The Gym

Are you that person who ‘checks in’ on Facebook to the Gym? Ask yourself, what has your life become? It’s bad enough that you feel you have to go to ‘Spin’ at 7AM on a Saturday (what’s that about by the way?) but for some reason you need to let us all know that you are at the Gym, doing Spin, at 7AM.

The worst type of person is the Gym person. Those who wear tight exercise clothes and feel the need to flaunt their incredible abs in my face. They drink protein drinks that taste of breast milk that has gone off. They criticise you for not going to the gym, and can’t possibly understand why you might want to sleep instead of ‘Pounding the bike’. They drag their poor partner along to the gates of Hell with them and ensure that their partner also ‘checks in’ on Facebook. All their partner wants to do is sleep and eat chips but the Gym person insists on a house full of rabbit food – nothing but carrots and celery.

The Gym person feels like they then have to take the gym home with them. They feel like they have to do ‘Squat challenges’ and wear an Ab Belt. They update Twitter to let their four followers know that they have just ‘decked a protein shake’ and that it was ‘Rank’ – why drink it then? The Gym person then can’t make social events because they have ‘a class’. The irony is lost on them – they spend the whole life at the gym, presumably to make themselves look better and to give them confidence around strangers and friends but they never bloody see anyone because they no longer go out!

The Gym person forgets about their real friends and has new ones – Gym ones. They all tweet each other about “Who is going Boxercise today”. They do this because they want to make people like me, people who sit in their pants picking their nose day after day, feel guilty. Guilty that I am not paying £80 month to be laden with pain. As tempting as that is I think I’d rather go and throw rocks at my new car.

The Gym person is known for a ‘selfie’ – this is street talk for taking a picture of oneself. They then share this picture with the world. All the time they are looking for validation, someone to say to them “Oh you look good” just so that they can justify what their life has become. A life of shit food, no sleep, constant pain, tired muscles, no social life and a horrendous warped reality. If you give the Gym person that justification then you’ve just given an alcoholic a bottle of Vodka. You’ve fed their sad little addiction. You’re as tragic as them. If you want to become a Gym person then ask yourself where your life went wrong? Why would you want a life of pain and to then be charged £80 for the privilege? You’re better than that.

I am the anti Gym person. I check in to Nandos, I go out and see mates that aren’t virtual and that I’ve seen in non Reebok clothes. I am not scared of a vending machine.

If you are one of those people, a Gym person, you still have to time to actually start living your life. It’s not too late. But if you do start living your life, you don’t need to tell me about it.

Rex the Cat

My girlfriend is dangerously close to her cats. I am all for pets, I do get that they are ‘companions’ but at times a love of ones cat can turn into obsession. You know it is going that way when she puts you on the phone to little Rexy. At this point I find it difficult to know what to say. There I am, in an important meeting, my girlfriend rings me to say that someone needs to speak to me and then I hear Rex. What do I say? What do I do? If I speak back I am a buffoon but if I don’t crazy cat lady will get annoyed. If I speak back in a stupid little cute voice then members of my team will destroy me. If I don’t crazy cat lady will get annoyed. I also get excited when I receive a picture from the girlfriend. Instantly I am thinking good things – she is in the ‘mood’. But instead of sending you dirty pictures she sends you a picture of Rex. This happens every single day. The only difference between the pictures is that Rex is ‘pulling a face’ or looking particularly cute that day. When Christmas arrives she dresses Rexy up in a Santa outfit and buys Rex a card and present. She speaks to Rex on a daily basis. Gets annoyed with Rex. Kisses Rex and sleeps with Rex. Rex is a hugely important part of her life. Rex is also the family cat – a cat that has grown up with the kids that the mum and dad adore.

One week ago disaster struck. Rex died. The way he died was amusing though – he got into the washing machine and had to withstand a quick spin dry, alas Rexy didn’t make it. Ok that is a little harsh. The family were distraught. Distraught. They’d murdered Rex. Actually, my girlfriend – who was washing her smalls – had murdered Rex. The family cat. Gone. And for what? Yes the stain came out of the knickers but was it really worth Rex’s life?

I woke up last week without a cat picture, without a phone call. I did however get an envelope come through the door. I walked over, cornflakes in hand, not literally – I don’t eat cornflakes one by one, they were in a bowl. “Stan” read the envelope. I opened it and I kid you not this is what confronted me:

“Stan, you are hereby cordially invited to the funeral of ‘Rex’. The service will take place at midday February 17. The mourners are asked to arrive at the Watsons family residence at 11.30. We will travel to the cemetery together”.

