Days Out.

‘I say Hermoine, isn’t this all just so charming?’

It is a Saturday. I am trying to enjoy it.

A big part of our local science museum involves a working model of the river that we live by. There are aprons, toys and much general fun to be had.

Favourite Son and Favourite Daughter are having a grand time.

Except that Favourite Son has, without his consent or interest, acquired a new ‘friend’.

‘And isn’t your dear Felicity doing so well? Oh look at her, pretending to torment that lovely little boy?’

‘Oh! That back-fired a bit. She must feel awful. Difficult to judge quantities and such-forth at that age. The little chap doesn’t seem to mind that much though. Plenty of towels and hand-driers about.’

‘So darling now isn’t she? I can’t believe how she’s come on, playing with such a little fellow obviously so much younger than her. How considerate. She’s so precious.’

She isn’t ‘precious’ I think to myself. She’s a ‘little fucking cunt’.

And if she ‘accidentally’ splashes my son with water one more time I’m going to knock her out.

Charity. Again.

Her name was Maria by the way.

She died yesterday.

I didn't really know her that well.

The Park. Again.

Last month.

This bloody-rope climbing frame thing.

Favourite Son once again conquers the fucker like it isn’t even a big deal and once more his elder sister gets about half-way up and shits herself. As I would. It’s bloody HIGH.

Favourite Daughter: [Again] How come he’s not scared but I’m older?

Me: Because you’re older sweetie-pie. FS is too little to know it’s dangerous. But you’re older and cleverer and know that it is. That’s why.

Favourite Daughter gives me a spontaneous hug.

Hah. Eat that Lone Dad.

I look around. He’s nowhere to be seen. This being real life and not a silly blog there is no chance of the same smug twat being around to see me actually get it right for once.

And it’s only taken me three months to figure out what the right answer was.

Grrrr.

Charity.

Me: No, Grant From Work, there is no way I am dancing. Forget it. I dance, people get hurt. I don’t need the grief.

We are at A Function. Myself and eight hundred colleagues. I am being hassled to dance.

Grant From Work: LOOK AT IT TIRED! There’s not one bloke on the dancefloor! It’s a minge-pit!

I’m attending because I have to. It’s some sort of charity thing to do with cancer or something and apparently we’re going to cure some woman someone knows if we all attend this thing.

She’ll die anyway but if we get the cash together she might not die so soon.

Grant From Work: If you don’t get in the minge-pit, you’ll never have the minge! Let’s have the minge!

Thing is, she has young children. The treatment we’re raising money for might prolong her life for a few years.

Me: Look, Grant From Work. I can’t dance, I injure people. Go away.

Grant From Work: Me and you Tired. Me and you are going to make twats of ourselves and get in the minge-pit.

I don’t really want to go in the ‘minge-pit’. To be frank, I don’t even like the sound of the 'minge-pit'. It makes me think of that desert scene in Return of the Jedi.

At the end of the evening, we raise £13,000. Enough for two treatments. She’ll live for a bit.

I’m on the dancefloor.

Grant From Work: Tired. Keep your arms down. Actually no. Go and sit down. That’s the second woman you’ve accidently smacked in the face.

The Park

Four months ago.

Like any decent parent, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of all the parks in my district.

They’re all shit.

But even the shittest will entertain a couple of children under the age of five whilst you keep an eye out for broken pieces of Bacardi Breezer bottles from The Park’s shady night-time persona of Night Club to the area’s thirteen-year-olds.

We’re at the nearest one. There’s a big climbing-frame-type thing, only it’s made of rope and reaches at least twenty foot in the air.

Favourite Son decides to tackle it. He is three now and can do anything. He thinks.

He starts off quite well.

FD: [Beaming at me] I’m a clever boy.

Me: Yes you are.

He takes another step and misses. He is now hanging upside down, clinging on to some rope with the inside of his knees for dear life. His thoughts are not of his imminent demise.

FD: I’m not a clever boy now though.

Me: Yeah you are.

I right him, and hope that his thoughts will not always involve impressing me over his personal safety.

He cracks on with it. And is doing quite well.

FD: I’m SPIDERMAN!

Fair enough. He’s gotten higher on the bloody thing at the age of three than I would consider attempting at my age, so he can be whomever he wants.

Five-year-old Favourite Daughter is having none of this. I have seen her out the corner of my eye, steely-eyed and jaw set throughout this exchange. She is not one to be outdone; to have the spotlight taken off her. She leaps on the climbing frame.

FD: I’m Batman!

She starts climbing. And then stops for a moment.

FD: Em. Actually. I’m Catwoman!

I am much happier with this.

Favourite Daughter also slips and is soon hanging upside down.

FD: I’m Scaredy Catwoman. Daddy. Help.

Whilst admiring her comedic ability I get her down, at considerable risk to my own safety.

Favourite Son is now twenty foot above me informing the entire district of his secret identity. I hope that a) the Daily Planet or whatever don’t get wind otherwise his anonymous Superhero days are numbered and b) he doesn’t get in trouble because there’s no way I’m going up there to get him. A man could break his neck falling off that thing.

FD: How come he’s so brave but I’m older?

