Office Space.

Work. Late afternoon. It’s already been a long day.

I receive an email from a client.

“I’m really sorry, but my email isn’t working,” explains the email, “ so I won’t be able to send you the image files you need by the end of the day as you requested.”

I gaze out the window for a while before I read the rest of it. The files in question need to be of publication standard; at least 300 dpi. I steady myself and read the rest of the email.

“Is it ok if I just fax them to you instead?”

Deadlines are circling me like vultures.

I compose an email in reply.

“So sorry to hear of your inability to communicate by email – hope this is fixed soon. Unfortunately a faxed document tends not to reproduce terribly well. As a ‘last minute’ solution – time really is short now - I wonder if it would be alright if I take some generic images from your website – assuming they are of sufficient quality?”

Send.

I scratch at my fingernails for a minute or two. They are covered in superglue which has recently oft been mistaken – to much hilarity – for nail polish.

An emailed reply.

“Ok, but I don’t see why the fax would be a problem. And I know it’s late, but I can’t help that my emails aren’t working. Could you take them from the following website – www.mybiggestcompetitor.com? I want it to look just like theirs.”

I stare out the window some more. I think of phrases such as ‘copyright issues’ and know there is no point in employing them.

Blonde Colleague: Tired? Tired! I’ve got Client Name on the phone about those files. She doesn’t understand your emails.

Me: I’m going for a smoke. Tell her all our phone lines are down and no-one can speak to her.

BC: Won’t she suss that, as she got through in the first place, there’s nothing wrong with the phones?

Me: [Over my shoulder] I sincerely fucking doubt it.

Quiet Sunday Drink.

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Asks the policeman.

I look him up and down. He’s easily six foot five, can handle himself, and if he’s any good at what he does for a living is better equipped than I to assess this sort of thing.

The four squad cars, riot van and what I know to be our districts’ Armed Response Unit will no doubt help him out if things ‘go south’, as will the half-dozen representatives of Her Majesty’s also milling about looking ready to kick seven shades of shit out of anyone who ‘looks at them funny’. So I’m not really sure why he’s asking me.

Twenty minutes previously, and three years ago:

My sister and I are about to enjoy an impromptu Sunday afternoon drink at a public house near the river.

“ Two pints of strong drink please.” Say I, whilst another barmaid serves a random Asian man with his requested pint of cold tap water.

I glance at him as our drinks are being poured. He’s disheveled, is carrying a back-pack and is in a small town – small enough even for me to know that he is a stranger here.

Our strong drink arrives.

“Shall we sit down somewhere?” I say to my sister, noticing that the disheveled man is proceeding to WASH HIS HANDS in his pint of free-of-charge tap-water as opposed to actually drinking it.

We sit. But I know it’s only a matter of time.

“Do you think John Travolta felt a bit …. You know. Weird. About being sperm?” Asks my sister.

“What?” Says me.

“In ‘Look Who’s Talking’. He’s sperm and then gets to voice the baby. When it’s born. And says things about tits and that.”

“No. That was Bruce Willis. John Travolta was the guy. He drove a taxi or something.” I explain.

“Oh. Yes. You’re right. Bruce Willis was the spunk.”

I notice that we are soon to have company.

“Mind if I sit? It’s been a long day. I’ve parked by the river [you can’t park by the river-this is me thinking] and can’t find my car again. It’s down there somewhere [It’s not because you can’t park there- that's me thinking again]” Says the mental man.

It’s inevitable really. They gravitate toward me. Sister and I leave him and go for a cigarette.

I’m briefly troubled by another twat – “What have I done now?” he whines – and return to our table.

Our new-found friend has produced an enormous pair of scissors and is making what appears to be an eye-patch from some random materials he has about his person whilst informing me that he fancied a change of scenery and has randomly driven here from Birmingham. I am in the North-East of England and know that to be quite a drive for a spur-of-the-moment thing.

“I’m just going to the loo.” Says my sister. Whilst she has gone I wander to the bar.

“Errmm,” I say, “ I think it might be an idea…”

“We’ve already called them.” Says the barmaid.

