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.

 

The joy that is the airport..

I went on holiday recently and I realised just how much I hate airports. Anything to do with an airport I loathe.
 
I managed to drive my overpriced Saab to the airport in the early hours last Friday. Being England it was pissing down, it was freezing and there were enthusiastic people everywhere. Enthusiastic people wearing ridiculous summer hats. One bloke was wearing a vest and shorts. Why do these people do this? You are still in England, it is 4AM, it is pissing down icicles and you get some twat in a sombrero wearing nothing but a bikini. They all have ridiculously over sized suitcases as well. They have packed everything, from pillows to hair dryers not forgetting Factor 4 sun cream. Factor 4 – do me a favour, you may as well spit over yourself it is going to give you the same level of protection. You get the mum’s handing out Murray Mints – it’s 4AM you fool – who wants a Murray mint at 4AM? We are all waiting for the ‘Pink Elephant’ to pick us up and take us to the gates of hell -Terminal 4.
 
I eventually get on the bus, not before helping some old biddy with her case. I sit down and little Lenny decides he wants to sit next to me. Little Lenny is already on the Tangfastics. Brilliant. A six year old off his head on cola bottles. His mum, who has the world’s weirdest name – Noreen, decides she is going to let Little Lenny continually punch me on the leg. This kid is such a dildo. If he wasn’t so fat I would hit him back but it’s harsh isn’t it…punching the clinically obese.
 
We get to the airport, my leg covered in bruises, and I place my bag on the trolley’s provided. Little Lenny decides he is going to steer for the fat family. Good idea Noreen. Lenny clips my ankle as he rushes along the moving walkway. I love those people who think that moving walkways are an excuse for you not to walk. How lazy can you be? This thing is practically going backwards yet they refuse to move. I arrive at the hub of the terminal.
 
Chaos. Carnage. Terminal 4 we have arrived.
 
I check ‘the board’. When I go away with family we have to get to the airport about 9 hours before the flight departs. ‘Here Stan, check the board’. What’s the point dad? Our flight isn’t even going to be on there we are that early. But check it I always did. I would shout out a letter and then my dad would literally sprint, pulling his hamstring in the process, to the zone we were meant to be in. He doesn’t believe in checking in online. Nor does he believe in using the handy little machines that let you check in without having any sort of human interaction – they should use these in as many areas of society as possible. We would join the queue, they’d always be a queue despite our flight not taking off in decades.
 
Back to terminal 4 and I am using the handy little machine, but there is a problem – it is not checking me in so I have to join the queue. This queue is a Ryanair queue. Ergo, a queue full of delinquents. This queue is so bad that I am tempted to jump back on the Pink Elephant, sack off the flight, and go home. Little Lenny is running a mock, eating everything in site. Noreen is gnawing on a pasty. There is one lady in tears, another with a dog (literally no idea what this guy is even thinking bringing a dog any where near an airport), and some chump is making 9/11 gags. It is carnage. The queue is static. Welcome to Ryanair.
 
People are trying to wedge their bags into that weird little contraption to see if their bag can get on the flight. Clothes adorn the airport flaw as people have clearly spunked their weight limit – those 19 pairs of shoes was a mistake – they are trying to shift the weight into friends cases. Just give up love.
 
Eventually I get to the front. I hand over my boarding pass and my passport to a person who I am going to nickname ‘No Face’ – she is brutal. I am then asked ‘has anyone packed anything without your knowledge’ – is this a trick question?! If I didn’t have knowledge of it how do I know if someone has packed something? ‘Have you got any sharp objects in your bag, for example a knife’. Ah shit they’ve got me – I have got a massive carving knife in my bag. Idiots. If I did have a knife I’m not going to choose that moment to say ‘Oh you know what, I do have a massive blade in here…should I take this out?’ Twats.
 
‘There’s a problem with your boarding pass’
 
Here we go…
 
“What seems to be the problem?”
“You have put your name as Stan Fred Bennett”
“Which is my name” I say
“But your passport says Stanley Fred Bennett”
“So”
“I am afraid we can’t accept this. We will have to print you off another one”
“Seems a waste of paper but ok”
“That will be £40”
 
You know what, for a minute there, I thought No Face said that will be £40.
 
“What?”
“40 pounds please”
“Are you having a laugh?”
 
40 quid to print a boarding pass? They can’t be serious! Ryanair are the Nazis of the aviation world. 40 quid? A face transplant, which is what she so desperately needs, is going to cost much more than £40
 
“I am sorry I refuse to pay that. This is ridiculous”
“Then we can’t let you on the plane”
“Then I’ll hijack it”
 
In retrospect the choice of the word ‘hijack’ was a mistake. They did not appear amused. There was gasps from the growing queue. I wasn’t moving. I am getting on this plane. Minutes passed without anyone speaking.
 
Silence. Deafening silence.
 
Then the silence was broken…
 
“Do you want a cola bottle?” asks little Lenny
“Fuck off little Lenny”
 
Shit I have said out loud what I meant to say in my head. Noreen is FUMING. The pasty has hit the deck. Lenny is in tears. Tangfastics litter the floor. The dog has been released from it’s leash. The 9/11 gag makers look appalled by what I’ve said. No face behind the desk almost chokes on her rules…police surround me due to my hijacking reference and my trip to Aberdeen, well my trip to Aberdeen is in tatters…

Facebook offenders

I am on Facebook. Stan Bennett – search for me but don’t add me.
 
I have over 400 friends. I honestly don’t think, and I mean this, that I care about 380 of them. Literally I couldn’t give a shit. I can’t understand how I have built up such a collection of people. They are such a dry bunch of people as well.
 
You have those that update their status every 4 minutes telling you what they’ve eaten for breakfast, for example – Ian ‘I have just eaten mango for breakfast…yum’. Unbelievably Ian has got 4 ‘likes’. Why the fuck are people liking this? All Ian has said is that he has munched on some Mango. You always get the same people commenting and liking Ian’s Facebook status. He has a core group of ten that no matter how shit his status update they will without fail boost his numbers in the hope that Ian will then ‘like’ one of their statuses. As I write this Claire has commented on Ian’s status ‘I had pineapple num num’. Cheers for that Claire. ‘Num num?!’ What does that even mean? What a complete tool.
 
