I Do Something Breath-Takingly Foolish. Just To Break Things Up A Bit.

 

 LAST SATURDAY. I awake, already heavy-of-heart that I shall have to return to my now-hated job come Monday. I make some tea, go out and buy the papers and eat some scrambled eggs.

“Actually, I’m not going back on Monday.” I think to myself.

 “Or ever.” It’s not a dramatic moment, more like a massive mental shrug. Sort of like that bloke in the film Office Space.

“I don’t really enjoy it so I’m not doing it any more.” He says. I can’t be bothered to look-up the actor’s name. But it’s like that.

I feel so much better at the very THOUGHT that I know there is no other option.

I turn on my fifteen-year old laptop and apply for about six jobs. “It’ll be fine.” I think. Because I am MINT. I will have a job offer by the end of the week. THAT IS MY TARGET. BECAUSE I AM AWESOME AND THAT IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN.

I actually think that to myself.

LAST SUNDAY. I make a full roast chicken dinner, with Yorkshire puddings, stuffing and everything. Because I am totally unconcerned. The ex-Mrs. Tired phones. I inform her of my rash decision to Just Not Work Anymore. The expected tirade regarding our children and my ability to be a proper father to them with no money does not arrive. “Oh thank God.” She says. Because I am either AWESOME or MINT. Probably. I don’t know.

LAST MONDAY. I have two interviews scheduled. Not bad. The other four will be in touch soon, I imagine. If nothing works out I can spend a week getting some decently-paid freelance writing work and it will all be fine. Because I am MINT. Or AWESOME. Current employer shows no interest in my absence.

LAST TUESDAY. The other four have NOT been in touch. I potter about the house, clean some stuff and do not go mad. I’m actually a bit worried though. Generally. I’ll never get freelance work. Not regular freelance writing work in one week flat. That would be absurd. Even if I’m MINT. Or AWESOME.  I’ll die alone. That’s what will happen. I’ve not even ‘pitched’ or whatever you call it. I’m not even sure I know what that means.

There’s a possibility I may not be mint. Or awesome.

LAST WEDNESDAY. Interview at agency for job #1. Fine. Phone call later – I’m meeting the actual company on Thursday. No word from the other job I’ve had a silly phone interview for. I am no longer sure exactly how MINT I am. I’m starting to sweat a bit, to be honest.

In actual fact I AM going a bit mad. I’ve effectively quit a steady job with nothing set-up in advance in the middle of the world’s worst recession EVER and am now flailing in a job ‘market’ that does not really exist. I will shortly have no means by which I can travel to see my own children or, indeed, feed myself and will be reduced to noshing-off sailors in Teeside for food money.

I am not fond of Teeside. Or, to be honest, noshing-off sailors.

Their Mother phones. I am insanely up-beat in the manner of somebody on the edge of ‘losing their shit’. Oddly, she is hugely supportive and sends me a text informing me that all will be well. Weird.

LAST THURSDAY. Another interview, this time with a real person who is in the position of actually offering me employment. In THE REAL WORLD and everything.

It’s horrendous. However, I’ve took the precaution of discovering that I actually know two people who work there, phoning them in advance and asking them to tell some lies and assure everyone that I am indeed MINT. And probably AWESOME.

Interview Bloke puts me through the most difficult interview I’ve sat through EVER but redeems himself in my eyes by offering me the job on the spot.

I briefly consider the 50% increase to basic salary and the considerable increase to bonus potential already and accept.

There is some hand-shaking.

LAST FRIDAY. “Good news!” Says the bloke from the agency about the other job. “They’re totally interested!”

They would be. I am both MINT and AWESOME.

That interview’s next week.

And the other four who never got back to me can fuck right off.

It Rains And It Rains.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

It’s not a phrase you often hear at two in the afternoon.

I join the rest of my colleagues at the window on the second-floor of our building.

Me: Christ. How long has he been there?

The rain pounds down, as it seems to have done for the last two months. The city looks set to flood again. Again.

Colleague#1: About half an hour.

We’re looking at a man slumped on the pavement across the street. It’s difficult to see any detail due to the black sky. The rain is so heavy it is also hard to see more than a few feet ahead.

A biblical clap of thunder shakes our windows followed by forks of lightning you only see on specialist satellite television channels. The man does not move.

Me: If I were him I’d have gotten-up by now.

Uncannily Similar: He’s dead.

We’ve all stepped-over bodies on our way into work of a Monday morning. It’s that sort of city. But this is unusual of a Wednesday afternoon. Considering the weather.

