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.
 

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?”
 
 

How to break up with a friend

I want to break up with a friend. There is a guy, Max is his name, who I have known for 17 years. I am not being arrogant when I say this guy really likes me, in a non gay way (I hope). We met when we were 7. Yes I liked his lunchbox, yes we both shared a love of the game ‘Kiss Chase’ but do these shared ‘interests’ mean that we have to still be friends?
 
From the age of 8 I fell into a cooler crowd, had ladies hanging off me, I was a major hit at the Year 4 Disco. I’d found fashion, Kappa was now the only thing I would wear. I’d found sport – I provided the sponge football at school. I’d found acting – people often still talk about my performance in the Bakerloo Flea at the tender age of 9. Whilst my life was going from strength to strength Max was stuck in a rut. He couldn’t buy a date with a girl, he was constantly mocked by the class when it came to the Group Reading of Stig of The Dump and he still had after school handwriting lessons. I didn’t want to be seen with this guy. At the age of 8 he had become a social leper. He was the MySpace of the Primary school world – you don’t admit you are on MySpace and if you had any sense you didn’t admit you and Max were friends.
 
Max had no one, no one except me. He stuck to me like a rash. He would invite me round for sausages, smiley faces and milk. His mum, whilst unbelievably hot – I was 8, not blind – possessed all of the annoying traits that Max did. She couldn’t even cook sausages, it was embarrassing.
 
School trips were always a disaster. Max wanted to room with me when me and the lads wanted a midnight feast and to deck a load of lemonade. Max wanted his mum (we all did) and a bedtime story. Max drunk warm milk to help him to sleep, Lemonade was forbidden as were Haribo Tangfastics. Loser.
 
Come the end of Primary school I thought I had served my time, done my punishment. This was the moment that Max and I needn’t be ‘friends’ any longer. We were off to different schools. Max would wear a jumper, I would wear a blazer and in many ways that summed us up – we were different. He had nothing about him, he was just always there.
 
Unbelievably the call’s kept coming. I began screening calls at home. The voicemails began to build up. Do I want to play conkers? Do I want to run a tuck shop this weekend? Do I want to build a robot tonight? Surely the lack of replies on my part should have given Max the hint. I didn’t want to play conkers, I wanted to throw conkers at windows. I didn’t want to run a tuck shop, I wanted to scam the tuck shop. I didn’t want to build a robot, I wanted to go down the park, sit on a swing, and drink Cider. I was now 12, grow up Max. I begged my parents to move, that way I could cut ties with him completely but alas a garage was built and the back room extended – we were now pot committed, we were staying put.
 
Max was a master at popping round and catching me unawares. It was like he was the lion and I his prey. He would wait for me to leave my house and then pounce. My soul ripped to shreds by the ineptitude of his conversation.
 
Max’s dad died when he was 4, I felt for him and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone but I wasn’t driving the car that killed his dad, why should I be punished? The fact he had no dad, no friends and an embarrassing mother meant I felt as though I couldn’t get rid of him entirely. He needed me and whilst he was socially barren I did the good thing and saw him through teens – the chronic acne, the unfortunate rat tash incident.
 
It’s worth pointing out that Max is rude, we have nothing in common bar a love of Action Man lunchbox’s, he hates football, he is basically illiterate, he is obese and has yet to get as far down as aisle 11 in the Morrisons store – the deodorant, shower gel lane. He is someone I don’t like, I will never like and have zero respect for. I decided 2 weeks ago that I was going to break up with him.
 
Breaking up with a friend is unchartered territory. There are no rules, no precedent. How do I do it? What do I say? What if he cries? Whilst the unknowns made me feel uneasy, I had an over-riding sense of suffocation. I had to end it with him. In the long run it would do him good, he will find other friends. He has an equally obese girlfriend, Gemma the whale, who can pick up the baton from me. No turning back. I invited him to dinner, the stage was set for a horrific evening. He had no idea, he turned up in a suit that barely fitted him. Candlelight flickered in and out, our rose stood up proud, the wine was going down smoothly, the steaks were perfectly cooked, the deserts were on their way…this was the moment, this was my time.
 
