Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Mind The Gap

Friday night. Holy night. My boss left work before me and I'm pottering around at 6pm, finishing up the fucking admin.

But I had a do to attend and being the fuckwitted male that I am, I had double booked. Sabina my lovely lady Muslim friend was going to get pissed to the gills to celebrate quitting her job while in the meantime, I had also promised to meet Peach and Vi at exactly the same time.

Except I forgot that Vi was going to be there and so we spent a polite five minutes chatting before I realised that she knew every deviant thing about me and I forgot she was a buxom Australian.

Nothing Man accompanied me as I had texted him an hour earlier to see if he fancied a post-work drink. He was early, so I was subjected to his rage brought on mainly by his dead phone battery, which was hardly my fucking fault, you charge-forgetting retard.

But Peach and Vi were fantastic company. The booze was flowing disturbingly quickly as we chainsmoked in a cunningly loopholed, well heated roof terrace that felt like we were indoors. Pity I can't afford the quarter of a million pounds annual membership.

Sabina meanwhile called to inform me of her impending do, then forgot to call me back with further directions. We stayed put, and all got accidentally hammered beyond belief, something I didn't even achieve at my last two stag dos. I can honestly say that I can't recall the conversation, but I know it was scintillating.

Then, suddenly, I'm navigating the underground alone, anxious to make the two tubes home in the ten minutes before the ineffectual bastards closed for the night. 24-hour city, my arse.

I saw a tube with its doors open, and ran for it. I ran apprehensively as I wasn't sure if it was going in the right direction, but my plan was to casually board, calmly ask if it was going north, then smugly stay or desperately leave, depending on the answer.

But I managed neither. Instead, I found myself lying on the floor, screaming. My left leg had decided to not mind the gap and was now dangling under the train with all the rats and flesh-eating mechanics, my left buttock on the platform whilst the right side of my torso clung onto the train like Sylvester Stallone clinging onto a mountain.
Sort of.

I scrambled up in a panicked frenzy, boarded with as much dignity as I could muster, and asked the lone, distinctly unimpressed girl with her head buried in a book if the tube was headed my way.


The next morning, I'd discovered I'd ripped my jeans in the process. In fact, it was discovering the ripped jeans that made me remember I'd nearly amputated myself.

The rest of my working week has been distinctly ordinary. I've managed to resume my cycling to work, swimming, then cycling home with a 9-hour period in between getting my soul eroded at a desk. I am still finding it hard to stop smoking, cease being cynical, and terminate the consumption of junk.

Nevertheless, I do have Chopper's wedding on Saturday, and I'm a third of a Best Man, which is a real 33.3% honour. The other Best Men decided that I could write the speech so I did, only for them to recoil in horror at the actual text.

Apparently, I made Chopper sound like a complete cunt, which we all agreed was accurate if a little unfair for his wedding.

So now we're all re-writing it into a generic, non-specific roast. Apparently, most of the guests may not find it amusing that, when I once asked Chopper if he absolutely had to fuck an animal, he replied with complete and utter conviction, and with lightning speed, I might add, a "shaved female monkey".

I have a second date tomorrow night, a mere two fucking months since our first one. Is that promising, or isn't it? I really can't tell.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Some Guys Have All The Luck

I am an average man. In fact, if I may, I am a spectacularly ordinary, common-or-garden male of the genus bloke. I am hugely unphotogenic and seem to end up looking like a fat git in pictures when I had been standing there looking incredibly dapper and cool. Some think I am uncaring and impatient but I'm not, I just have testes.

I can put up a shelf. I can happily watch a documentary on Mao, then eat a crap pizza and look at the floor in a vague fug of boredom. Although sports and the chatting thereof scares me and I care nothing for cars I am, like most straight men, bemused by the mechanics of women. I like pub quizzes and the odd drink. I am, basically, spectacularly unspectacular.

So forgive me if I hate those more 'interesting' cunts, those better looking men who seem to shag all those single women out there, leaving many as crushed, distraught flowers, left feeling vulnerable and manipulated by an arrogant swaggering bollock. (Or, more disturbingly, left feeling fulfilled and rather content.)

This morning, I was awoken by a camp DJ on Gaydar radio (Gay news, gay DJs, gay weather bulletins, decent music), who was very excited as he was about to introduce this twat I used to work with. The name rang a slow bell in my foggy mind when the dull thud of recognition suddenly slapped me alert. So I switched off the radio and stormed out of bed for a pre-shower coffee before the man in question belched forth vomitations into my tired ears.

I am proud to admit that this walking STD hadn't entered my mind again until composing this post, but it has tickled me how Rod bloody Stewart was right. (Yes, I do nothing but complain. Woo-ooo-ooo, woo-ooo-ooo-ooo, woo-oooh.)

