The Massage

My girlfriend (yes I somehow still have one) decided to book me in a massage the other day at one of those horrendous beauty places. How do these places exist? You drive past them – they’re always on some awful road and are sandwiched between a kebab shop like McDoner’s, and an even worse used car dealership that only deal in fatal accidents. For some reason these beauty places try their very best to attempt to make the exterior appear classy. What’s the point? You know as soon as you walk in you’ll be met by someone called “Stace” or “Tash”. In fact if you name your child Stacey you may as come off the breast and bottle feed them fake tan. The beauty parlour either name themselves after something sensual like the god awful Eden – presumably you’re rubbed down with sheets of paper featuring Genesis – or they try and be clever and name it something like “Facial Attraction”. You name your shop Facial Attraction and you deserve to go out of business.

Anyway, my lady has booked me in for my first ever massage. I wasn’t up for it. She insists on making me try new things and it’s so frustrating. Just leave be woman. I am known to be poor in social situations that are out of my comfort zone – for a start I didn’t know what the rules of the massage parlour were. What clothes should I wear? Do I strip down totally naked? Am I meant to hold some sort of conversation with “Stace”? I was walking straight into the unknown and I hated that. And I hated her for making me do this. All I said was that I had a bad shoulder and I’d only done that because I didn’t want to hoover.

I walk in, beading with sweat. A girl called “Charmaine” introduces herself. What on Earth was she wearing? Head to toe in some purple suit thing. I’ve seen people appear on Crimewatch for less. Charmaine tells me “Jasmine” will come in a minute if I just want to “strip down” and lay on the bed. Charmaine leaves. Suddenly I am faced with my Everest – some weird looking bed with a hole in it. It’s looks a bit like a fancy version of one of those Spanish toilets that are actually meant to be used to wash your feet – learnt that the hard way. I figure out that I am probably meant to lie on the bed with my face through the hole but what I don’t know is what clothes I need to be wearing. Presumably I need to take off my Sandy Balls T-Shirt but do the trousers come off as well? I look to the wall hoping that there will be instructions or a poster telling me what to do but there’s just a sea of purple. I am in way over my head here. Jasmine hasn’t even arrived and I am dropping nervous farts all over the place. All the nerves are making me not only drop bombs but also are making me desperate for the wee. I decide to take my trousers off but keep the pants on. In retrospect getting a massage wasn’t the day to trial the “Hurry up it ain’t gonna eat itself” pants that were bought for me as part of Secret Santa. I lay down on the bed, head wedged in the hole and my hands by my head. Jasmine walks in and says hello. What do I do here? Do I briefly pull my head out of the hole (no come on) and say hello back, or do I say hello with my head buried in the hole (stop it)? I opt for the latter.

Jasmine explains to me that she is going to put some music on. I hope for Westlife but instead Jasmine puts on “Sounds of the sea”. So for the next 30 minutes I have to listen to some dolphin make noises that to me suggest he’s in a great deal of pain, he’s probably found out the Seal he’s seeing has ordered him a massage. The Sounds of the Sea are playing havoc with me wanting to wee as well. I am desperate. A good five minutes has passed and neither Jasmine or I have talked. Is this normal? The silence is killing me. I decide I have to break the silence and treat her as a taxi driver “so you been on long?”, pathetic. Jasmine hated and I hated myself. I didn’t speak again.

15 minutes in and I was in so much pain. Not only was Jasmine physically hurting me (and charging me £50 for the privilege) but the way I had my arms above my head meant that I had chronic pins and needles in my shoulders. I was so desperate to move my arms to down by side but I feared that if I moved them down by my side I might accidentally graze Jasmine and she’d file some sort of lawsuit against me – especially as I was wearing the “Hurry up it ain’t gonna eat itself” pants. So I keep my arms up by my side and endure another 15 minutes of agony. And I mean agony. The dolphin has been replaced by waves crashing against the shore and my bladder was on it’s way out. This was meant to be relaxing but it turned into the worst 30 minutes of my life. I am still letting out bombs and I know Jasmine can smell them. She desperately pours more and more fragrenced oil on me but the curry from last night was doing a conga in my colon and no amount of lavender oil could save Jasmine and I from the smell. I wanted to keep the farts in, truly I did – not least because each time I released one I was closer and closer to pissing myself. Jasmine called it a day – I think the poor girl was overcome by the fumes and inane chat that I’d come up with earlier. She’d put in a fair shift, fair play to her. She told me she was going to get me a towel to dry myself off with. Did she know that some pee had slipped out?

Jasmine leaves and again I am in the situation of not knowing what to do. Do I get up and get changed? Am I even allowed to lift my head out of the hole? Fear gets the better of me so I keep my head in the same position it’s been in for 30 minutes. She told me she was getting a towel but it had been a good ten minutes and there was still no sign of her. Most people in this situation would’ve got up, got changed, paid and left but I decide to maintain my position for a further twenty minutes. Head still in the hole. The room slowly filling with methane and my pants slowly filling with wee. Jasmine comes back in “Oh God, sorry – I’d dropped the towel in 40 minutes ago – have you been laying like this the whole time?”. What’s my move here?

I obviously decided to play the sleep card…

Stan Bennett

Million Pound Drop

The Million Pound Drop

I struggle to cope with life let alone answer questions. I did not realise but when Hursty and I were watching the Million Pound Drop a week ago I made a completely innocuous remark to Hursty that was to haunt me for the rest of my life. “We should go on this show, we’d do ok I reckon” I said.

Hursty has many, many flaws. He has the mental age of an 11 year old, not literally. He asked me to buy him a supersoaker for his birthday. He lives at home with his ageing parents and doesn’t contribute to rent, cook meals, do washing, doesn’t dare consider ironing and barely washes himself. He is living in his own welfare state with his mum acting as the role of ‘The State’. He hasn’t had a job for 4 years. How can he survive on no job I hear you scream? The answer is simple. He won £250,000 on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire 4 years ago.

Despite the picture I am painting, Hursty is surprisingly intelligent. He is incredibly strong across the board. He loves his sport, he knows when the wars were and he knows his Periodic Table. He has no clue about anything Technology related. He is still using Bebo and when I asked him if he wanted to Skype me when he was away he said he would but didn’t have my home address and couldn’t find anywhere that sold stamps.