Me: Because he’s a boy sweetheart.

I suddenly see a forty-year cavern of female neuroses open before her.

Me: No. Nononono. Not that boys are intrinsically BRAVER than girls, they’re just a bit, you know, they don’t really think –

I notice another lone Dad laughing at me.

Lone Dad: You’re digging a hole mate.

Fuck off Lone Dad.

The Phone Rings.

Something will have to be done about this, I think to myself. The ringtone on my mobile is one that mimics a ‘real’ phone, the ones with the circular dials. This is to let people know that I am not a ‘prick’ whenever my phone rings, which is rarely.

It is however, quite alarming, as it was originally designed to be. When I was a child, a ringing phone was a thing of great importance, and not the tiresome everyday occurrence it is now.

The unexpected call is not helped by the fact that as it is a weekend, my phone is in the front pocket of my jeans and not the breast pocket of my suit. As such the ‘vibrate’ function that I am unable to turn off has an alarming effect upon my testicles.

It is 11.15pm. No one who knows me would dream of ringing me at this hour. And people who do not know me would not have my number. Something is badly wrong.

Nerves and testicles jangling, I fish the phone out of my pocket.

‘Granddad’ informs the display.

My grandfather is 93, is 95% blind, the Parkinson’s and the arthritis are not doing him any favours and I am of the opinion that he is not phoning me for shits and giggles. He’s usually asleep by 9.00pm.

My nerves are no longer jangling but have formed some sort of jazz troupe.

Me: Hello? Granddad?

Not Granddad At All: This isn’t your Grandfather. I’m WPC Noname of Region Police Force.

I take this in for a split second. A police-type-person is on the phone to me. From the phone line of my Grandfathers home. This cannot be good. She is in his house. And he is not talking. This really isn’t good. In fact, it may be quite bad.

The jazz troupe throw in the towel and are replaced by some dreadful death-metal outfit that make it difficult for me to hear or think.

WPC Noname: I’m here with the fire brigade….

The death-metal dudes sling it as well and are replaced with a massive wall of white noise. I am reliably informed at this stage that I have turned rather white myself.

Me: [Very good in a crisis] Gargle wfhbfb.

WPC N: What?

Me: I said gargle grfrbjf.

36 hours later.


Granddad: Frankly, I’m glad they’re all gone.

He’s been beset with visitors since the fire, has enjoyed the fuss of the nurses at the General Hospital and is now getting a bit pissed off and fancies some time to himself.

Granddad: What I mean to say, it’s been grand to see you all, but all at once is a bit……Durham Cathedral really is quite something don’t you know. If you are by the river… I used to row by there… my university days you understand…..

Me: I know Granddad. I think you might have just said. I’ve bought plenty of milk……

Granddad: Lovely to see you all but just……Well. I woke up this morning and PEOPLE were already in my house. Dear me.

Me: We were just worried that’s all.

Granddad: Mmmmm.

He pretends to get out a mop to clean the linoleum in the kitchen/snug area that is his only real home, secure in the knowledge that I won’t let him and will do it myself.

Granddad: Your sister usually dries it herself with a towel. On her hands and knees. It takes some time. Perhaps…

He didn’t spend the Second World War sat on a beach in the Seychelles or whatever beach resort (his words) he was stationed at perfecting his skills in the Catering Corps to be cleaning his own floors himself.

I mop up the soot from the earlier visits of my mother, brothers and sister. On my hands and knees.

Me: I must go. Is there anything else at all I can do?

There isn’t.

I want to tell him how important he’s always been to me. What a tremendous failure I sometimes think I am, how bad I always feel, how I’ve let down every person important to me.

He has shirts he needs to iron for no occasion.

He opens the door to the living room for me.

Granddad: I’ll open the door but I can’t look myself.

He no longer has a living room.

He kept most things in there. He was a voracious reader before his eyesight went. As an art teacher he was a prolific artist himself. He was a traveller, a lover of music. Everything he loved and created was in that room.

It’s not there anymore.

That's All Folks!

The reasons are far too boring.

This might be it for now, but I think it's forever.

And it's only a silly blog.

P.

Call Me 'J'.

Oh Jason. How many ways can I hate thee?

Your dreadful dreadful swagger, your awful winks and ticks and perplexing hand gestures, all of which I am sure you consider to be ‘street’.

Your appalling insistence upon speaking in Ebonics. When you felt like it. Except when you didn’t remember to. Those times when you remembered that you went to a perfectly adequate school funded by the flawed but essentially good British educational system and not from some hell-hole in South Central L.A.

And that you are not ‘Straight Outta Compton’ but actually ‘Not Too Far From Your Mum’s House In Gateshead’.

Your hair. Oh dear God man your hair. Did you pay money for that? Did you?

If it were meant to do that it would have done so already.

But it’s when you talked. That was the icing on the cake. A cake made of your own shit.

Dear readers. The following exchanges are 100% factual.

Jason: Lunch eh? No I’m not going anywhere. [No-one had asked him] Need to check my shares. [He is 22. Stares at his PC screen in a lofty manner. EVERYONE leaves the building.]

Another day.