Colleague#2: He’s probably a tramp or something.

Colleague#1: Have you seen his trainers? They’re spotless. There’s something badly wrong there.

Thirsty Kirsty: Let’s just go down and have a look.

Fuck it. Yes. Why not.

Me: Right. Come on then you lot.

I grab the nearest umbrella and head for the double-doors that lead to the lift. I dramatically smash them open and turn around to see that everyone is carefully inspecting their fingernails. Like that scene in Jerry Maguire.

Me: Great. Brilliant. Thanks.

I stab the ‘G’ button in the lift with unnecessary vehemence.

The six wide-eyed ladies on reception look at me.

Me: When was the last time that dead bloke across the street moved?

Head Receptionist: Oh God at least forty-five minutes. We don’t know what to do. Somebody passed-by and shook him and he just fell over.

Me: Right. I’ll have a look and if it’s grim we’ll call the paramedics.

H.R: Oh thaaaanks Tired.

Me: Yeah. Ok.

This is bollocks, I think to myself as I cross the street. I was quite happy sneering at my twitter feed and pretending to work. It’s fucking pouring-down out here.

I shake his shoulder. Nothing. He’s as limp as a Rich Tea biscuit that’s been dunked for too long. As my knowledge of rigor-mortis is based on having seen two episodes of Silent Witness I don’t know what this means. But he’s not responsive.

Aware of the dozen pairs of eyes watching me from across the street I shake him a bit harder. He moves his head, thank fuck. And makes a ‘aaampphh’ noise. I’m hit with a blast of raw alcohol.

It’s raining. My sympathies are running low. I shake him some more. Quite roughly now. He is annoyed, from what I can gather. No-one likes rude awakenings, I suppose. Although I’m now quite pissed-off also.

Me: Have you been drinking?

Stupid question, really. He nods a bit. The white trainers were a red-herring – they’re actually filthy, as is the rest of him. Alcohol is not the only stink now apparent. He’s a young man and hasn’t shaved or washed in at least a week.

Me: We need to get you out of the rain, ok? You’re going to get pneumonia.

Despite his unhappiness at been aroused from his slumber I hook an arm under his right armpit and attempt to haul him to his feet. I think of Colleague#2 who plays rugby at weekends and is warm inside and not dealing with someone who could stab me at any moment whilst all nine-skinny-stone of me is out in the rain dealing with this cracker.

Me: Put your feet down. PUT YOUR FEET ON THE GROUND. PUSH UP WITH YOUR LEGS.

It’s fucking pouring down.

Me: UP!

Between the two of us I walk him the twenty yards to a small precinct. It contains a Ladbrokes and not much else. He slumps to the ground once more.

Me: Sleep it off, eh?

He’s already unconscious, but at least there’s a roof over his head. I head back to my building and update the Reception ladies.

Me: He’d just had a skinfull.

Reception Ladies: Awww thaaaaanks Tired.

I don’t tell them his drinking binge probably started weeks ago, that any spare food money he had he’s spent on white cider and that it’ll probably be weeks until he stops, at which point he’ll realise he has nothing at all.

I press ‘2’ in the lift and go and wash my hands. I stink.

And it rains and it rains.

Unsavoury Conversations With Taxi-Drivers Part 2

Twelve years later and I’m not late for work but I have just completed a long train journey.

I work in the North-East of England, it’s not a good job, I don’t do well and I live in a terraced house I can barely afford – small back yard, tiny garden, shitty kitchen, all that – and I’m penniless soon after I’m paid.

I grab a taxi outside the station. I’ve just travelled several hundred miles to the South-West and I’m not keen on the fifteen-minute walk to my lodgings.

Random Taxi Driver: FUCK ME! BEEN A WHILE. WHERE YOU OFF TO?

He’s one of those over-familiar sorts who pretend to know everyone. Brilliant.

Me: I’ve forgotten the street name. If you go to Name Pub, take a left up the hill and that’s it.

RTD: THAT’S IT, PAL – IF YOU KNOW WHERE IT IS, I’LL FUCKING GET YOU THERE!

That’s now two ‘fuck’s in as many minutes, it’s all a bit unsavoury and I’ve had a long day already.

RTD: STILL AT THE PAPER ARE YOU, CHIEF?

How does he know where I worked twelve years ago? And why is he speaking in Caps Lock?

I stare at the side of his face. It’s only bloody John The Taxi, isn’t it?

I try and figure-out the chances of this. It’s a small town in the South-West so I suppose it is quite likely.

Me: No, I left a few years ago. Moved away as well.