Million Pound Drop is an intense live quiz show. You start with a Million pounds and there are eight questions. Each question has four possible answers and you always have to leave on of the answer boxes blank. In other words, you can’t put £250,000 on each answer. The final question you have only two answers and you have to put all the money you have that is remaining on just one of the two answers. Turns out Hursty applied on the Monday and here we were four days later at Elstree Studios.

 

I was absolutely shitting my pants. We’d been asked to bring in as many clothes as possible because the ‘stylist’ would dress us. We had to look ‘Saturday night glam’. What the hell does that mean? Saturday night glam? I was so concerned that I was going to end up looking like Travolta. I’d taken the ‘bring in as many clothes as possible’ too far.

Eve, the stylist, said “You didn’t need to bring in all your boxer shorts and pants” much to the amusement of all the other contestants. It turned out I couldn’t wear shorts or my ‘Sandy Balls’ t-shirt either. In fact I didn’t have a single appropriate item of clothing. Eve was fuming. She looked like a bulldog that had been caged for a considerable amount of time. She asked me did I not bother reading the clothing email that was sent out? Course I didn’t read the bloody email Eve. It’s clothes for a quiz show, who gives a shit. “Oh no sorry Eve, I don’t think I received the email.” Pathetic. She knows I got the email. Eve now wanted me to lose the million on question one.

Hursty was busily reading “1001 facts about the world” whilst I was eating a petit falous yoghurt. I couldn’t get over the spread they’d put on. I couldn’t be arsed to brush up on my quiz knowledge. There were three other couples in the room who were all due to go on that night and who were firing questions at each other. I felt that Nikki, the hairdresser from Swansea, may struggle. Not because she was a hairdresser, or because she was from Swansea, but she had asked Hursty if Asia was in Africa. I felt for her partner Gary who was meant to be the brains of the outfit and promptly corrected her “Don’t be silly Nic, Africa ain’t in Asia. Africa’s its own continent and big Nelson is the president”. Big Nelson. I struggled not to choke on my petis fallous.

“Makeup”. To be fair Nikki needed it. Amazingly Gary stood up and started walking towards the door and shouted “You boys coming”. What? Hursty also stood up.

“Hursty what you doing?” I said

“It’s standard for TV mate. You’ve got to have hair and makeup done.” I forgot I was in the company of a game show veteran.

Up to the make up room I went. What I, obviously, didn’t like about this whole thing was how pally we all were. They were 4 couples. Hursty and I, although I hope people didn’t think we were a full blown couple. Gary and Brains. Then there was the standard gay couple – it was Channel 4 remember. The gay couple were nice guys, Jeremy and John. I think if a parent names their son Jeremy they have to accept he will be gay. What was interesting about Jeremy and John was that you would have no idea at all that John would be gay. Jeremy on the other hand…as we walked into the Makeup room Jeremy had a hairbrush in his hand and was using it as a microphone whilst singing ‘The winner takes it all’ by Abba. The other couple was the token ‘Hot’ couple. Luke and Laura. Luke was beautiful. If I was a gay man, such as Jeremy, I’d of been all over him. Laura was decent but she was on of those that fitted the body from Baywatch, face from Crimewatch description.

Everyone was getting on like a house on fire. Jeremy was clearly making a play for Luke. John and Hursty were getting on, a little too well for my liking. Brains was coming up with some belters that were really making Laura laugh “So is Peter Andre is his real name?” I obviously hated her. And where was I in all of this? I was in the chair, being ‘gunned’.

Not sure if you’ve ever had makeup on? Feels awful. It also makes you so incredibly pale. I looked ill as it was but after half hour with Trudy (the makeup artist) I looked like I was an extra from Philadelphia. Being gunned is basically where they load up the makeup in some sort of air gun and then spray it all over your face. I don’t know what was worse, being gunned or listening to Trudy tell me it was all over with her husband Brian.

“He just wasn’t the man I thought he was when I married him” she said.

Trudy I only met you five minutes ago. Just focus on the job in hand “Well hopefully he’ll come his senses” what a nothing comment from me.

Makeup done, marriage advice handed out I was now ready to play the Million Pound Drop. We were third on. That meant we needed one of the couples before us to muck it up and get knocked out early otherwise we wouldn’t get on.

Jeremy and John were first on. We all huddled round a TV watching them. What I couldn’t understand was why everyone was cheering them on, willing them to get the right answer. John stupidly thought the capital city of Latvia was Diga. A Million went down the trap door and Hursty and I jumped up in joy – this meant we were getting on the show after all. This was a very bad move. Brains turned on us and Luke looked like he’d just found out I’d killed his mother. The atmosphere turned from one of happiness and joy to one of anger and disbelief. Still I wasn’t going to see these people again, I didn’t care. I was so confident Brains was going to screw it all up that we’d be on in a matter of minutes. She managed to get up on to the podium, thereby successfully negotiating the stairs and that was enough to surprise me.

My prediction was right. When was the Second World War? Brains was adamant that it was in the 1400s. She may have negotiated the stairs but that was as good as things were going to get for her.

This was it. We were up.

“Good luck mate, we can do this” said Hursty.

I was relieved Hursty was along side me. I needed him. I knew I was going to freeze and he was the confident, good looking, and funny one. I was his bald mess. We walked up the stairs and were hit by the audience, not literally. They were so loud. There were cameras everywhere and Davina McCall came in to hug me. I had absolutely nothing. I went for the kiss of the cheek, got it all wrong, and ended up looking like a massive tit. Davina explained the rules and off we went. This was it. Live in front of a nation, in front of Emma. This was my ticket out of work.

“Question 1 – Technology. On Facebook, which of these can you not do?

Poke, Stroke, Like, Chat”

Davina “You’re time has started”

“This is all you mate. You’re the technology man”. Hursty said.

“Ok, I know this. You can like someone’s status. You can chat on that instant chat thing they have and you can stroke. It’s this little thing button that says stroke and then you get alerted when someone has stroked you. They’ve just put poke in there to confuse you, cos it sounds like stroke.” I was amazed as to how confident I was. I knew this. I had turned up, in a big big way. Hursty didn’t know and I assumed the position of ‘The Man’.