Jason: Did I mention I have a controlling share in Newcastle United?

Odd. No. You didn’t.

Another day. I am walking to the tube with Curvy Girl. She glances behind me.

CG: He’s coming.

Me: Who?

CG: ‘Call Me ‘J’’

Me: [I dare not look] Fuck off.

CG: He is.

Me: [I can’t look for fear of meeting his eye and then acknowledging his existence] Walk quicker. I’m not getting on the tube with him.

CG: I can’t. Not in these shoes.

Me: You’ve bought shoes you can’t walk quickly in?

CG: [As if such a thing were rational and it is me who is insane] Yes.

He is gaining on us.

Me: I’ll give you a backy if it will get us on a train before he catches up.

CG: [Glances at my overall build] I don’t think that will happen.

Me: Fuck. FUCK.

Jason: [He’s caught up] Dudes.

Me: What?

Jason: ‘Sup?

Me: Right. Hello Jason.

Jason: Call me ‘J’.

Me: No.

Jason: [Oblivious] Off home yeah? Sweet. Aight. Bin looking at my property portfolio myself.

Have you? From your mothers box room? Must be tough maintaining your empire and your board.

Jason: Yeah right- [Despite the fact that neither of us have acknowledged his presence] thinking of adding some offshore stuff. Maybe Greece. [Can’t get more off-shore than that. What with it being a different country you TWAT] Got some interest in some clubs there.

You’re getting confused dear Jason. You WENT to some clubs there that you FOUND interesting. Probably with your Mum.

Easy mistake to make for someone with a silly haircut, no sensible bearing on the real world and no obvious friends

Later.

Jason: It’s all good Tired.

Me: What?

Jason: Sweet, man.

Me: What?

Jason: ‘Sup?

Me: I really don’t know. You came over here.

Jason: So you probably heard about it all then?

Me: What?

Jason: Well. You’re a family man so you’ll get it. Why I ran him over and that. Because I couldn’t see my kid. Only just got out of jail, so this is my last chance really. You’d have done the same if it were your kid.

Me: What?

Jason: My own son doesn’t know what I LOOK LIKE. But I don’t go on about it like some. Just get on you know. Tried to get custody. Her new fella wouldn’t have it, I ran him over, went inside. Do what ya gotta do innit?

Me: Right. Jason-

Jason: Call me ‘J’

Me: No. So, you were on the doorstep, trying to arrange access to your child – assuming any of this is true – were unsuccessful in your doorstep negotiation and then coaxed your ex’s new bloke into standing still in the middle of the road whilst you carefully manoeuvered your CAR – I notice you get the bus into work – OVER him?

Jason: You wouldn’t think it to look at me.

Me: No. I wouldn’t.

Surprisingly, according to his C.V. his previous employ had been at a call centre for T-Mobile and not at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Puzzling.

Later:

Jason: My brother was in Iraq [He didn’t have a brother] and one of his mates was hit by a car-bomb. Terrible. He had to identify both halves of him.

Me: What?

Jason: Yeah man. He had to identify both.

Me: Ok. So the head and torso – with the absence of hips or legs – alone on a slab were not enough to prove that you ‘brother’s’ ‘friend’ was dead? That he might have been faking it? He had to identify the severed legs and whatnot to prove that the man wasn’t just taking the piss and fancied a sicky?

Jason: You’ve not been in combat-

Me: Like you.

Jason: You have to identify each body part. So they know where to put everything.

Me: So your brother easily identified his mates LEGS? Separately from the rest of his body? He was given a big pile of LEGS to choose from and said ‘That’s him!’

Jason: [With impressive bravado] YES.

Me: Ok.

Later:

Jason: I could be a serial killer. If you’re going down for one murder, might as well take as many with you as you can. They can only give you ONE life sentence. And I’ve studied this. I don’t even fit the profile. They’d never catch me.



To my knowledge they never have.

News Flash!

I am no longer funny!

If ever I were. And now may have to stop this silly thing-whatever-it-is.

Those waiting for any elaboration upon the subject of the dreadful ‘J’ may have to wait FOREVER!

Today.

I am At Work.

As I take my job very seriously, I am reading the local newspaper. As are several of my colleagues. There is a news item regarding a very pleasant – by all accounts, and there are lots of them – local man who had tried to prevent some youths from being a terrible nuisance on his street and who had been killed to death for his trouble.

My local paper is filled with such tales.

I read it, and can only think that the sub-editors have let themselves down.

The front-page headline on the subject reads ‘Death of Mr. Nice Guy’.

It could have been better, I think.

How, ask my colleagues. What would be the more effective headline?

Me: ‘No More Mr. Nice Guy’.




Absolutely nobody laughs.

Many look horrified.

I quit.

Dark Days.

It's banality more than anything else. And still is.

The thing with long-term insomnia is that you don’t really feel anything anymore. You go through your days and to all concerned you appear to be a normal person. But you’re neither happy nor sad, excited or bored. You’re just THERE.

And don’t get me started on the memory loss or the general feeling of unreality. Or the six-foot high spiders that aren’t really there. They scared the shit out of me.

No. It was the whole Not Really Feeling Anything that got me.

