Million Pound Drop

The Million Pound Drop

I struggle to cope with life let alone answer questions. I did not realise but when Hursty and I were watching the Million Pound Drop a week ago I made a completely innocuous remark to Hursty that was to haunt me for the rest of my life. “We should go on this show, we’d do ok I reckon” I said.

Hursty has many, many flaws. He has the mental age of an 11 year old, not literally. He asked me to buy him a supersoaker for his birthday. He lives at home with his ageing parents and doesn’t contribute to rent, cook meals, do washing, doesn’t dare consider ironing and barely washes himself. He is living in his own welfare state with his mum acting as the role of ‘The State’. He hasn’t had a job for 4 years. How can he survive on no job I hear you scream? The answer is simple. He won £250,000 on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire 4 years ago.

Despite the picture I am painting, Hursty is surprisingly intelligent. He is incredibly strong across the board. He loves his sport, he knows when the wars were and he knows his Periodic Table. He has no clue about anything Technology related. He is still using Bebo and when I asked him if he wanted to Skype me when he was away he said he would but didn’t have my home address and couldn’t find anywhere that sold stamps.

Million Pound Drop is an intense live quiz show. You start with a Million pounds and there are eight questions. Each question has four possible answers and you always have to leave on of the answer boxes blank. In other words, you can’t put £250,000 on each answer. The final question you have only two answers and you have to put all the money you have that is remaining on just one of the two answers. Turns out Hursty applied on the Monday and here we were four days later at Elstree Studios.

 

I was absolutely shitting my pants. We’d been asked to bring in as many clothes as possible because the ‘stylist’ would dress us. We had to look ‘Saturday night glam’. What the hell does that mean? Saturday night glam? I was so concerned that I was going to end up looking like Travolta. I’d taken the ‘bring in as many clothes as possible’ too far.

Eve, the stylist, said “You didn’t need to bring in all your boxer shorts and pants” much to the amusement of all the other contestants. It turned out I couldn’t wear shorts or my ‘Sandy Balls’ t-shirt either. In fact I didn’t have a single appropriate item of clothing. Eve was fuming. She looked like a bulldog that had been caged for a considerable amount of time. She asked me did I not bother reading the clothing email that was sent out? Course I didn’t read the bloody email Eve. It’s clothes for a quiz show, who gives a shit. “Oh no sorry Eve, I don’t think I received the email.” Pathetic. She knows I got the email. Eve now wanted me to lose the million on question one.

Hursty was busily reading “1001 facts about the world” whilst I was eating a petit falous yoghurt. I couldn’t get over the spread they’d put on. I couldn’t be arsed to brush up on my quiz knowledge. There were three other couples in the room who were all due to go on that night and who were firing questions at each other. I felt that Nikki, the hairdresser from Swansea, may struggle. Not because she was a hairdresser, or because she was from Swansea, but she had asked Hursty if Asia was in Africa. I felt for her partner Gary who was meant to be the brains of the outfit and promptly corrected her “Don’t be silly Nic, Africa ain’t in Asia. Africa’s its own continent and big Nelson is the president”. Big Nelson. I struggled not to choke on my petis fallous.

“Makeup”. To be fair Nikki needed it. Amazingly Gary stood up and started walking towards the door and shouted “You boys coming”. What? Hursty also stood up.

“Hursty what you doing?” I said

“It’s standard for TV mate. You’ve got to have hair and makeup done.” I forgot I was in the company of a game show veteran.

Up to the make up room I went. What I, obviously, didn’t like about this whole thing was how pally we all were. They were 4 couples. Hursty and I, although I hope people didn’t think we were a full blown couple. Gary and Brains. Then there was the standard gay couple – it was Channel 4 remember. The gay couple were nice guys, Jeremy and John. I think if a parent names their son Jeremy they have to accept he will be gay. What was interesting about Jeremy and John was that you would have no idea at all that John would be gay. Jeremy on the other hand…as we walked into the Makeup room Jeremy had a hairbrush in his hand and was using it as a microphone whilst singing ‘The winner takes it all’ by Abba. The other couple was the token ‘Hot’ couple. Luke and Laura. Luke was beautiful. If I was a gay man, such as Jeremy, I’d of been all over him. Laura was decent but she was on of those that fitted the body from Baywatch, face from Crimewatch description.

