“If you were a cheese, what sort would you be?”

It must be a slow day if Professional Wendy has come up with one of these again.

I call him this because if he were to excel in any profession, it would be ‘being a complete Wendy’. He’s just had TWO MONTHS off work with ‘the depressions’ for fuck’s sake. Here’s an idea son – stop spending every evening sitting about in your pants smoking weed all night, put in a full months work for once and earn your way in the world instead of relying on hand-outs from your mates and you might find you fucking cheer up a bit. Anyway.

Blonde Colleague: Just cheddar I suppose.

PW: Why?

BC: I’m straightforward and you know what you’re getting. You?

PW: Mozzarella.

BC: Why?

PW: Because I’m a bit boring but I’m really nice.

He’s got a point and I suddenly realize why he annoys me so much. He is genuinely quite a ‘nice’ bloke. And I dislike ‘nice’ people – they bore me and I find myself tormenting them just to pass the time. It also occurs to me that this may be a personal character flaw of some sort. Oh well.

PW: Tired?

Me: What?

PW: What about you?

Me: Mmm? Dunno. Parmesan I suppose.

BC: You and your fucking parmesan. ‘Freshly grated’ I suppose you twat.

Me: I say that so as to differentiate it from that horrible stuff in the white tubs-

BC: NO-ONE CARES you cock. And who says ‘differentiate’ anyway? ‘I’m Tired Dad, would you like to listen to my stupid words and taste my fresh basil?’ We all know you eat Findus Crispy Pancakes every night anyway. Knob jockey.

PW: Why?

Me: Why what?

PW: Why parmesan?

Me: Oh. Emm. Because I’m quite hard work but there are times when nothing else will do.

BC: WAAAAH-HAHAHA! Where’d you get the last bit? Fucking www.opposite-is-true.com?

Me: That’s my line.

BC: Fuck off is it. You probably stole it from someone anyway – you’re always stealing mine.

Me: No I’m not.

BC: What about ‘I suggest you build a bridge….and GET OVER IT’?

Me: That is quite good. But I gave you ‘shitweazel’.

BC: It’s hardly a ‘line’ is it?

PW: [quietly] It was like this just before my parents divorced.

BC: Anyway. I thought you were going to say you’d be parmesan because you FUCKING SMELL OF VOMIT.

Me: It’s only the stuff in the little white tubs that smell-

Without warning BC throws a tightly-screwed Post-it at me with such ferocity it makes an entirely unexpected ‘clacking’ noise as it ricochets off my forehead. She storms out of the office.

PW: Christ. That wasn’t very nice.

I check my emails.

It's Saturday Night.

And I'm cleaning the cooker.

Bring it on.

"Some Bloke's Just Shown Me His Cock!"

I put my drink down at gaze at Newly-Gay Friend for a moment or two whilst I process this information.

As my pretend name for him suggests, he has recently been a man of some surprises.

He announced his new lifestyle decisions to me some months ago whilst we were enjoying Uncannily Similar’s stag weekend. After an evening that involved – in no particular order – lap-dancers, cocaine, prostitutes and foolishly heavy drinking – it was an additional new experience that pretty much ended my patience with the whole night. After a man-hug that went on longer than strictly necessary I put him to bed and then had to deal with the police who raided the apartment the eight of us had rented for the weekend. (One of us tried to break in. Someone reported it.)

But that’s another story. And is not as interesting as it sounds.

I look around me. We and three other friends are in a cosy public house in the Lake District - the former stamping ground of the Romantic poets which is now mainly occupied by middle-aged people clad in Berghaus and sporting unkempt beards.

It does not strike me as a hot-bed of cock-waving.

Me: You fucking what?

To be honest, after nearly four years of knowing this man the whole ‘gay’ thing is a bit of a thinker after zero indication whatsoever. Presumably his wife of sixteen years and ten-your-old son are also scratching their heads.

NGF: Seriously. Some bloke just got his cock out right in front of me!

I don’t really understand ‘how you roll’ when you become ‘gay’. Maybe this alleged incident happens to you all the time once you go down that road. But I think it unlikely.