“Max, there is something I’ve got to tell you’ I said, sheepishly.
“There is something I want to tell you as well” Max says
“Go on…”
“Well I don’t know how to ask you this” Max says “but Stan, you are my best friend. You have always been there for me. You are so loyal, so kind and if it wasn’t for you I would never have met Gemma”.
Max is making me feel hideous, whilst all the words are 100% accurate I was about to break up with the guy. Poor Max I thought.
“It is for these reasons Stan, that I wondered if you would be my best man at my wedding?”
It’s at this point I choke, wine is now lodged in my throat. I am barely able to breath, I am slowly turning blue. Still the fact I am not able to breath is the least of my worries, in fact I am hoping that I will die. If I die, I don’t have to do the speech, the stag night, meet Gemma’s family, oh no not the whales’ family.
 
I regain my composure, tens of seconds have elapsed since Max asked me the question. How am I meant to be best man to someone I despise? Man up Stan, you wanted to break up with him, just do it, get out of the warzone.
 
“I would be honoured Max”…
 
I would be honoured Max. Pathetic. In time people will look up the definition of pathetic and it will simply say Stan. I am an embarrassment. I am a fraud. I am Max’s best man…just because I shared a common love of Action Man and Kiss Chase.

Strange lands and stranger people

I am writing this from the west coast of America, I am on holiday and I am in a land where the people frighten me.

The whole holiday experience is a bizarre one. It starts with the airport – ‘has anyone packed anything without your knowledge’ – what am I meant to be, clairvoyant? The clue is in the question – ‘without your knowledge’. I wonder how many people at this point turn round and say ‘oh yes, Chris apparently planted a bomb in my case but I only heard that second-hand so I could be wrong’.

I then walk through the scanner, now for some reason I am always horribly nervous at this point. I know for a fact I have no knives on my person, I don’t carry a gun nor do I house explosives in my pants but as soon as I walk under that scanner I am filled with enormous worry. It beeps, I then get the angry man who hasn’t had a bit in years start touching me up. What’s he going to find I think, what have I forgotten to remove. Alas it was only my belt. Hank is fuming. ‘Can you not read, belts are to be placed in the bucket’. He orders me back through.

The mutterings begin, I know they are talking about me. I want to say something but I fear the wrath of Hank. I undo my belt and place it in the bucket. My trousers promptly fall down. The reason I wore the belt was to keep the trousers up, remove the belt and the trousers will obviously fall down. The crowds that had built up behind me give me wolf whistles, I am a celebrity – I lap it up! I pull my trousers back up comically high and then let them hit the floor again ‘this guy is crazy’ says a member of the gathering crowd. I am crazy, I love my audience and they love me. ‘Yo, asshole – walk through the gate’ Hank swiftly brings me back to earth. Like most celebrities my fame is short lived. I now get on the plane.

I always sit next to the idiot on the plane, without fail. The guy who wants to talk to me. The guy who has no life so decides he will try and ruin mine for the next 9 hours. He is not interesting nor funny. ‘Hi I’m Steve’ he says. At this point I just want to get off the plane and head home. Why do people feel the need to be friendly just because we are going on holiday. I don’t jump on the tube and promptly introduce myself to all the chinese students aboard my carriage. Steve and I will never meet again, we obviously live far away from each other. He is
considerably older than me. The only thing we have in common is that we are going to America. I wanted to sleep, watch my films and maybe throw peanuts at the cabin crew and see if I can get away with it. Steve puts paid to my hopes and dreams.

11 hours later we land. Steve has lived a sheltered life, he wants to meet in LA – not going to happen Steve. I know everything about Steve. 4 cats – Bill, Ben, Jack and Jill (an insight into Steve’s character). He has never married, nor does he have kids. Steve rents his flat in paddington London. Steve has recently retired due to ill health and Steve thought he would try America before his time ran out. In 11 hours of flying and 11 hours of talking to Steve I realised there was not a single thing I liked about him. He smelt awful, ate like a chimp, had no social awareness and did not realise that I hated him. Why is it just because I am on holiday I have to make an effort with this chump. If I was at home he would never have spoken to me. I like that, I like the fact I can pick and choose my friends rather than them being dictated to me by seat number. Steve is the sort of guy that when the Airline announce boarding he begins queuing. We have seat numbers Steve, you can sit down – they won’t fly without you. Why do people insist on doing this? obviously because Steve stood up and started queuing the herd of sheep behind him did the same.

