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.

A blokes Christmas…

Christmas. Christmas is an awful, awful, time to be a man. The amount of stress we have to endure, for that 3 week period, makes me not want to have a penis.

It starts on around the first weekend of December. The first ‘list’ gets generated. You scan the list and it instantly fills you with dread:

“Mum, Dad, Stan’s mum, Stan’s dad, Stan, Stan’s friends – Matt, Paul and Tom, crackers, tree, wrapping paper, sellotape, scissors, tags, pen, turkey, pigs in blankets, stuffing, gravy granules, nibbles, mini chedders, haribo for Stan’s nephew, turkey, candles, candle holders, seasonal table cloth, Michael Buble CD for the meal, Articulate, novelty reindeer, tinsel, dancing Santa, Christmas cards, arrange with Stan’s parents when they are to come round….”

The list unbelievably goes on.

If I quickly analyse this list a few thinks immediately jump out. She is buying my parents presents – thus meaning I have to buy her parents something. She is buying my friends presents – thus meaning I have to buy her friends something. Instantly a wave of nausea passes through me. Buying future in laws something is a task that does not sit well with me. I am so concerned I will buy something wildly inappropriate for the mum and I know literally nothing about the dad and will inevitably get him something he just doesn’t want. Emma has already told me she is not spending much on parents but I know her present will be incredibly thoughtful. I wouldn’t put it past her to even end up making something for my parents – something like a photoalbum full of ‘moments from this year’. This will then in turn put me firmly under the microscope and when I produce the ‘Duff Beer’ novelty slippers for her mum I know the icy look that will meet me from across the room.

For the second time this year I have to buy a present for my girlfriend. She doesn’t tell me what she wants, oh no, that’s far too easy. Instead she replies ‘Stan, I am so easy to buy for! I will love whatever you get me’. First, and please take note, us men have literally no idea what to buy women. Like literally no idea. Second, do not pretend you will love what ever we get you. We know, when we produce the lightsaber that we bought for you so we can have battles in the living room on Christmas morning, a little bit of you will die. We know that when we guess your size and go for a 14 that you will leave your turkey and be annoyed at us for the rest of the day. We know that when we buy Blade on DVD you secretly want to throw it at us. Help us help you.

A further scan of the list and you can see the workings of the woman’s mind.

“Crackers” now I know Emma well enough to know that she doesn’t mean ‘buy’ crackers. Oh no. Emma is one of those people, those strange strange creatures, that on December the 26th get up at 5am to hit BHS to buy her crackers at half price. This in itself is something I will never understand – as if the sheer torment of shopping for the last 3 weeks was not punishing enough – she decides to hit the shops again. However the kicker for me is that Emma will buy the crackers at 50% off and then have absolutely no idea, come Christmas time, where she has put her 50% crackers. Emma will then ask me – an innocent bystander – where they are! When I do not know where she has put the crackers Emma gets annoyed at me and then orders ME to go out and buy some more. This happens every Christmas. If I take the initiative and suggest we not buy crackers on December 26th then I am told in no uncertain terms ‘Do you know how much money I have spent on Christmas this year? I cannot spend that again next year.’ Sheer buffoonery.

“Tree” ah this is a good one. Emma wants a real one. Why do people feel the need to go the ‘extra mile’ and buy a real Christmas tree? All they do is buy a real tree and then complain for 3 weeks about pine needles. Also the tree seems to be going up earlier and earlier. I used to put it up with my folks 2 weeks before Christmas. We would just have a laugh and throw on tinsel, from long distance, and decorate it with horrendously tacky decorations. Not now though. Now I am a ‘grown up’ we have to have a designer tree. Our tinsel colours have to compliment. Tacky tree decorations are replaced with expensive ones from John Lewis. Suddenly Christmas is not about fun but outdoing Joan from number 34 and having a tree whose lights can be switched on from any room in the building. One tree is also not enough – the conservatory gets one and the dining room gets a mini one. Sure it does.