I sit down again. Within two minutes a large policeman sidles up to us.

“Alright mate? Scissors is it? Can I have a look? Great. I’m just going to keep hold of these. Shall we have a chat outside? Great.”

They leave and after a while I imagine the fuss to have died down and go for a cigarette, and am surprised to witness the show of force. Thinking about it, the July bombings weren’t that long ago and people are still twitchy.

“You spoke to him yeah?” Says the policeman. I confirm this. He asks me if I thought he was dangerous.

“If anything only to himself. I got the impression he’d stopped taking his meds and didn’t really know where he was.”

The policeman nods as if I had confirmed his own thoughts and takes my details.

I wander back inside and order some more strong drink, aware of the fact that if I lived in 'that London' someone would have been shot by now.

Other People.

The problem with the bulk of them is that, sooner or later, you discover they are quite mad.

My sister is in my kitchen. Also in my kitchen is a metal cylindrical thing with holes in the side in which I keep utensils too big to fit in the cutlery drawer. Wooden spoons. Potato masher. Screwdrivers. Stuff like that.

Sister: Do you know there's a teaspoon in here? Should I put it in the drawer?

Me: No. Leave it. I like to know where it is.

Sis: What?

Me: It's my Boiled Egg Spoon.

Sis: What?

Me: I eat my boiled eggs with that one.

Sis: Why don't you just use one of the other ones?

Me: They're not quite the right shape.

She looks at me as if I have lost my marbles. She was on the verge of moving it to the General Teaspoon Population for fuck's sake.

Like I say. Mentals, the lot of them.


On a completely unrelated note, I have ditched Internet Explorer in favour of Firefox 15 years after the rest of the world has done so and am delighted to notice that it has put my Favourites in alphabetical order - something IE has long refused to do.

As such I rediscover a number of blogs and sites I have forgotten about as they've not been in the right part of the alphabet and frankly life is too short to faff about.

I am even more delighted to discover NOT A SINGLE ONE EXISTS ANYMORE! Probably purely because I have ignored them for some time and the administrators have just given up! This is quite brilliant as, at a rough estimate, I ignore 99.9999999999999% of the internet! Therefore, it is surely a matter of time before I dominate the web and am given a prize of some sort!

Wonderful.

Doppelganger.

It’s the only way to explain it.

Lunchtime today; I am in the chemist purchasing some sort of treatment for Blonde Colleague’s ‘water problems’ as she doesn’t like to answer the searching questions regarding her ‘lady-plumbing’ whenever she has to buy it. I am not fond of strangers thinking that it is I who have a urinary-tract infection, but this seems to be a moot point.

Cashier: So how are you anyway?

Me: Mmm? Oh. Erm. Fine. Aaah. Yourself?

Cashier: Ohhh. You know meee….

I don’t.

Me: Right.

Cashier: I just get on with it don’t I?

Perhaps she does. I really don’t know.

Me: Ok.

Cashier: Anyway. What are you like? Have you lost your Boots card again?

Me: It wasn’t mine and-

Cashier: Here you go. [Does some weird thing with a pretend loyalty card and laser scanner then hands it to me] All set now. You know I take care of you. See you later yeah?

I leave the chemist feeling slightly befuddled and raise my eyebrows at a Random Woman who smiles at me like she knows me. I proceed to the newsagent for my cigarettes.

Newsagent: Thought you’d quit HAHAHAHA!

Me: Ehm. No.



I've never laid eyes on him.

Newsagent: You must need these with your ‘not stressful’ job HAHAHAHAHA!

He has appalling halitosis and I wish he were not laughing so hard. In my face.

Newsagent: ‘Spose you’re just glad to HAVE a job the way things are going at your place HAHAHAHA!

How does he know where I work and what I do for a living? I pay for my cigarettes and leave my new best friend the Newsagent. Upon arriving at the door of my building I hold the door open for another Random Woman.

“Thanks Tired.” She says. How does she know my name?

I walk down a long corridor grinding my teeth. Yet another Random Woman is heading toward me.