Still I was in a fresh country, the sun was shining and despite it being less sunny and less warm than home I put my sun cream on – something I have yet to do at home. For some reason in my head I am more likely to burn abroad than at home despite it being colder. I am doing this trip on a huge budget and have therefore booked into a hostel. This is a huge risk for me. All I want is a bed – I won’t be in the hostel for long, I just want it for sleep. Of course as I enter my room the cast of Cats decide to introduce themselves. There are about 6 people in room 102. All of whom are duller than the next. But they are ‘travelling’. They are finding themselves, they are making life long friends – just because they have no chance of making friends at home most likely down to the fact that they are in fact insanely boring people. That is why they decide they must rent a bike and cycle the city, go and do some handglinding and hike wherever possible. They then arrive in a hostel and say ‘oh this is nothing like Sydney, I met this girl called Puma, she was Swedish and like totally crazy. We went on like the most epic bender and then I shagged her and her 3 mates’.Firstly this clearly didn’t happen. Secondly stop using the word ‘like’ and thirdly Who gives a shit. Why can’t these people keep their boring tales to themselves.

I haven’t left the hostel yet – I am being bored by the outback, Africa and Tubing. This holiday of mine could be good, it can be great providing people remember the rules of home. We don’t speak to strangers, we don’t care about the lives of the random, if your unpopular at home don’t try and make up for it out here. Just let me enjoy my holiday, let me eat my steak in peace, let me lay on a beach, I don’t want to go for a walk with you, I don’t care if you’re 70 next week Steve. Just because we are in a different country doesn’t mean all these people can all start acting so differently. You are travelling – so why don’t you just do that and leave us all alone to do the same. I am fed up of this room, I am fed up of these people – I want to see America.

The Blood Test

The doctor has phoned me, he wants me to go and get a blood test to see if I can be safely given this new jab to prevent some unknown disease. I hate blood tests, I dislike waiting for things and I don’t particularly enjoy meeting strangers (weirdo’s) which you inevitably do do in the blood test waiting room. To be honest I would rather the disease but me being me I agree to it. It’s Monday morning, I should be working. I should be telling people, who don’t care, about my weekend. I should be, reluctantly, listening to what they got up to on theirs. Instead I am here. Here being hell’s waiting room.

The Blood Centre operates a ticket based system. It is very advanced. You go in, no one greets you, you look around – what do I do? It’s at this point that I would have to break a huge rule of mine – not to voluntarily speak to a stranger – to find out what I need to do. I opt against doing this and I follow this old man with a stick. He seems to have been here before, he will know what to do. He gets a ticket. I get a ticket. Essentially the ticket based system is this; you get a ticket, you sit down, the misery begins, you look at the board until your number comes up and then you enter the blood room and the misery continues. It seems to be a system that is timeless; no amount of technology will replace this ticket system.

I am ticket 94. Immediately I think that this is not a good thing but maybe I will be in luck, maybe the number on the board will be 93 and I will stroll smugly in. How wrong I am. The number on the screen reads 16. I have no book, no paper, alone with my thoughts – and not many of these. I am sitting down when, like the inquisitive human that we all are, I see who is about. Who is weird? Who has what disease? I begin labelling these poor innocent people with diseases – he is anaemic, she high blood pressure, that old guy is so fat he must have some fat based disease. That man is dead. It is a fun game, one that I would like to think I am quite good at, alas we will never know.

I am sitting next to an old, really old, woman who looks like the hunchback of F Wing. Opposite me is an annoying 5 year old child with her Chav of a mum. On the other side of me is an ill looking man who is snoring, loudly, had he not been snoring I would think he was dead. This was it. The next 60 minutes of my life would be acted out with this supporting cast. We had all ages, all of them annoying, all of them deciding that today, Monday the 12th they wanted to make some new friends.

It started with Joan. ‘Hello love, I’m Joan. I have been here an hour now, bloody thing ain’t moved. They keep wheeling these sick people in from over there who seem to jump the queue’. Oh god, why Joan? Why speak to me? All I wanted was the blood test and get the hell out of there. Now I have to entertain Joan. She should be wheeled into the room, she should be in a chair – look at you Joan, you can’t sit up woman. Joan smells. I hate Joan.