Moving on “wrapping paper, sellotape, scissors, tags and a pen”. This is beautiful for so many reasons. First, and most important, we already have selloptape, scissors and a pen. For some reason Christmas arrives and mass panic ensues and suddenly we worry the pen will run out of ink, the sellotape over the last year has lost it’s stickiness and the scissors are for some reason now unable to perform their function. What I also like about this part of the list is that Emma will 100% go to the “Everything Christmas shop”. Every high street seems to have one of these. Sometime, late November, a shop selling nothing but crap opens up. Its range includes football based calendars to budget tinsel. The shop is a total mess. The people who work in the shop look like they have stared in ‘I am Sam’. Yet incredibly the shop is rammed. You cannot move. Crazed shoppers from all over Southend are packed into this small space desperately trying to buy the last ‘Chelsea alarm clock’ or the calendar of ‘cute dogs’. This place is the pits. I was in the queue, buying scissors and tags, when a man in front of me received his receipt ‘£126’. This man had done the whole of the Christmas shop from the shop of crap. I felt for him, a fallen comrade. Someone who had clearly so little idea as to what to get the family and the wife that he thought the shop of crap could save his Christmas. For a fleeting moment he seemed genuinely proud and then he scanned his bags, studied for a second what he had bought, and saw the Justin Bieber hot water bottle – the best of his gifts – staring back at him. I wanted to offer a shoulder of condolence.

The next part of the list is for the day itself. The food and the table decorations. Buying a turkey should be an Olympic event. The amount of planning that goes in to that one transaction is quite unbelievable. I am given my orders – I have to drive my mum and Auntie to Marks and Spencer (Christmas’ unofficial sponsor) Thursday morning – exactly 3 days before Christmas. I am to cancel any plans I have that day and I am also expected to book a day’s holiday from work to ensure the successful negotiation of the bird. I am told to remain in the car in case M&S do not have the bird and we have to race across town to Tesco. This day will always remain the one I dread the most. Crazed women literally running down the meat aisle with only one thing in mind. They don’t care who they knock over in the process, they will get their carcass. It is one event that sadly David Attenborough has failed to capture.

“Candles, candle holders, Michael Buble and Articulate”. This to me sums up Christmas. At what point in the year do you ever whip the candles out for Auntie Val? Why, amidst sheer carnage, do we think anyone will listen to Michael Buble? And why do we have to play truly God awful board games. Just let me watch TV. For 354 days a year we never play board games – there is a reason for that. Board games are poor peoples’ computer games. Why then on December 25th am I trying to act out “Silence of the Lambs” by gnawing on Val’s neck? Why, more importantly, is Emma’s mum LOSING it at me for not being able to guess ‘Titanic’? Relationships can completely break down over the playing of board games.

So that to me is Christmas. It is a time full of dread, full of crazy people who have suddenly become irrational and hate fuelled. We wouldn’t change it though would we?

Gary Speed was not selfish, we are.

I read a comment that said by taking his own life Gary Speed was a selfish man. This, in my opinion, is such an ignorant comment. A comment that is baseless. A comment that perfectly encapsulates people’s pre conceptions about depression.

Gary Speed was a rare man in football, he was universally liked. No matter who you followed there would be few who would say a bad word about Gary Speed. It is not often football is united but yesterday it was, it was united in grief. Gary Speed, 42, had taken his own life.

Gary Speed’s football career may not be well known to you. However, only two players have played more Premier League games than Gary Speed. Gary Speed scored in every season he played. Gary Speed is a league winner, an international captain, and an international manager. He was these things because he was exceedingly good at what he did. The tributes that have been paid all make mention of his career as a footballer but the tributes centre around Speed as a person. No one has been more respected in football than the late Bobby Robson and Robson once remarked ‘He is one of the best of the best. He and Alan Shearer are the finest role models you will find in football’.

Gary Speed seemed ‘from the outside’ to be a happy man, a balanced man. A wonderful father and a loving husband. He appeared on football focus yesterday and gave no indication of what he was about to do some 12 hours later.

Now I don’t know if Gary Speed was depressed. But for Gary Speed to take the action that he did he must have been, at that moment, totally consumed by depressive thoughts. Depression is a disease. A disease that ravages the mind like cancer destroys the body.

There are those that will always harbour the opinion ‘just get on with it’. I would be amazed if you have not met someone with depression. Someone, who seems incredibly happy, gregarious, care free and trouble free. Someone can possess these wonderful qualities but that same person may be suffering, suffering in a way you and I could never imagine. One such person is the comic Rob Delaney ‘The first thing I did each morning was vomit. My mind played one thought over and over, which was kill yourself. It was also accompanied by a constant, thrumming pain that I felt through my whole body. I describe the physical symptoms because it helps to understand that real depression isn’t just a “mood”.’

