Just not necessary

I called for a taxi recently, and the first thing I heard after the phone had been picked up was the most world-weary and exaggerated sigh ever. Darth Vader couldn’t have done a better job. It was a woman, and I had already pissed her off, surely this was some kind of record.

I just couldn’t understand how this had happened. I’m sure it wasn’t a yawn, because it was spiked with hate, and it seemed deliberately affected for me. It felt as if she had been storing it up, and decided that that was it. The next person who phoned was going to get it. Once she had finished, I stated with apprehension that I required a taxi. “Destination,” she said with clear disdain, it wasn’t even a question, just an automated response that must have left a bad taste in her mouth. No one had ever despised their job this much. At some point this woman had been hired because of her people skills, and now she hated life. It’s not as if she was a weathered prostitute who was asked on a regular basis to perform the most despicable acts on the most despicable people, only to come home to get slapped in the face by a pimp’s dick. Only this would be enough to explain the level of contempt I felt through my earpiece.

I’m sometimes a bit nervous when speaking to service people. I tend to mentally rehearse what I’m going to say before hand, to avoid the embarrassment of wasting their time as I think under pressure. The problem with this is that I become too fixed on what I am going to say, so if they ask me questions in a different order to what I was expecting, I can’t deprogram myself, and carry on with my recital. For example, if I wanted to order some cider and crisps at the bar, it might go something like this:
“What can I get you?”
“Magners.”
“Do you want a glass for that?”
“Cheese and onion.”

It isn’t always this catastrophic, but it feels awkward and confusing to break this line of thought. If I am aware that there has been a change in plan, then the only way I can save myself is to try and wrangle the conversation in my direction. E.g. ordering a taxi might go something like this:
“Where do you want to be picked up from?”
“I would like to go to the train station.”
“Where are you now?”
“Can I have one in ten minutes please?”
“Did you say you wanted to go to the train station?”
“I’ll be waiting by the library.”

Valentine's meets the Crunch

As we all know, we live in a time of financial collapse. Banks have gone bust and suicide is at an all time high. The USA is currently embroiled in a nuclear civil war, and Tennessee has been wiped off the map, along with its very valuable contribution to banjo music. Babies now roam the streets, fending for themselves, and building forts out of broken dreams. They’ve formed an alliance with the Toddlers, and keep a tight perimeter on the Alaskan border with the aid of diaper catapults. The effects are devastating. And disgusting.

Valentine’s Day is a small respite from the baby regime. And for one flickering day only. For some it’s more special than others. But times are tight, so I offer my five ways to show someone you care, whilst spending zero pounds sterling. Hopefully your loved one will appreciate the gesture, and will equate it to a whole lot of love dollars, redeemable in a marriage bed. I.e. Sex.

1) Sweep Her Off Her Feet
No one enjoys being carried more than women. So carry her through the streets so that she gets the attention she deserves, and everyone knows what prize you have bagged. NB: If you are unable to carry her, then you either a) are a pathetic excuse for a man or b) need to downsize.

2) Build Her A Cake Or Something
Perhaps you don’t have the money to treat your princess to the deluge of chocolate rain that she is used to this year, so instead, turn your own hands to the culinary arts. Chicks love ‘gestures’, so they will literally eat this up. If you are smart though, do yourself a favour and make a terrible job of it. She will then never allow you to cook for her again, but will forever appreciate your effort. Everyone wins.

3) Make Her Feel ‘Special’
Special, is the most desirable state for your burden of a wife. No one knows accurately how to create this state. Some think it does not even exist. The best we can do is to artificially induce it by integrating the word ‘Special’ into any sentences involving her. I.e. “This is my Special Wife,” “Can we get some Special knives and forks for my Special wife, please?” and “You look especially Special today….Special.” The woman will be unable to differentiate the pseudo-special environment that you have created for her, from any genuine feelings of being Special. She will spend her day with a heightened state of self-worth, and will be primed for asking for any Special favours.

4) Flowers
Much like bees, hoes (or egg carriers) are genetically engineered to be attracted to flowers. Think of them as bargaining chips. Go to the finest garage forecourt in your area, and take some time. It may even be necessary to ask the cashier. Do not be afraid, these men are experts. They are hideous, but they also get a lot of punani. If you get the right flowers, you’re going straight to Boob Town. If you really want to impress the symbolism of the flowers, bring your own bee to pollinate them whilst you watch. Once it is over, squirt honey on her back to show her what to expect next.

