Leaving Esther to fester…

"Countryfile's gonna cut you up!"

I did a Dolly Parton today (worked 9-5).

There’s something quite weird about our staff toilets: the urinals are ranged in size from midget to giant. I chose the giant size and saw a man- mountain hunched over the child/vertically challenged end one. Trying not to snigger at this inadvertant visual gag, I fled.

On the way home, I got a copy of NME, attracted by the yellow cover and 90s reminiscence (Primal Scream).

I was reading a damning ctitique of the new Brighton Rock remake:

“The overall feel is that of a Sunday night TV drama”

Rock and Chips anyone? The only TV that ever redeemed Sundays was the heady combo of Ski Sunday-Bergerac-Doctor Who (Sylvester McCoy era). I would have my weekly shower (I put the BO in BOY) and come down in time for the ski theme tune, then I would spend the next 2 hours slack jawed and vacant, the thought of school the next day just a cushioned Mallet’s Mallet kind of ache hammering in the background.

"Welcome to a world of academic pain"

What a BBC Radiophonic megamix!!!!

Anyway, back to my journey home…when I looked up I realised the bus had gone way past my stop. I let it take me up to the summit of Banner Cross and trekked over the hill. Psalter Lane looked like a gutted carcass, left as a warning to creative types “Abandon Art All Ye Who Enter Here”

I texted Esther to ask for a cuppa (I’m 2% male chauvinist), but of course that would mean leaving her bed, so instead she wrote about not doing it on Facebook.

“no i’m too lazy to make you a cup of tea, you’ll have to make one yourself, even though you’ve been at work all day. can i have one too”

Even capitals are too much effort. That’s my gal.

When I bring our cups of tea up to the bedroom, Esther is cutting her nails.

“There’s not just cheese in here, it’s nutty too” she says as I enter.

I turn away in revulsion, and flip open the laptop.

“stop writing it in your fucking blog” she yells as I start to tap away.

When she realises that I am going to write down everything she says, she clams up. Finally.

"If I stay here long enough, she'll make the tea..."

I am Iron Man

This is my song of the day, “I AM IRON MAN…HEAR ME DITHER”

Esther and Lisa are babysitting their nieces and nephew tonight.

In order to last the night, I bought:

  1. For tea: Ham and Pineapple Stuffed Crust Pizza, Mr Kipling’s Rhubarb and Custard Tarts
  2. For general snacks: midget gems and apple doughnuts,
  3. For tomorrow’s elevensies: Danish pastries

Tonight is a perfect night to prove my worth as a human being. I can feed the pets, feed myself, watch TV and go to bed at a reasonable hour. Simple.

Everything runs smoothly until I get to Lisa’s house to pick up Goldie. I can’t decide whether to feed Devo or not. I just can’t decide. Indecision is me. After much thought, I ring Esther and ask her advice.

She says “Do what you think” and abdicates responsibility.

The trouble is I don’t think anything. I can’t procrastinate until Esther does it for me. I can’t pretend to concentrate on the conversation, knowing full well that Lisa and Esther will chatter on without my input. It’s down to me.

So I ring up Esther again. And again. Until she inadvertently makes the decision for me.

Job done.

Now I’m watching Being Human with a cat on my bloated pizza-stuffed belly, and a dog’s chin on my shins. Just right.

What would I rather be: a ghost, a vampire or a werewolf? No brainer- vampires get hot action and get to be history.

"Who are you calling history?"

I used to be obsessed with Coppola’s Dracula film- for a start it had my all time perfect woman Winona Ryder, who dumps uptight Keanu Reeves for sexy Gary Oldman as Dracula. I wanted to be him so much. I bought some blue sunglasses like his and I used to stalk around Sainsburys looking for victims. Once I mouthed his line “See me! See me now” at some winsome teenage girl and she looked straight at me as if spellbound.

"Yes! The rohypnol seems to be working"

Of course as soon as she saw me, she turned away in revulsion, but the moment had briefly been mine. It never worked again though.

Dennis Pennis is in this episode of Being Human. Best sleb name ever? It is for a fifteen year old; the age my humour stopped growing. Here he is winding up Jean Claude Van Damme…

Bustard Child

I am very excited. We will soon be able to *almost* swear in public for legitimate reasons- the Great Bustard is being re-introduced into Britain. Unlike most of the uncouth youth, I am deeply embarrassed when naughty words escape my mouth. I accidentally shouted “You fucking shitstained cunt” at a pregnant woman the other day when she made me giver her my seat. Now I will be able to spit expletives and not fel guilty.

The bird itself looks pretty stupid, I can see why they all got butchered. Looks like Pat Butcher to me.

"Yes I frickin' do!"

"Ere. who you calling a bustard" etc

I had a terrible dream last night. My mum sent me her head in a box, I presume as an ornament of some sort. I opened it and my initial joy was replaced by dread. “But you can’t have a spare head” I said to Esther in horror. Next scene- at my parents house. I am sick with grief. “Where is she?” I ask my dad shakily.

“In the loft” he points up to the top of the house. That’s where her body is stashed, with the dank papers and dust laden webs.

I start to sob. It;s one of those dreams where you wake up and you’ve been crying in real life.

I should have rung her today to check it wasn’t true. I presume dad would have let me know at some point if it was.

"Dear Mother, as promised 'how to get ahead in the music biz'. Yours, Thom"

Just had a phonecall from BBC’s Who Do You Think You Are. Apparently, their research shows that I am not the God of Hellfire, as I had previously thought. I must have ice cream.

"I Know Who I Aren't. Thanks for nothing"