Everyone was getting on like a house on fire. Jeremy was clearly making a play for Luke. John and Hursty were getting on, a little too well for my liking. Brains was coming up with some belters that were really making Laura laugh “So is Peter Andre is his real name?” I obviously hated her. And where was I in all of this? I was in the chair, being ‘gunned’.

Not sure if you’ve ever had makeup on? Feels awful. It also makes you so incredibly pale. I looked ill as it was but after half hour with Trudy (the makeup artist) I looked like I was an extra from Philadelphia. Being gunned is basically where they load up the makeup in some sort of air gun and then spray it all over your face. I don’t know what was worse, being gunned or listening to Trudy tell me it was all over with her husband Brian.

“He just wasn’t the man I thought he was when I married him” she said.

Trudy I only met you five minutes ago. Just focus on the job in hand “Well hopefully he’ll come his senses” what a nothing comment from me.

Makeup done, marriage advice handed out I was now ready to play the Million Pound Drop. We were third on. That meant we needed one of the couples before us to muck it up and get knocked out early otherwise we wouldn’t get on.

Jeremy and John were first on. We all huddled round a TV watching them. What I couldn’t understand was why everyone was cheering them on, willing them to get the right answer. John stupidly thought the capital city of Latvia was Diga. A Million went down the trap door and Hursty and I jumped up in joy – this meant we were getting on the show after all. This was a very bad move. Brains turned on us and Luke looked like he’d just found out I’d killed his mother. The atmosphere turned from one of happiness and joy to one of anger and disbelief. Still I wasn’t going to see these people again, I didn’t care. I was so confident Brains was going to screw it all up that we’d be on in a matter of minutes. She managed to get up on to the podium, thereby successfully negotiating the stairs and that was enough to surprise me.

My prediction was right. When was the Second World War? Brains was adamant that it was in the 1400s. She may have negotiated the stairs but that was as good as things were going to get for her.

This was it. We were up.

“Good luck mate, we can do this” said Hursty.

I was relieved Hursty was along side me. I needed him. I knew I was going to freeze and he was the confident, good looking, and funny one. I was his bald mess. We walked up the stairs and were hit by the audience, not literally. They were so loud. There were cameras everywhere and Davina McCall came in to hug me. I had absolutely nothing. I went for the kiss of the cheek, got it all wrong, and ended up looking like a massive tit. Davina explained the rules and off we went. This was it. Live in front of a nation, in front of Emma. This was my ticket out of work.

“Question 1 – Technology. On Facebook, which of these can you not do?

Poke, Stroke, Like, Chat”

Davina “You’re time has started”

“This is all you mate. You’re the technology man”. Hursty said.

“Ok, I know this. You can like someone’s status. You can chat on that instant chat thing they have and you can stroke. It’s this little thing button that says stroke and then you get alerted when someone has stroked you. They’ve just put poke in there to confuse you, cos it sounds like stroke.” I was amazed as to how confident I was. I knew this. I had turned up, in a big big way. Hursty didn’t know and I assumed the position of ‘The Man’.

“You sure?” Hursty said

“100%” I replied

“Let’s move the money then” Hursty said with a sense of urgency. We moved our money, and I had the audacity to shout “stop the clock” such was my level of confidence.

Davina read the question again, and then ran through the options. She said we’d put our money on ‘stroked’ and left the others blank. It’s at this point that everything became like slow motion. A wave of nausea swept my body. Was the answer ‘poked’? Had I got it wrong? Why would you ‘stroke’ someone on Facebook I suddenly thought? Oh no, surely not.

“Let’s see what drops” said Davina

‘Like’ disappeared, ‘Chat disappeared’. It was now between ‘Poke’ and ‘Stroke’. Hursty was looking so confident. He’d placed his trust in me and I’d even stopped the clock. I would’ve even of believed me.

Then the moment came that will live with me forever. A million pounds down the gutter…

 

“Oh no. The answer was poke. I’m so sorry guys. You’ve been great, thanks for coming on the show” said Davina.

Hursty looked at me. I looked at the floor.

“Stroke? Stroke? Who the fuck strokes someone on Facebook? They’re not fucking animals” Hursty was fuming.

I’d just monumentally embarrassed myself, again. This time though it was in front of the nation.

We walked back into the green room.

“I even knew that” said Brains. 

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”…

Anything for a pound

Anything for a pound…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thin Tim gets out his phone and dials a number…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The curse of the fussy eater

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

The Internet Date

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The joy that is the airport..