5) Be Mean To Keep Her Keen
This is always solid advice, and never more so than on Valentine’s. Do not get your bitch a present. Make sure she is fully aware that you know what day it is, and perhaps even mention the great presents you got for better girlfriends in the past. Push this until she cries, and then cut yourself and her, and rub the wounds together, shouting “the ultimate commitment!” Then leave. She will never doubt your love again.

Don't Depress Me

Did anyone else see the BAFTA’s? Mickey Rourke won best actor for his role in The Wrestler. I think the same thing was on a lot of people’s minds. What the fuck happened to his face? In case you weren’t aware, Mickey was once a very handsome young man. Looking his best in the likes of Diner (1982) and Rumble Fish (1983).

However, a boxing career and subsequent reconstructive plastic surgery left him as the ugly bucket he is today.

It is a mighty shame, but it’s not just being repeatedly punched in the face that will save you money on future Halloween masks. Time can be a cruel bitch. The most frightening example I’ve found is the once beautiful Claudia Cardinale from Once Upon a Time in the West (1968).
See now the old hag. An impostor, a ravaged relic.
This is what 50 years can do to someone. Render them unrecognisable. Only a fragment of their former selves. This notion scares me. No matter how we try to fight it, the matter is out of our hands. Our features soften and become rounder. The skin rubberising, becoming Play-Doh in our grandchildren’s hands.

There’s a horrific circularity to it. As babies we all looked the same, and as old people we shall again. Is there anything more depressing than when an old biddy takes great pleasure in surprising you that she was once a beauty? That when old couples look at each other and smile, they’re trying their hardest to remember what they used to look like, and try to forget that they are now different people who have nothing in common.

I suppose the best they can do is laugh at themselves. Find humour in the slapstick nature of life unique to the aged. Like when Doris sets down a brew on the dinner table, only for her swinging breast to swoop down and knock it into the lap of her beloved. Albert doesn’t mind though, grateful that his wet lap isn’t tinged with the humiliation he’s become accustomed to. The shoulder shrug and ‘I’ve only gone and done it again!’ joke was getting old anyway.

Are we still attracted to people our own generation when we get to that age, or do we only look longingly at those in their prime? Does either party even enjoy sex with one another anymore? I imagine the more intimate acts are spoilt by overgrown pubic hairs, and fatflaps covering crevices that haven’t seen soap for 25 years.

Does Doris stop teabagging when she tastes the tang of toilet water?

Are you taking the piss?

Just missed my train. I arrived with time to spare, and joined a short queue. The amount of people seemed to give little indication as to how long they were going to spend at the window. How hard could it be? You say your destination and pay your money. When I was dealt with, I took all of thirty seconds before I was moved on. Why was everyone taking so long? They all seemed to spend a great deal of time in embarrassed silence, apparently unaware of the procedure, or indeed unaware of what a train actually is. I thought some form of counselling was taking place.

These people were so oblivious of the hurry I was in, which I wouldn’t have been in if they had all been in a hurry themselves. The people seemed to think it was a general enquiry desk, not because they had anything to ask, just because they had so much time to kill in their dull and lethargic lives. I wondered if they were doing this on purpose, that these people’s only pleasure was in delaying innocent passengers. I was probably imagining it, but I could have sworn I saw secret and cruel smiles that disappeared whenever I looked at the conspirators.

The equipment for Southampton Central seemed entirely out of date as well, they had no self-service machines, and I ended up spending half my time waiting for my single ticket to be printed. It was so slow I suspected that their ‘printer’ wasn’t a printer at all, but in fact an underpaid man in a box with good handwriting. In London, they print your tickets before you’ve even finished your sentence. You’ll ask them where it is and they’ll assure you it is already safely in your pocket. The ticket itself is an artistic masterpiece, and can be redeemed on ebay for over four times its initial worth.

The staff are no great help either, apparently it was ‘Bring your retard to work and let them do your work’ day, because the cretins that served me seemed entirely unprepared for my very reasonable demands. They probably would have felt more at ease if I told them I wanted to take the grey-tube machine when the big hand meets twelve, and the little hand rests on two.

I am now on the train and it has been difficult writing because I am constantly distracted by the mumblings of the train driver, the only discernible words being the destinations, “mumble-mumble…Romsey…mumble…Salisbury… mumble-mumble…Cardiff…mumble.” For all I know this could be a compelling narrative with vital information, “Frodo finally found the ring under a park bench in Romsey, but he didn’t know the town has a train station, so he’s rung ahead, and we’re picking him up at Salisbury, I hope you’ll all welcome him aboard. He’s convinced that Snowdon is in fact Mount Doom, so we'll be taking him through Mordor, more commonly known as Wales, and drop him off at Minas Morgul, or Cardiff if you like. Let’s wish him the best of luck.”