John The Taxi: FUCK ME. THOUGHT IT HAD BEEN A WHILE. HOW LONG, YOU RECKON?

Me: About twelve years I think.

JTT: [Briefly hitting the brakes] TWELVE FUCKING YEARS? USED TO LIVE IN THAT BIG HOUSE, YEAH? WITH THE FUCKING PRIVATE CARPARK, YEAH? WHERE YOU MOVED TO THEN?

Me: Christ could you just watch- Erm. Back up North.

JTT: WHAT YOU BACK HERE FOR, THEN?

Me: Well, I have a son and a daughter now. They live here. Me and their mother didn’t make it, she moved back here, so, you know….

JTT: [Briefly hitting the brakes] HOLD ON! WHERE YOU STAYING? NOT FUCKING WITH HER FOR FUCK’S SAKE?

Me: Really, could you just watch before you do that? The road, I mean. Behind us…I just want to get there in one piece.

JTT: YOU AIN’T FUCKING STAYING WITH HER THOUGH?

Me: Ah, no.

JTT: THANK FUCK FOR THAT. YOU DON’T WANT TO GO DOWN THAT FUCKING ROAD, CHIEF. TAKE IT FROM ME. FUCK.

Me: Ok, then.

I don’t ask him to elaborate. This is, after all, a man who prefers a bowel movement to actual sexual intercourse. God only knows what stories he has to tell.

JTT: FUCK. ANYWAY, HERE WE ARE THEN.

Me: Yeah, ah, thanks.

JTT: TWELVE FUCKING YEARS!

It’s like that scene in Grosse Point Blank but without the inherent likeability of all involved.

Me: Ah. Yes. Eight quid? It’s been five minutes. That's gone up.

JTT: Everything changes.

Unsavoury Conversations With Taxi-Drivers, Part 1.

Twelve years ago, and I’m late for work.

I work at my local newspaper in the South-West of England, it’s a good job, I do well and I live in a nice house – acres of grounds, stables, pool table, double-oven Aga, all that – and I always have a few hundred pounds spare at the end of each month.

I call John The Taxi.

John The Taxi: OH YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN HAVEN’T YOU?! TEN MINUTES MAAATE.

John The Taxi always spoke in Caps Lock.

I tumble into his taxi, still faffing with tie and cuff-links.

John The Taxi: BIG NIGHT AGAIN WAS IT, EH?

Me: *Grunt*

A few minutes pass. It becomes clear that, this morning, John The Taxi is auditioning for an imaginary part in a reboot of the Cannonball Run films.

Me: Actually John, I’m not in THAT much of a hurry. I don’t mind being late, I just fancy being alive. You can ease-off a bit.

JTT: Thing is, I’m desperate for a shit.

Silence.

Me: Oh.

JTT: Do you know what the funny thing is? I’m looking forward to it, if I can hold on in time to get to the lav. In many ways –

Time stands still for a brief moment as the cosmos prepares itself for the wisdom of John The Taxi.

JTT: In many ways I prefer a good shit to a fuck.

More silence.

JTT: Here we are then.

Me: Two minutes, John.

I tumble out of the car and into the reception area of my building, the domain of Difficult Penny.

Me: I need ten quid out of petty cash for my taxi. I’ll replace it at lunch.

Difficult Penny: What if I say no?

Me: He’s about to shit himself.

Pause.

Difficult Penny: Just this once.

I Do The Washing-Up. (Warning: Contains Violence and Also Partial Nudity. The Nudity Is From The Ankles-Down, But Still.)

Aside from that time one of my brothers had a beautiful baby boy with his new wife – which doesn’t count as he has done it purely to make me unhappy – it has been uneventful of late.

I reflect upon this as I wash my dishes.

I have a system, which mainly involves leaving the sharp knives till last. I remember how the ex-Mrs.Tired would leave the kitchen knives in the bottom of the sink under a shroud of bubbles like some sort or Russian-roulette washing-up escapade but I’m far too wise. I don’t need the excitement. Besides, I’ve just sharpened mine – you could shave with them - they’re Sabatier and that sort of thing would be lunacy. They’re on the side, safely isolated.

Finished with everything, I move on to the knives. I briefly wonder who it was that wrote the song “You Want To Be Right Careful With That Sharp Knife” but it escapes me. I have to take some pills at the minute and they’re messing with my memory.

And my reaction time.

Jo ‘Thick As Shit’ Whiley on Radio 2 plays “The Cutter” by Echo And The Bunnymen.