Rob Delaney has tried to kill himself twice. Rob Delaney survived. “It can be survived. And after the stabilisation process, which can be and often is f***** terrifying, a happy productive life is possible and statistically likely. Get help. Don’t think. Get help’.

Was Gary Speed selfish? Gary Speed, for that moment at least, was riddled with depression. Gary Speed was not selfish, Gary Speed was helpless, alone and at that moment a victim of a heinous disease. A disease that is woefully misunderstood, and a disease that can leave a family without a husband, without a father.

Gary Speed’s tragic death has reopened the ‘Mental Health issue’, how we, society, deal with it. How we can help, how we can spot signs, how we can ensure people are not suffering in silence. It has taken the death of a universally respected man to raise much needed awareness. The only selfish thing I can see that has happened is that it has taken a death of a husband and a father for the public to start treating this issue with the respect it deserves.

The Caravan Holiday

The Caravan holiday
 
So I have got a new girlfriend, yes Stan Bennett has himself a woman and yes that is a pig flying outside your window. She’s ok, not great but she is what she is. Just a decent 4 out of 10. She knows that and she knows I know that. She accepts she can’t compete with the big players, the ‘Kelly Dyson’s’ of this world. She will never be at that level. She dresses ok, hasn’t got much in the chest department and I will be the first to admit that she has a fair sized hooter. This Gonz was huge but then I have an abnormal wart on my face so if she was willing to let that go then I could get on with the Schnoz. I reminded myself to watch out for compulsive lying. Why was I with her I hear you scream (I don’t think one single person who is reading this has screamed “Why was I with her”). I had bounced from date to date, each of them worse than the next. I was at a point in my life where if she breathes I was interested, very interested.
 
I met Mary (she has a dull name) in a bar. She ordered some nuts, I thought she said something else, I cracked a vaguely decent gag, she didn’t understand it, I explained it and two weeks later I am going caravanning with her deaf dad Derek and her dumb ugly mum Susan (NEVER shorten it to Sue).
 
Now I don’t mind the odd caravan holiday but Deaf and Dummer do it literally every 2 weeks. That’s fine I hear you say (again you haven’t said anything) and normally it would be fine but they go to the same spot in Scotland every 2 weeks. They live in Essex. They drive, with a caravan towed to the back, to Scotland every 2 weeks. This gives some insight into the calibre of Mary’s family. Blessed with intelligence they are not. Still who am I to judge? I once pissed my pants on a dare so I can hardly hold myself up as a beacon of how one should live their life.
 
We arrive in bonny Scotland, I have never understood the meaning of the word bonny but I persist in using it. Derek hooks up the caravan next to an almost identical caravan that contain the Hurst family. I would love to see Mary’s family go up against the Hurst’s in a game of Family Fortunes. My word, there was not a brain cell between them. You could rub them together and no spark would appear. Still they were amiable enough, if incredibly dense. The mum was a better looking version of Mary, I instantly regretted telling Mary this. She didn’t speak to me for the next 3 hours. I just wished it could be longer…dull cow.
 
The evening closed in and soon it was Mary, dumb and dumber and I in the caravan. We started talking about me, they wanted to know what I did, what my intentions to their daughter was, whether I was viable as a husband and father and whether the rumours of my dad and the old lady across the road were true? I was taken a back at the level of scrutiny!
 
They wanted to know what I did? Every bit of me wanted to say I was a hentai porn artist but I stopped myself ‘I work in an office’ I pathetically said.
 
Let me remind you that I met Mary Queen of Scots only 2 weeks ago and they have the audacity to ask me what my intentions are? My intentions?! I presumed a ‘cheeky finger’ would not be the best answer I could give in this situation so I uttered the response “Friendship”. What a complete Gaylord (a word that I am trying to bring back).
 
Was I viable husband and father? Surely they are on the wind up! Derek do I look like a viable husband and father? Just three weeks ago I ate dog shit for a bet. Just a week before that I decided to see if I could survive a week on nothing but Petis Filious yoghurts (and yes I could). Then just two weeks before that I babysat my best friends son and ended up accidently giving him a White Russian instead of his bottle. So Deaf Derek, what do you think? “Yes, yes I think I would be an excellent father” I loathe myself.
 