Why is it that we still have to put up with these unclear messages? Are they afraid that if they installed Dolby Surround Sound and stopped using a cup as a microphone that the perfect clarity would scare us into believing that they were transmitting these messages telepathically? Would we misinterpret this noise as the voice of God? “Go to Bradford, for it is your home. Take the East line, for it is faster, and crisps are only 40p.”

There really should be more done in the form of entertainment for train journeys. At the moment we are limited to stealing newspapers and smelling each other. I understand it might not be in their interest to install 8” LCD screens on the back of every chair, but perhaps the staff could read over the intercom. “Our Barry is now going to read one of his charming prose poems that he’s been working on. He’s a bit of an up and coming talent, and has been posting his work on writing forums across the Internet. He’s received such comments as ‘Roflcopter’ from ‘yahooslut’ and ‘keep it up’ from ‘fatwallet77’ and is hoping you’ll be able to give him some creative feedback when he comes by with the food-trolley.”

Fart Memory

I remember the most embarrassing fart I’ve ever experienced in public. Luckily, I was just a witness to the exhibition. Protected by the anonymity of a group. We were all young, year 4, junior school. It was story time, and so we had gathered before our teacher: him on a chair, us on the floor.

It must have been a good story, for distraction was at a minimum. We seemed to be hanging off his every word. Our attention was acute and focused, and our heartbeats responded to the soft rise and fall of his voice. He had the voice of a natural storyteller; we felt every stroke of a comma, punch of a full stop, and kiss of a capital letter. It was this interactive style of storytelling that eventually got him fired.

He reached the end of a paragraph, and left a tantalising pause. We bathed in the comfort of that silence, and felt the need for the story to continue. He opened his mouth to oblige us, but instead all we heard was the fanfare of hot air squeezing through the cheeks of a fat kid. It was loud and unhindered. It sounded like wet lips flapping on a trombone. It was silly; an exaggerated imitation of a fart. It was unreal.

All of a sudden there seemed to be one kid on his own, as if a spotlight had been turned on him. It could have been no one else but Phil the fat kid. Only someone as grotesque to behold could be responsible for such an incredible blast. The very noise seemed to suggest uncleanliness, ugliness and obesity. Hands shot up to point at him, to mark him out. I felt my own hand rise with accusation. And then the laughter came, forced and unkind. It barked from the back of our throats viciously. And all the while, Phil the fat kid stared back at us, his eyes wide as marbles, shaking his head in silent terror. ‘Not me’ his head said, ‘not me’. But his face said the rest, and we thought it, ‘yes, you!’ ‘Guilty!’ our fingers said. Despite being grossly outnumbered, Phillip himself was pointing, trying to direct the flow of blame elsewhere. No one looked to where he was pointing; rejecting his explanation. This was an open and shut case.

It’s hard to remember what exactly happened that day, as it was so long ago. I remember things which surely can’t be true. In some of my memories, even the teacher is pointing his finger, the ringleader of Phillip’s humiliation, his lip curled in disdain. I can’t seem to remember what happened next, or how long it lasted. Did he read over the laughter, hoping to save Phil any prolonged embarrassment? Or did the teacher pause, shocked into silence by that flatulent explosion?

The Times They Are a'Changing

My blog is now adorned with an awesome header, compliments to Irisz Heathershaw. Also, I recently organised my posts into helpful 'sections' for new readers. So if you think less of some sections and more of others, you now know which ones to avoid. I'm still trying to decide what this blog is, and seeing as I'm an activity whore, this is my compromise. Who knows what other crazy revamps this site may or may not fulfil. Hang low.

Ugly Nuggets continued

If you missed the original Ugly Nuggets post, it is advisory that you check it out now so that you are up to date.

Now, let’s move away from food related issues and table manners. Let’s move away from the kitchen to another important room of the house: the bathroom. Bathroom sharing is an important issue. It seems that most people aren’t offended if their partner takes a leak whilst in the same room. Now, this only works for the bathroom. You can’t start taking liberties with the kitchen sink when your partner’s making a sandwich. Bedwetting is also an unpopular option.

So the real issue is: when can you shit in front of your partner? People say, don’t run before you can walk and so I like to say, don’t shit before you’ve farted.

Farting is always an awkward one. What’s different from our toilet functions, is that it doesn’t have a designated, air-conditioned room. It can also come at any time, without warning, and usually in public situations. The main problem is, your sphincter has no way of measuring these variables, so it gives you the false hope that perhaps it will be a quiet one. You think, what did I have for dinner? Fish and chips. Nothing too odorous, I think I might get away with it. Cue loud stench and embarrassment.