I address the long carving-knife last; it’s caked with dried melted cheese from last-night’s lonely pizza. I’ve no great appetite for anything of late, let alone decent food.

It’s a tough one to get clean, and I attempt it with the blade facing my hand, because I’m bright like that.

My hand slips, one ounce of pressure too many and it slices through the sponge before I’ve even noticed, through the steel wool on the back and keeps going until with a ‘screee’ it slices bone.

“FUCK.”

I drop it. The dishwater turns a dark rusty colour. Cold tap full blast, my hand under it. Too low. Lower than my heart. I lift my hand above shoulder height. My forearm turns crimson.

The ‘medicine drawer’ is under the sink. I’ve only those ROLLS of sticking plaster. Fumbling with scissors I soak the best part of it with blood, rendering it non-adhesive. Deciding my right hand is out of commission for now, I hold one end of the plaster down with my elbow and cut a ragged strip.

It stays loosely in place. I glance at saucer-sized pools of blood and am astounded by how quickly they congeal.

I attach several more ragged strips of plaster to my thumb. Each soaks a darker, almost black, colour than the other. Including the plasters, my thumb is now three times its normal width, but the bleeding seems to be under control.

Around my bare feet on the laminate floor is a massive pool of burgundy washing-up-bloody-froth which I immediately slip in and hit the floor hip-first with a sickening thud. I thrash like a fish for a while attempting to gain some purchase.

“For fuck’s sake.”

I grab a cupboard-handle which immediately detaches itself. Amazingly, I do not then smack myself in the head with it.

“Are you ACTUALLY joking?”

Eventually I am upright and then try to decide how I am to get to the bathroom without making the rest of my house look like the Outlook Hotel from The Shining.

Some days later I have a neat scar on my right thumb and some non-specific nerve-damage which makes it feel like I’m receiving a massive electric shock every time I move it.

I have also resolved to start doing something worthy of genuine comment before I am reduced to writing about accidently disembowelling myself and burning my house down whilst attempting to boil an egg.

He looks just like his father, by the way. My first nephew.

Confrontation In The Cotswolds.

Tense scenes now over, the kid behind the counter of the burger place texts his mates and updates his facebook about the ridiculous scenes that have just taken place. He assures everyone that he’s single-handedly sorted the whole thing out – aside from when that wired-looking skinny bloke stepped in but he just told him to back off, he was dealing with it, yeah? – and that nobody else better fuck with him tonight, y’dig?

Ten minutes previously:

It’s not late, maybe about seven in the evening but I’m exhausted after nine solid hours of fresh air, sunshine and Favourite Son and Favourite Daughter. They’re home with their mother now so I head in the direction of my lodgings for the night. We’ve had a big lunch so I decide to just grab something en-route like maybe, I dunno, a burger or something.

“Quarter-pounder please” I say to the worried-looking kid behind the counter. It seems to be just him on shift tonight and there’s a weird atmosphere.

The place is deserted aside from a guy in his early fifties and another in his early twenties. They look completely fucked-up but then we’re not exactly dining in The Ivy. I take my change and examine my fingernails, ignoring the two radge-packets. There’s a bad vibe coming from them, I’m tired and don’t need the grief.

Worried Kid: Look, I’ve asked you to wait outside….

Radge the Elder: Yeah what the fuck for? We’ve paid for it, we’ll fucking wait inside. Who the fuck are you trying to throw us out? You cunt.

Great.

WK: I’m, I’m not throwing you out –

RTE: No you’re fucking not.

WK: I’m just asking you to wait outside until your food’s ready –

Radge the Younger: What the fuck for? What the fuck for?

WK: For, erm, abusive language –

RTE: Prick. What you going to do? Eh? What you going to do?

WK: And for throwing stuff and, er –

RTE: Just give us a fucking refund.

WK: I can’t I don’t have the card for the till…

The kid’s voice is wobbling. The radges are exercising the tyranny of men who have learnt from experience that they can act any way they like because the civilised will just stand by and do nothing. 

Fuck it, none of my business. I’m hundreds of miles from home, disorientated, emotionally spazzed and I’ll be sleeping on a sofa with broken springs tonight. I’m keeping well out of it. I don't need the heartache. I feel bad for the kid though, all on his own like that.

I hear a calm, firm, authoritative don’t-mess-with-me voice.

“Pardon me, but have we got ourselves some sort of a fucking problem here, gentlemen?”

The two radges stand with mouths agape. I’m not surprised. Who the hell has said that to them?

Oh bollocks. It was me, wasn’t it?

