worthy of comment occurs more than twice a week.

Do I stop this silly thing? I started it as a deadtime not-sleeping filler but it's grown a bit.

Do I move, and hide the new url?

I can't do that.

School Boy Fags

I am barely sixteen years old. I am IT.

Do you get me, rest of school? Has it sunk in?

Oh yes. I am plain-clothes.

I come-and-go pretty much as I please.

Not really. But good enough. I have 'study breaks'. I am allowed to leave the premises during lunch hour. You aren't. I am. You know those study breaks? That means I don't have to be here at all. You do.

I am SIXTH FORM. The ELITE.

Have you seen TopGun? We are like Tom Cruise after he proved himself to be not gay and just had some non-gay father-issues and that the IceMan chap was just generally frustrated. About non-gay things. It is by no means a homoerotic film. Kelly McGillis actually looks very feminine in that basebal cap. And bomber-jacket. And not like a drag-queen at all. Not that it would matter. It is my understanding that neither Tom Cruise nor Val Kilmer have the slightest interest in ladyboys or drag-queens. At all. They have both been married and that. Anyway, TopGun is not a gay film. But I wouldn't watch it now of course.

Anyway.

Of a lunch-time, me and my friends, after our lunch, fancy a smoke.

We're all grown-up now don't you see. All of sixteen-getting-on-seventeen-some-of-us.

We retire to our 'spot'. Said 'spot' is a fairly pleasant suburban street not too far from the school.

We call it the 'Wall.'. Because, if we are flat on our arses, the 'wall' covers our entire existance.

To us, our presense on this FOOTPATH (which it was) meant nothing to us. This was our space. There were between half- and one-dozen of us.

To the outside world it probably meant 'Hello. We are here. And any other citizens of this street that has decent business here can fuck off.'

There were probably plenty of people who felt us a menace. We were just having a cigarette.

Anyway.

One afternoon.

There's about a dozen of us. A FIGURE appears around the corner.

General exodus. Leaving only me and Fuck Off. (So named with reference to his general attitude. He's in prison now. Heroin and that.)

Me and FU decide against running. I mean We're sixteeen. It's just undignified. And scarpering when you're trying to finish a cigarette is just not cool..

FIGURE resolves itself. It's only the fucking HEAD.

INTERLUDE:

Previous Headmaster was a fool. Short. Balding. Obssessed about the rubbish out the front of our school street. Empty of soul. The 'rubbish thing' beacame the hole that would fill his heart. No-one had the nerve to tell him it was just a dirty street.

INTELUDE OVER:

Anyway.

This guy took over. His hair was great. He had that ability to say whatever would agree with whoever was in the room at the time.

He was way ahead of his time.

'My office. 30 Minutes..'

Bollocks.

Fucked.

Images of all sorts of unappealling stuff.

No matter how Blairite this man was - and these were days long before anyone knew who Tony Blair was - the Head's Office is the Head's Office.

Shit shit shit. We are fucked fucked fucked.

We sculk. 'Here to see the Head' we mutter.

Headmaster's Secretary looks at us like the scum we are. Well, we must be. We're here to see the Head.

'Sit.' She says. Barbara Wodehouse and that.

'Wait.' We wait. Shit. It works.

Her phone buzzes. She listens.

'In.'

We knock.

'Come.'

We enter the Head's office. Nobody good ever sees the inside of the Head's Office. No-one except the very awful see the inside of the Head's Office. I would like to say that 'it was fun - we got to make like we were notorious'. But we were shitting our pants.

'Sit.'

We sit in front of his desk.

This is the closest I have ever been to the Head. He doesn't look good. Being sixteen, I am quite familiar with this particular look.

HE WAS ON THE LASH LAST NIGHT!

It occurs to me that he needs this petty shit about as much as we do. Is it possible he is human?

The Head rubs his eyes.

'Look,' he says, 'I know you are desperate for a fag about lunchtime. But the staff [he says the word as if it causes him some distaste] - the staff are really making this their mission at the minute. My advice. If you go a bit further up the road, there's an alley they never check.'