A good way to introduce farting is to make a joke about it. If you want her to feel like an accomplice to your body functions, then try the old ‘pull my finger’ routine. If your partner doesn’t share your sense of lowbrow humour, then try a more intellectual windbreaker over a game of chess. When it’s your turn, take some time, and furrow your brow, as if you are deep in thought. Then crack it open like a champagne bottle, and laugh, to let her know it was all a joke, har har har. There’s no need to make the same joke about future farts, or you’ll have difficulty getting your partner to play a board game with you again.

Shitting in someone’s presence is a quite a leap from farting, but despair not, it is possible. Some people even have their partners wipe their arse, though they are usually kinky or paraplegic (I’m so sorry).

Sometimes shitting in front of your partner is almost unavoidable, and this is how it usually begins. Perhaps your partner is soaking in a bath of suds; unwinding after a long day at the office. You on the other hand are tense. The best way is to force your partner into an ultimatum. Shout through the door that you need a shit, and they will either have to make a hurried and screaming exit, or light a few more of their aromatic candles. Either way, you’ve brought up the subject, and they’ve made the decision.

Now, don’t get too cavalier about your toilet habits once they’ve green lighted you. Try to avoid the brushing-teeth and number-two crossover. This can be very unpleasant for the teeth-brusher, as the sink is invariably next to the toilet, and they only came in for some minty refreshment.

Gary

Today I came back to an old toothbrush, let’s call him Gary (that’s not gay, is it?). It’s strange that we don’t form a deeper bond with our toothbrushes, as they spend their active time in the most intimate areas of our mouths, reaching and kissing cavities even our tongues cannot contact.

Gary was showing his age. I’ve been using newer models in other houses: ones where the bristles are strong and unforgiving, sharp and penetrating. Guaranteed to make your gums bleed like crying children.

But Gary has as much cleaning power as filling your face with rice pudding. It feels like a wet J-cloth gliding through my mouth, not so much cleaning my teeth as making love to them. I guess that would make the foaming paste the jizz, which appears in such horrific quantities, my teeth must be very satisfied.

Sometimes I like to pretend that the foam isn’t toothpaste at all, but instead the froth of rabies. I take great pleasure in watching it spill over my chin into the sink, like the flow of lava from a volcano; unstoppable and prodigious. Sometimes I spit and cough, spluttering violently and dramatically, swinging from the taps. If I’m feeling energetic I might gnash my teeth and stalk the house for victims, eliciting the terrified responses, “I just cleaned this shirt!”

Hard of Hearing

I was shaving recently when I realised that I can hear better in my left ear than I can in my right. The buzzing seemed louder and more threatening in my left ear, like a chainsaw approaching from behind, whereas my right ear barely registered the threat in those whirring blades, instead recognising it as the deranged hum of a Buddhist in prayer.

How did this happen? Had I inadvertently exposed my right ear to more loud noises than my left? I remembered something about ears and balance, so I developed a limp that suggested my equilibrium was distorted. People thought I was drunk. If only they knew the burden I bore. Then I remembered that deaf people never seem to have difficulty walking, and it turns out your balance is only effected if you perforate an eardrum or wear a heavy coat. I went back to walking normally.

Ugly Nuggets

In the beginning of a relationship, there are certain benchmarks that are crossed. Those memorable moments: the first kiss, the first fuck, the first hug. Sometimes in that order. But these are often clustered together, and depending on how much of a slag you are, may all occur within six hours of meeting that person. What I want to discuss today are those true benchmarks further along the road, those moments which a relationship can hinge on, and if judged too early may close the door on the relationship altogether.

I’m speaking of course of habits. Those dirty, secret habits which only your nearest and dearest are witness to, whether they like it or not. We’ll start with something relatively inoffensive. It’s the start of your day, and if you’re considerate to your digestive system, you began it with Bran Flakes, hmm, the cereal you don’t need any taste buds to enjoy. But your breakfast isn’t finished yet, not truly, there’s still a pool of milk leftover. Wasting is out of the question, but you’re remembering how your partner is the sort of person who cringes when you suggest sharing a toothbrush.

This is a different boundary of course, it’s not as if you’re asking them if they want to finish it off. So you wait till they’re distracted, and bring the bowl swiftly to your lips. Not too fast though, or you’ll have a beard full of cascading milk, making a spectacle of the whole thing. Perhaps this isn’t such a bad way of introducing it, ‘look at me, I’ve made a disgusting yet humorous mess of myself, it’s all so hilariously endearing, ha ha ha.’ Only problem is, that joke gets old quick, and soon they’re going to begin thinking, maybe it wasn’t a joke after all, maybe this is actually how he finishes his breakfast everyday. You see them playing it over in their mind, the endless replays of your face being doused in milk and residual flakes; the mouth half open, and the sinister ghost of a laugh projected from the back of the throat, like some puppet fortune teller at a fairground.