Realizing I’m committed now, I make the best of it. I put my back to the poor sod kid, rest my hips against the counter, place my palms spread wide on the top, cross my ankles and give the radges a steady, unblinking gaze.

Supercool.

Or it would be if this were a Hollywood action movie and I were more than five-foot and change, carried more than eight-stone odd and were not wearing a t-shirt with a screenshot of the old Space Invaders arcade game on the front.

I’m acutely aware that I’m both about to receive a world-class kicking from a couple of West Country mentals and that I'm also well past the point of no return.

Me: WELL?

RTE: This kid’s messing us around and –

Me: NO. It sounds like he [jerk my thumb behind me at the kid, not even turning my head] is doing his job, and you [point my finger directly between the radge’s eyes] are being a COCK.

Great. Just great. That’s bound to calm the situation.

There’s a shocked silence for a moment. No-one’s more shocked than me. My mouth has taken on a life of its own, which would be fine aside from the fact that it is still attached to my body and as such is liable to get me badly hurt very soon.

RTY: Hey… what’s this got to do with you…

Me: [Still gazing into the eyes of RTE] If I was talking to you I’d have been looking at you. [Briefly switch my gaze to him] Bloody hell! How many spliffs have you smoked tonight?!

I hear the kid behind the counter stifle a giggle. He must have noticed long before I that RTY has smoked so much weed tonight his eyes are barely visible.

RTE: Hey. My son only smokes tobacco!

RTY seems to have lost all heart for further confrontation. He’s been rumbled. He knows it, I know it, the kid behind the counter knows it. The only person who doesn’t seems to be his father.

The kid hands me my burger. I stand at one of those chest-high tables and eat as well as I can. I make sure no-one notices my shaking hands and don’t take my eyes of the Family Radge.

RTE: [Grumbles, semi-audible] Who the fuck does he think he is? “Spliffs”? What the fuck –

Me: Hey. HEY. If you would like to voice an opinion about anything I’ve said to either of you, I’m standing RIGHT HERE.

Brilliant. No, really. Superb. Because I don’t want to get through what has otherwise been a splendid day in one piece.

Both radges fall silent. Thankfully, my seemingly autonomous mouth gives it a rest at this point also.

Astonishingly, the newly subdued Radge the Elder and the Younger leave without food or refund, grumbling quietly about the new franchisee of the establishment who I now realise they believe to be myself.

I slowly exhale. It feels like I’ve just climbed down from somewhere where the air is very thin. I dump my rubbish in the bin.

Time for a couple of stiff drinks. I'm properly shaking now and I need to try and sleep on the broken sofa.

I look at the kid on my way out.

Me: Alright?

He shrugs without looking at me. He’s busy doing something with his mobile phone. God knows what.

A Month And A Half.

I suppose I had better write something. I've been emailed asking what I'm doing and everything.

By one person but it still counts.

I've wracked my brains and the thing is...well, nothing much has happened. So, we're going to get all, like, interactive and shit as I briefly mention some tedious events of the past few weeks and all six of my readers can cast a vote as to which they would like to become an actual proper blog post.

I know. Amazing.

This is what I've got:

1) It seems I have a broken toe.

2) I attempt to travel the length of England by train despite realising ten minutes before departure that my tickets are only valid for the previous day.

3) My house is broken-into in the middle of the night, whilst I am at home - hilarity does not ensue.

4) I 'am involved in' an absurd confrontation in a fast-food outlet in the Cotswolds. By 'am involved in' I mean 'foolishly provoke'.

And that's been it, to be honest. Eight weeks. I may as well not exist.

Not included in the list are -

A) Bitter-sweet snatched moments with my son and daughter about which I write mawkish posts. Let's face it, we'll all sick of those.

B) 'Amusing' observations about how, like, working relationships are a bit like, you know, ACTUAL romantic ones - featuring myself and Blonde Colleague. It wasn't a very funny joke to begin with and no-one seemed to 'get it' and just thought we were going to have some sort of affair or something and didn't fully appreciate the totally hilarious irony inherent in my amazingly brilliant writing. So enough of that. Blame yourselves.

That's it I think. Cast your votes.

(Hint: not the 'broken toe' thing. It's really not that interesting.)

I Am Nearly Undone By An E-Book Reader Or Whatever They’re Called.

I’m in the office, arms crossed, staring straight ahead and nobody had better talk to me.

Blonde Colleague is on the phone to her mother or boyfriend or someone.

