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.

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.
 

Fancy food

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

A decent set of cheekbones

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

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

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

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

“We will miss Raymond’s wit”

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

“We will miss Raymond’s integrity”

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

“Raymond is such a great team player…”

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

“We will miss Raymonds generosity”

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

More silence.

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

“Thanks Mike, you too”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

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

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

Mike mails back. Mike is crushed.

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

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

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

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

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

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

I lean back on my chair…

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

The art of the wingman

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

Oh to be cool and good and looking

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

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

‘ID?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

What is worse than work?

I really don’t like work. In fact I would rather anything than work. I don’t understand those people who seem to live for work. They set their first alarm at 4.43. It is never enough for us to have one alarm. One alarm does not seem to do the trick. Instead we operate a 3 tiered alarm system. This can be in the form of the 3 separate alarms on your phone or for the traditionalists amongst us the snooze button. I imagine these sad cases who get up at 4.43 may even adopt the largely unrecognised multiple alarm clock system.
Once these ‘people’ get up and head to work they love nothing more than to show off. That is why they send the departmental manager some inane email. They don’t care about the content but they are merely showing off the ‘date sent’ line and more importantly the time that accompanies this. What these people don’t realise is that I know Microsoft Office and so I know how to send emails at a specific time set by me. I have this system down to a tee. At 8.14 big Mark Fairclough gets an email. Mark is based up north, away from my office. Big Mark does not realise I am not in the office but rather I am watching This Morning, not even GMTV but This Morning. Poor Mark; thick as pig shit and rolling in at 7.43. All the while I lay in bed fantasising about Emma. Gorgeous Emma, from the fourth, who one day will be mine.

Once I do eventually get to work I have no interest in speaking to these people. Some of them go to lunch together. Some of them socialise together. They go running, they go fencing, and they hit the Paul Pry for a Pukka Pie and a Magners. What’s the point? None of them actually like each other. All they have in common is work ‘did you see what time Mark was in today’. It is sad. It is pathetic. If I got married tomorrow not one of them would even come close to coming to my wedding. In fact I would send out invitations to the whole office. On the invitation will be some remote church in Newport, Wales and I would send them all on a goose chase whilst I bask in the glory that is Warwick cathedral. I will then pocket the wedding gifts that these losers have bought me and fake tears when I question them as to why no one turned up to my big day in Newport, Wales.

If I have to go to work then I expect some basic courtesy. At no point will someone organise a 4PM meeting. Who are these people? They care that some project is late. It will still be late tomorrow pal. 4PM is wind down time. I hit the vend and start making a plethora of private calls (using the desk phone). They always begin the ‘audio’, a stupid work phrase, ‘sorry for arranging the meeting so late.’ No their not otherwise they wouldn’t have organised it. Some of us have lives West. West doesn’t. Some pathetic female project manager who loves ‘flowcharts’ which serve absolute no purpose at all. West talks us through the flow. It is now 5PM. I am meant to be playing Pro Evo with the lads. I would love to print out this flow chart, and then try and slice her with it. I hope her blood flows all over the chart (a little strong but I hate West). West even sometimes organises a sit down meeting. This is great, she runs through her ‘slides’ and you get good old Housham writing down every word. Housham the slides are in front of you you idiot. Why is Housham rewriting them all out? Housham hasn’t got any in months. Housham is desperate to get into West’s pants. Housham loves the slides, loves the flow charts. Housham is a tosser.

Once you are done with the 4PM meeting you have to get the tube home. I have two options. I either bolt for the door; put in a Moses Kiptinui style sprint for the lift thereby avoiding West, Housham and Grella (Grella was taking minutes). Or I wait for them to go on ahead and then take a leisurely stroll to the tube 5 minutes after the comedy trio have disappeared and are on a different train to Rayleigh. Last night I opted for the latter. 5 minutes pass and I leave the office. I walk to Liverpool Street and jump on the 17.56 – tragically late. I stalk the empty two seaters. Desperate for a window seat and some leg room. The one thing that gets me through the day is the 5 minute read of the Evening Standard followed by a long nice sleep on the train. I sit down; I pull the standard from my bag. I have 9 stops, first of which is Stratford, just five minutes away. I will finish my paper at Stratford and then go to sleep for the next 40 minutes. I have it all planned.

‘Hi Matt, do you mind if I join you?’

It was Housham. Like the lame animal he is he had been separated from the other two. I cannot explain to you how much I hate Housham. He is that guy who always asks questions when someone says ‘Any Questions’. He is a fire monitor, he is small, and he is utter crap at his job but thinks he runs the place despite him not being capable to tie his shoelaces let alone run a team. He thrives on people’s misery. He enjoys one to ones and performance appraisals. He suggests crap ideas. He scoffs at good ideas made by others. He tells racist jokes, he has never been abroad, he is old, and he is a fire monitor. He points to his imaginary watch when you walk in late. He always sticks his awe in. He has an opinion on Spurs, rugby, food, Venezuela and shoes. He is a fire monitor. He has a personalised screensaver. He hates yesterday’s television. He hopes England get knocked out of the world cup. He loathes reality shows. He emails you with a red high importance marked next to it. He loves documentation. He loves the word documentation. He likes Kenny Rogers love songs. He doesn’t like Jay Z. He hasn’t heard of Jay Z. He has been married to someone he clearly doesn’t like for 37 years. He is a fire monitor. He is the only one who comes in on snow days. He is first to arrive, last to leave. He pretends to do work. He has been doing the same job, poorly, for 15 years. He is a one company man. He is a fire monitor. He is offensive to women. He is not funny, He takes notes. He has a pen resting on his ear. He likes secret Santa. He doesn’t have a lunch break. He has his own mouse; he has cleaning wipes for his desk. He sends out emails warning people to clear up their litter. He carries his holiday over. He is a fire monitor. He likes ‘edge conversations’. He likes the phrase ‘edge conversation’. He invented the phrase ‘edge conversation.’ He likes ‘break out’s’ and ‘audios’. He is corporate. He loves shares. He likes drawing on a whiteboard and writing papers. He likes Microsoft Project. He puts his out of office calendar on when he goes home. He loves meetings to have an agenda attached. He archives. He hates Facebook and Twitter. He is a fire monitor.

‘Yeah, that’s fine.’ I am a real sad case.

The train departs.

Housham is sitting down, next to me. He gets out his FT. He puts his trainers on ready to walk at the other end. He takes his suit jacket off. He props his ‘brolly’ up. He gets out his reading glasses. He takes a swig of ‘Iced Tea’. He puts his tray table down. He gets out his pen. He puts a mark next to ‘AIG’. He wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. He looses his top button. He gets out some nuts. He pulls his trousers slightly up. He places his briefcase in the overhead compartment. He pulls his socks up.

The train makes its first stop. We are at Stratford. Nine stops away from my home. A 40 minute train journey. The decision I have is obvious. I get up and leave the train. A full 9 stops before I am scheduled. A full 40 minutes before my station. I don’t even acknowledge Housham. Fat bastard.

I am going back to work, anything to avoid Housham. Might send a couple of emails whilst I am there…