I glance around me. Absolutely no-one has their cock out, but there is a stunning view over Lake Bowness.

Me: Where exactly did this happen?

NGF: In the Gents.

Me: Oh for fu-

Glancing over the lake I notice a boat named The Silly Sausage glide by. True.

Me: Right. You’ve been in public lavatories before you were all gay and that? You must be familiar with the phenomenon of men taking ‘themselves’ out of their trousers before now? You can’t have just noticed?

NGF friend starts singing very loudly. Once again I take him to our accommodation and put him to bed. Since his recent decisions he has become a full-blown alcoholic, but for a drinker he is shit at it.

Me: [we are sharing a twin room] I’m not going to have a problem with you tonight am I?

NGF: [amid much drunken burbling] Fuck off. I’d never fancy you.

I get back in my taxi and rejoin the rest of my friends. But find myself irrationally irritated.

“He could fucking do worse” I think to myself.

I Have Two Followers.

I have no idea what this means and it sounds faintly sinister. But 'hello' whoever you are.

Books.

Nicholson Baker may not be the greatest novelist in the world. He’s certainly better than me. I’ve never bothered.

But by God his choice of reading is dreadful.

He wrote a piece recently in the Guardian about eBooks and that.

He didn’t go so far as to say that the complete digitization of all literature would be good or bad, he just described his experience of the new methods of reading novels. Digitally. If one felt so disposed. On a screen. A screen that only Amazon would sell you, and only Amazon would supply content for.

This screen would allow you to download any novel you fancied – so long as Amazon stocked it – anywhere you liked. Anywhere with a broadband connection. Or free wi-fi.

I’m not as widely read as Nicholson Baker (he seems rather fond of ‘thrillers’) but here’s some of my experiences of books:

1) A paperback copy of Life of Pi by Yann Martell. Bought in a charity shop for next to nothing. A fabulous book about belief, stories and faith. And not what you would think upon initial reading. The inside cover was written upon in biro-

‘Rose – get beyond the first hundred pages and it really picks up.’

I’ve no idea who Rose is. Or the (I assume) man was who gave it to her. But it was sensible advice. I don’t know why Rose then gave it away to a charity shop.

But I think of them, whoever they are.

I then lend it to somebody else. Because I like the book and I like the person I lend it to. Like the person who gave it to Rose. Although I’m guessing Rose wasn’t too fond of it.

2) An Encyclopia in my Grandfathers ‘study’. It was really his front room, but even then he didn’t set foot in it. Amazing to a ten-year old boy. All the knowledge in the world, in one massive tome. The pages smelt of wisdom and escape.

3) The works of A.A.Milne. Worn and battered by generations. Red hardback covers hanging off, spines barely clinging. Read to my mother, read by my mother to me, read by me to my younger brother and sister and one day hopefully to my own children. Old books, literally falling apart and smelling of love, however misplaced.

4) Bookshelves. I’ve been massively fortunate growing up for one reason. There were always books. I doubt my mother or indeed any of the illiterates she married ever read any of the books they populated the book-shelves they insisted upon, but at least they were there. And for every three Jackie Collins (deeply alarming to a thirteen-year-old-boy) there was at least one Angela Carter (slightly more alarming but for better reasons). There was some Thomas Hardy, Sylvia Plath and Raymond Chandler. At least they were there.

But now they’ve invented this ‘Thing’. Upon which you can see any book anytime, like the online catch-up service of the BBC or 4 on-demand or whatever it’s called this week.

Sony have a competitor model called the ‘Kill all emotion and meaning let’s just digitize it all MK2’ or something. KAEAMLJDIA#2 is the production name.

They’ll probably win. And the losers will be people like me, who quite like seeing the odd coffee-cup ring on the page of a well-loved book. Who like giving or lending or reading to someone a book that they adore.

And Nicholson Baker will no doubt get by.

If It Weren’t For the Photographs I Would Deny It Forever.