Finally, are the rumours about my dad and the old lady true? Well for a start forensics found nothing conclusive. She also had many a suitor who would want to push her down those stairs. And finally my dad is in Thailand and I haven’t been able to get hold of him to check. So Derek, you can stick your rumours up your arse. “No nothing in them. People just gossiping, horrible isn’t it?”
 
The night has drawn to a close and I have every intention of sealing the deal with Mary tonight. As I was helping her to pack her bag I saw a tub marked ‘Pleasure Gel’. I made a mental note as to which compartment of her bag she packed it in and I had every intention of spreading the gel on to her lumpy body like you would butter on toast. Before I gave her the best night of her life though, I had to go to the little caravan shop to buy a tooth brush. I certainly wasn’t going down to breakfast tomorrow knowing what we were going to get up to without having minty fresh breath. I foolishly left my glasses in the caravan and realised as I got outside that I could see fuck all. Still it was a quick dart over the road, buy the goods and a quick dart back.
 
As I headed back, with my newly purchased ‘Aquafresh red doubled striped plaque attack’ in my pocket, I became slightly disorientated. I desperately needed my glasses but they were in the caravan. I eventually found our caravan and stumbled up the stairs. I was ready to give Mary the night of her life. I had to first negotiate the pitch black caravan. Deaf Derek has eyes like bats and is unwilling to budge on the no lights after 10 rule.
 
I eventually get into our room, I strip down to just my Batman boxers. I kiss my left gun, I know I am ready. This is it, this is showtime. I climb into bed, the left hand side (Mary can only sleep on the left as the way she sleeps means her nose prevents her from sleeping on the right). I crawl in, I whisper “Are you ready, where’s the pleasure gel?” I then start slowly kissing her on the neck. What happens next will haunt me for the rest of my days…
 
“Excuse me. What are you doing to my wife?” said Mr Hurst. I was in the wrong fucking caravan. I was kissing Older but Fitter Mary. Older but Fitter Mary has a huge smile on her face. The lights come on. Mr Hurst is no longer so polite – he swings for me, I duck. Their two children come running in screaming and crying to be confronted by a semi naked man wearing nothing but Batman boxers. Older but Fitter Mary says “What’s pleasure Gel?” Hursty doesn’t look too impressed with that comment. Deaf Derek starts smacking the side of the caravan “What is going in there” – maybe he is not as deaf as I first thought. Hursty replies, “It’s your daughters boyfriend, he has just got it on with my wife”. Technically Hursty I only ‘tried’ to get it on with his wife. Focus Stan. Now is not the time for technicalities. The children are now asking what Pleasure Gel is.
 
Deaf Derek walks in. Looks at me in my Batman Boxers. Looks at Hursty, Older but Fitter Mary and the children. Then looks at me again. He scratches his crotch, which I found very strange given the circumstances. He took a deep breath and then said…
 
“Just like your father aren’t you…Pathetic”
 
I was not standing for that…
 
“I tell you what is Pathetic DEREK. What is pathetic is how ugly your daughter is. What is pathetic is how thick Sue, (yes I shortened it from Susan) is. What is pathetic is what a fucking ridiculous excuse for a family you have.”
 
“Pardon” said Derek. Give him his due, amidst the carnage he still has his manners…and with that it was time to leave Bonny Scotland.

Anything for a pound

Anything for a pound…

I am in a queue waiting to board my plane. On the left hand side is a row of vending machine containing overpriced food (chomps are 30p in these vending machine) and overpriced drinks (Panda Pops are a whopping 90p).

I am on my own and deep in analysis. Who are the people that make up my queue? I am flying Easyjet today and it is fair to say the people in my queue look like they are flying Easyjet. Some look like they have just come straight from the riots. Indeed in one family there appears to be those that carried out the riots – weasel looking maggots whose face is obscured by their hoodie. They speak their own version of English – a mashup of real words and words that they heard on some CD (that they stole). In the same family you have the parents who look like they have just been looted – no jewelry or phones in site. Crest fallen faces fresh from the realisation that they are about to go on a family holiday to the Costa  Del Sol with the modern day Nazi Youth.

Next in line is a dear old couple who are just amazed, absolutely amazed, that they have made it all the way to the gate with only a bit of paper as a boarding pass.

