Work. Scary Man. Weird. But Sort of Not. Children.

I am at work, some time ago.

For reasons that escape me (i.e: ‘There’s a trade show on across the river! At least two hours off work so we can Network! Come on!’ You just said 'network'. No thanks.) there is only me and Slightly Scary Guy in the office.

‘Slightly’scary for a number of reasons.

He is about my height, but built like a brick shithouse. He is ex-Forces. He saw active service in the Falklands. He killed people. You know. Actually and that. And at the start of each working day, he sits with his head on his desk and growls like a dog, and then repeats the word ‘cunt’ for at least ten minutes.

SSG is on the phone. After trying not to overhear, it becomes apparent that it is not a business call.

SSG: I have to go. I’ll try and see you on Saturday. Be a good girl for your mother.

SSG: What?

SSG: Well, just try, O.K?

SSG: Make the effort will you.

SSG: [a bit exasperated] Because I’m going out on Friday. I’m entitled to a night out once a year aren’t I? I said I’d see you Saturday. Now will you be good for your Mam?

SSG: What?

SSG: Beacuase I am asking - no, I am telling you to.

SSG: Look. You are six. I am thirty four. That is why.

SSG: It IS a good reason.

SSG: [Starting to lose the upper hand] Look. Be GOOD, or I won’t take you to the Cbeebies Roadshow I’ve bought tickets for.

SSG: No, well, I hadn't told you. [Sighs. He knows what has just happened] It was meant to be a surprise but you’ve just tricked me. [He has thoroughly lost the upper hand]

SSG: Whatever. Just try and be good will you? Cos I get it in the neck when you don’t. I have to go.

He hangs up. And expels enough air to fill the office three times over. He looks at me.

SSG: You’ve got bairns haven’t you?

We have never spoken before.

(Aside from The Cigarette Incident. But I haven't mentioned that yet.)

Me: Um. Yeah.

SSG: Girl?

Me: One.

SSG: If you tell her to be good, and she says 'I don't really feel like it', what do you do?

Me: You've lost before you start. You're on the ropes and she knows it.

He nods, as if I have confirmed his worst fears.

I look at him for a bit.

He has instantly changed from being a man who can kill someone purely by driving the cartilage of their nose into their brain with the heel of his palm into a divorced man who is easily out-manouvered by a girl of six years old and does not feel he can push the issue because it’s bad enough that he no longer lives in the same house as everyone.

SSG: [Sighs again, stares out of the window with a wistful look for a second] If your girl told you she was a lezza, how would you feel?

This is a bit out of the blue.

But I’m feeling some sort of newfound affinity with this man, so I make the effort.

Me: Not one way or the other to be honest. So long as she’s O.K.

He nods again.

SSG: Aye. And at least you’ll know she won’t be getting fucked-up by twats like us.

I think for a bit. Then nod my head in the same manner he has displayed. (He has a point).

SSG: You’ve got a boy as well?

Me:[hesitant] Yeeeees.

SSG: If he told you he was a –

Me: No. NO.

SSG: [again seeming to feel that I have confirmed something for him] Aye.

How To Play Poker Successfully In Four Steps

1. You are dealt a hand. Do look at it.

2. This being the modern world, you are probably playing Texas Hold’Em. Ah well. Nothing we can do about that. But do try and look at the three cards dealt face-up on the table.

3. Think for a bit. This is important.

4. Do not do Anything Stupid.

This will work seven times out of ten.

Don’t thank me.

Gender Studies

I am minding my own business. Unaware that at some point I am to become irrationally furious.

I shall shortly Watch Something On The Tele - Vision. It shall be the culmination of some mild grievances and general feelings of puzzlement (this is now a word). I do not enjoy the experience of puzzlement. It makes me cross. And I have not slept of late.

The build-up:

I do not pretend to be 'down' 'wit' the 'yoot', but do have a number of brothers younger than me. I do not pretend to be an expert on masculinity in our post - fin de siecle times either but do, you know, have a number of brothers.

From the younger contingent, I hear tales of moisturising. Of skin care products in general.

Of clippers. And shaving products. None reserved entirely for the face.

I know for a fact that a number of 'men' in my immediate vicinity shave, pluck, wax and highlight hair with unseemly regularity. There has been talk of fingernail care.