You have those that invent statuses just because they are comment whores – let’s look at Steve for example ‘I am on the tube (all his statuses occur when on the tube) and a woman has just got on at Angel (how you writing this status update then Steve?) wearing nothing but a bin liner’. It has been up for 4 minutes and has already amassed 7 ‘likes’ and 4 comments. You know Steve is so happy with this record comment haul. Jimbo is straight in there ‘Lol man, that is so funny. ROFL’. Jimbo is a twat. The first clue is the fact he calls himself Jimbo. The second clue is that he writes ROFL (Rolling on floor laughing). Let’s take a minute and think whether Jimbo is literally on the floor rolling around laughing. Even if that was true why would he tell us that? Jimbo belongs in a mental asylum. You then get the smart kid – Tom. He has cleverly worked out the status is bogus. Tom considers himself to have outstanding wit and also thinks he is the only one who has worked out that maybe, just maybe, a woman has not got on the tube wearing nothing but a bin liner. Tom writes a witty retort on Steve’s status. You can tell Steve is gutted as he writes nothing back for a good 10 minutes (Steve is the sort of person who is on Facebook every 9 seconds to check for updates). Steve then attempts to deflect attention from Tom’s comment by suggesting they meet for a drink as they haven’t seen each other for a while. Steve doesn’t want to meet Tom for a drink. Steve thinks Tom is a chump. Steve is just trying to protect himself and ensure that the steady flow of comments do not suddenly dry up. Alan is next to the party. Alan thinks he is incredibly funny – Alan is not funny, far from it. Alan comments ‘I bet that was a rubbish journey’ cheers for that Al. Alan is a ‘mutual’ friend – I would love nothing more than to bin off (see I can do it too Alan) Alan but alas I am not popular enough, or cool enough, to start Facebook culling.
 
You then get the deep and meaningfuls. Gemma comments ‘I miss you so much. I know you are looking down at me, smiling. I miss you my friend’. To be honest ‘Gem’ the friend is probably looking up. And whilst we are being honest the friend is certainly not smiling. The friend is dead. You’ve achieved nothing. Why oh why would the friend be smiling? Also why write a status update telling us this? Only one person cares that your friend is not in this mortal realm anymore and that person is Raquel (Raquel who is 25 but has a 71 year olds name). Right on cue Raquel pipes up ‘Awww babe. I am here for you. We all are.’. Not true Raquel. I am not here for Gem, nor is anyone else. You are also such a good mate that instead of picking up the phone or walking the 4 meters across the road to see your friend ‘in need’ you decide that a Facebook comment is of sufficient comfort. You’re a true pal. Well done.
 
You then get the inspirationalists – Clive decides that we need a bit of inspiration in our lives. Clive writes ‘When did the world become so bad? People should smile more’. Nice one Clive. You know what, I am going to take heed of your advice, walk out of my door and start smiling at everyone. Oh wait. Clive has a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. I am not sure Clive even knows how to smile but he has clearly had some effect on Brad ‘So true man. So true’. Deep words from Brad, Brad the lorry driver. Who you going to smile at then Brad?
 
You then get the chainers – These people that think if you write a status update that includes certain words then in some way your family will never die. Kev falls in to this trap, it’s a shame as I thought Kev was better than this but the status tells us otherwise ‘The next person you see tell them what you think of them. Copy and paste this into your status and get 10 people to write it as well. If you do then your family won’t die of kidney related complications’. I am sitting next to Housham, I am tempted to take on board the status and tell Housham ‘Housham, you’re a prick mate’. I resist the urge. Instead I promise myself that I will never speak to Kev again.
 
Once you’re done with the status lot you then focus on the pokers. Who pokes? Seriously what are you doing? ‘You have just received a poke from Steph’. If I am Steve in this situation I am thinking ‘what does this mean…does Steph like me…shall I send her a message…shall I poke back?’ The irony is is that Steph is in a relationship with Kev. You know this because it appeared in your news food ‘Steph and Kev are in a relationship’, shame. It means no more Malia/Kos/Ibiza albums where Steph is wearing nothing but that black bikini. Instead it will be her and Alan doing couple things and feeling the need to upload a photo of everytime they hold hands.
 
With the Pokers accounted for we have the serial photo uploaders. Ah man these guys need to get out more. ‘John Muroz has upload a new album entitled a funny walk to the seaside’. Really John? The even more tragic thing is that you get people trawling through all 64 photos that John has uploaded to his new album. The album title should be a clue that this is not going to be a classic. John Moroz has 94 photo albums. I guarantee you that Karen has checked out every single photo and commented on every album. Karen I have some bad news for you – no matter how many comments you make John doesn’t like you.
 
‘Mike has just got 100 points for shooting a sheep’ Mike is playing some shite farm game. Get a life Mike. Seriously mate, just get a life.
 
I haven’t even mentioned the sad cases that upload a Youtube video every fourteen minutes or those that ask us to ‘check out this song’ or the sad pathetic bunch that are in such desperate need for attention that they say ‘Please check out my blog’. You then arrive at said blog and it is a pile of shite. Your heart goes out to those sad saps.
 

Fancy food

I’m on a date and we are going to a fancy restaurant. It was her idea not mine. I would have loved nothing more than a Pizza Express – Garlic Bread, a Margherita with ham and a glass of milk – nothing fancy, nothing pretentious, just good old fashioned food that we could wharf down in an hour and head straight to a bar and get lashed. But alas here we are at Le Poisson Rouge. I am horrendously out of my depth.
 
This girl that I’m on the date with is horrendously out of my league. Before I left for the date I thought about joining the Facebook group ‘Britain’s all time punchers’ – at best I am a 4 out of 10. Yes I have the odd good gag in me, yes I can even tell a decent story. But I have a weird nose, my eyes are permanently bloodshot, my cheekbones (despite rumours to the contrary) are in no way defined. I have shit hair. My hair looks like I have just woken up after sleeping in a cap. Rach (I am not convinced I am cool enough to call her Rach but I am going to) on the other hand looks pristine. She is a 9 out of 10. Unprecedented. People are checking her out as we walk in to Le Poisson Rouge and thinking to themselves, as I am, how did this chump snare a date with this? Here I am wearing a hoodie, Vans trainers and jeans that haven’t been washed in over four months. Rach on the other hand has dressed to impress. The contrast is massive but to be honest I didn’t care, I was more worried about Le Poisson Rouge.
 
We arrive at this desk and I say sheepishly that we have a reservation. Some poncey guy with a fake French accent looks me up and down. For a minute I didn’t think I was going to get in because either I was too underdressed or I was too ugly. Rach says ‘anything wrong?’ to which Vincent (what a prick) says ‘non, non, madame. Follow me s’il vous plait.” What a complete tool. He is clearly from Basildon but thinks he can impress Rach with his French accent. “Merci” I say. Have that Vincent you mug.
 