Silence.

'OK?'

Silence.

'OK?'

We mumble agreement and, sensing the conversation is over, bumble our way to the door.

The Head runs a hand through his very-good hair. 'Thanks guys.'

'Erm. Oh. I mean. Yeah. Thanks. No. Erm. You're wel - shut up you twat - come on.'

We both spend a week walking about with a what-the-fuck-just-happened look about us. And then, out of respect, gratitude and deference to our new personal hero, made extra care that our cigarette-smoking habits did not infringe upon local residents and - most importantly - the staff.


Note to any managerial-types: I'm not saying it works. But why not try? What have you got to lose? People calling you a wanker behind your back for ever? You can live without that, surely?

Not that I can talk. I had staff and was awful. It made me feel like a BIG MAN.

(That last bit is not true. I mean, I had staff and that. I was important you know. Actually yes, I was quite horrible. But in a 'I'm being ironically horrible' way and anyone who didn't get it was 'FUCKING FIRED!'. But not really. Until they got the joke. People just started being very quiet around me.)

Checking Out

[Interior. Courtroom. Day. Up before the beak: Tired Dad.]

Judge:You sir have heard the charges. Please state your name for the record.

Tired Dad: My name is Ti-

Judge: SILENCE!

TD: Sorry.

Judge: Was that silence?

TD: No. Oh. I see. I mean, Mmmmm.

Judge: What is your name?

TD: My na- oh. Mmmmmm.

Judge: YOUR NAME IS BITCH.

TD: Kinell.

Judge: WHAT?

TD: Nothi- mmmmmmm.

Judge: What is your name?

TD: (Now?) [Judge nods] My name is, erm, Bitch.

Judge: And what business are you in sir?

TD: Well, a bit difficult to say, currently I am-

Judge: SILENCE! YOU ARE IN THE GETTING FUCKED BY US BUSINESS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

TD: Bit ‘Usual Suspects’ but I get the gist-

Judge: SILENCE!

[Pause. The tension is unbelievable.]

Judge: You speak when I allow you to speak. You are now the property of the state. Do you understand? We OWN you.

[Pause.]

Judge: Good. You have heard the charges Mr.Bitch. How do you plead?

TD: Thing is, it’s all a bit silly really. There’s been a huge misunderstanding and-

Judge: ENOUGH! [He has grown tired of his ‘SILENCE’ catchphrase].

[Pause.]

Judge: What was it? Did you have a craving? Did you need the money for rock?

TD: Rock? I don’t even like Blackpool. Believe me, I’ve been more times than-

Judge: ENOUGH! I mean ROCK. Rock cocaine. CRACK.

[Pause. Silence.]

Judge: You, my good man, are going down. And not in a ‘about to orally pleasure a lady’ way. Oh no. You can kiss goodbye to those days. Those tomato, mozorella and fresh basil salads you like? You know. With just ‘a bit’ of olive oil? Kiss those fuckers goodbye an’all. We’ve got a nice cell ready for you. Do you know a chap named Johnny?

TD: I don’t believe so.

Judge: No? Apparently he is quite partial to the rock himself. Do you know, he’ll even su-

TD: NOOOO!

Judge: Ah. So you have. I’m sure you will both get along famously. SEND HIM DOWN! WHEN I SAY DOWN I DON’T MEAN IT IN A GOOD WAY.


……………………………………………………..

It all starts quite normally.

I am in our local supermarket. I don’t truly feel it has earnt its ‘super’ status, but it's not a corner shop either. Tired Mam craves yeast and tomatos. This does not bode well for dinner.

On my way, I stop at Local Hardware Shop. I wander the aisles. I savour the smell of oil. I love these places. Never used to.

I longingly finger some contraption I will never know the purpose of. I eventually decide upon a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Christ – the actual Stanley Knifes are four quid more expensive. I mean. Sharp is sharp.