Don't get me wrong. About once every couple of months I will have a downstairs trim. I am a very hirsute man from the navel downward, and very often the case is that I cannot see the wood for the trees. I like to make sure that Little TD is still in attendance.

But every week? With 'special' clippers? Whilst waxing your chest? And 'doing' your eyebrows? And highlighting your hair? Whilst 'moisturising'?

Christ.

A couple of nights ago, I am doing a Google search for something obscure. One of the hits looks promising. I click. Bollocks. It is one of those discussion forum things I do not really understand. Are they like MySpace? And how does that work anyway?

Upon further examination the forum reveals itself to be an on-the-line support group for stay-at-home-Dads.

A Support Group. For MEN who have to get up fairly early and then endeavour to keep their offspring alive for a full eight hours. And not do much else.

Why, yes of course. A Support Group is the very least they deserve. Fuck me what a nightmare for them. How do they do it? Those poor MEN?

Obviously silly women have been doing it since we lived in trees. But so they should. What with being women and that. Well. That's what they're for. They know this, and hence require no support at all. MEN on the other hand require on-the-line forums in which they can discuss how hard it all is to shoulder this huge responsibility ' without any ill-will of course' instead of inventing new spaceships.

Which is what they would otherwise be doing.

Because they are great. But need to share. You know, what with it being their choice. They have to share that.

Jesus.

Critical Mass:

I am watching television. This is not something I would normally consider worthy of comment for two reasons:

1: I am fairly sure that the on-the-line 'community' are perfectly capable of watching television/seeing films/reading the newspaper and forming their own opinions without the aid of 'blogs'.

2: I never EVER watch the Tele - Vision, for reasons that shall shortly be made clear.

I am at my Mam's for a coffee. Day. I have the 'luxury' of not being at work for a week or so. In classic Mam fashion, she is in the kitchen, something is simmering on the stove, a small portable Tele - Vision is broadcasting a daytime show called This Morning and she is making some new curtains.

A faintly surly-looking chap who appears to be faintly hungover and I think is called Ey-mon is interviewing a man and a woman. The woman is a counsellor/therapist of some sort, the man a sufferer/victim of some sort.

I am only half paying attention.

The man is the classic male victim/sufferer sort. Late thirties. Middle class. Obviously sees a 'stylist' and has those fussy 'clever' spectacles that probably cost significantly more than everything I own put together.

I can see immediately that he has an 'invented' problem to justify his otherwise adequate existence. You know the sort. Couldn't bear to feel bad about people in Colombia without imagining that he too has big problems. He didn't have a copy of the Guardian on his lap but he might as well have.

Whilst my Mam wonders if the remaining fabric would be sufficient for some cushion covers, I focus on this man's 'ailment'. It is revealed.

HE HAD POST NATAL DEPRESSION.

HE did.

I am aghast.

The woman I can understand. An invented problem that she can give 'advice' on and give out a freephone number on the show that probably diverts to her mobile. She can offer 'counselling' to made-up-problem sufferers for fifty quid an hour and this is national exposure for her. We all have to earn a living.

But this chap. He explains to Ey-mon that he really 'sort of' loves his son now.

Now. But at first it was so difficult. He explains to Ey-mon that his wife underwent a thirty-six hour labour.

And that he found that very traumatic.

One assumes his wife was thoroughly enjoying the experience, and not feeling the slightest guilt at all the 'trauma' she was putting her husband through.

He'd probably bought himself a Mac G4 and was feeling that this purchase was quite enough responsibility for now.

At this point Ey-mon is perched on the end of his sofa as if about to leap at this world-class wendle. The side of his face is doing that weird pulsing thing that the faces of people who are REALLY grinding their teeth do.

I suddenly feel some sort of kinship with this faintly surly Tele - Vision presenter. We seem to be thinking the same thing.

YOU DID NOT HAVE CUNTING POST NATAL DEPRESSION. I DO NOT BELIEVE DEPRESSION TO BE A SUBJECT TO BE TAKEN LIGHTLY; IT CAN BE AN AWFUL AFFLICTION. (BUT NOT A FUCKING 'DISEASE' MIND YOU. IT IS NOT COMMUNICABLE, AND IT IS NOT SOMETHING YOU CAN ONLY MENTALLY SUBJUGATE YOURSELF TO AS IF THERE WERE NOTHING IN YOUR POWER TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. HIPPY).