“You sure?” Hursty said

“100%” I replied

“Let’s move the money then” Hursty said with a sense of urgency. We moved our money, and I had the audacity to shout “stop the clock” such was my level of confidence.

Davina read the question again, and then ran through the options. She said we’d put our money on ‘stroked’ and left the others blank. It’s at this point that everything became like slow motion. A wave of nausea swept my body. Was the answer ‘poked’? Had I got it wrong? Why would you ‘stroke’ someone on Facebook I suddenly thought? Oh no, surely not.

“Let’s see what drops” said Davina

‘Like’ disappeared, ‘Chat disappeared’. It was now between ‘Poke’ and ‘Stroke’. Hursty was looking so confident. He’d placed his trust in me and I’d even stopped the clock. I would’ve even of believed me.

Then the moment came that will live with me forever. A million pounds down the gutter…

 

“Oh no. The answer was poke. I’m so sorry guys. You’ve been great, thanks for coming on the show” said Davina.

Hursty looked at me. I looked at the floor.

“Stroke? Stroke? Who the fuck strokes someone on Facebook? They’re not fucking animals” Hursty was fuming.

I’d just monumentally embarrassed myself, again. This time though it was in front of the nation.

We walked back into the green room.

“I even knew that” said Brains. 

The Recruiter

Recruiters – salt of the Earth. You know exactly where you stand, they pride themselves on honesty, integrity and go above and beyond when trying to do the right thing for you. They really do have your interests at the heart of every decision they make. This is what I imagine a recruiter writing when trying to describe their profession. Recently I have attempted to get a new job. Moving forward I would prefer to stick my head in the oven at a balmy 180 rather than deal with these people.

To give you a bit of background I work in IT. I am not particularly good at what I do but I get by. My CV clearly states that my whole life has been IT. Read through my key skills – business analysis, an understanding of SCRUM methodologies, can even fix the odd server. So, I am on the hunt for jobs that are in the IT field. I don’t mind attempting to be a project manager – even though I don’t know how to use MS Project, that I can’t organise people and I certainly can’t motivate them to do anything for me. Why would they do anything for me? I am like Mr Barrowclough from Porridge – a decent enough guy but horribly limited and certainly not someone you’d follow into war. If I can’t motivate myself why would people complete tasks for me to a deadline. It’s not going to happen. I accept that, I know I’d be a flawed Project Manager but I’d give it a shot. God loves a trier, especially at £425 a day.

So I start sending the CV, the CV that states I have worked my whole life in IT, out to potential recruiters. I get a phone call a full four minutes after sending my CV off to “Jobs not Yobs”. I suppose if you send a CV off to a recruiter with a name like Jobs not Yobs then you know you’re unlikely to land that dream position.

“Hi, Stan speaking” 
“Hi is that Stan” Why do people do this? I have just said that ‘Stan’ is speaking so it is unlikely you are speaking with an Alan.

“Yes” 
“This is Zayn, from Jobs not Yobs. How are you today?” Zayn doesn’t care how I am. I toy with replying “Not good, my nan has just died” but it’s unfair on Zayn.

“Yeh I am ok thanks, how are you?” I don’t care how he is but I throw Zayn a bone. Poor guy. 
“Good man, good. Great weather today isn’t it? Can’t wait to get home and put the BBQ on” chill out Zayn. The first page of the recruiter manual, in fact any social manual, is to talk about the weather. The amount of conversations I’ve had about the weather is embarrassing. I am feeling more and more like Andrea McLean. Always felt that Andrea was an underutilised member of the GMTV team – but she has at least gone on to do great things within the Loose Women environment.

Zayn then proceeds to blow smoke up my a*** and tells me what an incredible CV I have. Is Zayn looking at the same CV? It’s limited at best. I dedicate a whole bullet point to being a concise communicator, but ironically it takes me 3 lines of text to sum up just what a concise communicator I am. Zayn is impressed I have been at the same company for so long – he says that will go in my favour, that I am clearly loyal. Poor, naive, Zayn.

To give Zayn some credit he seems genuinely keen to ‘marry my skills with a suitable role’. He lives for corporate talk, he tells me that he will ‘touch base’ with me next week and wondered if I was interested in a ‘chat and chew’ at some point next week. A ‘chat and chew’ sounds like two immigrant children who have arrived at our country with nothing but a dream. Suddenly Zayn gets incredibly excited

“Are you sitting down Stan?” Zayn asks. I am not really sure how to respond. 
“I have just found you the perfect job” he says. 
“Great, what is it?” I ask. 
“A big multinational blue chip…” every job that comes from a recruiters mouth seems to be multinational, and always seem to blue chip. I have no idea what blue chip is? If it is not McCain’s I am just not interested.

“A big multinational blue chip company needs someone experienced to run their canteen” What Zayn has done here, like all recruiters do, is completely ignore my CV, what job I want, what job I can do. Where on my CV does it say I can run a canteen?

“I know this isn’t something you’ve had experience in before but I really think your skills lend their self to this type of role and could imagine you being a big success in this arena” Zayn, oh Zayn. How on earth can fixing a server lend itself to the catering business? He continues to try and sell it to me. Just give it up Zayn.

“Ok, so I can see you’re not that enamoured with that idea. How do you feel about construction?” How do I feel about construction? Zayn’s lost it here. I know you are working on commission man but please! Construction?

“I don’t have any experience Zayn” 
“You don’t need any” replies Zayn. I am just not sure if that is true. Surely the construction industry requires you to be aware of MDF, the ability to handle a hammer. So now I have a problem. I need to get off this call with Zayn. Zayn has my number, I can’t just hang up because the big man will ring and continue to ring, always at the most inappropriate times. Zayn will become obsessed. The decision I have is an obvious one – I have to get a new phone, a new number and be rid of Zayn forever.

Poor Zayn. He is still talking unaware I am about to hang up and chuck my sim in the toilet.

The Gym

Are you that person who ‘checks in’ on Facebook to the Gym? Ask yourself, what has your life become? It’s bad enough that you feel you have to go to ‘Spin’ at 7AM on a Saturday (what’s that about by the way?) but for some reason you need to let us all know that you are at the Gym, doing Spin, at 7AM.