Blonde Colleague: …What? [Glances sideways at me] No, he’s being a wanker. Eh? Well, you know that new kid, Liam? Aye. The one he really hates. So, I was on a training course with him the other day and we got chatting and that and he seemed …what? Oh, I don’t know, he hates everyone. Anyway, he seemed really ok – no, this Liam kid - and I mentioned it to Tired and now he’s not talking to me. Seriously. Eh? Dunno, his period’s due or something. It’s been nearly two days …What? Ok, talk to you later, love ya.

I continue staring straight ahead.

B.C: [sigh] It’s lunchtime. Coming for a cigarette?

Me: [Looking around with fake astonishment] Mmm? Who? Me? Tell you what, why don’t you ask your new FANCY MAN [Gesture in the direction of Liam the Tosser’s desk]OVER THERE.

B.C: Do you know what? [Grabs packet of Lambert & Butler from her desk] Fuck OFF.

She clatters out of the office. Uncannily Similar smiles to himself and shakes his head. I don’t know what he thinks is so funny.

Across the office Liam the Tosser is regaling his female colleagues with stories of his time as a member of a ‘punk band’ despite currently only being about 14 years old or something.

Liam the Tosser: Yeah, yeah, we were like a cross between the Clash and Madness…

That’s enough for me. Being of the impression that I shall be dining alone I head upstairs to the canteen to microwave the last of my previous evening’s beef bourguignon. I’d like to see Liam the Tosser make that. His mum probably still gives him a packed-lunch every morning. Whilst assuring him that there is no difference between straight-forward white-boy rock, pretend ska and actual punk.

I grab a table far away from anyone who looks even faintly ‘chatty’ and begin to eat. And to read.

On cue, in wanders Liam the Tosser, resplendent in his new ‘ironic’ 1950’s schoolboy haircut and v-neck jumper. “Yeah, yeah, I’m satirising the stereotype of the office boy.” He probably says to people, like some sort of cunt.

Liam the Tosser: Hey, Tired. Is that the new kindle?

I’m momentarily astonished. I’m eating and expect to be left alone. We’ve never spoken a word to each other. (Meetings in which I have casual digs at him don’t count.) So there’s no need for him to be speaking to me like we’re ‘mates’. Plus, I’ve been trying to keep the whole ‘kindle’ thing quiet.

L.T.T: God, it’s really tiny isn’t it?

Now. I am NOT having that.

Me: It’s a six-inch screen actually.

L.T.T: I’ve got the…

Me: Anyway, it was a present. [Pointedly return my attention to my food.]

But he’d got me and we both know it.

I return to the office and amble over to Blonde Colleague’s desk. She ignores me. I stand with my hands in my pockets, looking at the floor. I gently kick the nearest leg of her desk.

B.C: [sigh] What?

Me: So he got me as well. That Liam twat. He was all like “Hi” and sort of “new kindle is it” and all that and I nearly got talking to him as well. He’s good.

B.C: [Runs her hand through her hair, stares out of the window for a moment as if coming to a decision about something and then looks directly at me] Yeah, well. His banter’s pretty shit actually. It’s not like we’re going to be friends or owt.

Some time passes.

Me: Coming outside for a smoke?

B.C: You’re a prick, you. Do you know that?

I presume it to be a rhetorical question. We stare at each other for a while. She grabs her cigarettes.

B.C: Come on then.

Uncannily Similar smiles to himself again.

I am walking - quite close to the road - hand-in-hand with my Excellent Children heading to their local park.

I’m roughly four hundred miles from my own home. It doesn’t seem a long way to come in order to push them on the swings. I don’t see them as often as I would like.

We cross the road and enter the safe environs of the park. There are ducks, swans, trees and all the other things one associates with a decent park. Favourite Daughter immediately runs off chasing after squirrels. Favourite Son and I walk together for a little while.

God, he must feel awkward, I think to myself. He’s six now. What if he sees someone he knows? It’s not like he’s a little boy anymore. He’d be dreadfully embarrassed to be seen holding the hand of some bloke.

Me: Son? We’re nowhere near the road now. You don’t have to hold my hand anymore.

I have to accept that he’s growing-up.

Favourite Son: [Distracted, watching his hare-brained elder sister fruitlessly attempt to gain an audience with a squirrel] Mmm? I know. I want to.

It’s only four hundred miles. It’s not far at all.

I squeeze his hand a bit tighter – just for a second – and we walk along together.

Film Review: Arthur Christmas.

I watched this with my Excellent Children, one of whom – Favourite Son (aged six) – will soon be taking a guest-spot on that film show on BBC1 with that Winkleman woman.

Me: I thought that was brilliant! [Glad of the 3D glasses that hid my irrational tears.]