Head toward the counter, flushed with my new purchase.

The effete intellectual-type I was several years ago would sneer at me. The handy-round-the-house-family-man I have become would promptly kick him in the bollocks.

I pay. Being a handy pocket-sized item, I slip it into my pocket. In the bag they supply me, I keep the four high-ball glasses I have also purchased. For our Bloody Marys you know. Fuck off.

Anyway.

I’m at the checkout (this is the supermarket now).

I am sure I have forgotten something. I keep looking around in a distracted manner, hoping to see something that may jog my memory.

The woman shows my few items to the ‘bleep’ machine. Tells me price. I hand over card.

She puts it into thing (am I meant to put it in? Am I causing an inconvenience to her by superciliously making her do it? Modern fucking life).

Cashback? No. And it isn’t really having it BACK is it? So don’t phrase it like that.

PIN number. Beep beep beep beep.

Receipts spool. She pops open the till for said receipts.

It occurs to me. Actually, walking about with a not-really-Stanley-Knife in your trouser pocket isn’t the best move. I mean. I am short, skinny, relatively well-dressed and white. I could be stop-and-searched by the police AT ANY TIME.

I take out the not-really-Stanley-Knife in preparation for putting it into the hardware shop bag.

TIME FUCKING STANDS STILL.

I am at the till.

I have been acting nervous, and looking around a lot.

The till drawer has just popped, exposing Christ knows how much in fives, tens and twenties.

I have a fucking sharp knife in my hand.

A not-really-Stanley-Knife no less.

If anyone notices, things will not go in my favour.








No-one did. Put it back in my pocket. Walked free.

No trial. No kangaroo-court judge who keeps referring to me as bitch. No prison cell with a crack cocaine addict convinced I have some ‘rock’ secreted in my sphincter and forcefully insisting that he fellate me in return for a ‘hit’ on it.

Everything is GREAT!

I get home.

SEVEN FUCKING TOMATOS!

Little Bastards and Instant Regret.

Some days it just gets too much. The constant care and attention. The coaxing. The financial cost. The time. The love. And some days you just feel you get so little back. And something just snaps. And you instantly regret it, but you know you can't take it back.

My head and chest are throbbing with the controlled un-controllableness. I crouch down in front of both the little bastards. And it just starts

Me: Do you think I fucking do this for fun? Fucking do you? I didn't really want either of you in the first place. I just mentioned it to Tired Mam once on a whim and now here you fucking are.

So we're stuck with it. But do you know what? I think I'm making the effort. I care for you both. I support you. I make sure you're fed properly. Do you think that fucking formula is cheap?

I talk to you, care for. Take an interest It isn't easy you know. I put a lot of time into this. And what do I get back?

They both remain silent. I am not surprised.

Me: Fuck all, that's what. You're both a couple of selfish, greedy little shits. When you're poorly, who takes care of you?

Silence.

Me: Who makes sure you get plenty of sun? When your little arms get a bit weak, who supports them for you? Who took care of your greenfly?

Silence.

Me: ONE fucking tomato! Is that how you repay me? ONE, between the fucking two of you. I am making the effort here. YOU are taking the piss. Both of you. It's not even red! You've been here fucking WEEKS! What do you think you're playing at?

I can no longer bear to look at them. I storm into the house to play with my children.

Tired Mam: Hey your tomato plants are doing well! One of them has THREE tomatos now.

Me: Three?

TM: Yeah, the two flowers above the one big tomato have started to bear fruit. You wouldn't notice unless you were really looking.

Me: oh

I feel awful.

The Nursery Incident

We take Favourite Daughter to nursery for the first time.

We’ve not been in the town long. Tired Mam does not know it at all. I barely knew it half my lifetime ago.

We take what we believe, on the advice of the few people we know, to be the best option.

The woman who runs it is enormous. In a 'you’re going to need a bigger boat' way.