The worst type of person is the Gym person. Those who wear tight exercise clothes and feel the need to flaunt their incredible abs in my face. They drink protein drinks that taste of breast milk that has gone off. They criticise you for not going to the gym, and can’t possibly understand why you might want to sleep instead of ‘Pounding the bike’. They drag their poor partner along to the gates of Hell with them and ensure that their partner also ‘checks in’ on Facebook. All their partner wants to do is sleep and eat chips but the Gym person insists on a house full of rabbit food – nothing but carrots and celery.

The Gym person feels like they then have to take the gym home with them. They feel like they have to do ‘Squat challenges’ and wear an Ab Belt. They update Twitter to let their four followers know that they have just ‘decked a protein shake’ and that it was ‘Rank’ – why drink it then? The Gym person then can’t make social events because they have ‘a class’. The irony is lost on them – they spend the whole life at the gym, presumably to make themselves look better and to give them confidence around strangers and friends but they never bloody see anyone because they no longer go out!

The Gym person forgets about their real friends and has new ones – Gym ones. They all tweet each other about “Who is going Boxercise today”. They do this because they want to make people like me, people who sit in their pants picking their nose day after day, feel guilty. Guilty that I am not paying £80 month to be laden with pain. As tempting as that is I think I’d rather go and throw rocks at my new car.

The Gym person is known for a ‘selfie’ – this is street talk for taking a picture of oneself. They then share this picture with the world. All the time they are looking for validation, someone to say to them “Oh you look good” just so that they can justify what their life has become. A life of shit food, no sleep, constant pain, tired muscles, no social life and a horrendous warped reality. If you give the Gym person that justification then you’ve just given an alcoholic a bottle of Vodka. You’ve fed their sad little addiction. You’re as tragic as them. If you want to become a Gym person then ask yourself where your life went wrong? Why would you want a life of pain and to then be charged £80 for the privilege? You’re better than that.

I am the anti Gym person. I check in to Nandos, I go out and see mates that aren’t virtual and that I’ve seen in non Reebok clothes. I am not scared of a vending machine.

If you are one of those people, a Gym person, you still have to time to actually start living your life. It’s not too late. But if you do start living your life, you don’t need to tell me about it.

Mothers and Technology

Often people say life is to short for regrets. They’re right to an extent but a regret I hold with me, that haunts me, is buying my mother a mobile phone. A Nokia 32-10 to be precise.

My mum and technology of any kind is not a match made in heaven, she still struggles with the mechanical pencil. I remember it vividly, it was Christmas 4 years ago, I’d forgotten to get her a present. I panicked and had a set of tea towels in my hand, as I walked up to the cashier with said tea towels I feared my mothers backlash, even though they were John Lewis tea towels. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a mobile phone deal that John Lewis were proudly displaying. I strolled over, wiped the sweat off my brow with one of the tea towels and I picked up the phone. A grey Nokia 32-10. Stuff it, I’d get it. She loved the homephone and a 3210 was about as advanced Windows Vista.

The next morning she unwrapped it and was very, very excited. Suddenly the griddle pan my dad had bought her looked inept. I agreed to set it up for her and created some contacts me, home, my brother Nick and my other brother Matt. I also put Reney’s number in. And I told her what to do to make calls.

Well that was it – for the rest of Christmas she was off and running. I’d be upstairs trying to enjoy some ‘alone time’ with Emma and I’d get a call. “Your dinner is ready”. My mum was downstairs! Why was she ringing me? She was an addict – always bloody ringing me. She developed some more annoying quirks as well. I’d ring my mum (to let her know when I needed dinner) and the phone would ring and ring until it went to voicemail. Now I knew that the phone was in my mum’s bag. I also knew she could hear it. The issue with my mum is that she didn’t have a compartment – somewhere where she could access the phone quickly. As soon as that phone rung it was like a bomb was about to go off – wherever she was – things would be tossed out the bag. The brolly, the lippy, make up, address book, a scarf – all tossed to the floor. My dad not helping by saying ‘I think your phones ringing Pam’ – my mum would repeat this mistake everyday and just refuse to learn. So I’d then get a call back and she’d say “Can you ring me back cos I have no credit”. My mum knows what credit is – frightening. My mum is the only person left in the UK who still is on pay as you go. Anyway, I’d ring back and she’d say “Did you call?”. What a stupid question – on her phone it clearly says ‘1 missed call Stan’. My mum would sound out of breath because of the frantic search for the phone. The conversation begins, she confirms the dinner is beef and then she drops the bombshell “Will you teach me how to text?”.

Ahh man. This is not good. This is not good at all. I decide to teach her predicted text – I think this will be easier for her to understand. One of my mum’s best friends Kate will have to get ready to be called Late for the rest of her life. My mum does not get texting at all but she loves it. I try to teach her the grammar keys but I may as well be talking to the cat – literally not a clue. She’s off and running on the texting front now – she tries to use text speak – luv Pam x. Two problems with this: 1. She’s an English teacher. 2. Why end it Pam? You’re my mum. I’ve never called you Pam in my life.

It also means I now get drunk texts. She feels the need to send my brothers and I the exact same text even if she is only addressing Matt. “Hello Matt r u ok Tom has got of on the shots luv Pam”. It takes a team of experts to understand what is going on here. First off, I am not Matt yet I have got the text anyway. 2nd, the lack of grammar kills me. 3rd after much time I realise “Tom has got of on the shots” should read “Tom has got me on the shots”. She just hasn’t got the hang of this predicted text lark. Wherever I go, wherever she goes I am getting text after text. I ignore her but she then starts writing ‘tb’ or I’ll get my dad on the homephone ‘did you get your mothers text?”. When I am at home each text she receives is celebrated like she has just won a full house at bingo. She doesn’t know how to add contacts, she only has 5 people in her phone, she doesn’t play snake and she has no contract – the phone is pointless but she loves it. I’ve created a beast. She told me yesterday ‘I want an iPhone and then I can get that Facetwitter thing’. Kill me now.

In short, if struggling for presents for your mother just get her tea towels.

The Interview

The interview. Ah the interview. Where you try and make yourself appear more interesting than what you actually are. Where you lie through your back teeth claiming credit for that new IT system, or that multi million pound idea that you know was Ward’s. Where you shake someone’s hand limply despite practicing the ‘stranglehold’ technique. It is a minefield. And sometimes the mines blow up.