We get taken to our table. Vincent pulls the chair out from the table and lets Rach sit down. I was going to do that (I wasn’t). Big Vince is cracking on to my girl. Vincent then gives us two menu’s. One has a woman on it and one a man. I politely enquire what the difference is. Vincent explains the woman’s menu has no price on it. The man’s does. From that moment on I hate Le Poission Rouge.
 
I scan the menu…the prices!! Unreal. A bit of steak (kobe beef – no idea what that is) is £90…and that doesn’t include fries. Just for a slab of meet. £90 for a slab of meet?! Did Obama shit on it or something? I scan the rest of the menu – not a sign of chips. Every dish is some fancy French shit that is bathed in weird creamy sauces. It may as well be bathed in Matey bubble bath cos I am not going any where near it.
 
Vincent brings over the bread. He tells us where the bread comes from. Who gives a flying fuck Vincent. Just give us the bread and do one.
 
I go back to studying the menu. I am secretly praying that Rach will have the Veal Chops at a measly £20. I am desperate to show her the menu and the prices but I think better of it. On the table there are around 7 forks, 7 knives and 4 spoons. Why so many? Which ones should I use? I can’t even hold a knife and fork. There is also a gay rose and a candle. A guy with a violin comes over, you can sense Rach loves him. I on the other hand am desperate to stick my 7 forks straight through his violin.
 
He starts playing away and Rach gazes into my eyes. It is a real magic moment. Vincent is no where to be seen. The violin player is playing some Italian shit that even I like. Rach is looking outstanding. Is this the moment I lean over for a kiss? I decide it is too good an opportunity to waste.
 
I lean over, and as I reach out to kiss her I knock the candle on to the table. Wax slides down the edge of the table. The wax has dribbled on to Rach’s fine leg (not in the cricketing sense but rather her good looking leg). Rach screams in pain and jumps out of her seat knocking 3 forks into the air. The man with the violin is then hit with one of the errant forks. He screams. The table catches on fire. I panic and grab a clear drink from Table 9 and throw it on the table. It turns out the man was drinking a double G and T – this only leads to the inferno growing worse. The bread has hit the deck in the commotion. The table is literally ablaze. The sprinklers come on and I look left only to see Vincent in tears.
 
Rach has gone to the toilet, she is in agony. Rumours of a second degree burn are not without foundation. The violin man claims he will never play for Le Possion Rouge ever again. The sprinklers stop, the fire brigade have been and gone and Vincent has angrily moved me to a new table. The whole restaurant is staring at me. I feel their wrath with an intensity that is stronger than the flames that burnt table 4 to the ground five minutes ago.
 
Rach walks back, with a limp, and sits down. I desperately try to apologise, she is fuming, absolutely fuming. She is also in a serious amount of pain. I ask her if she wants to go home but she wants a meal as she is so hungry. That gives me two hours to save this date. Gregory walks over to us (Vincent has been sent home on compassionate leave) and asks us for our order. Rach has already hinted that the Veal chops will be her chosen meal which is of great relief to me. However, Rach has a massive change of heart…
 
“Yes I will have the Kobe beef, with the potato and vegetable option and a glass of house red”
 
I am stunned. Stunned. She hasn’t got the prices on her menu so doesn’t know how much it will cost me but basic arithmetic tells me it will cost me in the region of £150. Gregory walks away.
 
Rach says “I can’t wait for this beef, my leg is in agony, let’s hope it makes up for it”
 
Silence
 
“Rach, I don’t know how to ask you this. But can you change your order to the Veal?”
“Why? I want the beef”
“But the beef and the wine will cost me £150”
 
Silence.
 
I have never seen a girl look so angry, so scary and so fit all at the same time.
 
Rach gets up, limps over to Gregory. Happy days she is changing her order I think. However Rach keeps limping on past Gregory. Rach walks out of the restaurant. Now I don’t know all the first date signs but I am guessing this is not good. A minute later and a giddy Vincent (who is now back in the building) arrives with a slab of kobe beef…Le Poisson Rouge, how I hate you.

A decent set of cheekbones

Another day another leaving lunch. I stroll over to our local pub where Raymond (we have been told we are not allowed to shorten his name…I hate him) is being showered with gifts and given a novelty sized leaving card. No one likes Raymond, eveyone is delighted he is leaving but we still have to chip in to the collection. We still have to write a witty message in his leaving card and we have to go this pub to say goodbye tot he fat prick.

There must be thirty people in this pub, all of them sadder than the next. Housham stands up. Here we go.

“Raymond has been such a terrific servent over the years.”

No he hasn’t. He has only been in the team for 14 months and he is being made redundant because he is shite. Seriously shite.

“We will miss Raymond’s wit”

No we won’t. He has no wit. I have never heard the sad little man ever crack a gag.

“We will miss Raymond’s integrity”

Who’s written this speech? Integrity? He would kill his own mother (if she was alive) just to get on in life.

“Raymond is such a great team player…”

Team player? The fat shit doesn’t know any of our names. He doesn’t even know he is in a team.

“We will miss Raymonds generosity”

This needs to stop. Generosity? A collection went round for Lynn who’s husband had died and the so called generous one putin a pound only to take 50p back out. He put 50p in for the collection. I mean I don’t like Lynn but 50p, come on man, have some class.

“To Raymond. Wishing you all the very best in whatever you do next”

His name is fucking RAY. Who makes you call them Raymond? I hope he fails and fails big at whatever he does next.

Now that the speech is over I can mingle with the rest of the muppets in here. A guy comes over to me, his name is Mike. I barely know Mike. Mike works on the 3rd – at best we know each other well enough to say hello, blood brothers we aren’t. Mike comes over and…

“Stan I have wanted to tell you for a while now that I think you have the best defined cheekbones I have ever seen. You have an incredible jawline as well”.

Silence.

More silence.

What on earth do I say to that? Mike, who I barely know, has just walked over and said I – me, Stan – have incredible cheekbones? What does that even mean? Who comments on cheekbones. Why is a man telling me this? Why is Mike telling me this? Why not say hello Mike? Why have you told me this Mike? Focus. The silence is going on too long – I have to say something. Say something Stan. Think man. Say something. Anything.

“Thanks Mike, you too”.

That wasn’t the line Stan. Such a bafoon.