Several years ago, I was watching a documentary on a famous (in France) French poet or author or some such, who basically whinged endlessly about how fabulous women were and how devastating it was to be so fugly that none of them would touch him with a sterilised pole. I recall thinking it odd that British TV dedicated an hour to this man who had written encyclopaedias on the heavenly grace and mesmeric beauty of womenkind, who spent the whole time bitching that he couldn't bone them. (Yes, like this blog). I also recall being amused by the irony of a Frenchman denied the chance to sleep around, but anyway...

Last night, I nipped over to the City, an area of London I'm rather unfamiliar with. The city is the embryonic London of yore, the original chunk of land from whence this large metropolis expanded like a rapacious glutton with worms. Now, the City is all about the money, the home of legions of brokers and financiers in expensive suits, and women trying to snare one.

Sounds like a crass generalisation, but trust me. Spend an hour in this Revolution bar and watch the financial worker bees gather for a night's lubrication.

I arrived from work feeling out of place and looking accidentally like a drug dealer. I met similarly underdressed compadres and managed to yell into their ears one at a time over deafening music. But mainly, in no mood to scream all night, I stood and watched. Virtually all the men were young and suited. Practically all the women were young similarly attired. I felt gratified from a lingering look from a Cameron Diaz lookalike as we stared at each other for longer than 5 seconds, well beyond her vomit rising level, then cursed myself for not knowing what to do other than continue to catch her eye.

Her eye no longer became catchable.

Then I spotted a babe. A fox, if you will. A hot chick, an attractive lady, a woman guaranteed to kick me swiftly in the testicles even if all humanity were wiped out by a global tsunami and it were up to us to repopulate it. (Although I've never understood how that would work as our children would have to have sex with each other and Earth would end up full of a billion George Bushes.)

So, this girl. Very attractive, in a delicate way.
And more than a vague air of damn well knowing it too.

And she was all over this twunt I recognised. He was a former contestant from Big Brother, a swaggering twerp whose name rhymes with Tweezer who worked in the City and was back at his day job, a bloke whose beliefs include women staying in the kitchen while men earn all the money.

I don't believe that as it's rather distasteful. And can I get a shag? No.

As the girl bent over a stool, the guy made crude groping gestures with his hands while gurning lasciviously at his mate standing nearby. I, meanwhile, huffed wrily to myself - whatever that means. I wouldn't make gropey gestures at an unknowing woman's backside, but the irony is that to women, I look like the kind of average common-or-garden bloke who would.

But all this is self-deprecating bullshit. Once again, I feel the deathly stalk of a life-changing regime bearing down on me. Tomorrow, I will spend my Saturday with Monkey Dave in Brighton. On Sunday, I will re-attempt getting to the end my novel. And on Monday, things will happen.

Cycling things.
Healthy things.
Non-smoking things.

You know, the normal stuff I do for a week then give up on.


Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Embarrassing Memory #9: The Tell

Not so much an embarrassing memory which, in previous posts, have been brief events where I've ballsed up hideously, strutting around a nightclub with toilet paper dangling from my jeans, or phoning the police to warn them of a rogue fox out for a midnight walk.

This Tell was more a period of several months back at the turn of this century when I completely ruined any romantic dalliance between me and a lovely lady from work, a lady I really, really liked who, it transpired, wasn't so repulsed by me that she would spontaneously vomit or voluntarily shut down her entire menstrual cycle forever just in case I got close enough for us to reproduce.

Her name - here, at least - was Gwendolyn, and she was magnificently attractive. She never wore make-up, something that didn't dawn on me at first but eventually became apparent. Her features were so delicate and naturally good looking that she never had to wear any warpaint, and it didn't affect her femininity one jot. She was tall too, annoyingly a smidge taller than myself, with round, voluptuous curves.

We had recently started temping at an ineffectual exam board when, a few days in, one of the staff in HR mass-emailed all the temps to sign some dull forms in her office. In a matter of seconds, this list became a frenzied 'Reply to All' where all the temps who didn't care about their day-to-day jobs (93% of us) introduced themselves. It didn't take long for one of them to demand a get together in a nearby pub and, that night, I went.

It was there that I first met Gwendolyn, the moment I thought 'Pretty', then very quickly reasoned that I didn't have a hope in hell. I met some of the other temps that night; an Australian called Dave, a small guy called Russ, a sweet lady called Sally, and a raving simpleton also called Dave who had a thing for monkeys and thus became Monkey Dave. Only Monkey Dave and I lasted the course that first night, staying til chucking out time and bonding over the fact that for our mid-twenties, we all had shit jobs and no direction in life.