It all started when I put my CV together. I claimed I knew how to develop in Java, was proficient in SQL, was the creator of the Stan Bennett Foundation for Seals and under additional skills ‘could speak German fluently’. I don’t really know why I did this. Well I do, it is because when you are faced with a blank bit of paper and you asked to write what you’ve ever achieved in 2 pages you suddenly realise just how little you’ve done. How much of life you’ve wasted. You realise what an incredibly dull person you really are. It is at this moment you ask ‘why wasn’t I sacked earlier’. you understand why you were single – previous jobs ‘Meat packing assistant (couldn’t even get the managers role)’, ‘Sales assistant for Build a Bear Factory’, ‘Business Analyst’. My word. I don’t even want to speak to me. How boring am I? I couldn’t even write two pages – 16 years of employment and I’ve done nothing except build bears, sell beef, learnt how to spell analyst and figured out how to use a printer. I had to make it more interesting, I wanted a job after all. I initially thought Java was a type of tea but found it is some sort of programming language – I thought ‘why not’, I’d stick it down and see what happened. SQL – I saw a lot of SQL based jobs, thought it wouldn’t do any harm having that little beauty under additional skills. Every employer loves a charity, trouble is I have never done anything in life except play Call of Duty. The idea of helping others, whilst appealing, would mean effort, desire and ambition. Three things that I sorely lack. I thought I could invent a foundation – the Stan Bennett Foundation for Seals. Why seals? I was watching Blue Planet at the time. Next up the foreign language – now I remembered how to say ‘In Southend, there are water sports opportunities’ – I learned this for my GCSE German Oral. I failed. I thought though that it could be kind of neat to put on the CV, another string to their proverbial bow.

CV written I hunted down a job. I found one. It was a contracting job for a ‘Business Analyst’. That was all it said – no real information as to what skills were required, what I was expected to do, who I’d be working for. It did say I’d earn £400 a day – perfect.

The interview was at 11am with a man named Alan. I sat in the lobby of this company, reading The Times. This may have been the first time I had read a newspaper in my life. Alan approached me and stuck out his hand. My hand was dripping. I was, what the kids say, ‘beading’. Sweating. Badly. I shook Alan’s hand and such was the build up of sweat my hand slid off his. An awful start. We went in to this little room where Alan sat me down.

“So, why do you want the job, shoot?” Alan said. I started cracking up. I know I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it. I’d watched the Office the night before and Alan was David Brent. A small tubby man who used the word ‘shoot’. “What’s funny” said a surprised Alan. This was not a good start. Not good at all. I managed to awkwardly get through the question, I think – threw out all the classics – I’ve always wanted to work here bla bla bla.

Question 2. “So, I see you come from an extensive SQL and Java base. Do you know any PHP or are your skills just with SQL? Also, what do you make of JQuery?”. Oh. My. God. PHP? What the hell is that? Sounds a bit like something a woman goes through later on in her life but I doubt it is that? JQuery? Is that a person? As in first name Jay surname Query? I gambled.

“My skills don’t extend to PHP. As for JQuery, he is ok, I know he has a bad reputation but I think he is a good guy”. I say smugly.

Alan sits there. Silence. Utter silence.

I casually sip my water, lean back and….fall off my chair.

Alan, completely and utterly bewildered by our exchange asks me question 3. “So, I see you have created your own foundation. That is very impressive. Tell me, what does the foundation do? How much money is raised? Do you have any volunteers? Oh, and why Seals?”. Now, I should of prepared myself for this. If you write down that you created your own charity foundation there is a high chance that they will ask you about it. Alas, I didn’t prepare. I watched Blue Planet, saw a cute seal and the rest was history…

“Firstly, thank you. So the foundation (thinking completely on my feet) takes in wild seals who have been injured by oil tanker spillages (an unbelievable cover from me, even I believed me). We are a team of 4 and rely on donations from Joe Public (yes I used the phrase ‘Joe Public’). Why Seals? That’s a fair question (buying myself time). I guess it goes back to when my granddad and I (I have never seen my granddad – he died before I was born) went to Tilbury (never been), the Thames, and saw the damage the oil had done to the Seals that were there in the water”. I was now beyond smug.

“Tilbury. There are seals in Tilbury?” Alan says.

“Erm….Yes, mainly white ones” what on earth was I saying.

Cue more silence.

Finally, the last question.

“Eine große Anzahl von Ihren Aufgaben wird es sein, ein Team im Ausland zu verwalten. Bist du in Ordnung mit diesem?” said Alan.

“Pardon” says me.

I thought I’d ask you one question in German, see how good you are “Eine große Anzahl von Ihren Aufgaben wird es sein, ein Team im Ausland zu verwalten. Bist du in Ordnung mit diesem?”.

Oh my.

Pause.

Long Pause.

“Ich wasse sportmoglichkeiten ins Southend ja”.

“You have just told me there ar

e water sports opportunities in Southend. I asked if you were comfortable running a team based abroad. Your response was that there are water sports opportunities in Southend.”

Silence.

“I’ll get my coat” I say. By this time Alan has left.

Never lie on a CV…

Idiots and Aeroplanes

What an invention the aeroplane is. The main reason the invention, for me, is one of the greatest ever is because it has led to some of the truly great moments in life. By great moments I obviously mean stupid moments. So stupid that it actually hurts me.

The invention of the aeroplane has also meant the invention of people having to ask stupid, stupid questions. I arrive at the desk to check in. I am asked by the lady behind the desk ‘Has anyone packed anything without your knowledge?”. Every time I want to say something. Every time I want to say do you not realise what you asking me? This is a trick question. I don’t see how the answer to this question can ever be yes. How do I know if someone has packed something without my knowledge? The very fact I do not have knowledge on this means that I do not know if someone has packed something – the clue is in the question! The next question is ‘Please look at the card, have you packed any of those items’. The card shows me, what I think is the instruction manual to Call of Duty – grenades, knives, guns and rocket launchers. I would love to know the amount of people, who have every intention of bringing mass carnage to the airport, go ‘oh you know what – you’ve got me. I was going to blow up the airport but my mother always told me not to lie so here, have my grenades”.