Mike’s face has lit up like a fruit machine. Is Mike gay? Could Mike be coming on to me right now? Shit, have I just told gay Mike that I think he has incredible cheekbones? I need to get out of this situation. I need to be saved. I play the fake phonecall card. I quickly get my phone out of my pocket and put it to my ear.

“Hi, yes, no sorry I can’t hear you. Let me pop out and I will be able to hear you then”.

I walk out the pub and then I run. I have never run faster in all my life. Back in the day I represented the borough for 100meters (I tell mates I represented the county. I tell Girls I represented the country) so this was no small feet. I was pounding through the streets of London. I get back to my desk, sweat dripping from my brow, blood filling my shoes. I unlock my machine and check my email..

“Mike Baffy (I know – such a ridiculous name)
Sent: 14:11
Subject: Drink
Body:
Hi Stan,

I think you have left the pub. Just wondered if you fancied a drink tomorrow night?

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

No. No. No. Mike, gay Mike, wants to go for a drink. Mike is putting kisses on the end of his emails. What do I email back to him and say? I have already told him he has incredible cheekbones. This is a disaster.

After much deliberation I decide to write back and tell him that whilst I am flattered, I am actually with someone and so can’t go for a drink with him. That way Mike doesn’t get hurt and I don’t have to share a Baileys and cherryade with gay Mike.

Mike mails back. Mike is crushed.

“Mike Baffy (the name seems more ridiculous each time you see it)
Sent: 15:19
Subject: Drink
Body:
Hi Stan,

That’s a real shame. But thanks for being honest. He is a lucky guy.

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

Mike still thinks I am gay. Mike thinks that when I said I am with someone he thinks that means that that someone is a man. By not denying this, by not telling Mike that I am with a girl, I have effectviely been outed. This news will then travel through the office. Me and my cheekbones can kiss goodbye to any hopes of that drink with Steph. The tragic thing about all of this is that I hate confrontation that much that I will let Mike think I am gay. I will let the office think I am gay. I will just watch Steph from a far. When will I man up (unfortunate choice of phrase) and for once tell someone what is going on in this head of mine.

Raymond stumbles back into the office. Pissed as a newt.

“Do you like my cheekbones as well Stan” says a smug Raymond.

I lean back on my chair…

“Why don’t you do us all a favour and just fuck off Ray” looks like the process of manning up is underway…

Two DJs and an awful lot of waiting

I am in an awful way. I slipped over and my arm is more bent than Sepp Blatter. As soon as I slipped and hit the deck I knew I had broken it. Whilst the pain was unreal it was nothing compared to the next four hours of my life.
 
I ring my dad. In my dad’s youth he thought it would be a good idea to spin the decks and so created a DJ partnership with his mate Paul Graham. Paul and my dad (whose real name is Malcolm) decided they needed DJ names. It is worth pointing out that Paul Graham is not a cool man. My dad is not a cool man. And the names they gave themselves are, unsurprisingly, not cool names. I will never understand, until the day I die why they gave themselves these names but Malcolm and Paul Graham, from 1970 onwards, would be known as DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when they had their DJ name conversation. How did DJ Leeds ever get mentioned? Who thinks to themselves that DJ Leeds is the name that was needed for big Malc to reach his DJ potential. As for the great Ray Dane! His name wasn’t Ray, he didn’t know anyone called Ray. How on earth Paul Graham arrived at The Great Ray Dane only he knows.
 
Unfortunately for Leedsy and The Great Ray Dane the DJ career was over before it begun – they put the amicable split down to artistic differences. Leedsy still played the wedding circuit but something was missing. The dancefloor was emptying quicker than it used to. The laughs, well the laughs had gone. The music appeared to have died. It has been said the moment The Great Ray Dane walked out of the partnership was the moment DJ Leeds fell out of love with being a DJ. He should have sensed the writing was on the wall after the Massacre that was the Eastwood Community Centre 1971 – he couldn’t get anyone up and jiving. Leedsy by 72 had completely lost it and 18 months too late, decided to hang up the headphones. There are rumours, only rumours at this stage, that DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane may get back together for one last hurrah. Let’s hope the rumours are false and that we never see DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane in the DJ Booth for one last performance.
 
 
So I have rung my dad (Leedsy) to come and pick me up as I am in agony with my arm. He arrives and takes me straight down A&E. Leedsy had to get going (negotiations were in an advanced stage between him and The Great Ray Dane for a one off appearance at the nephews christening next week). So I struggle into the hospital with my arm looking blue and at an angle that makes even the most mentally tough want to gag.
 
Sweat is dripping from my face yet I am desperately cold. I shiver at the best times (I am incredibly weak and skinny) but my whole body was in spasm. The receptionist behind the desks asks ‘What is wrong’. What is wrong? I am no nurse, but I know my arm is completely fucked. You don’t need 7 years on a degree to work out that I may have an ‘Oowie’ on my arm. “It is my arm, I think it may be broken”. She looks me up and down, with disdain I may add, and says ‘Right fill this out”. She then chucks over a clipboard with a form.
 
This is ridiculous. My arm is about to fall off, literally about to fall on the floor and nurse Ratchet wants me to complete a form. A form so thorough that it seems to be asking questions like my favourite colour, my mum’s favourite meal, and my 2nd favourite N64 game. They also cleverly have a pen on a chain (presumably so no one runs off with it) which means I have to try and stretch and get the pen, which means I can not support my arm. I shriek in pain as I reach out for the pen. She then tells me to be quiet. It is at this point that I almost tear my arm from my socket and throw it at her. Fat bitch. She’s that shit a nurse that she has been demoted to sit behind some crummy desk. I somehow manage to complete the form and give it back to her. I secretly hope that is she picks up the paper she gets a massive paper cut but alas she doesn’t. She tells me to go over to the waiting area and that I will be called within two hours. Two hours! Two hours!! My arm is hanging on by a thread, I feel sick, I look like a smurf and I am sweating and shivering at the same time and she tells me it will be two hours. “That’s fine” I say. Why didn’t I kick off? Why don’t I tell what I really think? It is because I am a pathetic human.
 
I stumble over to the waiting area. My word…
 
It was like the Somme (although I have never actually seen the Somme or participated in either war this is how I imagined the Somme to be).
 
You’ve got screaming toddlers, people in wheelchairs, people without legs, bloodied bandages covering fucked up faces. If that wasn’t hellish enough we’ve got Loose Women on the TV and the vending machine is out of order. If, come judgement day, you get sent to Hell – this is what the waiting room for Hell will look like.
 