Cornflakes suddenly littered the floor like tiny Rabbit droppings litter a hutch. I could not take in what I had just received. Was this for real? I studied it more carefully – ‘the funeral of Rex’ – does this mean someone will speak and honour Rex’s life? ‘The service’ – is there going to music and a reading? ‘The mourners’ – hang on? Who the hell is going to this? It is a cat. A cat. “We will travel to the cemetery together” where will Rex be? Surely there is not going to be a car and an undertaker? I ring Emma up “Erm, hey Em.” She is crying “I was just wondering. The invitation that arrived this morning”…Emma interupts “Make sure you wear your best suit. It is what Rex would have wanted”. A cornflake gets lodged in my windpipe. Unable to breath I hang up. Who am I with? What is this family? What is going on?!

The 17th arrives. Emma is getting me changed and fastening my thin black tie (newly bought by her). We walk over to the Watsons residence. I am still stunned. Stunned. Outside the house is a black vehicle, long and thing – it is a hearse. There is then a heart shaped coffin with a floral arrangement that says ‘Rexy’. Two men are dressed up in top hat and tails. I look around at all the people – all 12 of them. I look at the two ‘undertakers’. I cannot understand why no one is laughing? What is going on? Is this actually happening? The mum, Val, is in floods of tears. Malcolm hugs her. One of the undertakers gets into the car. The other strides out in front of the car. We are to walk behind the car down to the pet cemetery. I am still open mouthed. Unable to comprehend what is happening. I am half expecting someone from the street to shout out ‘MURDERER” to my girlfriend such is the stupidityof the situation.

Everyone is acting like this is the most normal thing in the world. We make our way to “Heavenly Paws” cemetery. The sign reads “Because we know how much you care”. They are as stupid as the Watsons. A man appears and helps the undertakers take the casket. I look around and there are hundreds and hundreds of headstones “Barney. You were my world. I can’t believe you’ve gone. You weren’t just a fish you were a friend.”. “Jean Claude, you were my best friend in the world. Doggy heaven is lucky to have you”. I stand there speechless. Completely without speech. Picture the scene. I am surrounded by hundreds of headstones – all of them for pets, I am standing with 12 other people who are all wearing black, 2 undertakers, a chief mourner, a casket in the shape of a heart, a crying mother and all of this is happening because Rex couldn’t handle a spin dry.

You think I am joking don’t you? Heavenlypaws.co.uk – ironically their website currently says “Please note: We are at present unable to accept any deceased pets…” Surely that is a bit of a killer to the business. Maybe time to fire the MD Heavenly Paws?

Rex was laid to rest on February 17. He leaves behind a family of 5. Emma is currently on bail for manslaughter. Val was last seen buying rope. Me? I am currently walking back from the cemetery. Apparently I laughed during the service so I needed to apologise to Rex. Rex the dead cat.

Old people and the Internet

“What an age we live in” – one of the truly great phrases made by old people. This phrase is becoming more and more pertinent as old people join the ‘Inter web’.

My dad is becoming a geek. It started with the simple purchase of an iPod. He couldn’t understand the invention. “Where’s the slot for your CD’s?” he would ask. When I said you put all your music on to the computer and then download them all via iTunes to your iPod using your USB adapter he looked at me with a sense of panic that I don’t think he’s felt since the war. Suddenly our roles had reversed. He used to talk to me, when I was 4 years old, like I was a complete tool. “Ah clever boy. That’s right. Fooootbal. Can you say it? Foootball”. I was 4, course I could say it. I just didn’t know how to say ‘shut up you patronising idiot’. Now it was my turn. For all those years he held the upper hand, not now. I would enjoy this. It was like I was teaching him how to walk. He was about to join the technology revolution and I couldn’t wait.

My dad doesn’t seem to be able to grasp the word ‘internet’ – instead he calls everything ‘the website’. He will talk to my mum (who is petrified of computers) and they’ll be talking about holidays and suddenly he’ll say the phrase ‘let me pull it up on the website’. He is SO smug. Searching for holidays on ‘the website’ suddenly he thinks he is THE MAN. So he brings Val into the ‘Computer Room’. The Computer Room – a very funny room in my parent’s house. Old VHS’s adorn the Desk, Malcolm praying they’ll make a comeback. They also have their special ‘Computer Room chairs’. These chairs are proof that the salesman business is still striving. My dad has invested maybe three to four hundred pounds in some ultimate swivel chair. He was clearly told by the shop assistant that he had to have this chair. Who was he to argue? He gets my mum lined up next to him and he gets out his instructions. His instructions that I have written for him. These instructions are patronising, and I love it. And I love the fact he still uses them; every single day.