The aeroplane has been directly responsible for the baggage allowance rule. This really is a beauty. You are told you have either a 20kg limit or a bag size limit. I have never understood this. I often get on planes with clinically obese people – if there is no weight limit on people why place them on bags? Would I be allowed to wear every item of clothing I own on to the plane – the baggage allowance does not make this clear. The aeroplane is directly responsible for one fifth of today’s rows and these all stem from baggage allowance. Your mum or girlfriend will always, without fail, be over the limit. The way you know this – you do the pre weigh. Before you go to the airport you are plagued by fear that you’re over. You dust off the scales and you weigh the bags. However you have electronic scales which makes the weighing of the bag hard. You therefore weigh yourself without the bag. You then hold the bag and get back on the scales. You then work out the difference between the two weights. The first row that ensues is around the maths used that has meant that the wife is 1KG over. Once that row has concluded the wife has to decide which item(s) to leave behind. She looks at your case and wonders if she can place items in there – you obviously say no because you are a man and you are stubborn and you’ve got your case organised – you don’t want someone else’s items in there messing up your system. So the task begins – which of the 17 dresses will be left behind for the 4 day break to Bruges?

You’ve flown budget airline – you can’t afford anything more. That is fine. The problem with that though is that everyone patiently sits waiting for all of 3 seconds. All it takes is a twitch. The old man near the gate to decide he needs a leak. The old man gets up to go to toilet and sets off a chain reaction resembling dominoes. Suddenly everyone stands to attention. Gate 23 becomes a warzone. Bodies get trampled over. The desire to have a good slot in the line never ceases to amaze me. Budget airlines all have the same seats – one seat is not better than the other. Yet people will stand for hours to keep their place in the line. Yes they get on the plane quicker but it isn’t leaving without me. You’re just on the plane longer.

Finally, the aeroplane is home of the most ridiculous instruction. I get on to my budget plane. I have my ticket in hand. I look left and see hundreds of seats. I look right and see the pilots cabin. Yet amazingly they employ an air steward or air stewardess to stand at the front of the plane, to take your ticket from you, who then instructs you ‘Yes it is just down there sir’. I mean, I would never have worked that out! It would be amazing if you remove this function – what would happen? Would people suddenly not be able to find their seats?

I could go on and on. I haven’t even looked at arriving at the airport two hours early (I just don’t understand why people do that!). I haven’t mentioned that despite it being 6AM you will, without fail, have a steak from Garfunkles – the official sponsor of the airport. I haven’t mentioned that Tie Rack only seems to exist in airports.

The aeroplane is a great invention – it has created people to behave like buffoons.

Rex the Cat

My girlfriend is dangerously close to her cats. I am all for pets, I do get that they are ‘companions’ but at times a love of ones cat can turn into obsession. You know it is going that way when she puts you on the phone to little Rexy. At this point I find it difficult to know what to say. There I am, in an important meeting, my girlfriend rings me to say that someone needs to speak to me and then I hear Rex. What do I say? What do I do? If I speak back I am a buffoon but if I don’t crazy cat lady will get annoyed. If I speak back in a stupid little cute voice then members of my team will destroy me. If I don’t crazy cat lady will get annoyed. I also get excited when I receive a picture from the girlfriend. Instantly I am thinking good things – she is in the ‘mood’. But instead of sending you dirty pictures she sends you a picture of Rex. This happens every single day. The only difference between the pictures is that Rex is ‘pulling a face’ or looking particularly cute that day. When Christmas arrives she dresses Rexy up in a Santa outfit and buys Rex a card and present. She speaks to Rex on a daily basis. Gets annoyed with Rex. Kisses Rex and sleeps with Rex. Rex is a hugely important part of her life. Rex is also the family cat – a cat that has grown up with the kids that the mum and dad adore.

One week ago disaster struck. Rex died. The way he died was amusing though – he got into the washing machine and had to withstand a quick spin dry, alas Rexy didn’t make it. Ok that is a little harsh. The family were distraught. Distraught. They’d murdered Rex. Actually, my girlfriend – who was washing her smalls – had murdered Rex. The family cat. Gone. And for what? Yes the stain came out of the knickers but was it really worth Rex’s life?

I woke up last week without a cat picture, without a phone call. I did however get an envelope come through the door. I walked over, cornflakes in hand, not literally – I don’t eat cornflakes one by one, they were in a bowl. “Stan” read the envelope. I opened it and I kid you not this is what confronted me:

“Stan, you are hereby cordially invited to the funeral of ‘Rex’. The service will take place at midday February 17. The mourners are asked to arrive at the Watsons family residence at 11.30. We will travel to the cemetery together”.

Cornflakes suddenly littered the floor like tiny Rabbit droppings litter a hutch. I could not take in what I had just received. Was this for real? I studied it more carefully – ‘the funeral of Rex’ – does this mean someone will speak and honour Rex’s life? ‘The service’ – is there going to music and a reading? ‘The mourners’ – hang on? Who the hell is going to this? It is a cat. A cat. “We will travel to the cemetery together” where will Rex be? Surely there is not going to be a car and an undertaker? I ring Emma up “Erm, hey Em.” She is crying “I was just wondering. The invitation that arrived this morning”…Emma interupts “Make sure you wear your best suit. It is what Rex would have wanted”. A cornflake gets lodged in my windpipe. Unable to breath I hang up. Who am I with? What is this family? What is going on?!

The 17th arrives. Emma is getting me changed and fastening my thin black tie (newly bought by her). We walk over to the Watsons residence. I am still stunned. Stunned. Outside the house is a black vehicle, long and thing – it is a hearse. There is then a heart shaped coffin with a floral arrangement that says ‘Rexy’. Two men are dressed up in top hat and tails. I look around at all the people – all 12 of them. I look at the two ‘undertakers’. I cannot understand why no one is laughing? What is going on? Is this actually happening? The mum, Val, is in floods of tears. Malcolm hugs her. One of the undertakers gets into the car. The other strides out in front of the car. We are to walk behind the car down to the pet cemetery. I am still open mouthed. Unable to comprehend what is happening. I am half expecting someone from the street to shout out ‘MURDERER” to my girlfriend such is the stupidityof the situation.