Everyone is looking at my battered arm. I am looking at a guy who has a – a werid tumour thing in his throat – it is HUGE. I can’t help but look. I avoid staring at the drunks. I begin to try and read ‘OK’ magazine – tears streaming down my face.
 
“Stan Bennett”
 
Yes. Yes. I am being called early. I go into this little room. The doctor instantly fills me with confidence…oh wait. “Which arm is it son” Take a guess you idiot. “It is the left”. “How did you do it?” He asks. Who gives a shit, just give me some drugs and get this thing into plaster. “I slipped over and it happened when I put my arm out to break my fall”. “Ok let’s see if we’ve got any movement” is he MENTAL? Movement! You move it pal it will fall off. You move it and I will cry and bite your ear off. He proceeds to move it. I wail in pain. I have never experienced pain like it. I imagine child birth but a whole lot worse. “Ok if you go back into the waiting area we will get the doctor to look at it…it will be about a two hour wait”.
 
A doctor? A two hour wait?
 
So all that has happened is that I have been taken into the pre waiting room – it is still a waiting room but it is smaller. They are so sneaky – they tease you. They make you think you are being seen to. All that is happening is that they move you from one waiting area to another. All they do in the smaller waiting area is find out what arm hurts and then send you packing back into the warzone. You then get called in by the next guy who then asks the exact same questions as the first. The only difference is that he is wearing a lab coat and makes slightly more notes than the first, his handwriting is invariably scruffier. In all the experience he has built up over the years he then makes the incredibly difficult, intelligent, decision to send you for an X-Ray. Cheers mate – I have waited over two hours for some chump who looks like a ghost to tell me to go and get an X-Ray. 7 years at Uni really has paid off. Unbelievably I then have to wait at the X-Ray area for another 45 minutes.
 
Hospital’s are just a series of waiting area’s. When you think you are making progress you realise you are just in another queue, in another waiting area. I hate them. I hate them so much.
 
Just when I thought I could take no more, just when I thought my pain had peaked, just when I thought this day could not possibly get any worse – I get a phone call…
 
“Me and the Great Ray Dane are back together” …
 
No amount of waiting had prepared me for this phonecall. The pain I felt in my arm had now completely subsided. I felt a new pain, a new sense of dread. DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane back together.
 
“Stan Bennett” I get taken into a room
 
“If you would just like to get a ticket Mr Bennett, the radiographer will see you when your ticket gets called”. More rooms, more waiting. This time I don’t mind. The longer I am here, the longer I wait, the longer I go without having to hear Leeds and Dane…

A long day

 
Why do things go badly wrong so consistently?
 
You’ve had a long day at work, Housham has inexplicably called a 5PM meeting. Housham is a complete tool. He is one of those that loves office jargon, he loves saying ‘across the piece’, he loves the phrase ‘quick win’s’, he doesn’t ask you to do something, oh no, he asks you to ‘action’ something. He loves ‘touching base’ – what the hell does that mean by the way? He has created a chart called ‘Best Practices’, he calls us into ‘flexi’ rooms to have ‘one to one’s’ and ‘edge conversations’. Basically this guy is a twat.
 
Housham has to do things his own unique little way. I once went to toilet and he washed his hands before he went in to toilet but once he had done destroying cubicle one he walked straight out without washing his hands. Not even a pretend wash, not even a token splash of water. I mean who washes their hands before they do their business but not after?
 
I have been sat on an ‘audio’ all afternoon, it is basically a weeks catch up of our ‘milestones’. Ah man it is dry. People rattling on about ‘slipped deadlines’. I literally could not give a shit. The meeting finishes at four, not before ‘AOB’ and the standard nothing question from Andy. Andy what’s the point in asking the question, even you don’t care about the answer. Andy is trying to brown-nose. I hate that guy.
 
So, the meeting has finally finished and Housham arranges a follow up at 5. Do me a favour Housham. We sit through the pain and at 5.45 we are finally let out the office. I press the button for the lift to go down, the button has clearly lit up. Sue comes along and also presses the button. What’s the matter Sue don’t think I pressed it properly? The button was lit Sue, you saw me press it Sue. Why, Sue, why do you still have the urge to press it? I get in the lift and no one is following basic lift etiquette, we are squashed in like sardines and you’ve got BO, farting, inappropriate chats, flirting, the whole lot going on. I just want to get home. Of course the lift is stopping at every floor and every fat person in the building thinks they can squeeze in. My face is now planted against the glass mirror, I am practically licking the glass. Could be worse…could be licking Sue. I hate Sue.
 
I begin to negotiate the tube and I push myself on at London Bridge. I literally can’t breath but I am on. You then get the idiot who decides that even though the warning sounds hear and the door begins to close, that he will attempt to squeeze on last minute. For some reason he didn’t fancy squeezing on 10 seconds ago. Oh no, he decides to play a little game, have a little fun, and attempt the squeeze at the last second. I get a knee to the balls for my trouble but at least he is on the tube ok. What a great relief. We get stuck in a tunnel, he decides he is going to attempt to read the Evening Standard so suddenly I have print all over my face. We begin to move and get to Elephant and Castle. A disabled man, in a wheelchair is outside. This is brilliant. I am desperate to get home but we’ll have to get the ramp out, rearrange the carriage, get ‘wheels’ onto the tube and then 15 minutes later be on our way. The beauty of it is is that he is only going one stop. I’m sure if we rallied round and pushed him hard enough we could roll him to Kennington.
 
Finally I get off of the tube, I walk up the left hand side of the escalator and tut at those who do not walk at the appropriate pace. I go to touch my oyster card but the man in front of me clearly has not topped up properly or has some problem with his oyster – the gate is not opening. Instead of moving out the way and letting the masses through he decides he will keep on trying. Look mate, it isn’t going to work. Do the right thing, step aside. Oh no, he keeps tapping away. He taps one side, flips the card, and taps with the other side. He gives it the lucky rub, he breathes heavily on it – all to no avail. He calls the guard over, he doesn’t go over to the guard, oh no he calls him over. I am so close to erupting – I have already had Andy and his stupid AOB, I’ve had tosspot Housham and his last minute meeting, I’ve had Sue, fat bitch Sue. I’ve had Kick me in the balls and Wheels. And now this chump. Finally the guard lets him through. I am on the home straight. Only Tesco to negotiate.
 
