W & A
I have anger management issues. I don't consider it that bad because I'm ruthlessly in control of them.
But I am angry.
Having said that, I'm also quite happy, a thin veneer of contentment that looks like a seething tide of resentment to everyone else.
I thought I should consider professional help last week, when I was queuing up at the bank. I was stood away from the vast main queue, in the Business Customers Only lane (just myself and the chap in front, as opposed to the main queue's twenty.) Both of us stared at an empty seat, preferring that to aggravatingly slow-moving main line to our left.
Five minutes of seat staring later, I began to get restless. This was exacerbated when a man walked in and decided to start his own queue, bypassing myself and the guy in front of me. I stared at the back of his fat, bald head as my nostrils flared.
'Keep calm, keep calm', I intoned. 'He might not get served before me.'
That said, he might, and that must not happen. The queue is sacrosanct, and I was damned to hell and beyond if I was going to wait in a building for, now, 7 minutes, only for some chancer to wander in and get served after 1.
And then he got served. I was still standing behind the guy staring at the chair when fat, bald chancer casually stepped up to the teller.
'Oi!' someone yelled.
'Don't even think about it!'
'What?' he asked.
I yanked my iPlugs out.
'What do you think we're doing here?' I said, pointing at myself and the man in front. 'Waiting for a bus?'
'I only have to hand this over,' he yelled indignantly. I became vaguely aware of the main queue staring back.
'I don't care,' I said. "We were here first. Now get to the back of the queue."
As I turned round, I saw three more people stood behind me, people who'd arrived after fat and bald.
To my surprise and complete relief, he did so, muttering dark curses in his wake. The gentleman in front of me was thus served, while I stood at the head of the queue.
I was less pleased to discover the stunning black goddess who works there take the empty seat, presumably on the orders of a more senior teller now that the customers were beginning to yell at one other. I was flustered and my chest was pounding - truth be told, I hate confrontations - but I began to get worked up again as I watched her not call me forward any time soon.
I fidgeted, and tried to keep calm. I looked down and saw my tight black coat pulsate with the rhythm of my racing heart. I flared my nostrils some more and stared at the now filled seat.
The Goddess had a slight grin on her face. Motherfucker. She was randomly pressing buttons on her keyboard for as long as it took.
The guy formerly stood in front of me finished up and walked off, and I approached that desk. Turning round as soon as I got there, I watched Goddess summon over the person who had been stood behind me.
I clearly am the Antichrist.
I had a less angry but equally unpleasant lady rebuff a few days later. It had gone 5pm at work, and my colleagues and I are known to shut up shop and bring pints in from the neighbouring pub to sup at our desks in the final hour. Said pub is staffed by a rather stunning barperson from LA, all frilly hair and tight jeans and a figure sculpted by the gods.
And she hates me.
We first saw her at Christmas. We had a work's meal nearby and retired back to the pub where the less enlightened and rather sexist males of our party dribbled at her all night while I kept quiet, silenced mainly by their braying catcalls.
Ray, our office youngster and cockney scamp, was basically blind drunk, yelling at her face that she was rather attractive, which I noted she took with good grace. She then proceeded to serve other customers while Ray yelled to us that he'd like to bend her over and hang out the back of her.
'Ray!' I admonished as I felt my personality desert me. 'She can hear you!'
I have since been greatly amused on the occasions that I've gone back to that pub and barlady serves me in a manner that can only be described as hostile, giving me what I like to call the Beamscowl.
The Beamscowl is a very quick manoeuvre starting, as one would presume, with a glowing, radiant beam. She had this on her mug as she was walking away from a chat with her previous customer. Then she turned to face me.
It was like I'd dangled shit from a pole and shoved it into her face. I am that shit.
'Why?' I've oft pondered in those bleak, lonely moments at four in the morning, 'am I actually considered lower than the drunk bloke in the pub making sexist comments, even though I was the one who told him off???'
Perhaps it's for these reasons that I'm back in touch with my lovely New Yorker ex-girlfriend - that, and because I miss her.
I was treated to a bizarre lesson in time differences last Monday, when we emailed around midnight London time. I said I was off to bed. She said she was out to 'party'.
When I woke up, I switched on my computer and fired up my email. She'd just got home, drunk, and decided to call me for the first time in years.
That was a strange one, waking up on a weekday before showering for work, to take a call from someone who'd spent my whole sleep-time getting bladdered.
F & F
I am sick and tired of hearing about this global piggy pandemic. I've barely recovered from the financial fistfuck we're all in.
I was cynical about the mass-media news before. Now I'm out-and-out disgusted. Yes, it's serious. Yes, we should be alerted to it. But the media the way it is, it's fast becoming the End of Days, and it's bringing me down.
All I can think about in the years to come, if any of us are still solvent and alive, is that 2009 will be remembered as Armageddon. I'm still waiting for the newsflash that four cackling horsemen have been spotted in the sky, probably above Romford.
In an interesting aside, my Mum called me today. It appears that my stepbrother has been holidaying in the eye of the storm, in Cancun. And in keeping with the hurricane analogy, he's been so close to the action that he actually had NO IDEA ABOUT THE PANDEMIC.
And if anyone has any faith in our government and their bullshit promises that the UK is phenomenally well prepared, you may be interested to know that my stepbrother landed in London where all the passengers had to write their contact details down - on the back of their sick bags.
They were then told they would exit the plane into a holding bay where they would not come into contact with the any other people.
Cue their walking into the airport and smashing heads against every departing and arriving passenger on Earth.
But my favourite part is the fact that my surly and miserable stepbrother is currently locked in his house for a week. His mother had to deliver shopping to his front door, and call him to open up once she got back into the relative safety of her Honda.
And finally, fish. My beautiful, sexy new suit, all ready for Jimmy's wedding on Saturday at which I'm Best Man, has been hanging up in the neutral smell of my hallway, far away from the nicotine playground that is my bedroom.
Imagine my surprise this evening, as I walked up the stairs to my flat barely even near our front door, I smelled the telltale stench of fucking haddock. My Large Northern Flatmate chose to stink out our gaff through the medium of dead aquatic vertebrates, while my beautiful sexy new suit sucked it all up.
It's currently in Large Northern Flatmate's room, hanging up near the window. It now smells of cheap Adidas deodorant, and despair.
With a hint of pussy.