Random Woman: [As if she’s known me for years] What’s the weather like out there?

Me: [Feeling sure she could have utilized a little-known device called ‘a window’] Oh. Erm. Not raining. Not cold.

RW: Brilliant! HAHAHAHAHA!

Me: Ok.

I get back to my office with some relief. Everyone here has known me for years – there will be few pleasantries. Thank God.

I think for a bit. I’m a rational man, but it can only be. There is some sort of ‘anti-me’ out there, being all ‘friendly’ and ‘gregarious’ all over the place and making strangers think they can talk to me as if they know me.

This will not do. And I have absolutely no idea how to fix this. I can’t be stuck in some sort of hell-hole of casual cheerfulness with people I don’t care about. That would be awful. What if everyone starts thinking I’m ‘approachable’? Christ.

I sit at my desk.

Blonde Colleague: Did you get…… you know.

Me: There you go.

BC: Did you get my deodorant too?

Me: *SIGH* Yeah. Here.

BC: What the fuck is this?

Me: [Squinting at the can] ‘Cotton Flower’.

BC: Cotton fucking Flower? I’m a ‘Sensual Blossom’ girl!

Me: They didn’t have any.

BC: Did you ask?

Why do women always say that?

Me: No I didn’t ask. Do you know why? Because it’s not important to me. I’d have got some ‘Unbearable Hermaphrodite Who Keeps Forgetting To Take Her Mood Stabilisers’ but they were all out of that as well. Should I have asked if they had also stockpiled that in a secret location purely to annoy you?

BC: What?

This could go either way. We both start cackling at each other. It’s fine.

I instantly feel better and stop worrying about the doppelganger. No matter how hard he tries to fool people into thinking that I’m an acceptable person, die-hard bastards like this will never have the wool pulled over their eyes.

Everday Idiocy.

An astonishing thing about living (mostly) alone is that you slowly begin to realize just how phenomenally stupid you actually are. You know. What with there not being anyone else around to blame and that.

Today.

It is three o’clock in the afternoon, the sky is blue and the sun is shining. For the first time in five months after the coldest, bitterest, most unforgiving dark winter ever in the world I am sitting outside, looking at greenery whilst the sun shines on my face and warms my bones whilst I sip a pleasant drink.

I feel relaxed for the first time in forever. The beer garden – a fifteen minute walk away from my house (long enough to qualify as ‘a walk’, not too long to be ‘a chore’) contains a couple of young girls (three, maybe four) who make a big thing of smiling at me and then being ‘shy’ whenever I glance at them which amuses their respective mothers no end and who then smile at me benignly.

I finish my drink and return home to the dinner I had left on a low heat in the oven. The house is spotless after my ‘it’s spring!’ efforts and smells mildly and not unpleasantly of Zorflora and home-cooking. I turn the oven off. My washing and ironing is done and I have attended to my ‘personal grooming’. I feel o.k.

One hour previously.

This is shit, I think to myself. I’ve done all my fucking chores, figured-out how to copy rental dvds from the garage, the place is spotless and I just want to get out in the fucking sun ‘cos I feel like Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison. I just want to feel the sun on my face and I’m tied to this fucking cooker.

I glare with resentment at my captor. The casserole will take at least another hour. Blonde Colleague better fucking appreciate it for her lunch tomorrow after all the fuss she made last time she tasted it.

An hour. Christ. It’s not worth chancing it with a gas cooker though. There could be a supply surge, the gas could blow out and if the central heating kicks in or I unwittingly flick a light switch or light a cigarette when I get back in I'm done for.

Outside birds are singing, for what seems like the first time since last year. I can hear children playing in the distance. I want to go out.

I check the progress of my dinner, and am greeted by the reassuring hum of the fan when I open the door of the oven. All is well.

They’re brilliant, fan ovens, I think to myself. Even temperature, so much quicker.

I think a bit more.

A fan oven? Which wouldn’t work too well with a gas flame. An oven that, thinking about it, I’ve never had to light.

The hob is gas. The oven has ALWAYS been electric.