I am an experienced shopper. I know the supermarket layout. I know where milk is, I know where bread is, I know where the Jammie Dodgers are and I am fully aware of the Ready Meals aisle. I get my items, swiftly, efficiently – without incident. I scan the checkout area, I think about going to the self checkout but I know I’ll start to use it and will inevitably have to call for assistance as those things hate me. Either that or my milk will not scan and because I know I am too lazy to ask for help I will just decide to go the evening without the milk I so desperately wanted. A new cashier opens up, I spot the opening in the distance and manoeuvre myself to the queue. I am behind an incredibly old lady but she only has a pint of milk, some butter, and a yoghurt – let’s hope she isn’t lactose intolerant. This is great. I will be home soon.
 
I arrange my items on the belt, I am aware of the supermarket etiquette so I put my items into a tight pile so as to allow maximum belt space for others. I place the ‘separator’ onto the belt, behind my compact pile. I hope I’d get a thank you from the burly man behind me but alas it was not to be.
 
The old lady has just had her items scanned. What was concerning was that she was not packing as the cashier was scanning. I’ve always been an excellent packer but she was in no man’s land. She was not having a conversation with the cashier and she wasn’t packing. The cashier announces to the old lady that it will be £2.34 for her goods.
 
“Bit steep isn’t it deer. It never used to be this much in my day”
 
I am desperate to say something. I am desperate to tell her that £2.34 in her days is the equivalent to almost £300 pounds in today’s market. I bite my tongue.
 
What the old lady does next will haunt me for the rest of my days.
 
She gets out her cheque book.
 
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was £2.34, cheques have not been seen in public for decades. It was £2.34. You know what’s coming next – the cashier has not been trained on cheques. Superb. I think about quickly leaving the queue and going next door but I am in far too deep, my items are next in line, I am pot committed, I am going to have to wait it out. The supervisor comes over. She hasn’t got a Scooby either. The manager is called.
 
Four minutes in and I am seething. The old lady is now ‘The old bag’ in my eyes. I hate her.
 
I am so desperate I break my silence – “I don’t mind giving you the £2.34 for your items” I say
“Oh no dear. We got taught to pay our way” she replies
 
You Slag. Fortunately I didn’t say that out loud.
 
What was really getting to me throughout all this was that the old lady still hadn’t packed up her items. Come on love. Finally the manager comes racing down. It is a stupid looking 20 something who is in desperate need of prescription medication for his spots. They are truly awful. Give him his due though, he manages to guide ‘the old bag’ through the cheque process. It took him 9 minutes. I was beyond fuming. I think ‘the old bag’ needed a good rest and a sleep. I end up getting so irate that I am now packing the old bag’s bags. These sort of people need to be put down.
 
I eventually get out of Tesco to arrive home. I dive into my wallet, I begin the search for the keys. I don’t see them. This is bad. This is very bad. The rain begins, the frantic search continues. Nothing.
 
It’s at this point I think about ending it all. Instead I opt to sit on my seat, drink my milk and eat my Jammie Dodgers whilst the flood waters around me begin to rise. I get a call…It is from Housham.
 
“Stan, I have just found a set of key’s. I picked them up earlier but forgot to mention it. Any idea who’s they may be?”
 
 

The art of the wingman

The art of the Wingman
 
I have fancied this bird for nine months. I met her at a club, I hit some rare good form and if we are being honest…I dominated. From start to finish I was unplayable. It was one of those rare nights that every gag I told, every story I recalled she absolutely loved it. And why wouldn’t she? I did so well that I got a number. I did the classic trick of putting her number into Google the next morning to see if her Facebook page appeared (yes you can do this – yes it is frightening). I was in luck her Facebook page appeared and my initial fears that she was a hound were proved to be incorrect. She was decent. Very decent.
 
I bided my time. 2 hours 42 minutes passed and it hit midday, she was prime for a text. I did the standard thing of asking a couple of questions ‘How was your night’ bla bla and went back and forth over whether to end it with a kiss. I thought I probably shouldn’t put tb at the end. I had decided early on there would be no ‘Lol’s, hehe’s, haha’s, lmao, rofl’ in my text. It was what it was. A standard first text.
 
I put my phone on silent that way if she did text me back I may see the little light flash and get excited or I may not and I could still have that moment, that brief moment, where I can press a key on my phone and see if a message has appeared. If you have your phone on loud that option never exists. Amazingly 20 minutes later she hits me back. No questions. No kisses. Not great but it was a quick text back. I wondered what the etiquette here was? Do I message back? Do I make some rogue fact up about last in the hope she then feels compelled to text me back to find more information up about why ‘I walked 14 miles home from the club’. That’s exactly what I decided to do.
 
Fast forward 8 months and 29 days. I am sitting in the Albert, in London, with my mate Alan playing the role of wingman. She, who lives in Scotland (but for that she was perfect), was meeting me at the Albert. She was bringing a mate, Alan was extremely nervous – he was convinced she would bring a brute and he would be lumbered. I too was nervous, it was as though I had taken a short cut through a car wash I was that sweaty. My throat had completely dried up. I had stupidly decided today was the day I’d trial my ridiculous ‘vintage’ Puma jumper – not the day to be taking risks. Alan looked a mess, he wasn’t my original choice for wingman – I wanted to appear impressive, I wanted to bring a good looking, funny guy with me. That way she would think because I surrounded myself with such folk that I was in someway good looking, that I was in some way funny. But alas Mark had let me down last minute. I was desperate, I needed someone with so little life that they would be available last minute to go through this horrendous experience. Alan fitted the bill. He looked truly awful and he certainly is not funny.
 
What if I don’t know what she looks like? No that’s ridiculous she’s my wallpaper on my iPad. I hoped she would be wearing the Red Top from the Facebook Album Malia 08. Or will it be the green number from Turkey 07? Either way it would be good.
 
I quickly set about reminding Alan of his duties. He should be 100% loyal to me. He should not, under any circumstance, chat up my girl. He should not, under any circumstance, chat up other birds at the bar. His role should be to keep ‘the witch’ (her mate) away from us two for as long as possible. He should not, under any circumstance, tell ‘the witch’ anything about me that could a)lead me into trouble. b) make me look stupid. c) embarrass me in any way.
 
Alan should do the opposite – ‘Stan is the funniest man I know’. He should make stuff up about me to make me appear cooler ‘Stan loves rock climbing’. He should make me appear sensitive without being a pussy ‘Stan helps out every now and then at a retirement home’.
 