I’ve no problem with the larger lady. Quite like it, in fact (away from the point. And TM would now stress she is not among their number). But, you know. The sort of ‘I get hungry. I like food. It tastes nice. I’ll eat it if I want to. Why should I not? Life is ace. I’ll do other things I want to as well. Because I can. And do you know what? When I’m dead, I’ll be just as dead as you when you’re dead’. Those sort. They’re always happy, and you just want to be around them.

Better that than some normal-sized woman who doesn’t shut the fuck up about their weight.

Anyway. She wasn’t one of the happy ones. And she stunk. Whatever.

Probably glandular.

FD’s first day. The first time in her life she has been without us for any length of time.

We deposit her, kiss her goodbye, and wait in a separate room for nervous parents and drink coffee in case anything goes immediately wrong. As if it would.

After a few minutes we hear hysterical screams. Of several children. It sounds like blind panic. We shift in our chairs. We ourselves do not panic. This must be normal.

The door busts open. Free Willy has FD under her arm.

‘It’s no good,’ she says. ‘She’ll have to go. We are not equiped to cope with this.’

I look at FD’s face. She is not upset, even though there are tears running down her face. She is FUCKING furious about something.

‘Erm. What happened?’

‘Well. All I said was it wasn’t time for playing with the toys anymore and it was story time now and time to be quiet. She went mad. Started throwing stuff, shouting and that. All the other children were so scared, they all started crying. I had to take her out. I’m sorry, she can’t stay.’ Said Free Willy. We held our noses.

Put a child in a room of fascinating new people. Of interesting new toys. And then tell her to sit quiet whilst you stink them out with your shit story, BO and sense of failure. I’d have kicked-off too.

FD was in a bad temper anyway. Hadn’t had much sleep. Don’t know where she gets it from.

SHE WAS EXPELLED ON HER FIRST DAY!

Tired Mam almost died with embarrassment.

I almost burst with pride.

Enchanted Dad

Oh Christ, I think, he is actually going to do it again. Please fucking don’t. Honestly. Don’t make me do anything I will regret.

It is an unreasonably early hour of Saturday morning. Being a Saturday morning, I – like any single right-thinking man in the world – am a bit worse for wear. My hair is ‘tousled’. I am unshaven. I have black bags under my eyes. I probably smell the way a public house smells at 9.30 in the morning (anyone who has worked in a pub, ie: everyone, will know this smell). I am probably scowling. No sleep plus some booze = ill temper.

I am in a ‘leisure’ centre. I put it in inverted commas because, to my mind, they should be named ‘exertion centres’. I am lounging in their café-bit. A bit cross. The coffee is shit, and the whole place is thronged with screaming kids who seem to think that their one-and-only purpose in life is to fuck me off and spill my not-very-nice coffee over my newspaper.

There is a large room, just off the café, where my daughter attends her ballet class. She is in there now. Each Saturday, I walk her here. I wait. She emerges. We chat. We go to the Italian Deli for lunch. We visit the shops. She pretends she is Mummy – a girl-about-town.

But for now, I wait. The room she is in has no visual access save for an A3-sized piece of reinforced glass in the door. I normally wait until she is happy, kiss her and say goodbye. After about ten minutes or so I sneak a peek to make sure a repeat of the Nursery Incident does not take place. And then leave her. It is her time.

Don’t you fucking dare, I think.

Obviously, I am not the only one awaiting the end of their daughters’ class. There are many mothers. And being tremendous mothers, they take full advantage of this – probably the only fourty-five minutes a week they get to do exactly fuck all – and use it to their full advantage. They natter. They laugh. They cock the occasional ear to screams of agony, but if it lasts for no more than ten minutes they do nothing. They are seasoned professionals. They have coffee and adult conversation. Only broken limbs will get them out of their seats at this point. Rightly.

But this fucker.

He brings his daughter each week. Good. Makes a bit of a show. Says ‘hi’ to all the staff, none of whom know him. Nods and smiles at everyone he can make eye contact with.