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

Facebook offenders

I am on Facebook. Stan Bennett – search for me but don’t add me.
 
I have over 400 friends. I honestly don’t think, and I mean this, that I care about 380 of them. Literally I couldn’t give a shit. I can’t understand how I have built up such a collection of people. They are such a dry bunch of people as well.
 
You have those that update their status every 4 minutes telling you what they’ve eaten for breakfast, for example – Ian ‘I have just eaten mango for breakfast…yum’. Unbelievably Ian has got 4 ‘likes’. Why the fuck are people liking this? All Ian has said is that he has munched on some Mango. You always get the same people commenting and liking Ian’s Facebook status. He has a core group of ten that no matter how shit his status update they will without fail boost his numbers in the hope that Ian will then ‘like’ one of their statuses. As I write this Claire has commented on Ian’s status ‘I had pineapple num num’. Cheers for that Claire. ‘Num num?!’ What does that even mean? What a complete tool.
 
You have those that invent statuses just because they are comment whores – let’s look at Steve for example ‘I am on the tube (all his statuses occur when on the tube) and a woman has just got on at Angel (how you writing this status update then Steve?) wearing nothing but a bin liner’. It has been up for 4 minutes and has already amassed 7 ‘likes’ and 4 comments. You know Steve is so happy with this record comment haul. Jimbo is straight in there ‘Lol man, that is so funny. ROFL’. Jimbo is a twat. The first clue is the fact he calls himself Jimbo. The second clue is that he writes ROFL (Rolling on floor laughing). Let’s take a minute and think whether Jimbo is literally on the floor rolling around laughing. Even if that was true why would he tell us that? Jimbo belongs in a mental asylum. You then get the smart kid – Tom. He has cleverly worked out the status is bogus. Tom considers himself to have outstanding wit and also thinks he is the only one who has worked out that maybe, just maybe, a woman has not got on the tube wearing nothing but a bin liner. Tom writes a witty retort on Steve’s status. You can tell Steve is gutted as he writes nothing back for a good 10 minutes (Steve is the sort of person who is on Facebook every 9 seconds to check for updates). Steve then attempts to deflect attention from Tom’s comment by suggesting they meet for a drink as they haven’t seen each other for a while. Steve doesn’t want to meet Tom for a drink. Steve thinks Tom is a chump. Steve is just trying to protect himself and ensure that the steady flow of comments do not suddenly dry up. Alan is next to the party. Alan thinks he is incredibly funny – Alan is not funny, far from it. Alan comments ‘I bet that was a rubbish journey’ cheers for that Al. Alan is a ‘mutual’ friend – I would love nothing more than to bin off (see I can do it too Alan) Alan but alas I am not popular enough, or cool enough, to start Facebook culling.
 
You then get the deep and meaningfuls. Gemma comments ‘I miss you so much. I know you are looking down at me, smiling. I miss you my friend’. To be honest ‘Gem’ the friend is probably looking up. And whilst we are being honest the friend is certainly not smiling. The friend is dead. You’ve achieved nothing. Why oh why would the friend be smiling? Also why write a status update telling us this? Only one person cares that your friend is not in this mortal realm anymore and that person is Raquel (Raquel who is 25 but has a 71 year olds name). Right on cue Raquel pipes up ‘Awww babe. I am here for you. We all are.’. Not true Raquel. I am not here for Gem, nor is anyone else. You are also such a good mate that instead of picking up the phone or walking the 4 meters across the road to see your friend ‘in need’ you decide that a Facebook comment is of sufficient comfort. You’re a true pal. Well done.
 
You then get the inspirationalists – Clive decides that we need a bit of inspiration in our lives. Clive writes ‘When did the world become so bad? People should smile more’. Nice one Clive. You know what, I am going to take heed of your advice, walk out of my door and start smiling at everyone. Oh wait. Clive has a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. I am not sure Clive even knows how to smile but he has clearly had some effect on Brad ‘So true man. So true’. Deep words from Brad, Brad the lorry driver. Who you going to smile at then Brad?
 
You then get the chainers – These people that think if you write a status update that includes certain words then in some way your family will never die. Kev falls in to this trap, it’s a shame as I thought Kev was better than this but the status tells us otherwise ‘The next person you see tell them what you think of them. Copy and paste this into your status and get 10 people to write it as well. If you do then your family won’t die of kidney related complications’. I am sitting next to Housham, I am tempted to take on board the status and tell Housham ‘Housham, you’re a prick mate’. I resist the urge. Instead I promise myself that I will never speak to Kev again.
 