Alan should not get drunk. Alan should not bring up drunken stories of me and the ‘lads’. Alan should not mention that Sophie (my love) is my iPad screensaver background. Alan should not mention the Malia 08 Facebook album. Alan should not show the pictures on his phone, that I have sent to him, of Soph wearing nothing but a bra. Alan should follow the wingman code to the letter.
 
Soph walks in and my word she looked good, she was wearing the yellow dress from Grad Ball 09 album. Outstanding. It is fair to say the ‘thing’ that was with her did not look a million dollars. You should have seen Alan. Don’t get me wrong Alan is no oil painting but this girl was so bad I suddenly felt a wave of nausea come over me. She looked like Trigger from Fools and Horses. I could sense Alan’s bitter disappointment but whilst a blow for him he knew his role, he knew why he was here.
 
We get the awkward meet and greets out the way. I didn’t know whether to kiss her on the lips, on the cheek, shake her hand, hug her, courtesy. What is the rule here? I went for the half hug and kiss on the cheek. I could sense her disappointment. Alan, hands in his pockets, just gave out a small ‘aaite’. Come on Alan, you’re better than that. Soph starts telling this story, I admit it wasn’t great but I wasn’t about to rock the boat. I would give her her time at the mic before I swooped in and dominated. ‘The Thing’ was trying to dictate the convo. Alan had to get a grip, he had to wrestle control back. Suddenly Alan opens his mouth, I was nervous, what was he going to say.
 
“Soph has Stan told you this one?
“Er…”
“Mate what you doing” I say.
“Let me finish…so we are at uni and me and the lads bet Stan a score that he wouldn’t put some dog shit in his mouth”
“Mate I’m begging you” I plead
“Let me finish. So Stan being the LAD that he is goes 20 quid? Might bloody have to. We all get up from our room, we step outside and there it is. The slimiest, wettest turd you’ve ever seen.”
“What the fuck” says ‘the thing’
“He puts his finger in it, gets a bit on the tip of his finger and sticks his finger in his mouth. Ah man it was so funny. He was retching everywhere. Boaty, Coomesy and the lads were in bits. Funny as fuck”
 
Silence.
 
Stony silence.
 
Soph looks at me. I look at her. ‘The Thing’ is throwing up her steak pudding. Alan is cracking up. Alan is in bits. ‘The Thing’ is being so sick that the manager of the Albert erects a ‘caution wet floor sign’ around her.
 
Soph, looks at me, I look at her. I look at her with terror etched across my face.
 
“20 Quid Alan…you’ve been had. I would have done it for 10” Sophie said.
It was at this point I mentally wrote out my engagement text message to her. Take a bow Soph. Take a bow.

Oh to be cool and good and looking

I wish I was cooler. I wish I was good looking.

I am out in a club, a club that is has one of the real edgy one worded names ‘Mineral’. I look up at the neon sign and I look at the smokers, I look back at the neon sign. I look back at the smokers, the lads are all decked out in the latest gear, wearing Sunglasses. The chicks are wearing ‘jeggings’. I look back at the neon sign. Mineral is not my natural home. I am not comfortable in this crowd. I know that. They know that.

‘ID?’

The bouncer looks like he was born in a tin, he literally has no neck and some of the most tightly compacted shoulders I have ever seen. My mates are cracking gags with the smokers. Mitch has started chatting up a girl in the queue. I am desperately fumbling to try and find my passport. I have a passport because I don’t drive. I don’t drive because I am not a cool man. I have a passport as my ID. I have a passport as my ID because I am not a cool man.

I’m in. I’m in Mineral and the ‘tunes’ are blaring. Everyone seems to be going mental to this song.  And I have absolutely no idea what tune it is. I look left, Mitch is casually tapping his foot to the beat, 2 girls are hanging off him. He loves it. Good luck to him. He is looking ridiculously smug and he has right to. These 2 girls are absolute dreams. Me, I have to focus on the ones that look like little pugs. Pugs are the ugliest kind of dogs. They look like deformed dogs. They are the retards of the dog world. I seem to attract pugs, they are all I attract. I look for a nicer breed but there’s no point in setting the goalposts high. I just accept if I pull above a 3.5 out of 10 I have done bloody well. If I pull above a 5 it may even warrant a Facebook status. If I pull above 6 even I won’t believe me. Mitch is loving it, a couple of eights draped over his shoulder. Lad.

I look to the right, Ray has his hands in his pocket and adopts the head bob – a move he pulls off so well. He takes his hand out of his pocket to sip on his pint. I do the same and take some Smirnoff Ice up through my straw. I choke on the Ice. Mitch and the chicka’s look around, this is not a good moment for me. Mitch goes back to tapping his foot, Ray goes back to the headbob. Me, well I cannot begin to even find the beat. I know none of the words, I find it all too loud. I am desperately hoping that Whitney or Bryan Adams come on but somehow I think ‘Mineral’ may be to ‘good’ for Whitney.

God I hate this place. The phrase fish out of water springs to mind. At least a fish can survive for a minute out of water. Me…me I am a dead man. I died as soon as I walked into shitty ‘Mineral’. I look around, desperate for a lifeboat when all of a sudden, right on queue, a little pug appears.

This girl is atrocious. Absolutely atrocious. You could do time if you get with her she is that bad. She looks like she belongs on one of those extreme channel 4 shows – ‘The girl who ate her own face’ or something equivalent. Has she no pride? How can she leave the house looking like this? For the first time in my long career I mentally hand out a negative rating. Unprecedented.

Still I’m not a proud man…I crack on to it.

The breath on this girl. My word. It gives halitosis a bad name. She has definitely shat herself as well. She had smells coming out of both ends. Mitch looks over to me, I can sense he wants to save me but then at the moment he begins walking Ray pushes him, proceeds to bollock him and persuades to get the camera out instead. Normally that would be ok as Mitch’s Casio is broken – broken in the sense that the zoom doesn’t work. Unfortunately for me no amount of zoom damage is going to prevent her from appearing. She is that big that the default camera setting will be too zoomed in.

The shame of me. Still desperately trying to find a beat, decking the Smirnoff (Ice) in the hope it will make her look more attractive. All the while trying not breath for fear that her odour will make me be sick in her mouth.