POST-NATAL DEPRESSION IS ACTUALLY PROPERLY REAL. AND PROPERLY DEBILITATING.

YOU DID NOT HAVE POST-NATAL DEPRESSION. YOU WERE 'A BIT FREAKED-OUT'. GET OVER YOURSELF YOU DREADFUL LIMP PRICK OF A TWAT.

YOUR WIFE IS NOTICEABLE BY HER ABSENSE. SHE IS PROBABLY FUCKING THE PLUMBER. POWER TO HER.

YOU NEEDN'T WORRY.

YOU'RE SO SHITTING SPINELESS YOU CAN PROBABLY NOSH YOURSELF OFF. WHICH IS ALL YOU'LL EVER BE GETTING AFTER YOUR TELEVISION DEBUT.

FUCK OFF.


Really though. What happened to men?

Anyway, I'm off to have a belching contest with Jodie Kidd. She'll probably win, and then show me how to make a car.

The Unpleasant Stain

‘You’re not wearing that?’ she says.

I consider the options. I could reply that, in actual fact, I am not and the whole thing is a figment of her imagination. Experience has taught me that although this may be personally satisfying, it is not a recipe for long-term conversational pleasure.

I remain silent.

‘Look at that.’

I admit there is An Unpleasant Stain of some sort near the lower portion of my shirt.

I scratch at it with a thumbnail in an absent-minded manner. After a while it is gone. I am now wearing a Clean Shirt.

It leads me to think. And here we have the significance of the Unpleasant Stain throughout the major stages of one’s life:


Stage 1: There Is An Unpleasant Stain. You are a child. You are ‘clarty’.

Stage 2: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are an adolescent. You have been masturbating.

Stage 3: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are in your early twenties. You are beginning a career, and realising your degree is not worth the paper it is written on (if you have a brain). You have been masturbating.

Stage 4: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are in your late twenties. In classic Gerry Rafferty ‘Baker Street’ style your life after work (you are now doing quite well) consists of bars, take-aways and taxis as you try and turn your brain off at the end of each day. Bars and take-aways lead to Unpleasant Stains. And you have probably been masturbating. (Nobody believes that ‘it is toothpaste.’)

Stage 5: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are in your early thirties. You have a number of children under the age of five. They are ‘clarty’. It rubs off on you. A pleasant evening’s masturbation is the stuff of your wildest dreams.

Stage 6: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: You are old. You are ‘clarty’.

Stage 7: There Is An Unpleasant Stain: It is You. You are dead.

I Am Hugely Successful. You Know, Sexually And That.

*Bang*

Colleague With Unusually Large Face brushes past me with unnecessary force.

A bit odd. I think nothing of it. I finish my cigarette and go inside. Curvy Girl comes with me.

I am troubled by recent show of force by Colleague With Unusually Large Face. It is out of nowhere.

I mock his frankly ridiculous Mekon head each day. He is generally good-natured about it.

Except.

Office conversation. Along the lines of what a big happy family we are. Attributes are given to each member of staff present. Grumpy But Fair Dad, Nurturing Mam, Scampish Brother are all accounted for.

From nowhere, Colleague With Unusually Large Face pipes up:

‘Yeah. And Tired is like that really awkward cousin who comes round now and then that no-one really likes but feel obliged to play with.’

Silence.

We all get back to work.

CWULF: Are we O.K?

Me: Fuck off.

Anyway. I am outside again. Talking to Curvy Girl. I am unreasonably cross about something. Fuck knows what.

She finds this funny.

This makes me more cross. I am not here to amuse.

She finds this even funnier. I give up, and go back to my job.

Lunchtime. CWULF says:

‘You know me and Curvy Girl are, you know, at it and that’

Bit boastful I think. And I’m sure Curvy Girl would burst with pride upon hearing your relationship described in such a manner.

Whatever. He then tells me quite a funny story about a spastic, so everything is fine.

Some days later. Again, smoking fags in car park. Me, Curvy Girl, CWULF and Strange Little Man I Would Like To Kill.

Curvy Girl is eating a Mars bar.

Me: I don’t fucking believe it.

She starts laughing.

CWULF: What? What?