Everyone is acting like this is the most normal thing in the world. We make our way to “Heavenly Paws” cemetery. The sign reads “Because we know how much you care”. They are as stupid as the Watsons. A man appears and helps the undertakers take the casket. I look around and there are hundreds and hundreds of headstones “Barney. You were my world. I can’t believe you’ve gone. You weren’t just a fish you were a friend.”. “Jean Claude, you were my best friend in the world. Doggy heaven is lucky to have you”. I stand there speechless. Completely without speech. Picture the scene. I am surrounded by hundreds of headstones – all of them for pets, I am standing with 12 other people who are all wearing black, 2 undertakers, a chief mourner, a casket in the shape of a heart, a crying mother and all of this is happening because Rex couldn’t handle a spin dry.

You think I am joking don’t you? Heavenlypaws.co.uk – ironically their website currently says “Please note: We are at present unable to accept any deceased pets…” Surely that is a bit of a killer to the business. Maybe time to fire the MD Heavenly Paws?

Rex was laid to rest on February 17. He leaves behind a family of 5. Emma is currently on bail for manslaughter. Val was last seen buying rope. Me? I am currently walking back from the cemetery. Apparently I laughed during the service so I needed to apologise to Rex. Rex the dead cat.

Rest in Peace Nathan

My granddad always used to buy a Big Issue when he was alive. Homelessness and the charities they sparked was a cause that he felt strongly about. I’d always wondered why but now I get it. I get it big time.

The City of London is home to some incredibly wealthy people. People who earn sums of money that I can’t even count to. It is home to bankers, brokers, big buildings and Italian suits. It is also home to Nathan. Sorry, scrap that, it was home to Nathan.

Nathan was a Big Issue Vendor. Now for those of you who don’t know what The Big Issue is – it is a great publication founded by John Bird. It is a hand up and not a hand out. The street vendors buy the magazines for £1.25 and then sell them for £2.50 – they keep the difference and are empowered to spend it on what they want.

Now Nathan had a pitch outside a Starbucks near the Bank of England ‘the Square Mile’. Nathan was abandoned by his parents when he was 3. They’d had enough. They fucked off and left him. They left a 3 year old in a house by himself. For four days Nathan screamed and screamed…and screamed, until finally his screams were heard. Nathan was put through foster care and by the time Nathan was 16 he had been through 9 different foster homes. Nathan had had in that time 4 cracked ribs, a collapsed lung and a broken nose. Playing football? Nope. He suffered these injuries from the very people who promised to be his guardians.

When he was 16 Nathan ran. He ran as far away as he could. No education to speak of, no family, no money. Worse than any of this he had, what he thought, no hope. Every child deserves the right to be loved, to love and to be master of his or her dreams. Nathan was never loved. He never was allowed the chance to love. His life was survival. His dreams consisted of survival. If he allowed himself to dream of a world where he was accepted, was loved and where he was seen as a good man then his reality would have suddenly become too bleak for him to continue to want to survive. He could not afford to dream. To me, there is nothing worse in this world than a child feeling that they cannot dream. So at 16, Nathan, found himself alone, again, in anew city–London.

He begged for money, he got into drugs, he got into alcohol. Who the fuck can blame him? These things offered him an escape, an escape from his shocking reality. Whenever I give money to a homeless person my friends always say the same thing ‘They’re only going to spend it on booze or drugs’. My reply is always the same ‘Good. I hope they do’. This may seem a strange response but these people, who are without homes, who live in absolute poverty are deeply unhappy people. If for one moment a sip of lager or the smoking of a joint makes them happy then so be it. Who am I to judge? I have not walked a mile in their shoes. I don’t know how they are feeling. If this makes them happy for the briefest of moments then good. Yes I would prefer them to buy a tea, or to save it for a hot meal but when I hand over that money I am telling them to go do whatever it is that can make their day just that little bit more bearable. I then hope that they can find the courage, the wisdom, to see that drugs and alcohol are not the answers to their problems.

When my granddad died he said he wanted a bench in memory of him. Now this was not for him. My granddad was a canny soul and he knew that a bench to a homeless man is a good nights sleep. My granddad deliberately told us a nice park he wanted the bench to go in. This park was near his Big Issue seller. My granddad felt he could give this man a good night’s sleep. Whenever I go to his bench and I see a homeless man asleep on it I am pleased. It has served its purpose.

The Big Issue is a wonderful foundation because not only does it make those on the streets entrepreneurs it also gives these guys a purpose and more importantly than any of that it gives them hope. Hope that is generated when people not only give them money but give them their time. Those people who take an interest in what their past is. Those who speak to them to find out what they want their future to be. You can’t get rid of poverty by giving people money. Nor can you quit poverty.

Ask yourself how often you walk past a vendor or a homeless person in the street. It takes a minute of your day to change that person’s day completely. A ‘Good Morning’, a ‘how are you’ or a couple of teas and a chat and suddenly that person’s day is immeasurably better. Just how your day is made better by random acts of kindness, so is theirs. Remember, a rich man is just a poor man with money.

How do I know that my granddad was right? Why am I writing this blog post? I went to Starbucks at the start of the week, by the Bank of England and Nathan was not there. I walked 500 yards to the next vendor and I asked him “Hey, do you know where Nathan is – the guy who works outside of Starbucks”, his response will haunt me forever “Nathan froze to death last night”…

We are now in 2012, it is unacceptable that this happens. There are countless reasons why someone is homeless. There are those that think some deserve it. Even if this is true, which I will always dispute, what someone can’t argue is the freezing to death of a 17 year old boy who simply had no hope is totally wrong. There are many things we do well but I am afraid looking after those that are vulnerable is something that we just do not get. Nathan didn’t need our money. He needed our time. He needed our love. He needed hope. I was told he froze to death but I am absolutely convinced that Nathan just gave up.  He froze to death in a city whose riches knows no bounds. But more importantly, he froze to death in a packed city all alone.  If I am right, and he did give up, who the fuck can blame him.

‘The poverty of our century is unlike that of any other.  It is not, as poverty was before, the result of natural scarcity, but of a set of priorities imposed upon the rest of the world by the rich.  Consequently, the modern poor are not pitied…but written off as trash.  The twentieth-century consumer economy has produced the first culture for which a beggar is a reminder of nothing.’ Shame on us.