Once you’re done with the status lot you then focus on the pokers. Who pokes? Seriously what are you doing? ‘You have just received a poke from Steph’. If I am Steve in this situation I am thinking ‘what does this mean…does Steph like me…shall I send her a message…shall I poke back?’ The irony is is that Steph is in a relationship with Kev. You know this because it appeared in your news food ‘Steph and Kev are in a relationship’, shame. It means no more Malia/Kos/Ibiza albums where Steph is wearing nothing but that black bikini. Instead it will be her and Alan doing couple things and feeling the need to upload a photo of everytime they hold hands.
 
With the Pokers accounted for we have the serial photo uploaders. Ah man these guys need to get out more. ‘John Muroz has upload a new album entitled a funny walk to the seaside’. Really John? The even more tragic thing is that you get people trawling through all 64 photos that John has uploaded to his new album. The album title should be a clue that this is not going to be a classic. John Moroz has 94 photo albums. I guarantee you that Karen has checked out every single photo and commented on every album. Karen I have some bad news for you – no matter how many comments you make John doesn’t like you.
 
‘Mike has just got 100 points for shooting a sheep’ Mike is playing some shite farm game. Get a life Mike. Seriously mate, just get a life.
 
I haven’t even mentioned the sad cases that upload a Youtube video every fourteen minutes or those that ask us to ‘check out this song’ or the sad pathetic bunch that are in such desperate need for attention that they say ‘Please check out my blog’. You then arrive at said blog and it is a pile of shite. Your heart goes out to those sad saps.
 

Fancy food

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

A decent set of cheekbones

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

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

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

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

“We will miss Raymond’s wit”

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

“We will miss Raymond’s integrity”

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

“Raymond is such a great team player…”

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

“We will miss Raymonds generosity”

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

More silence.

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

“Thanks Mike, you too”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

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

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

Mike mails back. Mike is crushed.

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

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

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

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

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

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

I lean back on my chair…

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

Two DJs and an awful lot of waiting

I am in an awful way. I slipped over and my arm is more bent than Sepp Blatter. As soon as I slipped and hit the deck I knew I had broken it. Whilst the pain was unreal it was nothing compared to the next four hours of my life.
 
I ring my dad. In my dad’s youth he thought it would be a good idea to spin the decks and so created a DJ partnership with his mate Paul Graham. Paul and my dad (whose real name is Malcolm) decided they needed DJ names. It is worth pointing out that Paul Graham is not a cool man. My dad is not a cool man. And the names they gave themselves are, unsurprisingly, not cool names. I will never understand, until the day I die why they gave themselves these names but Malcolm and Paul Graham, from 1970 onwards, would be known as DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when they had their DJ name conversation. How did DJ Leeds ever get mentioned? Who thinks to themselves that DJ Leeds is the name that was needed for big Malc to reach his DJ potential. As for the great Ray Dane! His name wasn’t Ray, he didn’t know anyone called Ray. How on earth Paul Graham arrived at The Great Ray Dane only he knows.
 
Unfortunately for Leedsy and The Great Ray Dane the DJ career was over before it begun – they put the amicable split down to artistic differences. Leedsy still played the wedding circuit but something was missing. The dancefloor was emptying quicker than it used to. The laughs, well the laughs had gone. The music appeared to have died. It has been said the moment The Great Ray Dane walked out of the partnership was the moment DJ Leeds fell out of love with being a DJ. He should have sensed the writing was on the wall after the Massacre that was the Eastwood Community Centre 1971 – he couldn’t get anyone up and jiving. Leedsy by 72 had completely lost it and 18 months too late, decided to hang up the headphones. There are rumours, only rumours at this stage, that DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane may get back together for one last hurrah. Let’s hope the rumours are false and that we never see DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane in the DJ Booth for one last performance.
 
 
So I have rung my dad (Leedsy) to come and pick me up as I am in agony with my arm. He arrives and takes me straight down A&E. Leedsy had to get going (negotiations were in an advanced stage between him and The Great Ray Dane for a one off appearance at the nephews christening next week). So I struggle into the hospital with my arm looking blue and at an angle that makes even the most mentally tough want to gag.
 
