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.

 

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 long day

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

The art of the wingman

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

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.

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.

The Game

Having a girlfriend, or dare I dream – a wife, can be a wonderful thing. It can be full of fun, new adventures and excitement. There are real meaningful advantages too; you don’t have to worry about your hair getting out of control, you can delay shaving and you can get fat. I enjoy being large. When you enter a relationship you are saying goodbye to the loser that you left behind. Let’s be honest when I was single I had very little about me. I would use horrible chat up lines that just did not work. I was incredibly awkward in social situations and therefore had to limit my attendance to big events and concentrate on just those that had 4 people or less. I made stupid gags to try and impress. With my life entering a rapidly downward spiral I met someone. She was the female me. You should of heard her, non stop banter with ‘the girls’, up for a laugh and equally socially uncomfortable. It was a match made in heaven. We could be losers together. This was going to be brilliant. In my eyes she was cool, laid back. We could, we would, dominate socially – because we were a team. I was now smug, I was right to be smug. She was great and I felt great being with her.

She let me carry on with my normal life. So I carried on going to the pub with my mates. I carried on going to clubs with my mates. I carried on being sick at Daryl’s burger van every Saturday night with my mates. But I could be safe in the knowledge I had an ace girl who would validate my existence. She came out with us too. It was like being with one of the boys on a full time basis. Except she was meant to have breasts unlike big John who had the male breasts or ‘moobs’. This was going to work. This was working. No arguments, No fallings out, 6 months in and I was dominating.

How naive am I? It was a balmy Tuesday evening and I was wearing my ‘Sandy Balls’ T shirt and feeling good. She had been funny all day though. I knew something was wrong. I rung her to invite her round, she still sounded odd, down even but agreed to come round. She walked in, I tried to kiss her, she slightly backed away – I think she was expecting something from me. I don’t know what – I didn’t have anything for her. Except maybe a gruff that I had percolating downstairs that I just could not hold on to. I said ‘great news – I managed to get a copy of Blade 2.’ She was less enthusiastic than I thought she would be. Blade 2 was great, she seemed annoyed though. How can she be annoyed I thought, Snipes was better than ever. I said to her ‘What’s wrong?’ I had been asking this all day. She replied pathetically ‘nothing’. It was obvious to everyone, and by everyone it was just me in the room so therefore just me, that something was clearly wrong.

This ‘pretending nothing is wrong when something clearly is’ game is a universal game that all women know. The game is very simple – women get annoyed with their man but rather tell them what is wrong they want their man to try and guess. It is a long drawn out game. Be prepared for it to last for hours. It is one of many quirks my ex used to have. She used to have some belters. For example she used to say at 8PM have ‘you put the rubbish out for the morning’? You retort and say ‘I will put it out in 10 minutes, just finishing the footy’. She then – mysteriously says ‘Fine, I will do it myself then’. Now I have never understood the woman’s need for a job to be done that instant. I mean the rubbish had a full 14 hours before it needed to be put out but my response had seemed to anger her.

Another good example is when I strolled in at 3am in the morning. I know I shouldn’t of, I know I did wrong. The next morning she enquired ‘what time you got back last night’ I responded and exaggerate the truth and say ‘Hmm, around one I guess’. She then says ‘No it wasn’t, it was three’. Why did she bother asking?

This game is equally strange. Whilst I have not seen a laminated copy of the rules, it is my understanding that we have 5 guesses before the woman erupts and snaps. We do have the chance of saving ourselves if we can guess early on what the issue is. If however you guess wrong then the reactions can be extreme and they can be nasty. It can start from them simply becoming more sunken into their chairs, they may become more quiet to the point of absolute silence. They start ‘tutting’ really loudly. I am not aware of all the different reactions but I was about to have a large number showcased to me. By the way do not, under any circumstances, not guess. If you pretend that you don’t realise something is wrong they then lose it with you, I mean really really lose it – the purpose of this is to gain a reaction, once this objective is achieved they then go back into ice mode where the guessing game begins once more.

I was on guess 3. I had already suggested earlier in the day that maybe I had forgotten to put a ‘kiss’ on the end of my text this morning – by the way what’s that about? She said no.

I had also suggested that the Pot Noodle from yesterday was not up to its normal standard, or maybe I had got the wrong flavor. She said no. The Pot Noodle I thought was particularly good last night.

She was on the sofa, fresh from Blade 2 and the vein in her head was getting bigger and bigger. She was beginning to scrunch up her hands. She had this weird rash thing appear on her arm – what the hell was that? Her face had suddenly gained a pinkish hew. I knew time was pressing on and I had to get in the next 3 otherwise I was in all sorts. I had to guess and I had to guess now.

Guess 3 – was it Blade – did you want, slash (I said slash and did the arm action) expect, a different ending? She said no. I must admit Blade 2 had everything.