I start pulling my coat on. At this point, I would round on someone – anyone- and say-

“Why didn’t you tell me it was an electric oven? We could have gone out AN HOUR AGO! It’s perfectly safe! IDIOT!”

But there’s only me.

Brainstorm.

Client: We need a new slogan for our advertisement. The old one's a bit .... erm. I'm not very good with words... erm...

Me: 'Old'?

Client: Exactly. See what you can come up with.

Me: What?

Client: See you tomorrow.

Me: [Into a now silent phone] For fuck's sake.

This is terrible. The client in question believes me to be a 'creative'. I am not. I have people who can be creative on my behalf but they can't 'magic things up' in one day flat - they need to go shopping for moccasins for at least a week to enliven the imagination before they come up with anything. I'm going to have to do this myself. And, if anything, I'm a 'destructive'.

I canvass the opinion of my colleagues.

The client has the largest taxi firm in the sprawling city that I have a peculiar love/hate relationship with. They're not, but let's just say they're called 'City Cabs'. And I want to keep on the right side of him for two reasons:

1) I pay next to fuck all for taxis these days.

and

2) Like any cash business of that size, it's fucking rife with organized crime.

Thug Colleague: 'Pulled a munter? Be a punter of City Cabs'?

Me: Thanks for your help. No. Really.

Lovely But Stupid: [Back from maternity leave] What about safety? You've read about these pretend mini-cab drivers who assualt drunk girls who think that they're getting into real taxis?

Me: [Quite surprised. This is sounding sensible. Maybe motherhood has sharpened her wits] Ok. All the drivers are CRB checked [amazingly] as it happens.

LBS: [Not joking] Well there you go. How about - 'City Cabs - We Won't Rape You'?

Unless anyone comes up with anything better before 10.00am tomorrow morning that's what I'm walking in there with.

Things I Must Never Forget # 2

Four-year old Favourite Son comes down the stairs.

He and his sister are staying with me for a few days and I am stupidly happy at having a sensible reason to live for a change.

He’s always been very good at dressing himself but this morning he looks exceptionally dapper.

Me: Wow! You look very smart.

(I would like to stress that I rarely use the word ‘wow’ in a non-ironic sense. This was an exception.)

He shrugs and busies himself with something that doesn’t involve him being made to feel self-conscious in front of his Father.

We’re off on an Outing, but as I have explained to both of them, I need to quickly drop into my office for half an hour to Do Some Things because I’m the sort of cretin who can’t organize some simple time off without leaving things to do.

Less than an hour later we’re in my place of work. Favourite Son charms all around him without even trying, Favourite Daughter busies herself with doing my job better than me despite not having the slightest idea what I do for a living.

Favourite Daughter: [Looking up from her ‘work’] What are those?

Me: Um. Sweets.

FD: Who’s been eating them?

Me: Not me.

FD: Who then? Can I have one?

Me: No. You’ve not had lunch and you’ve had enough sugar. And I don’t know. Have a look around and see who you think looks like the sort of person that would steal my sweets.

Her eyes immediately flick at Blonde Colleague and dart away again. She shrugs.

Me: For what it’s worth I think you’re right.

I complete my ‘should have been done already’ tasks and we leave once I drag Favourite Son away from his new female admirers.

As we leave –

Favourite Son: Daddy?

Me: Yes?

FD: You have to be smart for work don’t you?

Me: ….. Oh. Yes.

As we head toward the local science center I now realize why he made such the effort - with his smartest pants, best shirt and co-ordinated ‘tank-top’ or whatever they’re called this year - earlier that morning.

His four-year old brain knew that we were ‘going to work’. I remember now that he said as much himself the night before as I outlined our activities for the day. I know now that he was probably more concerned about that than anything else.

And that he wanted to make the right impression. Perhaps for himself but maybe for his father as well.

Masturbation.

Thug Colleague is waxing lyrical on one of his favourite subjects.

Thug Colleague: …. And you’re sitting there in the bathroom with your troosers roond yur ankles and spunk all ower your hand thinking ‘this is proper sordid this like’….