‘Hi Joan, an hour wow. Poor thing. Hopefully it won’t be too much longer.’ What an absolute nothing comment from me. Calling Joan ‘thing’, even if she looks alien like I can’t call her thing again. Maybe Joan won’t retort. I haven’t asked her any questions. There is no need to reply Joan. ‘Won’t be too much longer? Your bloody naïve aren’t you lad? You got much planned for Christmas…if you have cancel it cos you will still be here.’ Chill out Joan, she does have a point – I am naïve because unlike you Joan I am fit and healthy. I am not up here every Monday for the social. I don’t know how this place works and I am proud of that fact. I am going to stand up, fully erect, just because you can’t. I may do some stretches, just to really rub it in Joan. I hate Joan. ‘Ah I am sorry, I don’t really know how this all works. I am a bit new here’. Pathetic.

This kid is getting a bit close for comfort. I don’t want to play with you. Problem I have though is that Joan wants to carry this conversation on. Do I take a bullet and play ‘Guess Who’ with this little scab or do I continue the misery with Joan. What a choice? Talk gout with a 90 year old or ask who’s wearing the glasses with a 6 year old. This is what my life has become. I know I am not going to get any change out of this girl’s mum (not Joan’s she died years ago). If I play with the girl then it is just me, the mum is reading The Mirror and clearly loving it. There will be no respite. You play ‘Guess Who’ now then you will be cancelling your Christmas plans. On the other hand, speak to Joan and you may just end up killing her.

Thirty Nine. ‘Does he have a moustache?’ I plumped for Guess Who. I still had 50 to go before my number. I am an excellent ‘Guess Who’ player. I have a proud undefeated record and this is because I ask prudent, sensible questions. I was not going to let my record slip. Not to Crystal – why would someone name their kid Crystal. As I was demolishing her – she only had 2 faces left, I had 14, another easy win – I just knew that I was in the presence of a future porn star. I mean Crystal, you name your kid that and you know she is not going into politics. Looking at the mum I was not sure if Crystal hadn’t been produced from the set of a Porn film. If airports scanned plastic then her mother would shut Terminal 4 down. Still Crystal was not a good Guess Who player, Joan had shut up and the numbers were going through quite nicely.

Sixty Six. Suddenly a policeman came bounding through the door with what can only be described as a hobo cuffed to him. There were so many seats Mr Policeman, don’t infect us with your presence. I see him walking towards us. I had just won another game – four nil up now and not looking in any danger. They sat right next to Joan. Just my luck. What a weird bunch we were. The bloke on my left was pretty much dead. Joan couldn’t stand. We had a bad Pamela Anderson opposite, we had her kid Crystal who was one of the worst Guess Who players I had ever seen, we had PC Rufus and Ray the hobo. If I didn’t have a disease before this began I certainly did now. I thought about bailing. I thought about moving, heading for the door. But they knew my number – we had exchanged these earlier – I couldn’t get up now. Joan would have me for dinner, Crystal would cry and PC Rufus was desperate for someone normal to talk to.

Seventy Eight. I stayed. ‘Does she have a tie?’ this was getting easy. Ray was an interesting character. He had been brought in for publicly weeing over passengers on the busy 8.46 to London. I admired Ray’s pluck. As I have previously blogged about I cannot perform in public due to chronically shy kidneys so for Ray to get up and spray his stuff over the sleeping passengers he had at least showed he had some real qualities, gusto for one. PC Rufus was on the train and got covered. The errant wee unfortunately hit PC Rufus’ mouth and so he had to get Ray to do a blood test to make sure he hadn’t been infected. Poor PC Rufus, tries to catch 40 winks before the big shift only to get wee’d on, in the mouth, by a hobo.

Ninety Three. It was time to prepare myself. Joan was still here – I don’t think she even had a ticket but I wasn’t going to help her out. Ray and PC Rufus were becoming increasingly close and Crystal had gone to get her blood test, armed with the knowledge that she had just lost 9-0 to me at ‘Guess Who’. It was an easy 9-0 too. I wanted to get up in Joan’s face, masquerade my ticket right in front of her. I wanted to go and shake Ray’s hand and point and laugh at PC Rufus. I wanted to pop Pammy’s inflatable breasts and see if she would fly around the room like a popped balloon. I wanted to take the old man’s pulse next to me to see if he was still alive. I didn’t do any of this though because…Ninety Four – I went to get the ticket out of my pocket to go and see the delightful nurse but, and to my dying day I will live with this pain forever, I could not find it. I had lost the ticket.