And from such inauspicious beginnings, strange things happened. We all saw rather a lot of each other, particularly on our Wednesday night drinks, ensuring completely redundant Thursdays. Gwendolyn was becoming a firm favourite of mine, what with her being very attractive and not recoiling from me. On our next Wednesday night out, I drunkenly yelled, 'So have you got a boyfriend, Gwen?' to which she informed me somewhat gingerly that she'd recently split up with him. In genuine bemusement, I replied that he was the Mother of all Idiots and completely deluded, which caused Russ sitting nearby to interject to ask me how my day was.

Things got better, and before long, I only went to my job so I could spend all day emailing Gwen and, occasionally, Monkey Dave and the others. Sometimes somebody gave me some work to do. For a crap job, it was bliss. Then, one night, Gwen and I sneaked off to grab a bite to eat alone, except I had been spiked (by her) with some ghastly blue drink, the name of which eludes me now [UPDATE: Aftershock], although I know it as 'Truth Serum.'

For some reason, over my salad (I was too ashamed to order something filling in front of her), I admitted to Gwen that I'd had a one night stand the weekend before.
I'm not sure why I told her. In fairness, I had been telling everyone that a post-Darwinian miracle had occurred in Ealing with a large Irish nurse, and my drunken angle may have been to somehow appeal to her with a 'Get It Now before my sexboat sails'. However, she just looked vaguely disturbed.

But that wasn't the tell. Oh no. A Tell, to the non-poker players out there or anyone living in a small shed in Argyll, is a detectable change in a player's behaviour that gives clues to that player's assessment of their hand. Or, in my English, simply letting it be known what you've got.

And what I'd got was a strong dose of the Likes. I had been perplexed as to how to go about letting Gwen know my true feelings for her. I was younger then, and dumber. No-one told me about subtleties like eye contact, smiling, and a casual yet cheeky confidence. A few more post-work 'dates', and I was getting more and more worked up. What do I do? How do I do it?

So to cut a very long story short, we went out, I got more drunk than her (again) and, in a bar in Soho, I put my bottle of beer on the table and TOLD her.
'Gwen, I really, really like you.'

As my friend Ed summed up perfectly, we were playing poker and I showed her my cards for no reason.

Gwendolyn squirmed. She did smile though, and I got a pat on the back, a thank you, and never saw her again. Well, not in a post-work date sense, anyway. So I bit the bullet, realised that when I have a whole football team of sons (I'll probably have to adopt), all my bedtime stories will end with the line, 'And they all kept their mouths FIRMLY FUCKING SHUT. The end.'

Embarrassing, slightly. Pathetically idiotic, certainly. But the real regret - as this post should really be filed under - finally came crashing into my head a few weeks later. Gwen was about to leave for a year-long trip round the world. We all continued to hang out for our Wednesday drinks, Gwen now carefully avoiding me while I did likewise thanks to my old friends Shame and Guilt. Meanwhile, at work, I was befriended by a really cute, Kelly Brook voluptuous Indian girl called Meeta.


But Meeta liked me and was about as subtle as a brick elephant, and I started to panic. I panicked mainly because laying all your sexual cards out on the table can backfire, as I had recently discovered, removing all seduction and adding lots of advantage taking. So too was the balance of power, for wont of a better phrase, as I had it all, whereas Meeta had bequeathed all hers to me, and that responsibility scared the hell out of me, what with me being apparently male and all.

But more importantly, I panicked because Meeta was a self-harmer, and had the literal scars to prove it, all the way up her left arm. She needed a rock in her life to support her, and that couldn't be me. I was incredibly keen to sleep with her, but knowing how fragile she was, I couldn't in all good consciousness take that for granted.

And I didn't. I ignored Meeta's drunk 2am calls, and kept things casual and aloof at work, yet in that great sexual minefield, this was a sex rag to a horny bull and I was becoming her Gwendolyn. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn was gearing up for her year abroad and out most nights. I spent one evening with Meeta as she'd dragged me out 'to chat', but I invariably insisted we go see the group, who were drinking nearby. God only knows how this looked to Gwen when I turned up with Meeta, but Gwen didn't seem to care. In fact, she left that night pretty quickly.

Eventually, she left the country altogether, and work then became a wait for Gwen's emails from Asia. Then one day, I received an email from a girl at work, a girl who I knew as a confidante of this guy, Russ. She casually let it slip that Russ had fancied Gwendolyn like mad, yet he was always being frustrated by some guy always in the way ~ Me.
I had no idea he even felt like that. Apparently, he had been torn to shreds when he found out that Gwen and I had spent evenings together in bars and in restaurants. Suddenly, his friendly Monday morning emails to me that suddenly stopped one day all made sense; he had been fishing for information, that shortarsed Elton John lookalike.

But what this girl went on to say broke my brain in two. Apparently, way back when we'd all first met in that pub, Gwen was keen on both Russ and me yet between the two, I had been furlongs ahead.
Much better odds.
Far more fanciable.
In with a real chance.
Finally ahead in something, for the first time in my useless fucking life.