We’re in a pub, it’s a lunchtime. Normally I would never drink during the day but the previous evening had been a ‘staff do’ and we are all cripplingly hungover to the extent that a couple of midday refreshments are the only way of getting through it. I’ve conducted a survey and none of us can clearly remember our journey into the office that morning -which is not a good sign.

Thug Colleague: ….and you’ve covered every mirror in the bathroom with towels so you don’t catch a glimpse of yoursell deein’ it……

I’m only half-listening but he seems to be having quite the trip down memory lane. Although, he still lives with his parents so maybe not. It could have been last night.

Thug Colleague: … and whenever yer Mam looks at the Littlewoods catalogue she cannit understand why it alweys oppins on the underwear pages …

Grant From Work: I was always more of a Freemans man myself.

TC: Aye, that was some quality grumble that like …

I’m thinking back over the previous evening. I remember dancing on smashed glass with a female colleague. There is something about red wine down the front of my trousers as well. Also helping myself to the ‘one complimentary glass of champagne upon arrival’ half a dozen times and getting into a foolish confrontation with a member of front-of-house staff on the subject. All in all, not too bad.

TC: … like, when you find an auld copy of Razzle in some bushes and you fuckin’ think it’s Christmas come soon …

Perhaps inappropriately I start thinking of my son. It’s probably Thug’s childlike delight and stupid toothy grin.

It occurs to me that Favourite Son will - once he becomes interested in such pastimes - probably not enjoy the illicit pleasures of the Playtex section of the Kays catalogue as virtually every young man in the United Kingdom of my generation has.

I’m sure that once he reaches that age of curiosity technology will have advanced to the extent that all he will have do is press the red button on his digital remote control and whoever is presenting CITV that day will appear in a pop-up window fellating an alsation.

Which simultaneously makes me feel both a bit sad, and also a bit worried about myself for even thinking like this.

Thug Colleague [clearly moving-on from his festival of Masturbation Nostalgia]: Tired? That lass ye were dancin’ with? Well, she was dancin’ anyways, Ah divn’t knaw what you would caaall what ye were dein’ – did ye shag her?

Me: No.

It Gets Worse.

Today.

Blonde Colleague: Right. That’s it!

She’s just ended a telephone call with Insane Client and is glaring at me.

BC: You’re having her back!

Me: No, I don’t want-

BC: I’M GIVING THE ACCOUNT BACK TO YOU AND THAT’S IT. SHE’S NUTS.

Me: I know, that’s why-

BC: I’m not even listening.

Occasionally we have clients that are not fond of our credit-checking procedure and will pay for our services over the telephone by credit-card instead. Insane Client is one of these. Blonde Colleague has just phoned her to attempt taking payment:

Blonde Colleague: So if I can just take your card number…

Insane Client: Why? Don’t you know it?

BC: Um. Well, no.

IC: *sigh* Why not? I just gave it to you last week. You should know it. I don’t see why I should have to tell you every week.

BC: We don’t keep that sort of information. You know. For security?

IC: *sigh* Well I really don’t ….. this is all….

BC: If I could just take the number then I’ll get things moving ….

IC: *sigh* This is very …. 079-

BC: Hold on. That’s not the right number.

IC: What? How do you know? Of course it is.

BC: Credit card numbers never start with zero. You must have the wrong one.

IC: This is confusing me. Of course it’s right. This is very confusing.

BC: Look-

IC: 079-

BC: That really isn’t right.

IC: [volume and tone of hysteria increasing with each syllable] Of course it is! 079 [proceeds to loudly recite an eleven-digit number].

BC: [Quietly stunned for a moment or two] Insane? That’s your mobile phone number.

IC: WHY ARE YOU CONFUSING ME? THIS IS - AAARGH! [Slams phone down].

Blonde Colleague is having no more of this and is glaring at me as though I were personally responsible for this woman’s psychosis. Professional Wendy was meant to be handling this crackers account but gave it up because – well, because he’s a Wendy. It gets given to me. “You’re good with these people Tired,” I am informed. “All the crazies like you. It’s as though you speak their language or something.”