‘Look. I am a father. I am actually holding hands with a child. My child! And she’s a girl. Oh yes! That explains the ballet costume. I ACTUALLY take her myself. Well………..It’s the least I can do. And do you know? I ACTUALLY enjoy it!’

Wanker.

He deposits her – ‘Now, do your very best, but remember, you’ll always be Daddy’s best’ – a bit too loud and glances around to make sure everyone has heard him.

He then sits down with his coffee. Takes a sip. Makes a ‘hey, pretty good coffee’ face and starts to pretend to read the fucking Independent.

Twenty minutes ago.

After ONE MINUTE, he gets up, and peers through the glass in the door for a minute. Finally drags his eyes away and subjects the whole café to a ‘isn’t it all wonderful’ look and sits down again.

Shakes his head. Oh The Wonder Of It. Pretends to read a bit more of the fucking Independent. Sighs. Looks around him. Shakes his head in a ‘it’s no good, I just cannot help myself’ manner and false-wearily gets up to go and peer through the window again.

Peers with enchantment. After a while drags himself away and subjects the whole café to his oh-the-wonder-of-childhood looks.

It is now.

He has done this a total of six times.

I cannot stop STARING at him.


Oh Christ, I think. Do it once more. Just do it.

The mothers continue to natter, taking their much-needed break

I am not fantastic, as has been pointed-out to me recently. But I do this. I do many things. I’m not world-class. I am horrible sometimes. But I tell my children I love them All the time. I say ‘well done’. I say ‘I’m proud of you’. I talk to them. I play. I do not ‘take an interest’. I am fascinated. I love them, and I’m sure that, in a million different ways I am hardly aware of, they KNOW this.

I do not wank about it in public.

He starts to get up AGAIN

Oh you cu

I launch myself across the café. I have him by the throat, a bunched-up fistful of his Gap sweater preventing me from crushing his windpipe outright. The un-studded poppers of his Barbour jacket scratch my arm as he flails at me with his casual slacks and canvass shoes.

YOU AWFUL AWFUL PRICK. DO YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND THAT YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON – THE ONLY FATHER, AS YOU SEEM TO EXPECT A SPECIAL MEDAL JUST FOR HAVING DONE A MAN-PISS IN A LADY – IN THE WORLD THAT ADORES THEIR CHILDREN? FUCKING DO YOU? LOOK AROUND. SEE THE MOTHERS OF THE DOZEN OTHER BAIRNS HERE? DO THEY GIVE IT THE BIG FUCKING I AM? FUCKING DO THEY? EVERYONE LOVES THEIR BAIRNS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? EVERYONE. IT’S LIKE A DEFAULT. THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO DON’T ARE TOTALLY TOTALLY FUCKED AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT? THOSE PEOPLE DON’T TEND TO TAKE THEIR CHILDREN TO BALLET FUCKING CLASSES!

GET FUCKING OVER IT MR. FUCKING ENCHANTMENT-OF-FATHERHOOD AND STOP SPUNKING YOUR FATHER-JOY INTO THE UNWILLING EYES OF ALL PRESENT. IT STINGS AND SMELLS FUNNY.

AND WHILST WE’RE AT IT, MOVE YOUR MASSIVE FUCKING RENUALT ESPACE – NO FUCKER CAN GET AROUND IT.


I do nothing of the sort.



Tell you what though. If he had a blog, I’d leave a fairly to-the-point comment.

That’d show him.

How Many Days?

It is (as ever) some years ago. I work for a weekly newspaper.

I am 'out the back' smoking a cigarette.

There is a large brick wall opposite the back door of the building. Upon it, somebody has utilised a can of spray-paint to create the legend 'Johnny Sucks Cock for Rock'.

To accompany this is a portrait of a gentleman with his mouth wide open (I assume this to be 'Johnny') whilst one foot away an unrealistically large penis ejaculates several droplets of what I assume to be sperm directly into 'Johnny's mouth. Not a drop goes astray. Million-to-one.

If I were 'Johnny' I would be fucking furious.