1. Turn plug on.
2. Turn the power button on (big grey button in the middle of the computer).
3. Turn the monitor on (button on the big screen you see in front of you).
4. Click ‘Dad’ and type in your password (BigMalc) [why my dad has a password I will never know, but it was non negotiable].
5. You will see a set of icons appear on the screen. Double click the Internet Explorer icon (I didn’t think he was ready fro Google Chrome).
6. Google will load
7. Type in the website you want (for example, if you want holidays, type in ‘holidays’ – no need for the apostrophes in the search)
8. Press ‘ignore’ on the MacAfee warning message that appears
9. Select the website you want
10. Navigate using the ‘back’ button.

These instructions are fine as far as they go but if something unexpected happens my phone will ring. If the MacAfee warning message comes earlier it will throw him. If a website popup appears that’s as good as game over. My mum meanwhile sits there open mouthed amazed that her man has got her on to the world wide web.

So he has managed to turn on the computer, he’s gotten used to launching a website. The obvious next step for my dad is to set up ‘his Facebook’. This is superb.

We set aside some time and we create him an account. His profile picture is one of those classic ‘family shots’. His bio is brief but obviously includes his working history. His likes include ‘Neil Diamond’. I say to him he needs to add some friends for him to get anything out of Facebook. Suddenly my dad seems to have last his grasp of his English – I have to explain to him what a friend is. He is struggling to come to terms with the ‘poking’ feature of Facebook. It is also at this point my dad realises he has few friends – he adds me (Stan), Sophie (his daughter) and Pat – his neighbour. 3 friends. Not a great start. I say to him he should write a status. 25 minutes later he now understands the term Facebook status. His status is a classic Facebook, old man, virgin status. “This is my first time on here, be gentle”. Such a nothing status. I chuck him a ‘like’ to boost his self esteem. He gets a little red notification and he almost shits the bed through excitement. “What’s happening, what’s happening” he says down the phone. I talk to him about being able to ‘like’ his friends statuses and comment on them as well. Before you know it he is all over my wall. My dad is addicted. He is ‘liking’ everything and appearing in conversations I just don’t want him to appear in. He likes the photo of me licking the face of my friend Nigel. This is worrying, for so many reasons.

The time comes where I have to think about blocking my dad. It is just getting too much. I am trying to flirt with this hot girl via the book and I get my dad piping up – it’s cramping my style.

What I do next is something I am not proud of.

I report him to Facebook. I report my own dad to Facebook for inappropriate behaviour. Unbelievably Facebook shut my dad’s account down. He is devastated. “What about all my new friends” – he climbed into double figures before the closing of the account. My dad spends the next week moping before I get a call…

“I want to join Twitter”…

Roy the Butcher

I don’t have much hair.

End of blog post.

No just kidding. Well not about not having much hair. I mean I have started puberty, in fact I think I have completed puberty. I, Stan Bennett, 30 years old, am now shaving three times a week it is all around the moustache area though. I have always wanted a beard but I just can’t seem to grow meaningful facial hair – if I try to grow it it always comes out in stands. It is like I have inverse alopecia. Rather than my hair falling out in strands, it grows in strands. Stray hairs adorn my face, I am not able to grow proper stubble and that is one my great disappointments in life.

My moustache area, where hair does grow, looks bloody awful. If I let it grow too long I look like one of those weird 13 year old gypsy kids who can’t afford a razor. One of those kids who you feel desperately sorry for, who you know gets bullied and who you know started puberty when he was 9. That is me, except I am 30. So I have to try and keep on top of it. But this has its own dangers. I use an electric razor that doesn’t really like my face, nor does it shave my stray hairs. After a shave I am left looking like I have chicken pox that is just restricted to the face area. I am also left with hairs all over my face. To be honest after a shave I look ill.

Then there is my haircut itself. Whilst I have no problem growing hair on the top of my head, it has been described to me that I have a mophead. It is just heavy and shit. It just looks rubbish. I can put a tonne of gel (and yes I do use gel) in it but still it looks as flat as Kate Moss’ chest (it took an awful lot of research to make that gag).

So yesterday I decided to treat myself. I would take myself to a barbers.

I’d been recommended a barbers by a friend, which in itself is extremely strange. What friends do you know that go ‘Oh mate, you have to go to this barbers…’ I didn’t know exactly what a barbers was. I thought it was a cake shop but after much discussion with my friend he told me they shave you (I got assurances it was just the face) and they cut your hair. And they, well Roy the barber, does all this for £9. That should have been an obvious warning sign – £9. I am not going to get a classic trim for £9. And sure enough I was about to be proved right.