I give it a couple of hours. Then pick up the phone.

Me: Hello is that Insane?

Insane Client: [immediately suspicious and adversarial] WHO IS THIS?

Me: It’s Tired from the Department-

IC: OH NONONONONONO I DON’T NEED A TALK TODAY- [slams phone down].

I shrug apologetically at Blonde Colleague. She rolls her eyes. I notice the Fucking New Kid hovering by my desk. He has a DVD in his hand.

Fucking New Kid: You were saying on Friday you wanted to see this? You can borrow it if you want.

Great. We’re ‘mates’ now, obviously.

Lunatic Asylum.

I have a job, and a tiresome by-product of this job is that I am required to speak to people. As some of these people are 'clients' it means I also have to speak to them pleasantly. This would not be a problem for most normal people, but unfortunatly for me I am a divining rod for mentalists.

I used to think that this only applied to my personal life, but it seems that it has extended itself to the workplace also. I do not know if this is good or bad. However, it does mean that I spend much of my working day speaking to the sort of people who occupy themselves of an evening by howling at the moon whilst masturbating over photographs of wellington boots. Or something.

With one exception.

I have been out of the office for a few days, and in my absense the following telephone conversation takes place:

Blonde Colleague [answering telephone]: Good afternoon, you're through to the Department.

Insane Client: Oh. Oh. Hello. Um. Could I speak to Tired please? I normally deal with him.

Insane Client has long been the bane of my life, and when not being irretrievably difficult, slamming the phone down for no good reason, informing me that alien visitors to our planet show no respect for God (a genuinely true conversation) and sagely informing me that we are, in fact, 'not robots' (yes, she did mean it in a literal sense) probably fills her days making papier mache cats to keep her imaginary ones company.

BC: I'm sorry, he's on holiday at the moment. Can I help?

IC: I'm sure you can. It's just .... how long has he been away?

BC: Oh, just a couple of days.

IC: Right. Right. Well. Anyway, could you .... do you know where he's gone?

BC: He didn't say. How can I help?

IC: He didn't? It's just .... well, there's been a couple of murders.

BC: ....What?

IC: In the papers. Did you not read? Not too far from here.

BC: Riiight...

IC: I'm just saying. You have to admit it's a bit odd. Him being off work at the same time.

BC: ..........Err.

IC: I'm not accusing him of anything, it's just ...... well, it seems strange is all.

BC: Ok then. Anyway, what can I-

IC: Actually is it alright if I just deal with you now? Like I say, I'm sure he had nothing to do with it, but .....


To this day the client in question has refused to speak to me. Her and the woman who won't deal with me because she doesn't think I'm suitably sympathetic when she tells me in detail about her hormone-replacement therapy makes two, now I think about it. The only thing I now have left to do is to push the sanity envelope of the rest of them and then I shan't have to speak to anyone at all.

Brilliant.

Ghost of Christmas Past.

Five weeks ago.

I am walking up the stairs on a railway platform, preparing to cross the tracks. I am weary, unhappy, have traveled 1,200 miles in the past five days and am looking down the barrel of 400 more. Experience of my country’s excellent rail network tells me that I shall be alone with my own rather unpleasant thoughts for between four and seven hours. Excellent.

Still. At least I’ll be traveling alone. I don’t mind the anonymity.

A random man is coming down the same stairs toward me.

Random Man: Hello Tired!

What the fuck is this now? I’m several hundred miles away from home in a town I have not lived in for five or six bloody years. No-one knows me here.

Me: I don’t know who you are.

I don’t have the energy to be any less direct than that. I find it's often the best approach anyway.

Random Man: It’s Gareth!

Oh my sweet shitting Baby Jesus up in his heaven sitting on his cloud, it can’t be.

Please take a moment to check my post of June 6th 2006 to find out who ‘Gareth’ is. I’d do one of those ‘link’ things but can’t be arsed.



I blink at Gareth for a while. This really is too much.