‘No ticket, you can’t come in Sir. You will need another ticket and wait your turn.’ I turned my head…Joan sat there, bent over with a huge grin on her face. She was so smug. I know she had something to do with this, I couldn’t prove it but one day, one day I will get her, one day I will get my revenge. For now I returned to the ever depleting gang, there I was back at square one. I had a ticket 146. I was sitting with Joan. ‘Told you we were going to be bloody hours’. Just shut up Joan, for once in your grim life would you just shut up. I hate you, and I will get you for this ‘yes looks like you were right’. I am so sad. I wish I could speak what I really feel, just once, if I did. If I said exactly what I felt, told Joan just what I thought of her then that could be enough to finish the old bag off.

Ninety Five.

Shy Kidneys

You will be pleased to know that Laura and I battle on, we watched Blade 3 and it did not disappoint. Was I happy we were still on track? Of Course. I was, I really was, but I wish we had stayed ‘separated’ for just a week or two longer. Not for any sinister reason but rather we are going to a wedding. Laura’s brother’s wedding. Nightmare.

I love Laura but I just wish I could rent a family for her. Here I was usher at brother Gary’s wedding. I barely knew Gary. Gary is such a sad man. He has no friends, he has no personality and he has the same boring parents as Laura. Gary’s parents even have boring names. The mum – Pat. The Dad – Steven. Don’t get me wrong they are not nasty, they don’t warrant this tirade of abuse I am putting their way, they certainly don’t deserve a dedicated blog post but what they do need is some sort of personality transplant.

I am standing at the reception. Pint in hand. ‘So son, you did it?’ says Steven (who has to be called by his whole name. Steve is unacceptable and if you call him Stevie or Steveo he will scratch your eyes right out). ‘Yeah’ says Gary. Silence. The silence continues. The three of us are not even doing anything. I am not even tying up my plain cravat (that Gary bought but I had to give him the money back for – all £2.49 of it) as a means of distraction. We aren’t even sipping our pints. There is no frenzied activity all around us. Tumbleweed thought about entering the dance floor but thought it did not look entertaining enough a venue. Three men, silence. ‘Imagine’ just did not get the 38 guests off their seats like DJ Leeds had hoped.

I had to break the tedium. I had to do something. I looked around – nothing, nobody, this was horrible. These two guys just don’t speak. It is like they do not even know each other. I got out my phone which is my default reaction to awkwardness. I just pretended to text. I pretend to take calls. There are no texts. There are no calls. I am left with no option, the Alamo – the toilet. I will take 10 and I will go toilet. Anything to avoid any more of this pain.

I enter the toilet and it is heaving! Everyone is hanging out in the lav! If you have been in a toilet you will know that it is a pretty bleak place but today, today, it was like a war zone in there. Men throwing up. Noises you never want to hear again coming from cubicle one. In cubicle 3 it sounded as though someone was dying. What made this that much worse was that the food served up by Pat may have been slightly undercooked. Chicken undercooked is never a good idea. Eating it is very naive but what can you do. Pat has slaved over these breasts all day and knocked up the best meal she can – you have to eat it.

There are no cubicles free. I am very much a cubicle man. Generally I like the outer cubicles – I feel too on show in the middle cubicle. I like tearing some toilet roll and putting it at the bottom of the bowl which softens the ‘plop’ sound

I never want to think again of those scenes that I experienced that day. The smells, I never want to smell anything like that again. Horrendous. Grown men bent over. Grown men barely able to breath. This was such a horrendous site. All because of boring Pat. Still I was ok! I had to avoid the cubicle and so I patiently waited for the urinal.

The urinal is a strange device. First time I saw one I thought it was an open cubicle so I sat on it did a poo and promptly got escorted from the premises. My dad was fuming. Still though, here I was – about to make my first urinal visit in years. I was now at the urinal and smack bang in the middle. Not ideal. The first rule, to me at least, is that I should be allowed to concentrate on what it is I am doing – I don’t want people speaking to me. I don’t want people in anyway peering down there. Focus on your own urinal, keep it quiet and it can all be fine. Oh no.