I am making my way from my office to my bus stop. A female colleague rushes up to me. She has not uttered a word to me in three years. Something I have not lost sleep over.

Female Colleague: Tired! I just wanted to say you were brilliant on Friday night! Really convincing.

Me: You what?

Roughly forty-eight hours earlier.

I am standing in a beer cellar with Uncannily Similar, taking alternate large swigs from a pint of lager and very large vodka and tonic. He is gazing forlornly around us.

Uncannily Similar: This is a nightmare isn’t it?

Me: Mmm.

U.S: I mean. Surrounded by all this drink. And we can’t have any of it.

Me: [Adjusting my skirt] Not really what I thought you meant.

U.S: Oh. This? Yeah. Do you think I need some more lippy?

Me: I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. Be a man. How has this happened by the way?

Two years ago I had resolved to start doing things that were a little out of character as my default behavior hadn’t really worked out as well as it could have. These ‘things’ usually involved daredevil antics such as sitting on a different seat on the bus to work or eating feta cheese. But this is just silly.

U.S: [Glancing at my legs] You’d have looked better in the fishnets.

Me: [Irrationally insulted] You fucking what?

U.S: Well. The black-and-purple stripes aren’t doing you any favours. You look like Beetlejuice.

Me: Fuck off do I.

The door to the cellar opens a crack. We are due to emerge from this and then from behind the bar and behind the audience who will be expecting us to emerge from the stage in front of them. In terms of 'stealth' it would probably be the strangest Splinter Cell add-on pack ever downloaded.

Our Boss: Five minutes girls. You look fabulous.

She vanishes again.

Me: Anyway. Your tits are wonky.

U.S: Don’t tell me that now!

Hearing our ‘theme’ we dash onstage and make complete buffoons of ourselves in front of several hundred of our peers.

Fourty-eight hours later.

Me: What do you mean, convincing?

FC: Oh. Emm. Nothing. Just you were really good.

Me: Fucks sake.

FC: Really. It was just a funny panto. Loved your dance at the end. Did it take long to rehearse?

Me: I have to catch a bus.

Six hours earlier. I walk down a corridor past two gentlemen I do not recognize. Assuming they are past my earshot one of them turns to the other and says:

“You should have seen him on Friday night. FUCKING TERRIFYING.”

Football.

This is the last thing I fucking need, I think to myself.

I have the sort of job that sometimes you just can’t walk away from at five-thirty. It involves things that sometimes can’t be left until the morning. The morning will be too late.

This is one of those sometimes. The public transport system in the city I work in tends to think ‘fuck it’ after business hours in the assumption that anyone needing to travel after six is either a drunkard or a pervert. As such I have a wait on my hands.

Raymond Chandler wrote an excellent passage about the alchemic pleasure of a bar that had just opened for the evening. ‘Farewell my Lovely’ I think.

It’s not the same now. They never really close. But there is still something about a two-thirds empty bar early in the evening – usually populated by disoriented commuters far from home, burnt-out business types and hard-core alcoholics. A stillness, a melancholy. A place to reflect in peace, populated by people who want nothing more than that themselves. People who want to be elsewhere but are either temporarily or permanently stuck. It can be quite soothing if you know you’re only visiting.

Having half an hour to kill I decide to visit a quite-nice one near my bus stop. It’s either that or the only other place open is Starbucks and I’m not that fucking far gone. Those cunts are really lost.

I push through the glass doors to be greeted by a wall of noise and approximately eight million braying lumps of flesh yowling at a plasma screen as though it were some sort of vengeful god.

Having stepped through the doors I am past the point of no return. No man in history has ever walked into a bar and then promptly turned around again.

I order a drink, making a point of not purchasing a big pint of idiot juice. Fortunately I’ve been here before and am aware of the perpetually empty ‘snug’ area which I promptly make for.

It is removed from the main bar, contains big leather chairs and only a couple of tables. The ‘wall’ facing the street is plate-glass. It is relatively quiet. I take a comfy leather chair and sit, determined to ignore the gurning festival of homoeroticism in the main room. I place my drink on a glass table-top that turns out to be one of those old arcade machines. I find this not amusingly ‘ironic’ or ‘retro’ as I’m sure I should but actually faintly depressing.