So take it easy. If you feel that the relationship isn’t going anywhere, then this is a good short-term solution. However, if you’re in for the long run, there is going to come a time when she stops becoming distracted by the imaginary things you point at, and turns to look at you as you’re tipping that bowl to your lips. It’s one of those classic hand-in-the-cookie-jar (or biscuit tin, if you’re from this side of the Atlantic) moments, which are best dealt with by pretending everything is normal. Don’t freeze guiltily, or say “Uh oh”. If you’re feeling cocky, meet her eyes and stare her down, make her feel ashamed for looking at you in your moment of weakness, and perhaps even lick your lips, so that she knows you’re ready for intercourse.

If you pass this moment with little incident, then perhaps your partner might be ready for you to unleash your next ugly. However, give it some time, you don’t want to cluster these things, otherwise the force of it might act as a sort of domestic Ragnarök.

Dinnertime is over, or so you’re partner thought. You enjoyed a delicious chicken lasagne, and you just can’t seem to get enough of that cheesy sauce. Now try to assess the relationship, do they love you? Are they charmed when you drink the orange juice straight from the carton, and can see the logic that it saves on washing up? If so, then the meal has only just begun. Now lick the plate. Show them what the strongest muscle in the body was designed for. A rule of thumb though, this only applies whilst the plate is still on the table. You don’t want to get caught half an hour later in the kitchen trying to make the most of dried pasta. With this in mind, if your plate is removed, your partner has spoken and mealtime is over. These things can turn ugly, so steer clear of the tug of war situation.

Overall, I’ve found licking the plate produces a variety of reactions. For some people, this is relationship-ending stuff, and so is a good weapon to bear in mind if you feel you’re in a Shawshank circumstance. Other people will merely shudder, and try and remember why they love you. The boat has been rocked, but hasn’t sunk yet. Try to balance this out and buy them a DVD or something. Think more Mamma Mia! and less Schlinder’s List. In this case, it’s probably best to wait a few years before you begin licking their plate.

If you’re really lucky, your partner will see the joys to be had in licking the plate and they too will join you in finishing their meal. Times like these are emotional; so don’t be surprised if you see tears of revelation as they begin to realise the revolutionary repasts that await them.

More on this later. Subscribe for the updates.

Rule Breaker

The other day, after rising, I came downstairs to a row of letters addressed to each member of our household. This was not a good sign. Official looking letters always instil a certain anxiety in me, I find they always tend to say, ‘You owe X amount of money’ or ‘You have failed to return The Breakfast Club for over two years now, are you taking the piss? You now owe £600’ or worse still ‘Hallo English pen pal, when you come to visit? It has been 18 months now, and still you have not replied.
P.S. please sends 250 of your English pounds immediately or our protection racket will kill us.
P.P.S. sorry for using scary and official looking envelope.’

In this instance my trepidation was compounded by a hand-written post-it note from my housemate, Hannah, which said she had gone to see our estate agent. This was serious. I decided not to open my letter; otherwise I might not be able to eat my breakfast.

A few minutes afterwards, Hannah came home looking a little flustered. “Did you read the letter?” she said in a, ‘do you have any idea of the kind of shit we’re in’ sort of way.
“No,” I said, my lips quivering. I opened my letter nervously. It was from the council, and it said I had not paid my Council Tax. It then said in bold capitals, ‘YOU ARE THEREFORE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES SITTING AT NORTH PARADE ROAD, BATH AT 11.00AM ON Thursday, 12th February 2009.' That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? Bold and capitals? It was as if they were taking a disturbing amount of pleasure in my worry, and the only thing they could think of was how to maximise the damage. They stopped short at an army Sergeant delivering a telegram – that was too expensive – so they settled on large, black shouty words. Did they expect me to read it louder, give myself a hard going over?

If you’re interested the due amount was £889.77. Hannah said we needed to phone the council, and explain that we’re students so didn’t have to pay the obscene amount, and that we may need to provide evidence. It all sounded like a lot of bother.

After 20 minutes on hold, she explained the situation, and the council man asked what uni we went to, and she told him, and so he consulted his list of students, and yep, we were on there, so we in fact didn’t owe any money. Now where the fuck was this list when they sent out their ‘You’re going to court you criminal’ letters? He seemed to resolve the situation so easily and quickly that I presume it was laid beside him next to his worn issue of that week’s Heat magazine and an untouched copy of How to do Your Fucking Job Properly: For Fucking Morons.