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like 'I like you.'

So Gwen and Russ eventually got it on all thanks to me, writhing and entwined in unbridled passion. I'm left with an extremely keen woman who falls into depressive states and tries to kill herself and, a few months later, I end up with a gorgeous French woman - mainly thanks to my new tactic of being aloof and keeping my mouth shut.

But this is heavily abridged (believe it or not) and deliberately lighthearted. Discovering that Gwen actually liked me all along was utterly phenomenal. Then, realising that I'd fucked up the biggest feminine opportunity of my life was like having my plane hijacked on the first day of an amazing holiday and getting killed by a hijacker.

So I pined for Britain. I stared at my ceiling at 5am in the morning. Friends demanded I cheer the fuck up. I lost weight. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach for ruining at the very least an unforgettable night with a woman I was wild about.

About a year later, having finally calmed down and entering into my final metamorphosis of Most Whinging Bastard on the planet, I found myself so ravenously hungry I actually went into a McDonalds to buy a Big Mac. Post-transaction, I walked to a table to very literally insert the burger into my mouth when, dangerously in front of me, was Gwendolyn, and with a man far more suited to her, one of those tall, dark and handsome types. As I recall, she was feeding him chips, one arm resting on his broad shoulder.

I paused, mouth open, burger static. In a vicious instant, my hunger speedily subsided like an erection during Prime Minister's Question Time. Scarlet with embarrassment, I crept into a far corner of the McDonalds and, with my back to the whole place, forced down the now unwanted bun whilst I prayed I wouldn't be spotted.

When I did manage to dispose of my burger gut-wise, I turned to see the place Gwen-less, as things have been ever since. And this is a good thing. There are people, places, and words that some people never need to come across again, lest they explode in paroxysms of shame.

The moral of this lesson? McDonalds will always end in tears.
And keep your mouths FIRMLY FUCKING SHUT.

The End.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Doddery Dads, Getting Slapped by Women, and I Think I'm Gay

A remarkably interesting weekend of intrigue and suspense.

Well, not really.

I have just returned from Simcha on the Square, an afternoon of 'celebrating Jewish culture' in Trafalgar Square. While this didn't actually involve standing in a corner and bitching about someone or gossipping about a divorce (as normally happens), I got to see an attractive Israeli singer belt out very Middle Eastern songs, and missed the Bottle Dance from Fiddler on the Roof. I also spent most of the time looking after my father who at 74 isn't far off from entering his second childhood, even if he insists he isn't.

But the facts speak for themselves; me having to say gently 'This way, Dad' as I tugged his arm when he waddled aimlessly into a crowd of tourists, or buying him an ice cream from Uncle Dovvy's kosher ice cream van and watching in astonishment as he ate it like a 3-year-old with mouth wide open well before he very slowly raised the cone to his face and covered himself in goo. I even had to get a tissue from my pocket and wipe ice cream off of him, which he objected to. I don't think he likes being treated as if he's senile.

Dad spotted a couple of people he knew there which got him quite excited, other old folk who he hadn't seen for years and whose names had eluded him. One friend, Cyril and his impressive moustache, came over and said 'Hello, Dolly, how are you?' to my step-mother, except the woman in question wasn't my step-mother but a random lady stood behind my Dad in the ice cream queue.
'That's not Dolly,' said my Dad to Cyril.
'You're not Dolly?' said Cyril to the woman.
'I'm not Dolly,' said the woman. 'I just want an ice cream.'

For my part, I kept out of the 'Where's Dolly?' debacle (She's in Israel, getting away from my Dad), preferring instead to text Nothing Man to see if there was such a thing as a cocaine hangover.

I say this because I had spent last night with Ed, a fellow NaNoWriMo attempter whose computer hadn't crashed and had thus recently completed his 50,000 word novel, which he had self-critiqued as "complete shit".

At the same time, Nothing Man texted me to confirm that he was staying in to write, and was that very moment holed up in his room staring at a monitor. I replied that he was going to miss out on my cocaine orgy as I intended to finish off the final gram I had purchased for Chopper's stag last week.

So I composed my drugs text and pressed 'SEND' and looked up. Standing there was Nothing Man doing his best to look casual and indifferent. 'Awright?' he said.

We all had some beers. I went to the toilet several times. Then the others went to the toilet too. Then Ed went home grinning and Nothing and I went to the toilet and traversed the West End, cursing it and ourselves for no longer knowing where to go to after 12am.

We eventually settled for LA2s, a place I'd been to once before in my wild and crazy youth and recalled having quite a good time. Now, however, Nothing Man was quick to inform me that we were probably the oldest ones there. He was right. Everyone else looked like young, emaciated fluffy chinned urchins.

They'll all gain weight soon. Fuck 'em.