Except Anger. It was the only thing that got through, that made me feel alive.

So thank God for people like ‘J’.

Some time ago I worked for an idiot, on an idiotic monthly publication that didn’t really exist. Said idiot had an alarming habit of employing other idiots. The idiot level once got so high I wasn’t really sure if any of it was real.

Idiot Boss: Hi Tired. This is Jason. I’m sure you’ll all make him ‘feel’ welcome.

Jason: You can call me ‘J’.

Me: What?

Jason: I said you can call me ‘J’.

Me: Really?

Jason: Yeah.

Me: [Laughing. I foolishly thought he was joking.] What? Like ‘H’ in ‘Steps’?

Jason: [Deadpan] Just ‘J’.

Oh God.

His jeans were so over-designed they must have been the work of an OCD epileptic, his hair would have worn Vidal Sassoon to the quick and I’m sorry but there is no way on God’s earth are you losing you door keys when they are attached to your belt with a two-foot long bicycle chain.

Not what I’d have worn on my first day but who am I? Did I mention the jeans were white?

The very fact that this absurd cockerel even exists is starting to re-invigorate me.

And then he started talking.

To be continued.

Spiderman Part 2

Me: Go on then. I doubt I have but let’s get this over with. What is a Spiderman?

I had to ask.

To recap.

I have foolishly entered into a conversation with a man ten years my junior. Which one should never do; it’s ultimately depressing. But for some reason I felt compelled to match his absurdity, even in the knowledge that the idiocy of youth will eventually defeat me. I can’t win. I watch Newsnight and enjoy Radio 2 for fucks sake. I know I’m dead in the water as I look at his goofy grin and his young eyes sparkling with delight.

God help me he makes me think of my son. My nearly- three year old son who experiences many mundane things as if they are small miracles.

Thug: Aye. Reet thun. Ya knaw when you’re whackin’ off like?

Me: [sigh] I suppose.

Thug: Aaaaye ye dae like! Ah can tell.

Me: Can we just do this?

He’s virtually dancing with delight. Again I reminded of a small child. Albeit one slightly simpler than my son.

Thug: Aye alreet Grandad. Ah knaw yuz is hankerin after a Worther’s Original so's Ah'll be quick. So you spunk it all oot reet, and you’re wonderin’ what ta dae wi’ it?

Me: OK then.

In many ways I admire his delight at the new-found wonders of the world. He lives in a constant state of excitement akin to a fourteen-year-old who has found a copy of Razzle in the bushes on his way home from school.

Thug: Reet then, so ya gans up to your lass, and flick your wrist and fling a fistful of spidey-web reet in her face and ya gans ‘Spiderman! Spidermaaan!’

Me: Right.

I am now no longer thinking about my son, except to hope that he never grows up. At least not into this.

What I am doing is trying to remember my early twenties, and the quiet nights in I had with my lady friend at the time. Oddly, Thug’s new-found past-time had never occurred to me as an effective way of spending the evenings. And if it had, I’m not sure how welcome it would have been. How times change.

Me: OK then. I’ve got some work to d-

Thug: Have ye hurd me impression of The Claw off of Inspector Gadget?

Me: No. Go away now.

Thug: Do ya knaw it’s true black people can’t swim? Their bones are too dense or summat?

Me: Not as dense as you. Fuck off.

I’m left in silence for a while. I do some work and try not to worry too much about the future of civilization. From the other side of the office I hear:

Thug: Ah divn’t knaw wits up with that Tired like. He’s a reet grumpy cunt at the minute.

Spiderman Part 1.

I have yet to decide if Thug Colleague is a dark evil comic genius or just a common-or-garden buffoon.

I despise him. His level of intelligence and humour is that of an ant.

And yet.

He has spun some kind of web around me. I am becoming like him. Slowly.

The more he inhabits my life, the more it is only some time until I become interested in football and mobile phones and internet sites dedicated to Holly Willoughby…

Whatever. I'm currently at one out of three. Which means I am sane.

But he nearly got me.

Two weeks ago. I am At Work.

I have just had an excellent argument with my boss.

She had informed me that I had to spend the entire morning being trained on how to do my job. I explained that I had being doing my job, in one form or another, quite successfully for eight years and would much rather just get on with it thanks. She shrugged and wandered off, leaving me to do Actual Work. Great!

Thug Colleague: Alreeet Tired like.

It seems my happiness is to be short-lived.

Me: Jesus. Fuck off.

TG: Aye. How. Have ye ever been on the bog havin a shit like and got a bonk-on?

Me: Seriously. I’ve got a client who reckons we owe him his entire annual spend because, well, because he feels like it and I’ve got a publication deadline NOW which I know you do not share and a new boss who isn’t sure what I do for a living and I’m not sure how to explain it to her. And you want to know if I’ve ever had a simultaneous erection and bowel movement?

TG: Aye.

Right. He’s really committed to the whole ‘eroticism of taking a dump’ thing then.

Who cares about my work troubles.

To get rid of him, the following dreadful exchange takes place:

Me: Right. Once. It was taking ages and my mind began to wander. Ok?