Sweat is dripping from my face yet I am desperately cold. I shiver at the best times (I am incredibly weak and skinny) but my whole body was in spasm. The receptionist behind the desks asks ‘What is wrong’. What is wrong? I am no nurse, but I know my arm is completely fucked. You don’t need 7 years on a degree to work out that I may have an ‘Oowie’ on my arm. “It is my arm, I think it may be broken”. She looks me up and down, with disdain I may add, and says ‘Right fill this out”. She then chucks over a clipboard with a form.
 
This is ridiculous. My arm is about to fall off, literally about to fall on the floor and nurse Ratchet wants me to complete a form. A form so thorough that it seems to be asking questions like my favourite colour, my mum’s favourite meal, and my 2nd favourite N64 game. They also cleverly have a pen on a chain (presumably so no one runs off with it) which means I have to try and stretch and get the pen, which means I can not support my arm. I shriek in pain as I reach out for the pen. She then tells me to be quiet. It is at this point that I almost tear my arm from my socket and throw it at her. Fat bitch. She’s that shit a nurse that she has been demoted to sit behind some crummy desk. I somehow manage to complete the form and give it back to her. I secretly hope that is she picks up the paper she gets a massive paper cut but alas she doesn’t. She tells me to go over to the waiting area and that I will be called within two hours. Two hours! Two hours!! My arm is hanging on by a thread, I feel sick, I look like a smurf and I am sweating and shivering at the same time and she tells me it will be two hours. “That’s fine” I say. Why didn’t I kick off? Why don’t I tell what I really think? It is because I am a pathetic human.
 
I stumble over to the waiting area. My word…
 
It was like the Somme (although I have never actually seen the Somme or participated in either war this is how I imagined the Somme to be).
 
You’ve got screaming toddlers, people in wheelchairs, people without legs, bloodied bandages covering fucked up faces. If that wasn’t hellish enough we’ve got Loose Women on the TV and the vending machine is out of order. If, come judgement day, you get sent to Hell – this is what the waiting room for Hell will look like.
 
Everyone is looking at my battered arm. I am looking at a guy who has a – a werid tumour thing in his throat – it is HUGE. I can’t help but look. I avoid staring at the drunks. I begin to try and read ‘OK’ magazine – tears streaming down my face.
 
“Stan Bennett”
 
Yes. Yes. I am being called early. I go into this little room. The doctor instantly fills me with confidence…oh wait. “Which arm is it son” Take a guess you idiot. “It is the left”. “How did you do it?” He asks. Who gives a shit, just give me some drugs and get this thing into plaster. “I slipped over and it happened when I put my arm out to break my fall”. “Ok let’s see if we’ve got any movement” is he MENTAL? Movement! You move it pal it will fall off. You move it and I will cry and bite your ear off. He proceeds to move it. I wail in pain. I have never experienced pain like it. I imagine child birth but a whole lot worse. “Ok if you go back into the waiting area we will get the doctor to look at it…it will be about a two hour wait”.
 
A doctor? A two hour wait?
 
So all that has happened is that I have been taken into the pre waiting room – it is still a waiting room but it is smaller. They are so sneaky – they tease you. They make you think you are being seen to. All that is happening is that they move you from one waiting area to another. All they do in the smaller waiting area is find out what arm hurts and then send you packing back into the warzone. You then get called in by the next guy who then asks the exact same questions as the first. The only difference is that he is wearing a lab coat and makes slightly more notes than the first, his handwriting is invariably scruffier. In all the experience he has built up over the years he then makes the incredibly difficult, intelligent, decision to send you for an X-Ray. Cheers mate – I have waited over two hours for some chump who looks like a ghost to tell me to go and get an X-Ray. 7 years at Uni really has paid off. Unbelievably I then have to wait at the X-Ray area for another 45 minutes.
 
Hospital’s are just a series of waiting area’s. When you think you are making progress you realise you are just in another queue, in another waiting area. I hate them. I hate them so much.
 
Just when I thought I could take no more, just when I thought my pain had peaked, just when I thought this day could not possibly get any worse – I get a phone call…
 
“Me and the Great Ray Dane are back together” …
 
No amount of waiting had prepared me for this phonecall. The pain I felt in my arm had now completely subsided. I felt a new pain, a new sense of dread. DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane back together.
 
“Stan Bennett” I get taken into a room
 
“If you would just like to get a ticket Mr Bennett, the radiographer will see you when your ticket gets called”. More rooms, more waiting. This time I don’t mind. The longer I am here, the longer I wait, the longer I go without having to hear Leeds and Dane…