We start speaking, she sounds like she smokes 50 a day, she smells like she hasn’t heard of the word toothbrush before. I ask it what it’s name is (solid first line). ‘It’ starts to speak, (I am now calling ‘her’ ‘it’ as my memory has just caught up with how rank she was), ‘it’ responds – ‘Pat’. Pat?! Who at the grand old age of 24 is called Pat? I can only think it’s a nickname – like ‘Pat the dog’. We then begin a hideous conversation, ‘it’ tells me that ‘it’ has just got back from travelling the world – surprised the airline let her on. ‘It’ couldn’t have been allowed baggage as well…no way.

The convo continues, the shame deepens. In the end the 3 bottles of Smirnoff (Ice) catch up with me. I make my move, I close my eyes, I go in for the kill. ‘It’ recoils.

“What you doing” ‘it’ says,
“Sorry I thought you wanted to kiss” I retort,
“No. Sorry. I have got a boyfriend”
“Surely not” I say without thinking
“Surely not. How fucking dare you. Have you taken a look at yourself? I felt sorry for you that is why I came over” and with that barrage of abuse ‘it’ just walks off.

Ray and Mitch are in tears. Facebook has no doubt already been updated. I have just been rejected by negative 0.8, who’s name is Pat, who eats her own shit for breakfast and then doesn’t bother to clean her teeth. I’ve seen the term FML banded about before, never really understood it…until now

The horrors of the tube

Clapham South tube station on a Monday morning is like being in Hell’s waiting room. I am now an experienced ‘commuter’ and I know what carriage gives me the best chance of getting on. I know what carriage empties out at Bank – just 12 heinous stops away.

There we all are, packed in like a tin of sardines on this sweaty Monday morning. I place myself behind a man who is on his Blackberry. On his Blackberry. It’s Monday morning you sad, pathetic man. I shimmy up behind him and tactically place myself in to a position whereby I am able to read the Metro that a large lady dressed in orange is wearing. A tank of man tries to outflank me on the left but I am too shrewd for him and I carefully drop my rucksack in the gap that he wanted. I see a woman with a pram walking towards my group. Come on do me a favour, there is no way she is getting a pram on the tube. How naïve is she? A Chinese man ambles along the platform with a huge suitcase in tow. This Chinese man must have an ambitious streak in him if he thinks he is getting that case on to our tube.

‘Please stand back, the train is about to arrive’

The tube pulls in. You get a sense of how busy it is going to be by looking at the first carriage and seeing if there is space. If there is space then my carriage should be ok, if there is no space then my carriage will be carnage. As the tube rolls past me I see a wall of black, men in suits are pushed up against the door. Their faces are smack on the glass, their tongues literally licking the windows. It is a warzone. Still I am running late. The push begins.

The doors barely open such is the volume of people in the carriage. Blackberry is on, he has pushed his weigh past a stocky bald man who almost looks as though he is acting as bouncer for the tube. I managed to push my way past Metro Orange and the tank on my left. I am half on the tube half off. I see the lady with the pram take the safety catch off. Is she mental? You can’t get a pram on here! You can’t even get a baby on here let alone 4 wheels, two kids and her. I look behind me, panic is setting in. There is a man on a bike, on a bike?! Who brings a bike on to a rushhour tube? Here’s a novel idea mate, why don’t you ride the poxy thing once in a while? It’s at this point I wish I had a set of crutches on me. If I did I could legitimately make a claim for the disabled seat.

‘Bang’ I’ve taken one to the groin. The tank is on, how he has managed that I don’t know. But I am down. I am bent over and I am winded. From my bent down position I see Metro Orange make a move. You can’t be serious Metro Orange! She pushes in to me, which then drives an old lady back in to a young man. The carriage then rise as one.

“What are you doing, there’s no room, stop pushing”.

People think I am doing the pushing, they don’t realise Metro Orange is the one who has literally knocked over an old lady. Chinatown now fancies some of the action. He pushes his way on, his suitcase off. You can’t be for real Chinatown? There is no way you’re getting that on there. He yanks it up, straight on to my toes. Agony. What has he got in there?! The weigh is so great that I actually think two of my toes may be broken.
Blackberry bends down and helps pull the pram up. What is he doing? Can he not see how much trouble we are in. Get back on your mails you idiot.

The pram is a third in, 2 thirds off. The children are crying. The mum has a focus in her face that I’ve never seen. It is at this point I realise this pram is coming on to this tube.

‘Please mind the doors’

The pram goes straight into my knee. I’ve now taken one to the groin, my two toes are broken and the pram has struck my knee. The kids are standing on my feet, my poor toes. The doors close, blackberry helps push the mum in and they we all are. In a space no bigger than a toilet cubicle – Metro Orange, Blackberry, a pram, two kids, Chinaman, a case, the tank, an old lady, a young man and a bike. I have beads of sweat dripping from me, I feel nauseous from the blow I’ve taken to the groin and by the Tank’s halitosis.

My face is planted on the door, unable to move, I have an itch. Oh God the agony, I need to scratch my back, I need to scratch it now! I start rubbing my back against Metro Orange. I fear Metro Orange will cry rape but alas I do it anyway. Sure enough she let’s out a huff. I accept the huff, it could have been so much worse, and sure enough my itch had now passed.

What the heck is that? Blackberry smells it, Metro Orange smells it, the mum smells it.

“Mummy what is that?”

The kids smell it.

The tank has dropped one. It is hideous. Absolutely hideous. My word what has he had for breakfast? Smells like he has puked up a shit. It is rank.

“Sorry for the slight delay, we will be arriving to Clapham Common shortly”.

This is horrendous, I’ve got a bike up my arse, a pram in my nuts and a fat man’s poo particles up my nose. I am sweating out last night’s vodka and I’ve got two little idiots playing a game of eye-spy. It is so obvious the answer is pram.

“People…”
“No”
“Passenger”
“No”

Unable to take it anymore. Unable to take Chinatown’s case resting on one foot and a pram on the other. Unable to take the God awful music coming from Lance Armstrong behind me. Unable to take the gut wrenching smell. I flip out. I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it.
I cry out ‘Pram’, it’s ‘Pram you idiots’. They start crying, the mum starts shouting, the old lady gives it ‘well you wouldn’t have seen that in my day’. The carriage as one judge me. I can feel Chinatown’s sense of disappointment. All of a sudden Blackberry isn’t emailing anymore. Metro Orange has put her Metro down. The music stops from Lance.

We roll into Clapham Common, the sense of hatred building.

“Please mind the gap”

The doors open. I am almost pushed out of the tube but I somehow stay in. It is at this point I look up to see what fresh hell awaits me from Clapham Common. As I look up I see a man in a wheelchair…with a carer. Game over. Wave the flag. Sign the Armistice.