Me: [ignoring him] It’s a fucking Mars bar. You are not normal.

Curvy Girl is near hysterical.

CWULF: WHAT?

Curvy Girl explains to CWULF that I had noticed her peculiar habit of eating her food 'at-a-time'. You know. Peas first. All of them. Then chips. All of them. Then…you get the picture. It absolutely horrified me for a number of reasons.

And that she is now eating her Mars bar by first nibbling-off the chocolate coating and then….again, you get the idea.

Me: Shitting Christ. How long does it take you to eat a bowl of muesli?

CWULF: [very quiet] I didn’t know that about you.

He gives me A Look and storms back into the building.

And it dawns on me. You know, his funny moods and that (I am this slow).

I have been fucking his girlfriend.

Of course. Well, there is no other explanation, is there? It’s not possible that we have the odd conversation, occasionally laugh, and notice peculiar things about each other and that is that. Oh no. Because Curvy Girl has breasts and – I suspect – a vagina.

There MUST be something darker taking place.

This has been a constant throughout my adult life and I would like it to stop now please. In the imaginations of the excitable, I have been fucking a grand total of about twenty women. Without any physical contact.

Total Bullshit

I am seven.

I am at Sunday School. (Really. Every week).

It was Catholic. My father would dump me and my younger brother there each week. I suspect Younger Brother does not remember.

Father would collect us afterwards very cheerful and stinking of booze.

But this school. Water. Wine. Fishes. Loaves.

Nonsense, surely? I mean, I was at that age. I was doubting the magical ability of Paul Daniels. This Jesus guy had a long way to go. I thought it was all rubbish. I was seven.

Consigned to hell before we start? Erm. Can I go C of E? They seem slightly more forgiving. (As it happened I did get to go to a C of E school and in many ways it was worse.)

Anyway:

Interior. Evening.

Lackey: How do Pope-Meister.

Pope: What!?

Lackey: Sorry. You know, like Brent-Meister off of the Offi-

Pope: SILENCE! Bit too close to the bone.

Lackey: Sorry.

Pope: How goes my latest WORD.

Lackey: What? You mean like the WORD of God?

Pope: You know. Don’t fuck about.

Lackey: The abolition of Purgatory thing?

Pope: That is my WORD.

Lackey: Em. Yeah. Like the WORD of God and that.

Pope: Indeed. I have said, and so it will be written and so it will be shall.

Lackey: Em. Look. I Get It and that, but the whole Purgatory thing……..I mean that is old stuff. It’s been going years. People will think it odd if we abandon it now.

Pope: Look. I need to reform. Look at that guy in England erm Great Britain erm what the fuck is it called?

Lackey: I believe it is the U.K. this week sir.

Pope: Indeed. Look at that guy. He had to shake things up a bit. Say it’s time to ‘put up or shut up’. Just look at him now.

Lackey: Em. That was John Major.

Pope: Who am I talking about?

Lackey: I don’t know. Currently, I’m not sure they do either.

Pope: Whatever. There’s going to be some changes around here. Oh yes.

Lackey: It’s just. You know. Well. You remember the whole not eating meat on Friday thing?

Pope: Fuck me yeah. Loud of shit that was. I get home from work on a Friday I want a bloody steak.

Lackey: O.K. Em. Yeah. But folk thought us a bit silly for casting that aside instantaneously. We are now talking about casting aside an ENTIRE METAPHYSICAL REALM, CORNER-STONE OF FAITH AND SOMETHING WE HAVE PREACHED AS BEING PART OF OUR SILLY PLANES OF EXISTENCE. In effect, we are giving Hell a promotion!

Pauses for breath.

Lackey: It’s just, if we keep doing this, they might realise that it’s all bullshit.

Pope: [Not listening] No. I’ve checked the paperwork. It’s Heaven who get the bairns. They get the promotion.

Lackey: Was it you who gave The Exorcist your approval?

Pope: No. The other guy.

Lackey: I quit.

Pope: You will burn.

We Did Not Go To High School ‘Together’.

‘Well,’ I say, gazing blankly at the Strange Man, ‘you must have a very good memory, because I have no idea who you are.’

Honestly though. If you saw a man you DID NOT EVEN KNOW sixteen years previously, introduced yourself without provocation by bellowing said man’s surname and were given, in return, the above statement, you’d probably feel a bit silly and cut the conversation short.

