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?

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.

 

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…