Oh God. 2 guesses Matt. Take your time. At this point she was almost off the sofa. She was fuming. What had I forgotten? Had she told me some major news last night in bed that I had just forgotten? No, I would have remembered. Did she see me pee in the bath? Could be…but do I want to bring that up? It would be such a risk in case that was not the issue although it could deflect attention from this thing that I had done. No, if she finds out you pee in the bath then she will never have a bath with me again. I am in trouble. What could it be?

This must have been big. She was now standing. I was on guess four and she was standing. No scrap that, she was pacing the room and it was now clear to me that something was up, something was bothering her – even I could read these signs and I am done for unless I pull it out of the bag.

Guess 4 – Is it that I said you had gained weight recently? Now this was a huge moment. I don’t know why I originally said it a week ago. She said ‘look at me have I gained weight?’ I looked and said ‘only slightly’ That was a mistake, I appreciate that. A mistake that could be forgiven but to now bring it back up, with this audience – this was relationship suicide. She looked at me and for a moment I thought she was honestly going to kill me. I saw her look at the cheese grater and I won’t lie, I feared for my life. She was raging! ‘No, no, no you idiot, it’s not that’ she shouted. ‘Phew’ I thought, dodged a landmine there. What have I done? Have I accidentally killed her parents or done something equally heinous?

Guess 5 – now I didn’t have much time to guess at this point as she had ‘accidentally’ smashed the glass against the wall and was storming out. I had to say something and I had to say it quick. It occurred to me that I did not know when my girlfriend’s birthday was. Oh God. Surely not. I shouted, amidst the carnage ‘birthday…it’s your birthday’.

Silence. An icy stare. I was in trouble either way here. I was either admitting that I didn’t know when her birthday was – even a rough ball park figure – if it was not indeed today. If it was today then ‘oh shit…run and run fast’. The silence was killing me. She was still in the room. I had used up all my guesses.

She broke down into tears and sobbed ‘Yes you moron why has it taken you 22 hours to realise’. I took this as good news. She was now talking to me, I knew what the issue was. I felt like a doctor – I had diagnosed my patient and now I had to treat that patient.
This patient was terminal though. I had nothing. I thought about trying to argue, trying to come up with an elaborate ‘surprise’ birthday story and hoping all her friends were somehow behind the sofa. I think she hoped for that too. I had let her down but I wish she would have just told me this morning. I could have made it up to her. My crime was awful but I could have spoiled her and still given her a great day, had it not been for this stupid game she had been playing all day. I was wrong but this game exacerbated the problem.

I am now awaiting my punishment. I have not slept with her in over a month – punishment enough. She is refusing to accept most of my calls – less of a problem. Blade 3 did not go down well as a birthday present. Alas, I am hopeful. She will remember the good times, the Pot Noodles, Snipes. She will come back…Wont’ she?

Maybe she has started a new game. Trouble is I don’t know the rules for this one. It probably wouldn’t help me even if I did.

The pop-in..

So I am back to writing about more weird and wonderful things – I have left the deep stuff behind and getting back to the heart of the blog.

As you are all aware I work for a large company and therefore most of my time is taken up by dealing with fellow staff’s queries and requests. This is fine; you see an email pop up in the bottom right hand side of your screen and it is from the boss and you just don’t fancy it – you can ignore it and deal with it later. Even if the boss has put one of those annoying red exclamation marks on it you think, if it’s that important he will ring/see me. You can get out of it by saying ‘ah Ian I am real sorry I have been swamped this morning and didn’t even see it come in’. Plausible enough – convincing too. Ian has no option but to say ‘Oh it’s my fault I should have set up an audio (I hate that phrase – so yuppy like)’. I have succeeded in shifting the blame to my boss and I still look like the good guy.

A telephone call comes through from someone you just don’t want to speak to – big Dave. You know if you pick up the call they will be like ‘Hi Matt, yes fabulous weekend ta, you and Jayne (who knows who Jayne is) should come down for the weekend and we can hit the lake; the kids will have a splendid time (I have no kids). I was just wondering Matt as I have invited you, Jayne and the kids down to the lake can you complete this simple (it is not simple at all) request for me and get it done by COB (he even says COB rather than close of business).’ You are backed into a corner now. What will the fictitious Jayne and children say if I say no and it ruins their chance of lake time? You have to say yes. He could be asking you to missile strike the CEO and the rest of the board and you feel you have to say yes – just because he is at the end of the phone. How can you say no to this man? He talks in acronyms and you know he smokes a pipe at the weekend – this is me in 10 years. However with the phone call you do have one option – you don’t have to answer it. Big Dave will be upset, frustrated, for all of about 30 seconds and then he will offer the lake to someone else and the work will get done – just not by you. There is no greater feeling of power than when you can hit ‘go to voicemail’. Big Dave never needs to know your reasons. Also if you know when big Dave goes to lunch, as I do, then you can ring him then ‘Oh Dave, just returning your call – you must be away from your desk (I know for a fact he is KFC getting a value bucket) – shame, anyhoo (I work for a corporate company so I can say things like anyhoo) if you need anything, anything at all don’t be afraid to ask.’.