Why is it that those in power always go straight for these scare mongering tactics, as if you had personally punched their mum in the face, when they haven’t even bothered to check their facts before sending out their death threats? I got the same thing from TV Licensing. A few months after having bought a license I received a letter stating that they knew I had a TV and no license and they were going to be paying me an unfriendly visit soon. They told me to feel guilty, ashamed even. They said live on the edge of your seat, jump at every ring of the bell and knock at the door. They said my heartbeat will never go below 80bpm, that I will develop high blood pressure, and suffer annoying headaches. I will become addicted to aspirin, and subsequently heroin. We’ve seen this before, they said, a million times before, and the only way I’ll be able to pay for my addiction is by performing lewd sex acts on foreign businessmen, stingy businessmen with smelly cocks and pubic wigs. ‘Oh, Doris!’ they’ll whisper as they pull my hair and reach climax. They said I will spend entire days watching the same episode of Deal or No Deal but not noticing because I am distracted by every van that goes past the window. They said they would wait for that one moment when I let my guard down: buttering my toast, only to drop the jar of strawberry jam as they forced entry through my upstairs window. Broken glass and jam everywhere – what is blood and what is jam? The chaos! THE CHAOS!

These people are sick.

Ooh - Aah!

For a small city, Bath has an inordinate amount of homeless people. Coming from Southampton, a larger city, this surprised me. I was used to the occasional sightings, usually in the form of a furtive hand protruding from a sleeping bag. There was something bashful about them; they were all so ashamed that you were aware of them, and so apologetic in their whispered pleas, “big issue…big issue.”

If the Southampton bum is the silent voyeur, then the Bath bum is the clown, demanding your attention. They have a way of making their presence known; you’ll be walking through the Sainsbury’s car park when through the hedge you hear them roar like pirates, “Argh!” and then amble into view, leaning heavily on each other. In no other city have I seen homeless friends before, bound together by circumstance, or some common interest to be loud and drunk.

There’s a sort of locked-in-time quality to Bath’s bums. I think it’s their West Country accents. It reminds me of the food stall owners you hear in medieval films, “Get your apples!” Except they’re probably not saying ‘apples’, they’re saying ‘Shit!’ and they’re not so much selling them, as they are throwing them.

Bath Bums are also the most jolly of bums; their reckless smiles seem to mock the taxpayers, the family unit, the uniformed hoi polloi. They seem to be energised by their sense of freedom, their devil may care way of life. There’s something Zen about their directionless existence; the lack of ties to a place and family, their forced liberation from materialism.

That being said, I have noticed certain homeless hotspots. Places where they accumulate and gather. I don’t know how they decide on these places. One in particular is a series of benches which overlook a grotty stream peppered with sewage. The place offers no shelter and could best be described as ugly and depressing. Do they feel some sort of affinity with this area? Do they see something of themselves in those dirty depths? What do they think when they see their murky reflections, besides, “I could do with brushing my teeth”?

What is it that keeps drawing them back to this place? Does it have mystical and sacrosanct qualities? If they dip a bird bath into it, and retrieve the soiled water, does it act as a sort of Mirror of Galadriel, a Mirror of Gazza, from which visions are played, and once they return to consciousness, words of an elusive meaning burn brightly in their mind, “Special Brew – £5.99 –Tesco”?

I often wonder when watching them, staring into those depths, do they feel some sort of kinship with the water? I imagine they think, if all water ends up in the sea, and all old people end up in Bournemouth, where do we homeless end up?

You Know You're 21

I recently had a check up with a doctor, no real issue, nothing scary. Except it wasn’t Dr Fitzpatrick, my childhood doctor, who had seen me through chicken pox, gastric enteritis and man flu. The bastard was taking a break in the Bahamas. Not that this bothered me at the time. I was being foisted onto Dr Ward, a Lady Doctor. This didn’t seem like a problem; It’s not as if I had misread the dose for viagra and was now sporting an angry pocket snake, and neither had I ‘accidentally’ plugged my rear end with a rubber bath duck, or any similarly embarrassing incident.