I am contemplating this when Hippy Journalist comes out to join me.

[Not entirely fair. It should be noted that when Hippy Journalist was dumped by Hippy Girlfriend, he promptly had a numer-one-all-over-buzz-cut and started eating meat and could no longer give a fuck about 'the planet' or, indeed, 'peace'. If ever he did. Whatever it takes, I say.]

Hippy Journalist lights hand-rolled and suspiciously fragrant cigarette.

HJ:[By way of 'hello'] I've not been to the toilet in four days.

Me: .................

HJ: Don't get me wrong. I've had a wee, but..............

Me: ..................................


I put out my cigarette and went back to work.





Some months later, we actually became quite good friends. Once all the intimate talk had died off. Christ. We're not women for God's sake.

Next: Enchanted Dad. (Suffice to say, it's not about me.)

When is a Twat Not a Twat 2

Lazy blog re-tread I know. Fuck off, I've been sleeping for a change.

Anyway.

You know who I mean. You're walking down the high street, no care in the world. Maybe you have a small person holding your hand. Maybe you have an even smaller person in a pushchair. God fucking forbid you may have both.

And you hear it. From about half a mile away. pumpumpumPUMPUMPUMPUMPUMPUMPUM

Dreadful, absolutely atrocious drum-and-bass, the sort that any drum-and-bass officiando would tell you is actually 'weak', played at Knebworth-volume by a skinny white man driving a super-charged, 'pimped-up' (I believe that is the term) exhaust muffler-removed previously very shit Vauxhall Nova or some such.

And you think You twat.

But if you're me (again, God forbid) you then think Well no. Hang on. Lets not be hasty.

The young man wants a car that looks good and makes a loud powerful-engine-type noise. He wants a spoiler on the back of it. To push the back wheels down when he's doing corners. Because you need that when you are driving a performance sports car. It isn't a performance sports car, it's a shit Nissan Micra, but that isn't the point.

The man obviously wants a very cool car. The man cannot afford a very cool car because he left school at sixteen and decided to spend the rest of his time working in Tesco and smoking really poor soapbar. (I imagine, although will accept that this is a generalisation.)

What does the man do?

Does he accept his lot? Does he say Yes world, you have spoken. I am pants and will never be ace. As a result I shall never have anything a bit cool. I accept this. It is all I deserve.

Does he FUCK. He goes out and gets the best (ie: to you and me actually quite shit) car he can afford, and removes the exhaust muffler. It then sounds like a FUCKING ASTON MARTIN.

He works at Tesco (or wherever, I'm not down on Tesco employees [I just said 'down'! I am so 'street'!]) for a while, and gets some cash together. Not enough to trade-in his Toyota what-the-fuck for a Ferrari, but enough.

Enough to get the windows tinted. To get a fucking big sound system. To put a neon-thing under the car that can only legally be turned-on when the car is static. To buy a full body-pack. To get the whole monstrocity resprayed.

A big, ugly, gleaming, purple (they're usually purple for some reason) FUCK YOU to the world of over-privileged cunts who get something for nothing. To all the people who told them they'd never amount to anything. To the parents who never said 'well done'. To the teachers who looked down at them. To that girl Donna who went off with their mate Darren.

FUCK THE LOT OF THEM says this car. Yes it's a shit car, but I am not shit. Look at the car. It's got FUCKING ALLOY WHEELS! Your car hasn't. I will not be beaten by life. If I cannot afford to buy a conventionally flash car, do you know what? I'm not going to cry like a girl and wish my life was better. Oh no. I'm going to FUCKING make a relatively SHIT car look FUCKING ASTOUNDING. Perhaps not in a good way. But so what. Through not much more than effort of will. Do you hear me world? I will not be beaten.

And if you're me, you see these people driving too-slow down the high street looking not-really-menacingly at the passers-by, and you inwardly applaud them.









Then you meet a couple of them in the pub and realise they are irretrievable twats and wish they were dead.