Wouldn’t you?

He sits down, slams his pint glass on my table and starts talking. For forty minutes. I have genuinely no recollection of him. He talks about a number of people that I also DID NOT KNOW sixteen years ago. His eyes are wide with the wonder of our reunion. He can scarcely believe it.

Nor can I.

This has occurred with unpleasant regularity during the past two years since I returned to the area where I grew up after an absence of 14 years.

I have had quite enough of it.

I know how pregnant women feel when complete strangers find it perfectly acceptable to strike up a conversation based solely on the fact that they are, well, pregnant. O.K, it’s a bit of a stretch comparing that to attending the same high school. And admittedly no-one asks me ‘how far along’ I am (meaning ‘how long ago did your husband/boyfriend put his spunky cock in your vagina?’) but………no, forget this one. It’s just tiresome, is all I’m saying.

Please go away Imaginary High School Friends. We spent some time in the same building half our lives ago. That is all. There is no ‘connection’ between us that dictates that your attentions are welcome.

If I did not go to the trouble of getting to know you when I was sixteen – when I had some spare time on my hands – do you really feel I’m going to make the effort now?

The Mushroom Doubters

*Bleep* One tub of double cream. *Bleep* A wedge of stilton. *Bleep* A bag of spinach. *Bleep* A bag of tagliatelli

I am staring at nothing. My brain is on screen-saver, lulled by the bustle and the bleeps of the supermarket experience.

There is no reason why I should get A Bit Cross.

The cashier woman reaches for the next item. It is a brown bag that I have half-filled with mushrooms. It has the word ‘mushrooms’ on the front of it. On the back is a recipe for mushroom risotto. To even the casual observer, this is clearly a bag of mushrooms.

She pauses, opens the bag and peers inside. Technically, I cannot object. Up until the point of payment, this bag and its contents are the property of the supermarket and, as an employee of said establishment, she can do whatever she wants with ‘my’ goods.

Satisfied, she weighs and *bleeps* the bag.

It’s just the inference of the whole ritual. I have tolerated it for years, but I feel this is getting silly.

Does she really think I have stuffed the bag with supermarket gold, frankincence and myrrh and am trying to pass it off as not-as-expensive mushrooms?

I have never been charged, let alone convicted, of non-mushroom fraud in my life. If I had, I would probably accept this level of suspicion.

What do you expect to find in there, you bottle-blonde slattern? One of your shitty DVD players?

I shall write a letter.

Entirely Innocent People Part 2

'Eeeeee, I'm not being a bother am I?'

Oh no my good woman. No bother at all. I mean, I've seen you WALKING around town before now, but I can think of no good reason why today you should not choose to use your little sit-down-scooter-thing to get around. Perhaps you are a bit tired. And let's face it, you are OLD. So you can do pretty much whatever you like. If I had a sit-down-scooter-thing I would ride upon it EVERYWHERE. And hold people up on the bus when the driver has to get out of his cab to let the little ramp-thing down, hence making EVERYONE late as you quibble about the various fares on offer and ask intensive questions about your return journey of which the driver has no knowledge.

No. Honestly. No Bother At All as you park yourself diagonally on the pavement to conduct a conversation of great and time-sensitive import to an equally Old Person who has made the effort to actually Walk Around today. No bother that you have booked the entire pavement as your own personal conversation point. Would you like me to fetch you both a cup of tea? Because I'm at a bit of a loose end now. What with the pushchair and that. Were I alone, I could probably nip round you. I can be quite nimble. Not with a pushchair however. Do you see the child in it who cannot walk safely for any distance who will be five years old when you are dead?

No, of course you and your conversation are far more important. Do not spare a thought for people who will not be dead in one year's time. The pedastrian crossing that we need to get to is two foot beyond your Oldsmobile. It is now beeping. I have missed it. It will take another 15 minutes before it will let me cross again. Unless I play chicken with half a tonne of moving steel and a child. Which I am not anxious to do.

I am out of breath, hot, and eager to get home. Things being well, I expect to live at least another 50 years.

So no. No bother at all.

Fucking crippled cunt.

I am Stupidly Proud of My Daughter, And Rather Surprised By My Son.