Favourite Son: Yeah. It was really good. Except for the story. [Rolls eyes]

Danny Leigh must be shitting his pants.

Mood Swings #2

Mid-morning and I’m feeling just ‘blah’. I’m not happy, I’m not sad. Just existing, doing ‘work’ things.

Liam The Tosser walks into the office and a glorious surge of pure hatred courses through me.

Liam, in his skinny-lapelled date-rapist suit, with his intentionally lop-sided haircut that probably cost more than everything I am wearing. Permanently chipper Liam, with his studied non-regional accent and constant spring in his step. Liam, who actually calls himself ‘Liam’ when you just know his family call him ‘William’. Liam and his soft leather man-bag. Liam and his abysmal daytime-television gameshow-host patter.

Me: [Louder than intended] I fucking hate that cunt.

Liam’s stride falters a little, but he recovers and makes it to his desk.

Blonde Colleague: You know he’s got a girlfriend?

Me: What? Fuck off. She must have a pretty high boredom threshold. And be happy to put-up with loads of abysmal indie CDs, shit craic, tender-stroking and ‘respectfulness’ when all she fancies is an inconsiderate bending-over the kitchen table. Poor cow.

BC: [Becoming quite animated herself] Doubt it. She’ll be one of those waif-types who never touch their face with their hands and buy their fucking floaty dresses from Ghost. She’ll be so fucking pale you wonder if she’s ever gone outside, probably never had a KFC bucket to herself ever and couldn’t put together an IKEA wardrobe to save her fucking life. She’s probably called Hermione or fucking Natasha or something. Fuck.

Me: “Godfafer Free”, “Not considered the best one”.

BC: Eh?

Me: That fucking match.com advert.

BC: YES! Brilliant! That’s those two cunts right there.

Me: They probably go to charity shops together, not because they’re skint but because they think it makes them ‘charming’…

BC: YES. And voluntarily watch subtitled films with a ‘nice glass of rose’ sitting on a pile of fucking scatter cushions…

Me: What a couple of knackers.

BC: They probably read books.

Me: Yeah, alright. People read books. You need to get over that one.

We gather ourselves. I’m panting slightly. Blonde Colleague wipes a faint glow of perspiration from above her top lip.

BC: Any good?

Me: That wasn’t bad, actually.

I feel much better.

An Apology. That I Must Never Make In Person.

Russell From Admin ambles through my office, silver- of hair and hunched- of gait.

I’ve a lot of time for Russell. He’s calm and unflappable; a problem-solver and problem-averter who has noticed costly mistakes of mine and others before they’ve even happened, and who is quietly marking his time before retirement. A solid, reliable man, from the days when they still made them.

He completes his errand and heads back out, approaching and passing both my desk and those of three of my female colleagues.

Something odd happens.

Everything starts moving in slow motion. My three female colleagues start appraising Russell From Admin in a new light. That song from that dreadful Diet Coke advert starts playing. One female colleague actually removes her reading glasses to get a better look at him. I can’t swear to this, but I think one of them actually removed a hair-pin and slowly shook loose a mane of luxuriant raven-hair as he passed. The third narrows her eyes and slowly nods to herself as she gazes at him, one hand toying with the top button on her blouse.

Russell From Admin smiles to himself, and leaves the office with a noticeable and new-found spring in his step.

Everything returns to normal, the music stops playing and reality runs at 24 frames per second again as usual.

Female Colleague #1: [Addressing me] No. I don’t think he’s grown a moustache.

Me: Are you sure? I mean, he’s got one of those faces that look like he should have one anyway but I could have sworn...

Female Colleague #2: Naw. I had a decent gander myself and he definitely hasn’t. Know what you mean though. And with the grey hair and that. Easy mistake. But naw.

Me: Right. Oh well thanks. Didn’t just want to go up to him and stare at his top lip. You know?

Female Colleague #3: Yeah, because that would have been weird. [Does or does not fix her hair back into place. I’m still not sure] No ‘tach. Certain.

Me: Ah. Ok then. Thanks. As you were.

I’m sorry, Russell From Admin. You have not ‘still got it’.

Mood Swings #1

I’m at work, there’s nothing I can do about it and I'm feeling generally ok-ish as I walk through the departments in my building, passing the affable Creative-Types on my way.

I approach the desk of the allegedly-attractive feature writer I need to speak to. Personally, I'm not that worried about her.