The minefield of dating…

Being a man entering into a relationship is a very funny experience.

Before you enter the relationship you (the man) have to ‘see’ the girl for a while. I have never really understood the term ‘seeing’ each other; but nonetheless that is the industry standard phrase – who am I to argue? The ‘seeing’ phase is fraught with danger. It starts from how long you take to text back. There are no rules on this subject – the girls dictate what happens here. You don’t want to appear too keen, you don’t want to appear disinterested. You text her back after 5 minutes then I think it is universally accepted that that is game over. You text her back after 24 hours and what was the fucking point in her asking you ‘cinema tonight’ – the cinema has been and gone.

Then there are questions and kisses to consider. You obviously have to ask one question otherwise you are risking her not texting back but you don’t want to ask her more questions than Jeremy Paxman because you may as well accept you will be alone with just your sock for company. Then there is a minefield of ‘kisses’ – no kisses makes you seem cold, one kiss and your unimaginative, two kisses is bold and three or more just equals sock. The problem I have for this whole ‘seeing’ phase and the text message rules is that I couldn’t give two shits. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t know the rules. I pretend I know the rules, I pretend that I understand but I don’t nor do I want to play this stupid, stupid game, that you insist we play. Explain to me why you text me, I text you back after 20 minutes, you text me back instantly asking me a follow up question and then I (wrongly apparently) think this is a perfectly acceptable time to text you straight back with a question for you for you to only take 27 hours to reply. Your phone could not have disappeared. Was this a game? Was this some sort of test? What you’ve now done is place doubt in mind – am I supposed to take 27 hours to then reply. Also whilst we’re there – why mix your kisses – stick at one and help me, don’t lose the kiss after I take 27 hours to reply.

Once we’ve got the texting charade over with we meet. Now I normally would take this as a good sign. We’ve texted for 3 weeks. We’ve lived out a relationship via text. I’ve followed all the rules and text back at appropriate times, asked a sensible number of questions and stuck to one kiss throughout the texts. I am within my right to think this is a date. We have a great night. You talk to me about starsigns and what Aquarius’ are like in bed based on the zodiac signs (zodiac signs that I have entertained all night in the hope of at least a goodbye kiss). This to me is a clear sign you’re into me. You know what you’re doing here but this is another test isn’t it? When we say goodbye at the train station you want to see me suffer, sweat and struggle as I don’t know whether to high five you, kiss you on the cheek, shake your hand or pull your face off. The starsign conversation makes me think you want the latter but then you don’t do anything. You stand there. Ice cold. You make me make the move. Trying to read you is like trying to know what the final two cards the ‘devilfish’ has in the World Series – I can’t read women. When will you realise this. I crack a joke – humour is all I have in this situation. I feign interest about your train home and talk bollocks about ‘oh you’re going to get home late, sorry’. I am not sorry – I am just looking for a sign, anything, that you want something more than a high five. You remain unmoved like Stonehenge. I then go for a kiss on the cheek – I kind of hope it could lead into a kiss on the lips and sure enough it does. Did you orchestrate that kiss on the lips – did you want a pull or was you going for the other cheek and we just kind of met in the middle? This is what you do to me! I leave not knowing if I was on a date, not knowing if you like me, not knowing if I have just had a genuine first kiss.

I get off the tube and see I have two messages both from you. The second one suggests you would like to do this again – now I KNOW this is a good sign. In my excitement I text you back instantly (forgetting the rules) and suggest the weekend. No text back. Back to the stupid texting games – you just sent me a text woman! Your phone is right there! You respond, a day later, saying you can’t do that weekend – no reason is given. This, by the way, makes us guys feel immense. This is yet another test. You want to see me. I want to see you. But seeing each other is too easy isn’t it? Instead you want to test me to see just how much I want to see you so you turn me down and then see if I ask again. Because I am pathetic I will keep asking until you say yes. I date by erosion – I ware you down. I ware you down to the point of a relationship.

That conversation is a nightmare. There is no rulebook – you don’t just glide into a relationship. You have to have ‘the chat’ and you’re not legally in a relationship until you change your Facebook relationship status. The best trick I have learned is to get the girl pissed and then ask her if we’re together. If she says no then hopefully she won’t remember in the morning cos she is that battered. If she says yes she’ll send you a soppy message at that time which she will then look at it in the morning, remember what she has said, freak out and then accept there is no way out – relationship by default. A relationship is a whole new game, I thought the last games rules were bizarre – these new rules are gold!

First, and maybe my favourite. Girl “What’s wrong” Boy “Nothing” Girl “I don’t believe you. Tell me”. There’s genuinely nothing wrong except whilst we’ve been having this conversation I’ve missed the United goal. For some reason though you are unwilling to believe there is nothing wrong. One of two things now happen – either you go quiet or, me knowing this, I make up a fake explanation as to what is wrong. “Oh yeh, no sorry I just had a shit day at work”. I didn’t have shit day at work. I got promoted today at work. But knowing that you think I am quiet and something is wrong it is easier for me to lie than to either persuade you otherwise or to put up with the painful silence and tutting for the rest of the night.

Second, and again following on the mistrust lines “Your friends are going to hate me aren’t they?” – and now there are no words in my vocabulary it seems that can persuade you my mates will in fact like you. I use reasoned debate, I even make up that big John says hello and that he can’t wait to meet you. Big John doesn’t give a shit! Boy’s mates are simple folk – you buy them a lager and suddenly you are family. It is that simple.

Third, apparently I am not allowed to see you without makeup? This is very strange to me. Given that we’re together I try and persuade you that I am not going to break up with you if I see your face naked. Men behave the exact opposite way – we try and impress you before we get you but once we’ve snared you daily showers becomes thrice weekly showers, pounds get piled on and it is likely we will burp. Embrace it. That’s why we went through the agony of ‘seeing’ each other – so that we could look hideous together and not care.

Fourth, daily night phone calls. This is very bizarre. As soon as we sign on the dotted facebook relationship line we suddenly up the phonecall frequency. I am not good on a phone. Let’s leave it to text. I’ll text you back after 27 hours…honest.