TG [Visibly delighted] : Ah I KNEW IT! YE AND ME ARE THE SAME TIRED! Even if you’re auld.

I’m not at all old. I don’t feel old (I do) and I will not let this whipper-snapper feel that I have suffered a mere erection on a toilet. Although we are definitely NOT THE SAME.

Me: [Bizarrely wanting to get the upper-hand in the whole shit/erection debate] Yeah? So tell me, have you ever become TRAPPED?

He looks at me in awe, and I know that I am lost.

Me: Oh yes. It got wedged under the seat. I couldn’t stand up for fear of it snapping off. I had to wait until it went away. It took fucking ages.

People are now looking at me.

Christ. What have I become?

TG: [Almost vibrating with delight] I bet you’ve given a lass a spiderman an’all!?

For reasons I cannot begin to explain I want to beat this thug, to outstrip his every monkeyface/dangerwank/shittybonkon story with one better just to prove to him that – what?

To be honest I don’t know.

And I’d no idea what a spiderman was. But by God I found out.

To be continued.

Conversations With My Grandfather.

It is a large house, but my Grandfather prefers to spend most of his solitary days occupying only one room of it. Being bloody-minded, it is also the smallest room, but it does boast the best view of his beloved garden. He claims he can actually see it grow throughout the day, despite being virtually as blind as a bat.

He is in his chair by the gas fire with a rug over his legs, Radio 4 murmuring agreeably in the background.

He is either 92 or 93, dependant upon the day you ask him.

Also present are my sister, Favourite Son and Favourite Daughter.

There is some chatter between my sister and Grandfather regarding the replacement toaster she has just purchased for him.

Grandfather: I still don't understand. It had always worked perfectly until today. Very odd for it to just cease functioning like that.

Me: When did you buy it Grandad?

Grandfather: Well. Let me see. Your mother had just started high school ...

My mother is in her fifties. I feel we are some way toward solving the mystery of the non-functioning 'perfectly good' toaster.

Me: Christ.

I forget that he is blind and not deaf, and quickly make myself busy checking that the children have not fried themselves on the house's pre-war wiring. I'd get in ever so much trouble if they had.

Grandfather: I do worry about the money though. Was it terribly expensive?

My Grandfather has more money in the bank than he could possibly spend.

Sister: Only fourteen pounds Grandad. It's fine.

She is removing the toaster from its packaging.

Grandfather: Really? Well. I say. That is quite reasonable. Tell me dear, how do you think they manage to make them so cheaply?

Sister: I think they're made abroad Granded. You know, in countries where things aren't quite so expensive.

Grandfather: Ah yes. Of course. [Nods sagely] The Negroes.

I sigh and begin rolling my Grandfather his cigarettes for the day. He won't buy pre-rolled ones any more. Too expensive. Instead he gets a monthly consignment of black-market tobacco from someone my brother knows. I think this secretly excites my Grandfather. It makes him feel rogue-ish.

The toaster is given a test-drive, and thankfully my Grandfather approves of the result.

Grandfather: Ah yes. Perfect. Very efficient, our coloured cousins. I must resolve to buy more Negroe Products in the future.

He adjusts his blanket.

Grandfather: Is anyone else a little chilly?

Sweat is streaming from me and I cannot easily blink as my eyeballs are so dry. I do not know what to say. He turns to my sister.

Grandfather: Throw another peasant on the fire would you dear?

My sister turns up the gas on his fire a little.

I hear my children playing in his garden, as I did when I were their age.

He gazes, half-blind, out the window at his garden.

Grandfather: Thank you dear. Now. I wonder what the poor are doing today?


I hope he never dies.

I Love This City.

It's looked after me. Provided me with somewhere to sleep for awhile. Made sure I always got fed (if I had the money), was happy that my friends were nearby. Took care of me for awhile, when I needed it.

But like any new foolish fling, the things that are initially endearing become a chore very quickly. And you wonder if you've made a mistake.

The city threw belligerent drunkards at me. I told them to walk. It threw overly-threatening crack-addicts pretending to be homeless so they could score at me. They too were given short shrift. It threw prostitutes at me in the early hours of the morning when I needed the bathroom.

The city was testing me perhaps.

Anyway.

Months ago.

I am having a cigarette.

Whilst I am at work. But it's o.k. I'd filled-out the relevant form.

Being the afternoon, the comatose/dead woman had been cleared away by the paramedics from the staff entrance so I was free to mill about without fear of treading on any dying/dead people.

Present are a couple of colleagues. Being in their twenties they have absurd hair, so I don't make too big a thing about them.

A Youth wanders past, yammering into a mobile phone.

Youth: TELL HIM I'M GOING TO SMASH HIS FUCKING FACE IN.

He is wearing a tracksuit and yet does not appear to be an athlete of any sort.

In fact -in my experience - this attire at this time of the afternoon by a youth yammering in a barely articulate manner into a phone that frankly I'm astonished he could even operate is more indicative of a common criminal than an Olympic contender.

Youth: YEAH? WILL IF SHE SAYS THAT TELL HER I'M GOING TO SMASH HER FACE IN AN ALL!!

Pause. He is actually listening now, and I get the impression it is causing him some unrest.