Gareth: [Very excitable for some reason] Are you getting the 11.12?

Me: [Stupidly] Yes.

Gareth: Great! Me too! Loads to catch up on! Just going to the cash-point! See you in a minute!

I stand stupidly blinking with my mouth open for a few minutes. This is terrible.

Of course, being a grown man I handle the potential awkwardness of sitting on a train for God knows how long with a person I really cannot bear in a perfectly adult, sensible manner.

By standing out of sight smoking a cigarette outside the station until the last possible second before the train departs and then jumping into the carriage furthest away from the one ‘Gareth’ has joined purely so I can avoid talking to the man, who is now on my very extensive list of people I have to avoid forever.

Awkward.

One week ago.

My Newly Gay Friend has invited myself and Uncannily Similar out for a drink.

This is in itself not a problem. But Newly Gay is bringing his new boyfriend for us to meet. In a bar two hundreds yards away from our place of employ, where Newly Gay’s wife works. With us. And it’s a bar she often frequents.

This too is not a great problem – she’s aware of the potential awkwardness so is staying away that night. Which was awkward in itself. But. It’s just that the whole thing is odd.

If he’d got a new girlfriend it would be just as strange – who parades their new partner in front of their mates for God’s sake?

The whole thing’s just a bit weird and I accidentally get a bit drunk.

After several hours of teeth-grinding and plastered-on smiles I am outside having a cigarette with Newly Gay.

NGF: So. What do you think of him then?

Me: Oh I don’t know, I can never really tell with people. [An outright lie by the way] I didn’t know he was in the Forces. He must get some grief.

NGF: Oh God no. It’s fucking rife with it. Can you imagine a gay man NOT wanting to be a soldier? It’s fucking ideal. I’m amazed there are any straight guys there. It’s a bit of a refuge for closet cases to be honest.

I’ve no idea how Newly Gay has amassed such encyclopedic knowledge of ‘gayness’ or whatever after only a few months of signing-up to it but I suppose he is a quick learner.

Me: Right then. Is he back in the country long?

NGF: [Joking. I assume] No thank God! I can’t wait until he fucks off back to Afghanistan so I can get up to my ears in cock again!

I laugh at this and we both return inside.

Gay Boyfriend is gazing at us with curiosity as we sit back down.

GB: Sooo, what were you two boys talking about out there then?

Me: Nothing really. Just catching up.

GB: Come on. You can do better than that.

Me: Really. Just having a chat.

I’m getting a bit irked at this point.

GB: Can’t you share it? A little secret is it?

I don’t really know why he’s annoying me. He’s over-familiar, doesn’t know me but is talking to me as though he does and has a slight arrogance that is actually uncommon to those serving in the Armed Forces. And I’m a bit drunk. I decide to diffuse the situation in a light-hearted way.

What I’ll do, I think to myself, is tell him exactly what Newly Gay just said and it'll be considered so outrageous that everyone will laugh and it’ll really break the ice. I’m a genius at this stuff. This is going to be hilarious. I'm a funny fucker, me.

Me: Actually he was saying he can’t wait until you FUCK OFF back to Afghanistan so he can get UP TO HIS EARS IN COCK AGAIN!

As in bad sitcoms the sound-system of the bar becomes silent a split-second before I say these words. Instead of the expected chorus of laughter, flies stop in mid-air. Everyone starts fiddling with their mobile phones and no-one looks anyone in the eye, although I can feel those of Newly-Gay burning into the side of my face.

I may have misjudged this, I think to myself.

Never mind. I’ll soon sort this out. I can turn this around.

Me: Anyway. Do you know you look exactly like Andy Bell out of Erasure?

A tumbleweed blows by.

The following Monday morning.

Blonde Colleague: So? How’d the ‘double date’ go?

Me: Could have been better.

Turnaround.

Worlds Most Amusing Woman: Do you know you'd make a really good boyfriend?

I glance around to make sure she is actually talking to me.

Me: Errrm?

She had just asked me what I spent my previous evening doing.

