Sunday afternoon. I haven't gone to work in nine days and I feel a little groggy from lack of activity or having my brain taxed.
So when my mobile phone pinged with a message today, I was slightly confused. It read,
'Is that you Fweng?'
I didn't recognise the number. It appeared to come from Manchester. But initially, I thought it an American cellphone number.
I called Jimmy as a mutual friend of ours has moved to Boston, Massachusetts. Said friend, Haggis, is aware of this blog, because Jimmy told him about it as soon as he discovered of its existence the day I really wanted a copy of London Lite. Haggis then decided to make it his mission to make the Eastern seaboard of the United States aware of this blog.
Until he read it, and decided not to bother.
'Your silence is deafening', pinged a new text message.
'Yes, it's me', I replied. Seeing as I write this drivel anonymously, it was slightly odd to be receiving equally anonymous messages on my real life non-Fwengebola phone.
So I must know them.
'Good. I am glad the contact details we have been supplied with are good. My colleagues and I have been monitoring your blog for some time and we were able to obtain your contact details by following the appropriate channels. The nature of our contact is somewhat sensitive but we would like to meet face to face for a discussion. Please confirm your availability tomorrow evening.'
Bollocks. I definitely know them. But who? Most of my friends are either too tight to send lengthy text messages, while the rest can't spell. Monkey Dave's out; his fingers are too fat to hit the right keys. Plus he uses a lot of abbreviations and swears a lot (This is my mate the Science teacher). Other Dave, Luke, Sabina, Rob, Other Rob, Garry, Ally, and Nick don't really care. Martin's a possibility, but my instinct says no. Russell, Trotter, Gay Rog and Even Gayer Paul are more interested in Heat magazine. Large Northern Flatmate would rather die than profess an interest in anything that doesn't involve him. Ex-colleagues Cas, Steve, Angus, Lloyd, Other Steve, Jon and Sally would have to be really bored to pull a stunt like this. So that leaves contenders Jimmy, Phil and Jamie - or rather our extended circle.
Either way, the text-ee isn't all that anonymous to me, and certainly ain't sexy and female.
'I'm afraid I will be having my bikini line waxed tomorrow and for the rest of eternity', I replied.
'This is not a funny matter. We are aware of your address'.
'Remind me, what is my address?'
'I don't have time for your games. One of my colleagues will visit you tomorrow evening. Your blog has upset my organisation.'
The Daily Mail? I haven't even written a post about how much I hate them yet. So I sent another text,
'I look forward to your visit at my address you don't know. Please contact me at work. Wear a raincoat. Your codename is guineafowl'.
Then, as an afterthought, or perhaps in surprise that I hadn't yet done this, I received 'Don't even think of ringing this number, you fuck. If you reveal my identity we will have to deal with you.'
Hmmm. Phil likes to call me a 'Fuck'. But the number, the number...
'Don't worry', I replied. 'I can't be bothered. You are disturbing my watching 'Beauty and the Geek' on Channel 4 anyway'.
And with that, silence. Perhaps they like Beauty and the Geek too and I reminded their organisation that it was on. Although after all that excitement, I didn't see who out of Amanda and Brandon or Tristin and Chris won the fucking University Challenge quiz at the end.
So who's texting me? I don't know. And why is the number it's coming from a landline? But as it's a Manchester number, my guess is someone affiliated with the Brucie Boys' Alright My Loves? Very Amateur Football Team.
Reveal yourself, or else I'll publish that number here! And trust me, some of these commentators will phone it. (Luna, I'm looking at you.)