A combination of alcohol and coke meant I was suddenly very eager to talk to lots of women, even if none of them wanted to talk to me. I was ruthlessly charming, cheeky and devilishly witty, I thought, even if the reality was more akin to a drunk, coked up old twat trying his utmost to cop off with someone. I joined women's conversations and got sneered at, and tried chatting up a cute girl who then pretended to be an Italian who spoke no English. But my pièce de résistance was undoubtedly seeing two girls take pictures of each other with their camera phone, so I offered to take one of them. Gingerly, they agreed, then hugged each other and smiled as I lifted the phone to my face.

It was at exactly that moment that it occurred to me that I could do something excruciatingly funny. In fact, it was going to be the most hysterical thing anyone had ever done, in the history of comedy, ever.

I was going to run off with the phone.

It made sense at the time - be handed a stranger's phone, almost take a picture of them, then leg it. Not very far of course, just far enough for the hilarious gag to work, return with the phone and a grin, laugh uproariously together, then go back to theirs for a foursome.

Except I was in a crowded club. I got as far as two inches, accidentally shoulder-barging into a neighbouring blonde and obliterating her drink. She stared at me in disbelief, and I stared back.
'What the fuck did you do that for?' she yelled.
'Oh god, sorry.'
'You idiot!'
'Yes, I am aware of that. I'm extremely sorry.'

Then the girl whose phone I'd attempted to briefly nick casually walked over and held her hand out.
'And I'm sorry to you too. That gag backfired.'

She said nothing. She simply took her phone back and gave me a well-deserved slap round the face.

So, with that humiliating event hammering the final nail into my coffin of sex, I'm now firmly back to square one. No more drugs for me, even if it was excellent A-grade coke and rather moreish and habit forming. My cycling's gone the way of the Dodo, I'm smoking way too much, and my life is still fabulously dull.

Once again, I find myself confronted with the usual problems to correct.


And on the subject of fabulousness, except this really isn't - I had hoped on Friday night to pass out for a good 12 hours sleep and catch up on all that the stag took out of me. Instead, I had a deeply disturbing dream - for a heterosexual male idiot at any rate - which snapped me into consciousness with a vengeance. Although the details of the dream are vague, I specifically recall a blue, ankle-high Mr Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street telling me earnestly in his dopey voice, 'Don't worry Fweng Ebola, it's perfectly normal to be gay.'

I woke up in a cold sweat and couldn't get back to sleep. Now can someone please tell me what the FUCK that is supposed to mean? Is my strange insistence on wanting to sleep only with stunning, six foot tall curvy Amazonian models my brain's way of excluding me from all womankind because I secretly crave cock? And what the fuck's with Mr Snuffleupagus? Why am I dreaming about Muppets?

I am never doing drugs again.

Monday, October 08, 2007

Stag II

My second stag weekend in a one month period, this time as one member of a Best Man trinity.

It started off with a disturbing lack of sleep and a heart attack inducing series of events. It was up to me to obtain the necessary drugs from a nice man in the centre of town during Friday's morning rush hour. I hadn't slept well the night before as I also had to pick up a large 16-seater minibus and drive it to Exeter some 170 miles west of the capital, and both events had congealed in my overactive mind that evening; thoughts of a humiliating public arrest and imprisonment, or else inadvertently causing a 15-vehicle pile-up on the M3.

I calmed myself with the thought that my oft-imagined worse case scenarios rarely come true, and eventually fell into a fitful, sweaty sleep. When my alarm woke me up at 7am, a good four hours before I had to pick anyone up, duty called.

I took a train to London's financial district, an area completely alien to me as I don't have any money, and stared uneasily at all the miserable looking suits on the underground. I was disturbingly early, a rarity for me as I'm impatient and hate waiting for anything - even job interviews for which I've been known to arrive late - yet in the drug buying arena, I was there half an hour ahead of time. Which in the event, didn't calm my nerves. For a start, on leaving the train and reaching the top of the tube escalator, one of my previous night's nightmares had come true...

Stood there chatting amicably to each other by the exits were two policemen, with two sniffer dogs by their feet.

My eyes widened, and I tried not to look as if I was about to buy four grammes of cocaine in separately wrapped, highly arrestable 'I may as well be a dealer myself' packets.

I walked past the coppers and their dogs, all of whom seemed largely indifferent to my presence among all the other commuters. However, the angry-looking policewoman around the corner wasn't. She glared at me, forcing me to look away in panic and pick up my pace to the wider concourse nearby. As I walked out, I saw two more policemen surveying the area so I walked outside where I was confronted by an extremely conspicuous CCTV camera aimed right at me. Deciding to read a paper to wait and panic quietly, I came to believe that I was being specifically targeted when, from the other side of a sea of people criss-crossing to work, I spotted a sixth policeman standing directly opposite me, arms folded, just staring.