I've been trying to keep this stuff to a minimum.

But she is strong, brave and proud. For reasons I shall not bore anyone with. Suffice to say, both me, Tired Mam and Favourite Daughter have made a frankly rather marvellous young lady.

Favourite Son did That Thing today.

I can't explain it. I remember when Favourite Daughter did it.

It probably happened weeks ago and I missed it.

I was just looking at him. He wasn't far from bed. Chatting with his mother. Chatting mind. Not real words, but you could tell he was having what to him was a perfectley sensible conversation.

And before my eyes he became A Little Boy.

Just like that.



This is getting deleted in the morning.

Entirely Innocent People Part 1

I realise that I am actually looking around me for something that could be used as an offensive weapon. This cannot be good.

I am In The Pub. I have a twenty-minute window between underground-mini-train-thing that stinks of piss and poorly maintained bus that stinks of unwashed-humanity in general. Of course, the sensible thing for me to do is spend this time in a hideous bar full of buffoons braying about the ‘big accounts they will land next week’ (it’s always next week) and that stinks of fag smoke, booze and a barely-disguised sense of worthlessness.

But not these two. They are in a world of their own. There seems to be a halo of innocence and hope around them.

Young. Early twenties, quite well turned out. My God, they only have eyes for each other these two. The rest of the world need not exist, because this boy and this girl are drowning in The Wonder of Each Other. It’s So Amazing, their wide eyes seem to be saying to each other. We even think the same.

They giggle now and then and when they do, they do that not-really-innocuous-it-doesn’t-really-mean-anything touching. You know, briefly touching a forearm in an oh-stop-you-are-so-funny manner. Or letting your hand fall onto someone else’s ‘accidentally’ and pretending to be a bit embarrassed about it.

Christ.

But I can’t look away.

She asks him something. He makes a face.

She then gives him that up-from-under sad girl face. Her mouth even does that upside-down smile thing. Oooh. I only a ickle gurl.

He sighs, and with mock-weariness begins trudging to the bar, shaking his head as if to say ‘oh the things I do’.

When he’s out of sight, she allows herself a small contented smile. Whatever it was, she didn’t really want it. She wanted to see if he would get it for her.

He comes back. The conquering hero. Look. I have done a THING for you. You must remember this. Me being so great and cool and that.

He thinks to himself, We both know this is a bullshit ritual, but perhaps I may have a chance of touching her lady-parts.

She thinks to herself, Dear God, what a sap. Oh. But he did go and do it. Maybe I’ll ask my friends what they think. I wonder if he has a weird cock?

I’m still looking around. There are no spare housebricks. The ashtrays are of that flimsy tin variety designed to do no physical harm.

I finish my drink and leave.

Haircuuuut.

Jesus, I think. What have I done to offend this bastard?

I am at the barbers. The Barbers, mind. Not the hairdressers.

It has been a long time coming, in two ways.

The first: I will leave it and leave it until at least three people during one single day will inform me that I look like ‘a twat’. This is because I look in the mirror once each day, mainly just to check that everything is where it should be, and sometimes to shave. Latterly, I do not look at the hair on my head.

The second: I have made a decision to have my hair cut, and am lurking outside my usual barbers, pretending to be walking past it in an unconcerned manner. It is heaving. It is one of those no-nonsense-wait-on-the-bench-no-appointment establishments. The bench has been full each time I walk past. I have walked past every 15 minutes for an hour and a half now. Of course, each time I walk away, a space at the bench becomes free and I miss it.

It occurs to me that my behaviour is verging on the OCD, so I make the brave decision to go to the Barbers (not Hairdressers mind) Round the Corner that I Have Never Been To Before.

This is a big step.

I don’t like being touched. Generally. There are situations in which it can be the best thing ever, but to my mind these situations do not take place in commercial premises. My own mother is given to hugging me on occasion; frankly, I rather wish she would not. To have people I do not know touching me in a semi-intimate manner (and let us not ignore the whiff of perfume and tit-in-the-face that usually have to be tolerated during the haircut experience) is one thing. To have it happen in a Barber Shop (not a Hairdressers mind) that I am also quite unfamiliar with is another matter.

I step inside, with the confident manner of someone who is not a bit weird about strange people touching them.