Youth: LISTEN RIGHT. DO YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING SMASH YOUR FUCKING FACE IN AS FUCKING WELL? YOU FUCKING FUCK. WHY DON'T YOU FUCK OFF.

More silence.

Youth: YEAH? WELL TELL HIM FROM ME. IF I SEE HIM I'M GOING TO FUCKING SMASH HIS FACE IN.

Youth wonders off in a petulant swagger of nylon.

Me: He's got a whole lot of face-smashing to contend with this evening.

Colleague: Yeah. He'll be worn-out after all that.

Me: He may need a sit down. Perhaps a cup of tea or something.

Colleague: There's only so many cans of whupp-ass you can open in one night.

Me: He's setting himself up for a fall if you ask me.

Colleague: Mmm.

Me: I mean. That's a whole lot of faces he's talking about there.

Colleague: Hey. That woman. This morning. Was she dead?

Me: Dunno.



The city and I split up. We had some laughs, but I just don't think we were compatible. You know? It wasn't her, it was me.

The Electric Mayhem.

Interior. Day.

Human Resourses Office.

HR Lady: Good afternoon Mr.Dad. I assume you know why you're here?

Me: Is it because I've done something good?

HRL:Sarcasm does not go very far here Mr.Dad.

Me: Right.

HRL: Are you familiar with an employee named Dr.Teeth?

Me: Oh for fu-

HRL: We will not tolerate profanity in this office Mr.Dad. This is Human Resources, not some dandy devil-may-care office enviroment that is concerned with real work. So. If you please.

Me: Let's hear it then.

HRL: Very well. You understand that part of our group company policy - as with any employers of calibre -is to ensure a safe and secure working enviroment for our employees?

Me: Ok then.

HRL: Mmm. This extends to physical assualt from co-workers.

Me: Oh the pussy, he hasn't actually put in a complai-

HRL: ENOUGH. This policy not only extends to physical well-being but also includes any psychologi- DO NOT ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME OR PULL THAT FACE - any psychological damage that employees may suffer at the hands of co-workers.

Me: Right.

HRL: Have you anything to say?

Me: Am I right in thinking that this meeting is entirely imaginery? And that it may never occur?

HRL: Yes.

Me: Then not really. No.

Two days previously. Previous to this imaginary conversation.

I return to my desk after much important walking around.

MY AFTERNOON CONFECTIONARY HAS VANISHED!

I round on Uncannily Similar and Grotbags. They deny knowledge. I do not bother with Other Colleague as he has previously referred to me as a 'frightening psychopath' and as such I doubt he'd have the courage.

(Note to any new readers. I am neither frightening nor a psychopath but tend to be surrounded by weaklings who are easily intimidated. I do not believe myself to be 'hard' is the point I am making. I'm 5'8" and 8 stone.)

This leaves Dr. Teeth.

Me: Where's my chocolate Teeth?

DT: What? Hahahah.

Me: You fucking heard. Do I look like I'm in the fucking mood for this. Fucking do I?

DT: Don't know what you're on about mate. And what's with the teeth thing-

Me: You're not my fucking mate and you look like the fucking band-leader off of the Muppet Show and where is my fucking chocolate?

Grotbags: Jesus Tired. Why don't you take your face for a shit?

I ignore her. She's a good friend but fuck her. I want my chocolate.

Me: This isn't fucking funny. You. You fucking-Jim-Henson-Creature-Workshop-looking twat, where is it?

Before I recieve an answer I lose my peripheral vision, grab the nearest thing to me and throw it.

Fortunately it turns out to be a half-full bottle of mineral water. (Actually it is a mineral water bottle filled with tap-water. This is because I like to Keep It Real and Stick It To The Man.) It glances off his chin and hits the floor with a satisfying 'flopple' sound.

He got off lightly. It could have been a hole-punch. I knew someone who threw staplers without looking at the potential target so I think I'm fine.

Dr.Teeth: You fucking twat. I've fucking decked people for less than that.

Me: Yeah? Big words, especially coming from a medical man. You're not even looking me in the eye.

Uncannily Similar: I wasn't sure when I saw that it said 'Not For Girls' on the wrapper. But I think you deserve it back. Here's your Yorkie bar. It was me.

Me: You cocking fucking cock.

US: How's it going anyway? The whole 'quit smoking' thing?

Me: Fuck off.

Another Book Thing!

How exciting!

This one's for one-armed transsexuals or something!

Oh I'm sorry. It'll be for a very good cause I'm sure and I'm in it when I get round to it so that's ok.

Perhaps I should stop pretending that I'm not flattered.

I've seen the list of people in it and it'll be very good so purchase it if you can.

I've agreed to give this some sort of link but I can't be doing twatting about with HTML text so the best anyone's getting is this:

http://peacharse.blogspot.com/search/label/War%20Child

Dr. Teeth.

I don't begrudge the man his happiness. I wouldn't. I've been there. Your first-born is beyond words.

But this is a place of work. We are neither his friends nor his family. There are many yet to decide if they even like him. I am not one of them. Please DIE SOON.