Then a strange thing happened; I was getting so utterly terrified that I realised I had one of two choices - scream and run off, or stand my ground and get on with it. And a strange, zen-like calm descended on me for 45 minutes until my man turned up. We grabbed a nearby coffee while my mind raced over just how we were going to do this with a police van directly next to us but we did, as if we weren't actually engaged in anything sinister - which I don't think it is by the way, but that's just my opinion. Don't get me started on drug laws, or the fact that the most heavily defended part of London in today's glorious world of global terrorist threats just so happens to be where all the money is, and not necessarily where the most commuters are.

So we do the swap and I'm sorted. I tube it to another part of town where I pick up a rusting behemoth that I have to somehow navigate through the narrow, roadblocked streets of London with a pocket full of drugs. I'm now collecting people and crates of beer along the way, including a Large Northern Flatmate who was good enough to forget his own suggestion that I call him and hang up immediately, to signal that I was five minutes away.

Before long, I'm driving seven of us to Devon, to a sprawling cottage in the middle of nowhere. More people arrived at the cottage in drips and drabs, including my teetotal friend Suky who was to drive the minibus from the middle of nowhere to the middle of somewhere all weekend.

'I won't envy you when you're driving that thing,' I told him.
'I'm not if I'm not insured,' he replied casually.
I frowned.
I've certainly not arranged anything. Almost immediately, I came to the grim realisation that a cock up has occurred, and I'm fucked. I took it at face value when Chopper, the stag, told me that Suky was willing to drive the minibus each night. It never occurred to me that while I'm willing to go off and grab Class A's in broad daylight, Suky has to ruin everything by being a model fucking citizen.

The whole weekend was totally competitive, the only exception being hardcore German pornography viewing each evening which became a competition of sorts - who could appear the most casual about a screaming DP scene among a gang of fifteen pissed blokes. The group was split into teams of four, led by one of the three Best Men and the stag. There was a pool tournament, bowling, a football game that I still haven't physically recovered from (including a humiliating spell in goal where I fucked up and had to defend against a casually taken penalty that the likes of me was unable to stop), a cricket match, and a boules tournament.

My team came last.

Saturday night was interesting. I had booked ahead for us to get to a couple of clubs and, after the minicab debacle, the other Best Men arranged for taxis home so I could join in. The first club hardly broke new ground; a provincial hellhole called Arena, playing the finest R&B, rap and commercial house music to a disturbingly young crowd. There was a thirty man brawl on the dancefloor, and I managed to rid our table of three neighbouring girls just by saying 'hello' and talking to them for two minutes.

So we went on to a strip club called Tiffanys.

Now I have this love/ hate relationship with strip clubs, based on the two joints I've visited in the past. One was a huge church of stripping, a virtual superclub of flesh in Acton when I was on another stag do about eight years ago. The other was in Hungary, a seedy little dive where myself and three friends were very literally threatened with hospitalisation by a huge Russian bouncer because we refused to buy the minimum four beers each at a cost of £5 a bottle. We had only been there five minutes. In the end, only I was allowed out to a cash machine to procure £60 just so we could all leave immediately.

Tiffany's was no different, not in the threatening stakes, but in the intrinsic seediness. It wasn't totally unpleasant, but it was what it was; a bar populated only by men and staffed by semi-naked women who removed their bras and gyrated their breasts at us. Now this is not a totally unpleasant situation to be in, but I always want to appear a cut above the average guy; a bit more decent, a bit less of a woman objectifier. Yet I found it rock hard to stop myself being sucked in by the visual gravitational pull of a wriggling Thai dancer or a gaggle of blondes with boob jobs. I would occasionally avert my eyes lest I be thought of as a seedy, ogling bloke, until I realised that in here, that's all I could ever hope to be.
Strip clubs are a moral jungle of contradictions.

They also sum up for me something I've never denied; that men are basically very simple creatures, and pretty much retarded fuckwitted morons. One of the dancers came over to me and said hello, although I sensed pretty quickly that she was largely indifferent to us chatting, what with her constantly looking anywhere but at me as we talked. She asked if I wanted a private dance for £50 and I said no. I even told her that I read the bloody Guardian, for god's sake, and that I am actually cut above the average guy and I don't objectify women even though I was finding it extremely difficult not to when they're all wandering around in nothing but a thong, splattering sex all over the floor.

I asked her how long she'd worked there - six months, it transpired - then asked her what she now thought of men.
'Not a lot,' she replied.

She never elaborated, and walked off to try her luck with someone else. I would've loved to have found out how she came to that conclusion, although bloke ÷ alcohol + women = arsehole.

Half an hour later, I was in a small room staring directly at her incredibly well-presented vagina a mere inch from my face.