I’d made my booking and I parked my car. I saw a red and white sign that said ‘Roy’s Barbers. You didn’t have to be Morse to work out this was Roy’s barbers. The décor was truly horrendous. He had infused old African art with pinks, whites and pastels. What was more worrying was Roy himself.

Roy was 80, that is an incredibly generous 80. It honestly would not surprise me if Roy was 90. Roy had a zimmerframe. Now I have nothing against people with zimmers. In fact I would like a zimmerframe but should a man, who has a razor in one hand, and a pair of scissors in the other, be allowed to operate a zimmerframe whilst he has a razor in one hand a pair of scissors in the other? Little beads of sweat were dripping from my brow as Roy asked me to take a seat. I needn’t ask which seat as there was only one seat.

I am no expert but whenever I have been in my hairdressers before I get like a weird hairdresser coat thing to put over myself to protect my clothes from my own hair. They also wash my hair and give me one of those immense head massages which makes you question, for the length of the head massage, if you are in fact gay as Jason gently, but firmly, massages your scalp.

I received no protection from Roy, nor a hairwash or a head massage (I was grateful for the lack of head massage). Here I was, in my doc martins and le coq sportif t shirt having shaving foam applied to my face. Roy was not mucking around – he sprayed it (easy) all over my face. He hadn’t given me warning so it was in my mouth and my eyes. I was in such pain from the foam in my eyes but I was unable to yelp out in pain given I had a mouth full of foam at the time.

Roy then got a stick and ditched the Zimmer. It was like a big crutch thing and he began to shave me. The butcher of Basildon had begun. He was tearing great lumps out of my face. I was screaming, desperately trying to get Roy off of my face. For an 80 year old he was surprisingly strong. I tried kicking his crutch from beneath him but no luck. Roy was in full flow. The Mack 5 was shearing my beautiful face. I was in tears. Roy was trying to make small ‘barber’ talk – ‘You going on holiday this year? What do you do? Where do you live’. Give it a rest Roy. Focus. I am in tears and have blood pouring from my face but Roy wants to know if I am going to catch any rays in Tenerife. What Roy does next is totally unprecedented.

I have been going to hairdressers now for almost 25 years. Every single time they have asked me for what I want. Every single time I just say ‘Oh can you just take a little off’. They inevitably take too much off (I am always too scared to question why they are chopping fringe into nothing). But you leave the hairdressers despondent but not devastated as you know in a week’s time your hair, for the briefest of moments, will be the length you actually asked for originally.

Roy however…

Roy decides, amidst the carnage, that he is going to bic me. He takes an electric razor and goes right through the middle of my head. A number one right through the middle. I have shaving foam on one side of my face, I have blood pouring from me on the other side and now my head looks like a vagina. My instinct is to throw my arms up, to get Roy off of me. I successfully do this but I accidentally give Roy an uppercut. Dazed Roy hits the floor.

The busy Basildon streets can see in to Roy’s Barbers. They see an 80 year old man on the floor, his zimmerframe next to him and blood all over my face…

This was going to take a fair bit of explaining….

Grim Jane

I had a feeling I was going to get to lucky. Not that I was counting but it had been four months, three weeks and around seven hours since I conquered Grim Jane. I have glasses, am bald and am overweight – I accept these things – so when I am calling someone ‘grim’ you can imagine how she looked. To be honest she looked a bit like me, she had glasses, whilst she wasn’t totally bald she was certainly balding and to call her overweight is putting it lightly. Grim Jane had that many rolls on her belly that I almost got lost in her. That four minutes 30 seconds I was ‘with’ her will go down as maybe the most shameful four minutes 30 seconds of my life. Whilst I was pleased with my time – four minutes was indeed a new personal best what happened during those four minutes 30 seconds will haunt me forever.

Grim Jane and I were watching Grand Designs and I am not sure if it was Kevin McCloud or the massive ‘eco’ house (Grim Jane works for Greenpeace) they were building but Grim Jane was bang up for it. In my 29 years on the job, ok maybe less given I didn’t first do the deed until I was nineteen. So let me start again, in my ten years on the job, I had learned to read the signs. I instantly knew when the ladies were bang up for some Stan Bennett loving. These signs are very subtle and are only visible for those with a very keen eye. With observation so acute that one look, one touch, is enough for you to know you can move the troops in. Not everyone has this ability, this ability to read signs. Grim Jane stood in front of me in nothing but her poundland bra and sisters (Tubby Tina) stockings – with my keen eye I knew this was a sign, no matter how subtle, I knew that Grim Jane was bang up for some action.