After them come Patrick and Joan, a middle aged couple that love a row. Joan is adamant that she gave Patrick the money that they transferred yesterday. Patrick claims she never gave him said money. A stand off ensues with Joan eventually giving Patrick a slap after he calls her ‘An old hag’ –to be fair she looked so old, no amount of fake tan and false lashes can save Joan from mother nature. Joan runs off crying, Patrick fumbles around his bag, feeling very embarrassed and suddenly pulls out a clear Thomas Cook see through envelope stuffed with Euro’s. Patrick looks at me, I look at Patrick. He puts his finger to his mouth, it is clear he doesn’t want this to get back to Joan. I nod at Joan’s handbag, sitting there on the floor proudly – Patrick winks and stuffs the envelope in to the handbag. I feel closer to Patrick than I have to ever man I have met before. I think about asking him for his number but an incident diverts my attention before I can ask him for his digits.

A rake thin, bum bag loving, glasses wearing, high white sock fashionista approaches the vending machine. I am fascinated. Thin Tim, as I have named him, is staring at the Vendo. His eyes are scanning the products. I am certain that this his first furor into the vending machine world. What will he choose? Does he go drink and chocolate bar? Maybe a nice combination of a calypso straw drink with a sherbet dip. Or, judging by his stance and his bum bag will he play it with a straight bat and just go for a Twix. Nothing fancy. Just two slabs of chocolate with a caramel centre. Not adventurous but why take risks if this is your first time at the Vend? I am amazed by what he does next.

He puts in his pound and he selects ‘71’ on the panel. My eyes scan the products, 71. 71 surely not? Thin Tim, who is at the Vend for the first ever time has just chosen a Lipton Iced Tea. I am stunned. Absolutely stunned. Such a statement from the young fella. I was convinced he would go water, maybe a sprite but a Lipton Iced Tea – no way. I look at thin Tim and I can tell he is excited, I am excited for him. The vending machine is quite a futuristic one, thin Tim is going to love what happens next. The bucket comes up, goes right, the Lipton Iced tea is released and begins to move towards the bucket which will then be passed back to thin Tim. Thin Tim’s eyes are darting back and forth, oh no…surely not.

The Lipton Iced Tea has got stuck. The bucket comes back down, empty handed. Thin Tim looks at the queue, they secretly share his disappointment. It was his first ever trip to the Vend and it has ended in bitter disappointment, embarrassment even. Thin Tim, visibly upset, begins frantically tapping the coin release button. Nothing. Thin Tim, clearly at his wit’s end, starts shaking the vend. I want to help him, I want to say ‘No, no thin Tim, it’s not worth it. Let it go man’. But I don’t. Instead  I look on in sheer horror as to what thin Tim does next.

Thin Tim gets out his phone and dials a number…

“Hi, yes I am at Stansted airport and your vending machine has just swallowed my pound and it has not given me the Liptons Iced Tea I ordered nor has it given me the pound back”.

Immediately I have lost all respect for thin Tim. I know this his first time on the vending machine but who actually follows the instruction ‘Please ring this number if there is a problem with this vending machine’? It’s a pound thin Tim, one measly pound. Let it go man. Before this sorry incident I had admired thin Tim’s voyage into the unknown but now I felt nothing but anger towards him. What a complete tool. Sometimes thin Tim vending machines do not give you a product or change. A vending machine is a gamble. You know that going in. Thin Tim has displayed a massive amount of naivety in his pursuit of a Lipton’s Iced Tea but what was concerning me most about this whole sorry affair was that someone’s job was work for a vending machine complaints call centre.

I have worked in call centre’s in my time and they are horrendously dull, but to work for a vending machine complaints call centre is just a whole new level. I mean how many calls can they get? How does the call centre operator not laugh at the sad man on the other end of the phone who has just lost a pound? Why does he continue to work there? The only job that can possibly be more boring is the toll booth money collector. If I was at the other end of this phone and this call came through to me I would give serious consideration to ending it all. There’s no coming back from this, you must look at yourself and ask ‘where did it all go wrong?”.

The conversation has continued, by now the riot family, Patrick (not Joan) and Mr and Mrs New Age are all on the edge of the seats (despite not actually being seated).

“Yes my address is number 42, Fairfax Drive, Southend-on-Sea, Essex, SS9 5SE” I knew this idiot would be a Southend boy. Thin Tim literally looks like he has not eaten a meal in his life, ironically it looks like supermarkets, as well as vending machines, refuse to give him food as well. Why has he just given his address?