It's like this:

No-one gives one iota of a WANK about your screaming child. You adore her. I'm sure she is lovely. My daughter was and is. But you work in a department populated by those that have written the manual. At least twice.

I begrudged 'putting-in' for the 'office gift' that left me five pounds the poorer to celebrate the fact that you had ejaculated into your wife. I would gladly have bought HER anything she wanted the poor cow, but not you. You spent it on a Playstation 3 game. Probably the only one available. It's a toy. A toy for adults. You are fucked.

Dr. Teeth: Done this before I suppose Tired?

Yes. YES. I have. Please cease to exist.

But it goes on.

Dr. Teeth: She had hair! Hahahahah.

Astounding. You'll be telling us she had a head next.

Oh it's just the clatter. Every single phone call, every single conversation.

Dr. Teeth: Fine. Bit tired though. Hard work waking the missus up when the bairn's crying in the night hahahha. You'd think she'd been at work all day hahahaha.

If you want some peace so badly have you thought about KILLING YOURSELF?

And I'm loving the belching competitions you seem to be having with yourself.

Dr. Teeth: Seven seconds. Had to be. That was a seven-seconder do you reckon Tired hahahah. Can't do this at home now. Not with the little-un hahahaha. Got any porn? Hahahaha.

Christ.

Oh fuck. He's on the phone again. 'Hello client. Sorry about being so totally ineffectual for the past six months - the total time I've worked here - but. The thing is. It's not that I'm shit at my job, which I am, it's because my wife gave birth to my drunken fumble so now the world has to be entranced by the fact that I can maintain an erection and spunk-up. Because I'm brilliant. What? The wife? Dunno. Moans a lot. But anyway I've a child now so you must see me in a new light. That of not being an ineffectual cunt.'

There's much of that. And some of this:

Dr. Teeth: I'll be looking after your account now, so it's me that'll be ripping you off from now on hahahah.

Genius. The client will fall in love with you now. Will probably dedicate all of her media spend with you on the strength of that. Well done. YOU FUCKING COCK. Have you told her about your wailing kid yet you TWAT.

Dr. Teeth: She's two weeks old now. All the noise is putting me off my beer hahahahah.

Honestly. Just. You know. It couldn't get any worse.....

Dr. Teeth: Her tits look GREAT now but I'm dreading the downfall hahahahahah.

Amazing.

A female colleague walks past.

Dr. Teeth: Hey Tired. Would you smack that?

He does not wait for an answer.

Dr. Teeth: I'm getting broadband delivered today. I'll soon have the porno-net hahahaha. Sky TV's rubbish, I want to see it going in and out hahahaha.

It'll end in tears.

Spastic Vs. Toddler: Spastic Wins.

I know I am in the right, that my fury is justified, but for some reason I can't put my finger on Why.

Anyway.

It had all started so well. A day out with Favourite Daughter and Favourite Son. I do not drive so the weather is an important factor at this time of year, what with God playing 'Biblical Metreology Catchphrase' ('It's a good guess but it's not the right answer') and everything, so I opt for one of Europe's largest retail 'experiences' which also happens to house the largest indoor fair/adventure park/ emporium of gypsies-who-went-to-university.

Upon the bus there I notice that the sun is shining. All three of us feel its rays upon our face. FD says so. The sky is blue.

Fuck This, I think, and we get off before we get to the Citadel of Air-Conditioned Commercialism and go to the Pond.

We buy bread along the way and I meet an old friend who hugs me.

They call it a 'pond'. I'm not sure what the rules are, but if you need a craft with an out-board motor and twenty minutes spare time to get from one end of it to another, it should no longer be called a 'pond'.

Whatever.

Being the height of winter no-one in their right mind has been out to feed the wildlife. We are instantly the best friends of every duck, mallard, swan and those big things that look like ducks but are larger and darker that I can't remeber the name of. FS laughs and laughs. He's not really done this before, not to the extent of having creatures he's never seen before take bread from his hands. FD conscientiously makes sure the smaller ducks do not get left out.

The pond is in the middle of a large amount of grass-land. There is a band-stand but thankfully no God-forsaken 'play-area'. Just lots of wide-open space, grass, clean real air and clear blue sky. The children dance. Not wishing to ruin the mood I 'throw some shapes' myself. FD discourages me from doing so.

The weather changes so with heavy hearts we get back on a bus and retire to an air-conditioned enviroment. Well. My heart is heavy, the children couldn't give a fuck. They're children.

Some hours later, after much anguish, bickering and squandered cash we leave the Land of Fun or whatever the fuck it's called. I don't suppose they were allowed to put a sign saying 'Theatre of Disillusionment' out the front.

We're all at that wonky-blood-sugar, slightly over-excited and really fucking knackered stage. As far as my offspring are concerned, they're in a casino and it's four in the morning and they're wondering how the fuck to explain the unauthorised overdraft in the morning.

Two-year old Favourite Son is in his push-chair (he doesn't need it, but after six hours on my feet I wouldn't turn it down either), Favourite Daughter is holding my hand. The front wheels of the chair are fixed, so manouverability is an issue.