There is a space on the bench. I take it, despite the fact that a moment’s lack of concentration and thence relaxation of muscles will result in my touching thighs with the person sat next to me.

I wait my turn. Grinding my teeth. I expect the usual. Going anywhere nice on your holidays? No. I’m of to Greece next week. Amazing. Day off work is it? No, I’m actually at work and you are dreaming. Ooooh, we had a lad in here with terrible nits. Get fucking off me now.

It is my turn. I step up to the chair. A Swarthy Guy with obvious upper-body strength and an awful lot of body hair wordlessly motions me to sit.

He slings one of those black-sheet things around me.

Swarthy Guy: Whaddya wan?
Me: Shorter.

He shrugs in a contemptuous manner and grabs a pair of clippers. Having exhausted all of my best lines, I fall silent and take my usual stance of staring at a random section of wall and trying to disassociate myself from the whole experience.

He begins JABBING at the side of my head with the clippers. Like he has seen something there that has annoyed him.

It fucking hurts. And he is wasting no time either. JAB JAB JAB JAB.

Looking back, I do not remember the buzzing sound these devices usually make. I suspect he had not even turned them on, and was relying on brute force and friction to remove hair from my head. Who needs electricity?

He gets to a point where he seems satisfied with this section of my head. At which point I would expect to feel a number of gentle fingers on the back of my head along with some murmured instruction.

Not this good man.

He SHOVES a big meaty Mediterranean FIST under my chin and forcefully JERKS my head to his desired position.

And begins STABBING my head with his clippers. He finishes, and then with heel of his palm, SLAPS the back of my head so my chin near touches my chest, and sets to work STABBING the back of my head.

He shoves his FIST under my chin, jerks my head upright and grabs a random pair of scissors. There is usually some discussion regarding what should be done at this point. He delves right in without a word. I notice my heart rate is not exactly at ‘resting’. I drag my eyes away from their usual space of disassociation and look at his face. He does not look friendly. I look away. He has access to sharp things, is standing, and I am sat with my arms under a sheet.

He JABS at my hair for some time, repeating the fist-chin-thing as he sees fit.

This entire process has been wordless.

He steps back, and wordlessly looks in the mirror. I consider this ordeal near an end.

From NOWHERE he produces a CUTTHROAT RAZOR. I was not aware they even existed anymore.

He flicks it open, and twirls it in a manner reminiscent of Mexican villains in old B-movies (they were always Mexican). More of the fist-chin stuff whilst he tackles the nape of my neck and the side of my hairline. A new technique, and one I did not welcome. Perhaps would have been better if the razor had been sharpened this century, and something resembling soap/foam had been employed. It also hurt, is my point.
He whips the sheet-thing off. At this point, there is usually some nonsense with an additional mirror, some blow-dryer action to get rid of the loose hairs, or sometimes some rather inappropriate action with a soft brush and some talcum powder.

Again, not this man.

He tosses a single man-size tissue in my general direction. Very much with the air of somebody who would think me to be the ‘queer’ they had barely disguised their suspicion of my being should I decide to use it.

He tells me the price, and gives me a look that suggests I would be unwise to barter at this stage.

Less than ten minutes after first sitting in the chair, I am on the street.

I see my reflection in a shop window. I look Alright.

I shall probably use him again.


NEXT: Some entirely innocent people going about their blameless daily lives make me so cross I consider 'doing time for them'.

Is He Still Shouting It?

Pants, I think to myself.

I use one of those underground-railway-type things to get from the very glamorous trading estate that is home to my office building to the centre of the city - the part that is populated by real people.

As I get to my tube station platform my mini-underground-train-thing-that-doesn’t-to-my-knowledge-have-a-proper-name departs seconds before I arrive.

Pants.

No matter. They are very good. Only a couple of minutes waiting time normally. And it’s not so bad. This is one of the stations that aren’t actually underground. So. You know. That’s a bonus. I suppose.

There is a fellow staring intently into one of the rubbish bins that are strangely allowed on our city’s tube stations despite the fact that they vanished from real train stations in 1978 so the IRA could not put bombs in them. That scuppered them. I understand that the al-qaeda are also a bit stuck for ideas as a result. Don’t tell them about our underground for Christ’s sake.