Thin Tim gets off the phone and speaks to what I presume his wife, although she reminds me of a bad nightmare. She asks him “So?” and thin Tim responds, responds with one of the most shameful admissions I have heard in my short life…

“Yep, they are sending the pound back to us in the post, it should be with us Tuesday”. As I boarded that Easyjet plane I have never felt more ashamed of the human race…

The curse of the fussy eater

The curse of the fussy eater
 
I, Stan, have been invited to a dinner party. I have never been to a dinner party before. Normally I just sit in my lounge, and eat my toast and alphabetti whilst flicking between the 7PM Television X and Red Hot Euro Wives freeviews. If I am with the lads then we will all sit there, with our alphabetti, and rate the girls in front of us. If any of us rate any of these clowns too highly then we are permitted to throw our alphabetti at that person. It’s fair to say I live a simple life. A life far removed from a dinner party.
 
I got an invite through the post from Olivia Abercrombie Smith – a girl who I know from uni. Her name is ridiculous. For some reason she wants to keep her name ‘Abercrombie’ and has just bolted Smith on at the end…slag.
 
The invite described the menu and the seating plan.
 
The seating plan read:
 
Emily Baker
Stan Bennett (why oh why am I head of the table?)
Janice Greer
Morton Hisgaard
Kelly Ann Marie Holmes
Jonathon Rhys Flowers
Olivia Abercrombie Smith
Neil West
 
Morton Hisgaard?! Looks like a bad hand at Scrabble! This was not good. Not good at all. Wedged between Emily and Janice. I have met these two before and it is fair to say they are on a slightly different intellectual plane to me. I talk about women (page 3), sport (football) and Star Wars. They talk about Emily Pankhurst (some famous old bird), Rowing (they live in Henley) and Astronomy (which is a load of complete bollocks).
 
There were also four cards inserted each describing that part of the menu. The four cards read:
 
ANTIPASTI
PASTA & RISOTTO
MAINS
DESSERTS AND CHEESE
 
I was concerned but not yet shitting my pants. This was about to change.
 
ANTIPASTI
Courgette and Italian Asparagus Soup with Goat’s cheese and Selvapiana Estate Olive Oil.
 
What the hell was this? Courgettes…don’t like. Asparagus…don’t like. Goat’s cheese…pretty certain I won’t like. Selvapiana Estate Olive Oil? Do me a favour! What the fuck is Selvapiana Estate Olive Oil? Well immediately I know I am throwing the Antipasti portion of the meal up. I need the Pasta and Risotto part of the menu to be really kind to me. It literally needs to read ‘Toast and Alphabetti’ otherwise I am in grave danger.
 
PASTA & RISOTTO
Fettuccine with a rich lamb and beef Ragu, Gremolata, Parmesan and Petrolo Estate Olive Oil.
 
Oh. Dear. God. Straight away I am scared by the word Fettuccine, I jump straight on the internet and do a search to see what it is. A quick Google Image search shows that it is in fact mashed up baby sick. A rich lamb and beef Ragu. I like lamb. I like beef. Yet I know the introduction of this ‘Ragu’ will immediately cause me to vomit all over Janice Greer. I half wonder if I can strike up a deal with Hisgaard and he take my Gremolata and Parmesan off my hands. Fear is really setting in. I need the mains to read ‘Steak and Chips’ otherwise I may as well wave the white flag now.
 
MAINS
Chargrilled Sea Trout with peas, chilli, mint, parmesan, pea shoots, and amalfi lemon crème freche.
 
Shit. I hate fish. They freak me out. I can, however, do peas. I am not sure I can ask for my mains to just consist of Peas though. Chilli is a big no unless Baker wants me to shit all over her around desert time. Mint? I am presuming they don’t mean Polo’s here. If not I have never had mint before but I am willing to give it a go given that I have heard of the word. Pea shoots? I used to watch (watched it yesterday) a kids TV program called the Poddington Peas and they lived in Pea Shoots. I do not feel comfortable eating the residence of the Poddington Peas. Amalfi Lemon Crème freche. It sounds horrendous. A Google image search confirms as much.
 
I don’t even bother to look at the desert card. I look at the next instruction:
 
DRESS CODE
Men must wear Black Tie.
 