Me: Uh hi. So look, I’m going to need, like, a thousand words or so, general festive nonsense. You know the drill, just some filler, Christmas party tips, that sort of thing…

Allegedly-Attractive Feature Writer: ‘Inappropriately snogging work colleagues and how to deal with it’, that sort of thing?

Me: Hm. Yeah. Although no chance of that here - [gesture at the ceiling above her desk] total lack of mistletoe and that.

Bit of observational humour there, in case you missed it. I’m funny, me.

AAFW: [Deadpan, not even glancing at me] It wasn’t an offer.

Me: No, I didn’t… I mean, it wasn’t…[sigh] Right. Thanks then. Deadline’s Thursday.

Brilliant.

I make my way back to my office, past the dreadful Creative-Types with their jeans, stubble and general air of being above it all - as though being able to operate an Apple Mac and owning a Vampire Weekend CD really means they’ve got the world by the balls the hopeless cretins – and return to my desk.

Blonde Colleague: Alright. Oh. Did you speak to editorial about that thing?

Me: Oh fuck off.

“How are you with needles?”

It’s an odd question, and I’m a little disorientated.

“I’m not in love with them, but I won’t pass-out or anything” I reply to the woman I assume to be a doctor. She’s quite pretty, actually.

“I’m more concerned about you jerking your arm when I stick you and smacking me in the face.” She replies drily, making me like her even more.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

By the smell, I deduce that I’m in a hospital and not a doctor’s surgery. It’s a pretty recognisable smell. And by the noise I’m in A&E and not an in-patient ward. Yet.

“You’ll feel a scratch.” They always say that. What they mean is ‘you’ll feel a fucking nasty sharp thing going into your arm’.

After several attempts she finds a vein and takes some blood.

“So. You’ve had these seizures before?”

My boss sticks her head round the door – surprising me - and gives me my wallet and mobile phone. I thank her, still very unsure of what is happening, tell her I’m fine and that she should go back to work.

Quite Fit Doctor asks who she was.

Me: Oh. That was my boss.

QFD: She came in with you. With the paramedics. She’s lovely.

Me: Ok. How long have I been here?

QFD: A while. You seem to be coming out of it pretty quickly so we’ll do your bloods and if that’s all fine you can go.

My head is fuzzy and I try and remember any recent events, none of which involve paramedics or hospitals. I do, however, recall a pleasant conversation with a female colleague, to whom I was bemoaning some upcoming social plans which involved visiting the gay quarter of the city I work in, on the insistence of Uncannily Similar who enjoys ‘the vibe’.

Me: It’s just, you know, I … Get a lot of male attention. Which is all good, but…. I’d just rather NOT. It’s sort of awkward. You know?

To which she replied:

“Well of course you do! It's because you’re handsome and you’re really slim.”

Which was possibly the nicest thing anyone has said to me ever, and was of course completely insincere and really meant:

“Well of course you do! It's because YOU’RE THE GAYEST STRAIGHT MAN I’VE EVER MET YOU CAMP SKINNY FUCK!”

But I took it anyway.

Some time passes. A locum in scrubs sticks his head round the door.

Locum: Oh. Hi. Who’s your doctor?

Me: Ermm. Not sure of the name. Dark hair. Quite attractive.

Locum: Ok. [Starts to leave. Stops. Turns back with a puzzled/incredulous look] What? FEMALE?

Me: What? YES! FUCK!

Locum: Alriiiiiight. [Spreads his palms in supplication] I just thought you were... you know…

Me: Well I’m NOT. When am I getting my blood results? And where can I go for a cigarette?

I’m discharged an hour later.

What Have I Been Doing?

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

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

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

Basically, everything has been superb.

Stag Nights.

I've attended two this year alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy your night.

Back To Work.

Exterior. Day.

A Highway Maintenance vehicle depot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fade to black.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“LIKE FUCK WE DO”

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

Random Unconnected Conversations.

Some time ago:

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

Me: ...

TG: Filled it with porn, y'knaw.

Me: ...

TG: Aye, in case the internet RUNS OUT.

Me: ...

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

Some time earlier...

I'm at work, talking on the phone.

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

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

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

Boss: Wouldn't surprise me if it was.

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

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

Tact and Diplomacy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: You CUNT.

Astonishingly this does not have the becalming effect I imagined.

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

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

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

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

Brimstone.

“Do you know who I am?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Alright. Touchy.

TD: I have a deal for you.

Me: Thought you might.

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

Me: Which one?

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

Me: Yeah, I remember.

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

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

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

Me: Yeah.

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

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

TD: You’re a prick, do you know that?

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

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

Me: You were great in ‘Heroes’…

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

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