Gary appears. He stands next to me. Steven appears. He stands next to me. I have the boringtons flanking me. How had I not noticed them in the queue – maybe because of their stealth like quietness? It is as this point that they decide to have a marathon conversation. Couldn’t get a word out of them before but now amidst the chaos behind me – the Nam like chaos with front, in no mans land being shot at by Steven and Gary – they are in full flow chatting. Chatting to me. Despite the fact their wife/mum has poisoned all these innocent civilians.

They talk to me – almost at the same time. We all have our ‘wotsits’ out so that we can aim and fire. I know, and it still troubles me even now, that Steven was just looking down at my urinal. He is staring at it. What do I do? I have not pee’d yet and they know I haven’t as if by a strange stroke of luck the 3 of us went to the urinals together. I can’t now walk off without weeing – it looks rude. These are my potential in-laws. These people are my new family. I can’t abandon them, they are striking up a conversation – I can’t walk out on that. Not only are they chatting but they are loving it! I need to stay and I need to get the job done.

I have always had horribly shy kidneys. I can’t wee when I need to, when any pressure is on me – I fail. Miserably. That is why I am a cubicle man. I always have been. ‘You struggling there Matthew’ says Steven. Why?! Why has Steven said this? Why is he looking? Why does he comment? Why does he choose now for his first words? I just had nothing. Some stupid fake laugh came out of my mouth when all I wanted to do was pee all over him and shut him up. I start thinking of waterfalls – desperate that this will set off the wee. I am desperate to get it out but I just can’t. And Gary is having the same problems. I know I shouldn’t know that but I your eyes wander. Gary was having an intense bout of stage fright.

Steven’s done. Steven’s out of the war zone. ‘I will see you outside – if you ever can get it going that is – wahey!’ That is the first gag he has ever made, in his whole life. There are about 24 men in the world’s most disgusting toilet. His wife has killed the lot of them. Sick is dripping down the wall. Toilet roll is scarce from the intense bout of diarrhea everyone is having. Smells that you only smell in a morgue. And he cracks that ‘wahey’ gag. He isn’t even a wahey man. He is Steven. He is boring.

I am about to give up and walk away when unbelievably Gary pipes up ‘Tough isn’t it? Performing in public I mean?’ Ah come on man – why chat? Let me go! We are both struggling here. It’s your wedding day, why spend it in this hell? Let me and my shy kidneys get the hell out of here. ‘So you see the game the other day?’ I ask even thought I now want to give him a swirly (put his head down the loo). The conversation now continues for 6 minutes. 6 minutes!! 6 minutes with Gary. Both of us attempting to conquer our Everest. Both of us not weeing. Chatting – with ‘it’ fully on show to both parties but I am now pot committed. He has never enjoyed a conversation so much in his life. I can’t walk away. He knows I haven’t done the deed. The pressure is enormous. I think of rapids, rainfall, lakes, I listen out for the faint sounds of the flush, the tap. ‘No I know, Brown hasn’t done a good job Gary you are right.’ We are now chatting politics. This is ridiculous. I have arm ache from pointing it. Still no movement from anyone in the cubicle. I am still flanked by death. The usher and the groom camped in this ten by ten square foot Armageddon room.

Finally, when I was losing all hope the toilet in cubicle 2 breaks. The flush is on permanently. I focus my mind. I zone Gary out. I aim my ears to that glorious sound. The sound of water always helps me go. This is my ticket out of here. Focus. Then I let out the smallest trickle known to man. Ah the relief. The bright yellow relief. The unparalleled joy. No more Gary. No more of this heinous smell. Free from the anarchic regime that the toilet today stands for. It may have only been a trickle but it was job done. I could leave. I did leave and I left Gary in there.

Back on to the dance floor. I avoid Steven. I seek solace in my Laura and I dance to ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash (DJ Leeds still yet to find the wedding CD). Gary leaves the toilet 27 minutes later. Steven says ‘You were a long time son. Chicken get you as well?’ Gary responds ‘No…I couldn’t go. Gave up in the end’.

27 minutes and he gave up? He voluntarily stayed in there? Gary the groom put me through all that for what? I will need counseling for what I saw in there today. This is what happens if you take the urinal on. The cubicle is your friend. The urinal is your enemy. Next time you go to wee in a urinal I hope Gary and Steven are there. I hope they torture you, just like they tortured me. If you hear laughing that will be, smugly laughing from the haven that is the cubicle. Laughing at you for having to talk to these two boring men in the most daunting of venues; the urinal.