After taking in the enormity that is the invitation I feel a huge wave of nausea come across me. I try to focus on the TV screen ‘Glorious Grannies’ but it is of no use, the dread is so much that I chuck my alphabetti up all over the carpet.
 
My palms are sweating. I look ill. I feel ill.
 
Let’s review. I am wedged between Greer and Baker, opposite Hisgaard. I cannot eat anything except some peas and now I have to wear a black tie? I don’t own a black tie.
 
I am quickly informed, by my mum, that black tie means a suit with a tie. I.E. I have to dress smart for these bunch of idiots. I don’t own a suit, certainly not one that fits. So I am forced to give serious consideration in wearing my old school trousers and school blazer.
 
No I will need an excuse as to why I can’t go. An excuse so good that it doesn’t prompt questions, that is so believable that it does not appear made up. That is so well put together that I actually get sympathy. I look around the room for inspiration. A red stained carpet with random letters on the floor. A TV showing a 70 year old in stockings.
 
On the one hand there is destruction all over the floor, it looks like someone has sicked up a bottle of Heinz. On the other there is a granny doing weird stuff to a toilet brush. Then it hits me…put those two images together…
 
“Dear Olivia,
 
Thank you so much for the invite to the dinner party.
 
It is with sincere regret that I am writing to you today to inform you that I cannot go to the dinner party.
 
My Grandma was recently involved in a tragic accident. She choked on some food and as she lived alone she unfortunately died.
 
Thursday is her funeral and as her favourite grandson I have to attend said funeral which means I am unable to come to the house party.
 
Give my love to Janice, Morton and the gang. I must say the menu looks exquisite. Have a fabulous night.
 
And I hope you understand.
 
Best Wishes
 
Stan”

The Internet Date

How are you supposed to end a date that is going horribly? May 4th, 2011, Rita Watkins. It was a day that defined me. It was such an important event in my life. May 4th, 2011, I realised that my life could never get any worse. I had hit rock bottom. No matter what went on in my life after May 4th 2002, it would never compare to the dark day that Watkins entered and left my life.

I am sitting In Pizza Express. I find Pizza Express the safest of all the date venues. You know exactly what you are going to get. You can’t take her for a Hut because you look cheap and you come across as a 13 year old. Likewise you can’t take her anywhere fancy because you will come across as a pretentious prick. She will see you can’t hold a knife and fork and she will see you panic with the array of cutlery that these restaurants offer. At the end of the day all I want is a knife, a fork – preferably a steak knife – and maybe a spoon. Lose all the other rubbish. Why do they give 18 pieces of cutlery in these restaurants? What’s the point? Just because they hire a washer doesn’t mean they have to bombard the poor man with miniature forks.

There is nothing worse than being out of your depth in a fancy restaurant in front of a girl. You have to have multiple courses of pretentious food. You are crying out for steak and chips and maybe some Tommy K. Instead they give you something that you are sure, but that you can’t prove, the chef has threw up on and then they charge you £40 for the ‘pleasure’. And at the end of the meal you get your bill in a book – what’s this about? Is this the story of the dinner? At the beginning there was 18 forks…no Pizza Express is the place to go. Solid enough food, expensive enough that when you pick up the bill you look impressive, but cheap enough that if she wants the Romana base, she can have the Romana base.

So I am sitting in Pizza Express when Rita walks in. I should point out that I hadn’t had a date for 19 months. Things were beginning to get a bit desperate. So long had it been since my last sexual encounter that I had forgotten any ‘moves’ that I may have developed over my sexual life. Confidence was at an all time low. I went through packets of tissues a week and if John Humphreys rung me to get me to do a spin on Mastermind my specialist subject would be ‘ Racks and Blacks’. Girls can sniff out confidence. They can see in one second if you have it. I must be odorless.

It is important that you don’t discuss your recent hobbies (milfhunter) and that you dress suavely (avoid the Puma jumper), act aloof (but not so aloof that you fall off your chair like last time), crack up at her rubbish gags (but not so much that you end up choking on your Vodka Lemon and Lime). Even is she is rough (and she will be) you must say how nice she looks. Invent hobbies, say you do cool things like sail and play chess. Pretend you have gone travelling – not Tenerife but road tripping across South America (even thought I can’t drive). Tell her you work in a charity shop at weekends when all you do is bet and watch Stelling and the boys. Lying is key to getting a second date. The more I lie the more chance I have. If you are honest and be yourself then you may as well get used to Friday nights with Jonathon Ross. The dating game is a minefield. One bad move and you are a dead man.