The passion began – we turned Grand Designs on to mute and put on Boys to Men…the Greatest hits. We managed to get ourselves to the bathroom (I only have a single bed and Grim Jane was too big for it) where Grim Jane, two ham sandwhiches in hand, began with an evocative strip show. To be honest I wished she had kept her clothes on. The only saving grace was that Boys to Men had been joined by Mariah Carey. However, as I was taking off my vest, I noticed Jane was getting very experimental with the towel rack. God knows what Jenks, the housing safety officer, would have made it.

I was ready, my trousers were off, my briefs were by my ankles. My new white socks were the only item of clothing I was wearing. I sensed Jane’s love of the towel rack was waning so I moved over to her. Forgetting my briefs were around my ankles, I tripped – I tried to use Grim Jane to break my fall. Grim Jane is as sterdy as they come but with a naked Stan hurtling towards her she was always going to end up in the bath. Not put off by the wound to her head or the blood on my socks we began. The bath was also not big enough for Grim Jane so I had to do a lot of carrying. We had to get the wall involved – to help support us, it was only a stud wall so I did have my concerns that Grim Jane and I would come crashing through it but fortunately it stood up to the test, bar a slight crack. Grim Jane’s weight was beginning to effect my performance – fortunately I had not cancelled my gym membership the month before so I was used to lifting huge weight.

Grim Jane, one sandwich down, was really beginning to enjoy this. I had to ensure the kissing was kept to a minimum as her first sandwich contained an awful lot of egg and egg makes me gag. Grim Jane however, overcome with passion, proceeded to kiss me. Ah the smell. The smell on her breath. I will remember that for as long as I live. Overcome with fumes, overcome with egg I gagged. I gagged in Grim Jane’s mouth. Fearing she could take this badly I apologised but Grim Jane is nothing if not a good sport so we carried on.

She was now on the floor, she was half in the bath, half out the bath. It is at this point I normally have to think of disgusting things – sick, poo, chronic acne – anything to prevent me from getting too ‘excited’. Fortunately I did not need to think of these things as in front of me was a butt naked Grim Jane. With a tattoo on her left butt cheek that said ‘Kasabian til I die’ and a hairy mole on the right cheek I felt in control. I had passed four minutes, according to my stopwatch, and I was feeling good.

Grim Jane decided to turn around – she pushed me on to the toilet. I found the lid uncomfortable so I quickly opened it up whilst she finished her second sarnie. I opened up the lid to find a floater. Grim Jane had had the curry and dropped the kids off to the pool before Grand Designs. It seemed that the deposit she made to the bank was too big for the cashier to handle. I was about to shut the lid when Grim Jane said ‘no leave it open’. Who was I to argue? After all Billericay’s first woman sumo wrestler was nothing if not persuasive. I sat on the toilet, with poo particles entering my nose. On top of me sat Grim Jane, her bits swinging from left to right.

I am not a proud man. It had been a full seven months since my last conquest. It was nice to use a condom for its intended purpose for once. That 99p purchase off of Alan a few weeks ago now seems inspired. God knows what she had but I guarantee she was riddled. That little bit of latex was literally saving my life. Over five minutes in, the pace had been picked up, I had got used to the poo smell and grew fond of her eggy breath. I felt myself weakening. I let out a ‘yipeeee’ and then promptly pushed her off me. She fell backwards and hit her head. Already sporting a cut from the earlier incident it seems Grim Jane was now going to have to put up with a headache as company for tonight. My sock, red from all the blood (remember Grim Jane cut herself earlier…you sick people) had to come off, I wasn’t comfortable having blood on my foot any more.

So let’s review the scene. I had one sock on, another was in the middle of the bathroom covered in blood. Grim Jane was lying spread eagle on the floor, totally nude, holding her head with one hand and the remnants of a ham sandwich in the other. The stud wall had a big crack running down the middle and the bathroom was suffering from a curry poo odour. It was at this point I wish I had remembered to lock the bathroom door. The reason I had wished I locked my door was that my 72 year old mother walked in. Mumma Bennett trips over Grim Jane, stumbles and falls over to the toilet. Fearing that she could land on me (I was naked) I managed to quickly shift position, as I move, mumma Bennett faceplants the toilet only to be welcomed by Grim Jane’s curry poo from earlier.

I was grounded for five months. A penalty that I believe was a little too harsh. But this was due to end next week. I have a feeling I am going to get lucky.

The Caravan Holiday

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

Anything for a pound

Anything for a pound…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thin Tim gets out his phone and dials a number…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The curse of the fussy eater

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

The Internet Date

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The joy that is the airport..

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