What I have cannily done now is appear willing to help big Dave, I have rung him back, I have offered my limited expertise and I have said I am available. I know though that big Dave has already called on someone else to carry out this request, I know he is at KFC. I have played him for a fool and Jayne, the kids and I still have a chance of getting to the lake yet.

So the moral to this is clear – avoid doing work at all costs. Email – ignore it, phone – ignore it. However we all know the third option and it is scary, it is laced with danger, it is the pop-in.

The pop-in is a nightmare. There is no where to go. The only hope you have is that when you see Andy of the Telecoms team coming round the corner is that in some way you can drop a pen, hide under your desk and he will see in the distance that I am not at my desk and therefore Andy will go back to Floor 3, yellow zone – where he belongs. This is a pipe-dream though. As soon as Andy comes round that corner he has me right where he wants me.

Andy can literally ask for anything he wants now – I am not going to say no. I will not get into a row around my other colleagues. Andy has me and he knows it. He starts with your classic phatic utterances – ‘Alright Matt, good weekend’. Now Andy doesn’t care if I flew solo round the world at the weekend – he is buttering me up. He thinks if he puts in a bit of time now then he can ask for anything and I will do it. Andy is right. Andy is a genius.

The absolute nightmare is if Andy has emailed you and you are on your inbox screen with Andy’s message in full view for anyone to see. If Andy has rung me and I obviously have a missed call sitting on Andy’s name. How do I get out of this? I can’t. Andy from telecoms, by coming to see me, can ask me to travel 43 miles to pick up a new router, to plug it in, to configure it, to support it and to decommission it once it has been used. Andy knows what he is doing. The pop-in is a tactic that is becoming all too frequent for my liking. It is unplayable; it is like facing Warney when he is dancing down the track looking for his five-for. You know you are doomed. What I need to know now is how can we eradicate the pop-in? Maybe that is an impossible ambition. At least tell me how I can defend against it. What can I do to avoid the pop-in? Answers on a postcard please – well actually just use the handy comment box at the bottom of this post.

Matt

Good morning…

I work in an office. I do not necessarily therefore get on with everyone I work with. However, I toe the corporate line and I recognise that I have to be perfectly nice and pleasant to my co-workers. Each morning I say to John ‘Hi John, Good morning. Gopleod night last night?’ without fail John will respond ‘Yes it was good thanks, and you’ to which I respond ‘yes I had a lovely evening’. I gain nothing from these conversations with John. I don’t particularly like John, I don’t dislike him but I wouldn’t go to Bermuda just him and me for a weeks golfing.

It was yesterday however that John broke the code. John knows what he is supposed to say. I don’t care if John had a good night – he could have hit a 147 in snooker with his wrong hand and whilst I would be impressed, would I care? No is the answer. It was Tuesday morning, I was tired, I said ‘Morning John, Good night last night?’ I was preparing my stock answer and then I could get on with my miserable day, typing those numbers, making those calls, attending those menial meetings where no one says anything new, interesting or of any value. John responded though ‘No not really, my dog died’. What. What did John say, what do I do with this information. Is it a moment for John and I to really connect, I can’t just give a stock answer but at the same time as sad as I was that the heir to Lassie’s thrown had kicked the bucket it was a cold Tuesday morning and well, I just didn’t fancy it. The in’s and out’s of it all. The inevitable break down. Callous maybe but you can’t tell me that you would be different. As far as I was concerned John and I had a code – a strict code that meant I asked him a simple question, he gave a false, short answer and fired a question back at me to which I would always say ‘Yes it was good thanks’.

Not now – John had broken the code, the understanding. Literally seconds had passed where I finally decided to jump in, two footed, into the deep end. ‘Ah I am so sorry John. Had you had him a long time?’ Now I don’t care if John has had this dog a long time, but it was a question, a question to try to show John that I did care. John responded and the inevitable occurred – we chatted for about 5-6 minutes about dogs, john’s dead dog, and John’s plans for the future – dog related.

For some reason, John now thinks of me as a truly close friend. No longer do we have a code. We actually have a lengthy conversation each and every morning – but what can I do. I long for days gone by where we both knew what we had to do, what we had to say but alas, those days are long gone now. Maybe I can leave my job, maybe I could ask for a transfer, maybe I could ignore John or maybe, just maybe I could tell John that I didn’t care about dogs and that I had no lust for our conversations. The previous three are all more preferable options, once you have opened the seal and you have shown someone that you may like them – even if you don’t – there is no coming back. If you find yourself in my situation then maybe it is time you looked for a new career. Me, I am looking for a career that does not involve human interaction – maybe a vet…John would love it.

Matt