Rita was a blind date. An internet date. Yes I know horrible lows. Even for me. All I will say is that after 19 months you are ready to take a mutant to the pictures if it will come back with you afterwards. A mutant is an apt word when describing Rita. I had taken a huge risk as I hadn’t seen a picture of Rita. We just chatted through this dating instant messenger. She seemed ok, she had the ability to drive, so I thought she at least earned money or had a great relationship with her dad. She was also breathing i.e. she was a living being – this was good enough for me.

I am sitting down hoping, preying, that Heather from Eastenders doesn’t walk in. Instead Heather’s mum comes and sits down and says ‘Hi are you Stan?’ I could not believe it. This woman must be 60 and it looks like she has eaten the whole cast of Eastenders, including Minty. She smelt so bad that it smelt like not only had she eaten the cast of Eastenders but she then shat them out and smeared them over her face.

She clearly doesn’t believe in dentists, either that or the dentist was on the sauce that day. The smell of her. My word. I swear flies entered the room, buzzed around her and then found her too smelly so moved on. Doritos seemed to have set up base camp on her blouse and after dropping Tiger Woods as the face of Gillette the execs must obviously have turned down Rita as their face of shaving such was the almighty hair that seemed to have covered her whole body. I had never seen a girl with hair before. My word, channel 4 had obviously missed her when casting ‘Britains hairest mutants’. Imagine the worst looking girl in the world, that moment when you hit rock bottom, the moment where you are sick into your soup – whoever that girl is that you are thinking of I can assure you they are a high street honey compared to the disgrace that is Rita Watkins.

I was now faced with an almighty dilemma. I had to get out of this but I couldn’t just get up and leave (she gave me no window otherwise I would have happily of done this). There should be a codeword that men and women are both aware of before the date begins. As soon as the codeword is mentioned you both get up and leave with no hard feelings. I hope Cameron’s Britain will discuss this legislation. Cameron can’t help me now (no surprise there…political). No I had to fake a text. Fake a death. I could say that I got a text from my mum saying my Nan had died. Why would she text me that though?

‘Hi Stan, Hope the date is going well (yes she knows I am on the date) FYI your nan has died. Tb ma x’.

No I’m not sure that excuses washes. Maybe I could fake the phone call, begin crying on the phone ‘Nannna, Nanna, WHY. WHY GOD’. I am good but Hanks I am not. Twenty minutes has passed neither of us have barely spoken. I had to act.

I just had to tell her the truth. It could kill her though. Maybe if I told her the truth and then supplied her with a krispy kreme doughnut – could keep the walrus from crying. Right here we go. I am going to tell her that I just don’t think the date is working. Suddenly she speaks:

‘Stan, you seem like a lovely guy. I really don’t want to hurt your feelings. I have been thinking for the last 20 minutes as to how I can tell you this but I think honesty is the best policy. You are just not my type. I don’t think the date is working. Please don’t get upset. You seem lovely but there’s no point in us wasting our time. I am sorry.’

I could not believe it. Here I was being cast aside by a whale bigger than Willy. Hagrid’s uncle. I am not her type. Just because I am not covered in Jam and edible. How dare she? Have you looked at yourself love? You are a disgrace. Get your Christmas list written early this year and do us all a favour and ask Santa for a Wii fit. I was being dumped by this sorry excuse for a woman.

‘That’s fine. I guess you are right. Take care, I hope you get home safe’. Secretly I hoped she got hit by a bus on the way home. Having said that the bus would bare the brunt of the damage.

With that she left. The date was over. I got the result I was after. I was free, free from her, but it should have been me ending it. I guess I should be careful what I wish for. Rita Watkins left her mark on me (no she didn’t bite me thinking I was food), she made me realise my life had spiraled out of all control. She showed me that my life could not get any worse. I had hit absolute rock bottom. Things could only get better. The problem with girls and boys as I see it is that girls have the hand, they have the power. Even if we think we are in control we are not. I am grateful for Rita Watkins because I knew my life could not get any worse but I just wish I could have got in there before her and used the codeword first.