A lady doctor? Of course I’ll see her. As it happened, Dr Ward was an attractive, soft-spoken woman. She went through the routine professionally, and I’d like to think, with some enjoyment. You see, I thought I spotted a glint in her eye that suggested she liked what she saw. Of course I wasn’t going to try anything, I’ve spoken before about my ineptitude with women. I’m like a charmingly bumbling Hugh Grant, but without the charm. I felt safe in the knowledge that nothing could happen between us. I’m a young man and she an older woman, but I took pleasure in imagining a mutual admiration for one another. I felt my heart race as she held my arm firmly and took my pulse. “A little irregular,” she remarked, with a secret smile, as if she was all too aware of the source of its excitement. Fuck me, I thought, mentally willing her to straddle me. I became worried that a telling tent might form, but pocket snake remained calm and philosophical on the whole matter.

“Ok, if you’d like to take your top off…” I did as I was told, hoping she’d follow it up with “And now you’re trousers…and now you’re pants…and now – no, leave the socks on.” Enjoy, I thought, trying not to make it obvious that I was flexing. I searched her face, trying to distinguish any signs of the moral turmoil that she faced within – Surely I couldn’t, not here. It would be so unprofessional!

I almost thought I saw something; a slight blush, a parting of the lips, the involuntary dilation of the eyes. Yes! I thought, Yes, take me now! To hell with the consequences! To hell with your house-husband and his collection of WWII model planes, to hell with shepherd’s pie! And just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. So quick you could have missed it. So quick you doubted it was there at all. Oh, but it was there all right. However fleeting. Only now her pupils had narrowed to cat’s eyes. Her mouth; wired shut, and her complexion was pale; sickly, even.

She then moved swiftly behind me, and began tapping at various points on my back. Her hands now felt cold, and ‘knuckly’. My body responded in turn and began to goosepimple. My nipples hardening into corners. It seemed only moments before that her hands were warm, and radiated with a sensual healing. Where once she treated me in a gentle but professional manner, her approach was now rough and impatient. I felt like Oliver Twist being checked over by a Victorian nun. I felt the shame of my desire, and the desire itself diminishing.

The sexual tension that couldn’t have been cut with a knife could now be swiped by a baguette. What had happened? What had changed? I tried to play over in my mind the exact point at which the alluring smile malformed into a disdainful lip curl. Playing it back again and again like an obsessed detective whose been let off the force because the case is getting in the way of his life. There! What was that? Johnson, get over here! It looks like we got our man. And there it was: the eyes, spotting something. Something they didn’t like, about the level of my midriff, and the rest of her face reacting, closing off.

I looked down to see what could have been so offensive, so pivotal to the affections of a trained doctor. A person who’s familiar with some of the most grotesque and sickening ailments of the human condition. What I saw shook me to the core: a spec of fluff, collected in the recess of my bellybutton. Ok, it was more like a wad, but I was confused. How could this have accumulated here? I had showered that morning. What distressed me even more was the colour. Blue! How was this possible? I don’t own any clothes that are blue, and nor had I given a naked-belly-hug to a pile of blue linen.

Not a day before my 21st had I ever experienced this phenomenon. Now each day begins with an apprehensive rummage that has become as routine as brushing my teeth. Are adult bellybuttons adhesive? Or does some sort of cotton bee try to pollinate it overnight, its mature form resembling a fleshy flower?

I'm not a rapist

Since becoming a student I've been walking a lot more. And because I don't get up till late, a lot of my walking takes place at night. This is fine. Bath is a nice, and relatively safe town. Rarely do I feel in danger. However, I do worry about the strangers I share the street with. In particular, the small and dark alleyways I take home. In particular: women.

Now, I know I'm not a danger to these women, but I worry that they don't know this. If a woman is walking five paces ahead of me on one of those nights, the only thing going through my head is, "I hope she doesn't think I'm a rapist." I start to think, should I reassure her? Put her at ease. Is there a more awkward and terrifying time to initiate a conversation? I don't have to introduce myself, perhaps just tap her politely on the shoulder and say, "You don't have to worry about me. Seriously, I could have raped you four times by now."

The dynamics of the situation can change dramatically if you're walking with a friend. If you walk with a silent purpose, then the woman will become understandably tense. However, I think she can be put at ease if you speak loudly about ordinary and non-rapist things. If I'm walking alone I'll try to compensate this by pretending to phone a friend, and subtly put my pursuant at ease: "Hey buddy, how's it going? - Oh nothing, just walking with harmless intent...yeah, just returning to my loving and mentally stable family...Indeed, there is no history of violence in my family...no, ha ha! I'm just enjoying the walk, I don't know how I could make this any better; I'm certainly not thinking about raping anyone."

Pursuing someone, I mean walking in even step behind someone leaves you in an odd position of power. A power that can be abused. If you are particularly cruel - I'm not talking about the you-will-go-to-prison sense - you do have the opportunity to turn to your friend and say, "Seriously, shall we just do her now?" You will never see someone run so fast in heels.