She had approached me later that evening as I was chatting to Suky. He was loving every minute of the strip club, free to chat to women and flirt, confident that none of them would tell him to go fuck himself. As she stopped to talk, Suky immediately offered to buy me a cheaper 3-minute dance with her.
'You don't have to do that,' I told him.
'Are you sure? I don't mind.'
'Fine, go on then,' I said.

She walked me to the 3-minute dance room, concealed from the rest of the club by a curtain. It was full of gawping men with naked women on top of them. I grimaced. It was like the last days of Rome.
She sat me down in the centre of a leather sofa and instructed me to spread my legs and place my hands out and onto the sofa where they frustratingly remained throughout. She then proceeded to strip and wriggle all over me. A lot. While rubbing her long, silky legs up and down my crotch, which was now experiencing a 'raising the dead' moment.

I had a couple of dances at the strip club in Acton years ago, but I now know they were rubbish. There had been no contact of any kind, and I struggled to find any eroticism in a bored girl bending over and slapping her arse cheeks in my general direction although again, this wasn't a wholly unpleasant experience. But here, in the darkest recesses of Exeter, I was actually indulging in a sexual experience in which I couldn't participate, with a now completely naked girl writhing and wriggling between my legs, rubbing my chest, diving at my crotch and opening her mouth, then grinning slyly before raising a long, tanned leg over and behind my head and getting so close I could see the little diamante stud in her impeccably tidy labia. Then she jumped onto my lap, rubbed herself furiously then licked her fingers, and I started to cry.

Suddenly, with a quick kiss on my cheek, she stood up and said 'There we go!' as she picked her bra and thong off the floor and began to dress. I was fundamentally speechless and totally unable to stand, plus my testicles were now like lead weights following that and the earlier pornography viewing, with no way to release the tension.
'Can I have your number?' I said more out of breaking my silence than anything else.
'Ok,' I mumbled, feeling somehow honour bound to at least buy her a McDonalds happy meal or something by way of return. 'Do you want some coke?'

Again, inexplicably, she refused. I don't know why. A drunk, drug addled punter visiting a strip club would obviously be a brilliant one-night stand proposition for any attractive dancer.

The following morning, I equated my dance to the feeling of being close to death through starvation, then buying and being served a meal but not being allowed to touch it. A wank just isn't going to come close. I was more full of semen than Marc Almond after a big night on the town.

All my talk the next morning of desperately needing a 'Therapy Wank' was shot down by Phil and Jimmy, the other Best Men, as nothing more than an excuse to indulge in a 'Regular Wank' like any normal day.

Trust me, I am fit to burst right now.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Angry Young Man

I don't know why I am, I just am, that's all. I'm not violently angry. I don't kick and scream and threaten people. Well sometimes maybe, when they try to run me and my bike off the road in their car. But I'm still liberal and egalitarian and caring.

But I am angry.

Although I do empathise a lot, put myself in other people's shoes - even during faeces/ aircon moments - and I never get the red mist so bad that I lose all control and strike out. That would be really poor form.

But I do get the red mist. It's very controlled, and most people see it as comedy anger, a bit like Alan Partridge when he's furious. Although I don't grab people.

So I quit my job today. It was said in a moment of anger at my semi-retired company director, but I have been working like a Trojan for McDonalds wages, and have even taken to driving the van home and doing a delivery on the way. I haven't had a proper lunchbreak in two years, I'm bloody brilliant, me, etc etc.

So when my Boss boss chose to berate me, a random flinging of his weight to remind me of my place within his domain replete with screaming and swearing (I seem to have this effect on people), I snapped, particularly as his tantrum was completely unwarranted. So I had a tantrum of my own, told him I didn't deserve a single word of his outburst, and that I intended to tender my resignation. Then I continued to answer phones all day to a bunch of cunts who were all having emergencies and all needed their shit right fucking now.

On top of that, my personal hotmail account has been switched to the godawful Hotmail Live version against my wishes only to sieze up ever since, causing me to fire off emails from my work account to call them bastards.

Then I fitted my portable harddrive from home into my boss's computer so I could fire off some urgently needed documents for Chopper's impending stag tomorrow. For some inexplicable reason, my harddrive decided to ejaculate about half a dozen porn videos onto his desktop.

I am now shitting it when he finds them tomorrow, but then I've sort of resigned in a sense, so I guess it doesn't matter.

But I did do some work. In fact, that's all I did, work consistently, concentrating on orders and admin and a whole host of shit that won't matter next month, never mind in one hundred cunting years, while people rang me up perpetually.

One fucker phoned five times throughout the day, five times, to ask the same fucking questions about the same fucking bags. And I had more than my fair share of French kitchen staff phoning up for more of their sodding bags.
"Ze medium ones."
This always makes my blood boil. Really boil. Remember that red mist I mentioned earlier? We can sell seven different sizes of one coloured bag at any one fucking time, as I've said before in an earlier post, and as I had to yell eight times today.