I'm not very good at filling-in the time. The hours excluding nine in the morning and six at night are a constant torment. I dread the evenings; don't even get me started on the weekends. Inactivity is a devil. If I do nothing I tend to brood, which is no good for anyone.

As such much of my spare time is spent in my kitchen, making more food than I can possibly eat from an increasingly inventive array of ingredients whilst listening to the agreeable burblings from Radio fucking 2 (it's better than the bloody television) before crashing out at ten with a house full of nice smells, a full belly and enough left-overs in the fridge to make Jesus feel a bit inadequate about the whole 'fish and loaves' thing.

This seems to have impressed my colleague the Worlds Most Amusing Woman.

I am briefly stunned by her words. It is feasibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, or at least it felt like it today.

WMAW: Blonde? Blonde!

Blonde Colleage: For fucks - what?

WMAW: Don't you think Tired would be an excellent boyfriend?

BC: Definately. [I blink at her in astonishment for a moment. She notices and clears her throat] Well - at least until he opens his mouth.

WMAW: Mmmm. You're right. He is a nasty bastard.

I have gone from being 'viable boyfriend material' (good) to 'thoroughly unpleasant piece of work' (bad) in the space of a nanosecond and - it seems, as all concerned are now talking about me in the third person - have actually vanished.

Me: Hey! Listen.....


But I've got nothing. The irritating thing is that they're both quite right.

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

Rash Decisions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miserable.

Something clicks in my head.

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

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

I get home.

Tired Mam: I knew.

She is smiling.

Favourite Son: Daddy home.

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

It will be a frugal Christmas.

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

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

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

At work and that.

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

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

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

They are laughing fit to burst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mmm?’ Say I.

‘The Australians.’

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

And I’m sure they can.

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

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

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

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

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

Her ‘friend’ falls into silent embarrassment.

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

Thirteen if a day.

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

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

It is cold. Dark. Silent. Empty.

I put on some lights. I sit down.

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

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

“Pimpy Says I Am ‘Tend.”

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

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

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

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

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

Until.

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

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

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

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

She got over it.

Boredom / Work.

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

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

Blonde Colleague: Tired?

Me: What?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet paper?

Me: ....What?

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

Me: ....Erm. No.

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

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

BC: Thug? Thug!

Thug Colleague: What man?

BC: Can I wrap your head in toilet roll?

TG: Fuck off will ye.

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

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

It Resolves Itself As Expected.

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

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

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

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

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

“Scared of the damage I might do mate.”

Ok then. Maybe.

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

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

Five Days Ago.

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

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

There is some commotion outside my back-yard.

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

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

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

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

Sis: If you’re sure. I don’t mind.

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

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

SF: AND YOU HAD YOUR DOG IN THE FLAT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I’m not fucking having it.

I scratch my head for a bit.

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

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

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

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

Four Days Ago.

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

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

Three Days Ago.

“Perhaps he’s busy.” Says my Sister.

Two Days Ago.

“Really fucking busy.” I think to myself.

Today.

No word.

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

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

Case closed.

Absolute nonsense and anti-climax.

A Number of Exciting Developments!

1) Bully Diary.

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

Me: Mmmmm.

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

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

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

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

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

Me: [Suddenly alert] What?

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

Me: Mmmmm.

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

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

http://bullydiary.blogspot.com

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

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

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

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

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

Dilemma.

3) I Make a Small Discovery!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grrr.

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

Moving.

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

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

Anyway, it had just come up in conversation.

Me: Yup.

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

Blonde Colleague: Don’t even get me started-

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

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

Me: Pretty much actually.

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

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

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

Except the washing-machine broke.

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

SFS: No problem. These things happen.

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

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

Me: What?

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

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

SFS: No. There’re mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Yes. And a washing-machine.

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

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

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



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

Upon telling him, he replied with-

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

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

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

So perhaps there’s a moral there somewhere.

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

"Eeee, are ye alreet, pet?"

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

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

It is 8.40 in the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

And promptly perform the ‘Idiot Crab’.

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

I pull it off perfectly.

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

This will be an excellent day, I think.