There is a certain etiquette regarding dealing with the general public when steering a difficult push-chair, and it falls into the following hierachy:

1. Adolescents walking four astride and blocking all coming like they fucking own the place: Aim for the middle and take as many out as you can.

2. Random single people who think that gazing at the non-existent skyline is a substitute for watching where they're going: Aim for the ankles, but also be sure to apologise if you fell one of them.

3. Other people with push-chairs/prams: Roll your eyes at each other in some fake 'oh gosh, you as well, oh, we're all in it together' complicity and then spend so long apologising, carefully jostling and being 'nice' that everyone near you wishes you were dead.

4: Old people. Just let them do whatever they're doing. They'll die soon.

But this fucker.

I mean he is RIGHT IN OUR WAY. With his middle-age and his chinos and his sensible shoes and his ugly wife, both staring beautifically into the middle distance and not moving whilst evryone sidesteps them. He CANNOT not know that me, daughter and be-seated toddler son need to get by their little world of People's Friend delight.

I stare for a bit. I nudge his foot with a wheel. He gazes through me and does not move. To get around him and his dumpy fucking wife would involve doing a push-chair wheely, the equivalent of a ninety-degree hand-brake turn, a four-yard detour and then doing the whole thing again but in reverse just to get back on track. And doing it one-handed, because I cannot let go of Favourite Daughter's hand because of all the paedophiles and that.

Or he could just GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY THE BHS-WEARING CUNT.

It quickly transpires that they are not moving because they are forming some sort of human-shield against the crowd to allow their spastic son/patient/middle-aged-guilt-alleviating-respite-care-case to manoeuver his
electric Stephen Hawking-style chair out of whatever shop he was in. Early Learning Centre I would imagine; he didn't look that bright.

Their entire attitude was thus:

Look everyone. We have a Mong. Not just a Mong, but a Mental, as evidenced by the spittle dribbling down his chin. Aren't we great? Us with this potato-head. We don't think of it as a burden. In many ways it's a gift. And anyone here who needs to get by us before the next millenium to conduct their non-flid related activities can just FUCK OFF.

I am impotent with rage.

After some time Davros gets it right and all three motor happily along. As happy as they can be I suppose.

I know I am wrong. That although Favourite Son has the irksome habit of occasionally requiring pushing-around in a chair and the even more tiresome habit of shitting himself at inopportune moments, he will grow out of this at some stage.

Even so. FUCK'S SAKE.

Boundaries.

I fear I am about to lose a lung.

I am At Work, and laughing so hard at the most inappropriate comment I have ever heard that I am concerned I may hurt myself. Anyway.

Three days previously.

I am In The Pub.

My sister has just introduced myself to an old friend of hers.

Sister: She's got an odd sense of humour, mind.

Old Friend: I find it's always best to establish people's boundaries so I don't offend them.

Me: Sensible.

O.F: So. The disabled?

Me: Intrinsically amusing.

O.F: Good. AIDS?

Me: You've got to laugh.

O.F: Fine. Cot death?

Me: Got to draw the line somewhere. That's it for me.

Having established this, we chat for awhile and I discover she works for an independent television company that produce content exclusively for Channel Five. Which did not surprise me.

Anyway. Three days later.

Myself and Uncannily Similar are in the office, discussing our plans for that Saturday night . It is decided that three or four of us are to meet at an unbearably swanky establishment for a 'boy's night out'.

Normally the term fills me with dread, conjuring as it does images of belching competitions, endless discussions involving football, mobile phone tariffs and 'birds', and ending - if it is a particularly good night - with the ignition of digestive gases. Fortunately, my friends are all in their mid-thirties and content themselves with talking amusing nonsense, attempting to dance, complaining that it's a bit loud and 'can we go somewhere quiet' and then falling over because they're not in their twenties anymore and are not used to drinking so much so quickly.

That's my friends. Not me. (It's always a 'friend' isn't it?)

Anyway.

One of our colleagues is very girly, very sweet and very thick. She reeks of innocence. And she has overheard us.

Sweet But Thick: Oh I wish I could go out on a Saturday. But all my friends are always busy with their families and things.

Uncannily Similar: Come out with us!

Me: Yes. We'll look after you.

U.S: Yeah. We'll show you a good time.

S.B.T: Oh really boys? What do you have in mind?

U.S: Well. Have you seen that film 'The Accused'?



Uncannily Similar was never much for establishing boundaries. Perhaps he should start.

Seriously.

Have people nothing better to do?

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

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

Me: WHAT?

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

Me: Honestly. WHAT?

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

Me: Peter ANDRE?

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

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

Me: Right.

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

Me: WHAT? Wait -

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

Me: Right. What?

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

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

TM: But he doesn't.

Me: What?

TM: Look like Peter Andre.

Me: I KNOW.

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

TM: But he does though.

Me: WHAT!

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

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

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

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

TM: Yes.

Pause. She has a point of sorts.

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

Me: WHO? The guy depicted on the cover?

TM: NO! CHARLIE FUCKING BROOKER!

Me: I have to go. Fuck me.

TM: What?

Me: No wonder we split up.

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

Me: Say what?

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

Me: Fuck. Do you? Filth.

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

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


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

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