The matter of overtaking is a difficult one. Do you? Don't you? There's a real science behind this matter. Judging speeds - She's walking briskly, if I overtake her, I'm going to have to power-walk all the way home. You have to go easy; you don't want to unsettle her by breaking into a run. This worries me when I'm jogging; that people will only hear me about 3 feet before I overtake them, and in their panic, they too will begin running. Now it looks like I'm chasing them. To avoid this, once I get within 20 feet of someone I start taking louder steps and drawing huge, laboured breaths. This allows them time to turn around, see the running gear and iPod, and realise that they are not in mortal danger.

Sometimes when walking, I realise I'm gaining on someone very gradually. It's only so long before you reach an intimate distance, and then cross that threshold from stalker to lead walker. During this time, there is that brief interim where you actually move past them. This is the most awkward phase, and no words shall be spoken. There is a code in walking that says if you are being overtaken, you subtly reduce your speed so as not to prolong the moment. Not everyone observes these rules. These are dangerous people. One time I went for the overtake, and not only did she not slow down, but once she realised what was happening, she actually sped up, denying me my overtake. To say I was mildly outraged would be an understatement. I was in disbelief.

I went again, drawing level with her. She tried to move away, but this time I was ready. We began to move faster and faster, our legs becoming a blur as our march turned to jogging turned to flat out running. We ran like this, side by side for half a mile. People saw us coming, they saw what an unstoppable force we were and wisely crossed the street. Cars stopped in their roads, the drivers staring dumbly at us, having never seen such a phenomenon: two people running in perfect symmetry, locked together by an unseen energy.

Pretty Lady

Sometimes I think I fall in love too easily. I use the word lightly here, but it’s a dangerous mistake, to begin associating the word ‘love’ with a crush. I get worried I’ll be on a date that’s going well, only to declare my love as she discovers my member in the bottom of her popcorn. Not just lying there. It’s not dismembered. How terrifying would that be? I love you! Have my willy!

The reason I bring this up is because the other night I was served by a very pretty barmaid; she had hair and teeth and everything. This was a momentous event, very rarely am I attracted to someone so strongly. She wasn’t just pretty. There was an intelligence behind those eyes. She looked like she read. I felt like I could ask her if she had read Ulysses, and she would say, “Which edition?” And we would throw our heads back laughing. On the downside she had small boobs.

Now, I know I’ve broken an unwritten rule here, and opened wide the ‘Does Size Matter?’ debate. I know some of you are hating me right now. So I’ll tell you my stance on it. Does it matter? Well, not in real terms. If I’m developing an attraction for someone and it comes to the crunch (ahem), then a lack of boobage isn’t going to veto my decision. However, I suppose the shallow truth of it is that I do notice, and the details are noted. I always tend to balance this out with the positive that if we grew old together, there is going to limited to nil droopage. They’re still going to be fastened to her like newly sewn buttons on a teddy bear.

So how to approach the situation? You may have guessed I didn’t do anything about it that night. You see, I’ve never chatted anyone up before, and how do you go about doing it to someone who’s working? Something like this?
“Barmaid!” I snap my fingers.
“Yes?”
“Clean this table immediately.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to have sex with you.”

Hmm, perhaps a bit full on. What if I were to make a solo appearance, and sit in moody and deep thought until she approaches:
“What’s the matter?” She asks.
“I’m just trying to figure the best way to ask you out.”
She smiles, but her attention becomes distracted, “Are you bleeding?”
“Yes, I carved your face in my arm. Do you like it? I love you!”

Ok, ok. I’m not as creepy as I’m making out to be (breathes deeply), and I know I don’t love the barmaid, but I got a good vibe from her. It’s not about sex either, not with this one. I’ll tell you when it was about sex, in a club, earlier in the week. Remember the horrifically drunk night?

I was getting a drink when two bleach blonde bombshells sidled up to the bar. They looked unreal, otherworldly, like Californian goddesses. Their makeup and dress suggested they were used to being filmed. Interestingly, they were also covered in cool tattoos, and what Mitch Hedberg would call ‘Cranium Accessories’. It struck me that they would come as a pair, so if I could pull one, I’d be in for an experimental night. Tee bee aych, this wasn’t even about sex, it was about a personal victory, and impressing my housemates, “You got with them?”

My imagination was already hours ahead, thinking how I would surreptitiously take a photo to prove that I had achieved the impossible. This reminds me of a classic episode of Frasier when our eponymous hero does the very same after a steamy night with the hottie from his high school. The closest I got was thinking of saying, “Nice tattoos…”