"What medium one? What fucking medium one? You didn't even mention a colour. Am I clarivoyant? Do you really think I'm sitting here drumming my fingers on the table, my encyclopaedic knowledge of every fucking spoon you've ever bought from us just swimming around my head waiting for your call? MAKE A FUCKING LIST, LIKE I DO WITH OUR SUPPLIERS. It's not just common sense, it's common courtesy. You do realise you are interrupting an order I am trying to concentrate on completing and you're making me drop it for this bullshit. You do this every time, every single fucking time, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING CUNT."

Then I put the phone down to double check against their previous invoices just as soon as I finish what I was doing before I picked up the phone when the phone rings again and it's some posh woman from Mayfair who snaps 'I want my bags.'
My nostrils flare, a vein in my head throbs. 'What - ones?'
'The small ones.'
'But your 'small' is just one of seven that we stock. We may have bags that are too small even for you, so ordering a generic 'small' will result in your potentially receiving the wrong bag and our overworked delivery guys will have to go back to you the next day. WHY DO YOU PEOPLE CONSTANTLY PHONE ME UP AND DO THIS? DON'T YOU EVER WRITE THINGS DOWN? YES WE'VE GOT YOUR PREVIOUS ORDERS BUT I HAVE TO CLICK SIX DIFFERENT ICONS AND SELECT FOUR DROP-DOWN MENUS AND READ EVERYTHING OUT TO YOU LIKE THE LAZY, SELFISH INEFFECTUAL BIPEDAL HOMINID YOU ARE, YOU FUCKING OXYGEN THIEF!'

I hate them.


THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT. No, the customer is a supercilious, arrogant, timewasting fuckheaded retard.

We've recently started using the answerphone to give us more space. The net result has been three times more emails to sift through, and tons more faxes.

And this bit's great... The fax cuts our Internet off.

Don't know why, don't really care. I just know that when the fax rings, I'm always doing something trixy online, or else I'm on the phone to some cunt who 'wants what we had last time.' Then 'click', no more data.

And on top of all that...

* I am perpetually tired. Any sleep I get is never enough, and I always wake up 'fuggy'. This tends to last about 8 hours.

* I can't grow a decent beard. My last most recent attempt, during my writing marathon gave me what Nothing Man dubbed a 'ginger chinstrap.'

* When I ultimately shaved, my sensitive skin broke out in fucking spots.

* I think I will die perpetually unfulfilled, with anger management issues that went unresolved.

* I walk too fast, and thus sweat freely. I find it very hard to walk slowly.

* But I also get cold easily, and I'm not sure why. My body temperature is all over the shop.

* I don't walk very well either, certainly not like a Gangsta rapper. Despite being stocky (i.e. fat), I walk more like a gangly Jimmy Stewart with a dwarf on his back.

* And I look like a cunt.

* I lack a sense of direction - in life terms, that is. (I'm done with the 'walking' bit.)

* I also lack routine and order, unless it's daily chainsmoking and eating Tescos pizza because I can't be bothered to cook.

Always the same old shit. Always, always, always.

And tomorrow, I've got to get up early to commit (i.e. buy) an arrestable offence (i.e. drugs) and in broad daylight on behalf of this impending stag party, then I get to drive a minibus full of blokes getting drunk.

So that'll ensure a restless night panicking about unnecessary things.

Shit, I'd better pack. God, I'm tired.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

I'm Back, It's Back, Everything Is Good.

I am typing at my desk, in my room. My computer is whirring beneath me, seemingly indifferent to having been anywhere. I took it to a shop this morning where they immediately replaced the power supply for £70. All this means my new CD/DVD burner addition cost me £100 in total, but everything's back to normal and seems strangely unaffected, like an abused child who's blanked the bad stuff out.

Actually, that's a really horrible analogy.

I'm amazed I've still got data on there at all. I woke up yesterday morning convinced that computers operated like household mains and I'd merely blown a fuse. I'd found a switch at the rear (unwittingly increasing the voltage to Texan jail levels), flicked it, and re-inserted the mains. Then it really blew, like a small, compartmentalised Hiroshima in my bedroom, complete with a proper bang and lots of smoke.

So, all this raising the dead means I will get back to my book - and general whinging and porn surfing - just as soon as I undertake YET ANOTHER stag do this weekend. It is my mate Chopper's shindig, and promises to be fun. Four days of carnage and fun. Plus I am a third of a Best Man so I get to buy large, arrestable amounts of drugs and drive a minibus down to Exeter full of drunk reprobates. Fantastic.

By approximately 3pm this Friday, I intend to sit back in our rented cottage and hedonise myself back to the Roman Circuses of yore.

And still not pull, probably.

Duh. What am I thinking? Make that definitely.