This fellow then emits a long trail of saliva into said bin and stares at that intently. He is about 45, wearing a shell-suit (A SHELL SUIT) that does not reach his ankles and appears to be slightly cross-eyed.

Oh No, I think. It is a Mental.

I adopt Mental Alert standard procedure and pretend not to notice him and think to myself Do Not Look Him In The Eye.

I look at the timetable board. I have a few minutes. Hmm. Perhaps a cigarette.

As I take the packet from my pocket he begins RUNNING directly at me, skidding to a halt less than one foot in front of me in a Wyle E Coyote manner.

Mental Bloke: [Very excitable] How. Gie ayes one a theyme.

Me: [Calm] No.

MB: What?

Me: No.

MB: [Forcefully] Gie ayes one a theym. Please.

Me: No.

MB: [Looking quite perplexed at the injustice of it all] I sayed please.

Me: And I said no.

At this point he takes a step toward me.

(The rank amateur would feel this invasion of space and instinctively take a step back to retain their comfort zone. THIS IS A SCHOOLBOY ERROR. Never step back. They’ve got you on the fucking ropes then.)

I too step forward. He blinks. It slowly dawns on me that I am squaring-up to an obvious mental at a tube station. Perhaps not one of my more considered moves.

MB: [Actually very aggressive now, and still pursuing his God-given right to cigarettes from strangers] I’m in the middle of nowhere here.

He is not.

Me: That’s neither my concern nor responsibility.

The combination of foolishly aggressive body-language and use of words unique to non-mental people is successful.

He steps back.

MB: Aye well. [With menace] I’ll see you LATER.

Heads toward the stairs out of the station. On his way, he looks over his shoulder and delivers what would be his parting shot.

MB: If you’re lucky.

I take a drag on my cigarette. MB’s pace slows a little.

He is obviously mulling-over the impact of his parting shot and the relative logic thereof. I get the feeling he does not think it was as strong as it could have been.

MB reaches the stairs, and also some sort of decision.

He turns, and looks me right in the eye. He takes a very deep breath. And opens his mouth.

MB: CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNT!

It goes on for about 10 seconds. It is actually rather impressive.

He walks up the stairs and vanishes. I consider the incident closed. A moment later I hear a disembodied voice:

CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNT!

I smoke some more of my cigarette. Several minutes pass. The tracks start to hum, indicating the arrival of my mini-train-underground-thing.

From far off, like the lament of a lost love, carried on the breeze, I hear:

Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnt.

I am now properly pissing myself laughing. Stood on my own.

There are many people on the platform that did not witness the earlier exchange.

They pretend not to notice me. They make a point of not looking me in the eye.

Not Really a Tale From the Pub

Not really because on this occasion I am not sat on my own, staring intensely at the wall and brooding about things that will never have a happy ending.

I am In The Pub.

More accurately The Pub garden. The sun is shining. I can see the river from where I sit.

Unusually, I am surrounded by people. People I know fairly well. And actually quite like.

This is a strange situation for me. It is the middle of the day.

I have been laughing. Not something normally worthy of comment, but it has been some time. Proper laughing mind. The aching-ribs variety. The totally infectious sort. That continues for far longer than it should purely because of the very fact that several people are uncontrollably laughing for no reason anyone can remember.

Pub garden. River. Woodland very close.

Suddenly a Vauxhall Cavalier screams to a halt. We stare. It is not a place where 'The Sweeney' -style driving is expected.

All three occupants are well muscled, heavily tattooed, are wearing vests, and have expressions that suggest it would not be wise to meet their gaze.

Immediately upon the car stopping, two of the occupants leap out and run into the woods.

We look at each other for a bit.

Less than one minute later, both occupants emerge from the woods. Running. Each holding one handle of a wheel-barrow. As they approach, the driver pops the boot.

We are rather surprised by the sight of a wheelbarrow at this stage.

They reach the car, and from the wheelbarrow begin dragging four rather heavy (judging by the grunting) plastic bags - all of which make an alarming clanking noise - from the wheelbarrow into the boot of the car.

The two gentlemen then leap into the car. None of them says 'Go go go' but they really didn't have to.

A squeal of tyres, gravel and gears and they are gone.

There is a short silence.

I light a cigarette.

Someone scratches their ear.

After a while someone else says:

'That was a bit odd'

There is a general murmur of concurrence.

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.