I sip my drink and stare at the skyline. My thoughts are far from here.

A man the size of a small outhouse comes barreling in and looks directly at me. He is wearing a football shirt which is puzzling as his physique is not one of an athlete. Or indeed of most normal humans.

Random Man: Thank fuck for that!

As he has not introduced himself I can only assume he imagines he has known me for some time. This is, however, not the case so I do not reply. I am not about to be involved in some nightmare scenario in which two strangers act as if they have been acquainted for years. That would just be weird. We’d be wanking each other off next.

Random Bloke: [Undeterred by my lack of response] Did you hear? [Insert name of football player here – I don’t know any] just scored! Fucking brilliant!

I gaze levelly at him and don’t respond. I can’t say if I actually shrugged, but it sounds like the sort of thing I would do.

Random Bloke: [Showing a firm grasp of the available evidence] You’re not watching it then?

Me: No.

He physically staggers for a second, but I think it’s the drink.

RB: So what you’re saying…. You’re…. Is that you just don’t give a shit about the football?

Me: Yes. I suppose so.

He steadies himself on a table. Must be the booze.

RB: But….. Fuck, man………Just trying to be friendly…….Christ……..have a bit chat and that. Jesus. Don’t have to be a CUNT.

He staggers away, his face a mass of confusion. I swear there were actually tears in his eyes.

I finish my drink and wait for my bus outside.

Escalation.

It all started quite normally and then went terribly wrong.

Interior. Office. Day.

Me: [Gazing out the window] It’s a nice afternoon actually. I’m looking forward to getting home and sitting in the garden for a while.

Blonde Colleague: [Looking at me as though I’d just announced that gang-raping her mother would be quite the chuckle] You fucking what?

Me: Em. Well. I’ve a back garden now. Bit of a novelty. Thought it would be nice. Seems like quite a pleasant evening. Maybe.

BC: What the fuck do you want to do that for?

Me: Em. Because. You know. Sit in the garden. Glass of wine. Cigarette and that. Just relax I suppose.

BC: Oh yeah? You’ll be fucking freezing. You can do all of that in your front room AND watch television.

Me: I don’t really watch televi-

BC: Don’t even get me started on that one you fucking freak.

Me: Anyway. It’s July.

BC: Yeah? And in the winter? Genius?

Me: Well –

BC: Oh. You’re going to get one of those fucking gas heaters [said as though her mother had indeed been gang-raped by some awful gang of libidious gas heaters] aren’t you?

Me: Now you mention it. That would be good.

BC: WHY?!

Me: Well. I could sit outside in the winter as well.

BC: WHAT?! You can sit inside! And not have bats in your hair!

Me: It wouldn’t be the same. [I am sensing that this is becoming an ‘outdoors versus indoors’ argument and that I have not made my case sufficiently strong. And that I’d only said that it would be quite nice to sit in my new back garden anyway.]

BC: So you’re going to spend money to sit all year round in your garden doing EVERYTHING NORMAL PEOPLE DO IN THEIR FRONT ROOMS without being able to see your telly with bats in your hair and moths and butterflies living in your silly beard?

Me: Look-

BC: And do you know what’ll happen? ‘Cos I’ll tell you. Your neighbours will be on the phone and they’ll be all like “ Hello is that the police? It’s just I think the man next door is a peeping-tom. He’s really skinny so he thinks I can’t see him hiding behind his fucking gas heater but I can see his beady little shrimp-eyes sticking out and his weird E.T. fingers. Can you send a car straight away?”

Me: Ok.

BC: Good?

Me: Not as good as when you told me I look like a cross between Pierce Brosnan [good] and Stephen Hawking [bad].

BC: [Small amount of snot coming out of her nose] Did I say that? I am ON FIRE! You do look a bit crippled though.

Me: Mmmmmm.

I’d just said about the garden and that.