James, Sharon and Taylor Too


Tuesday

Pal George, he of our regular man-dates, has got us all guest tickets to see his uncle, singer of 90s indie gods James. They are playing the Academy, supported by Echo & the Bunnymen, self-proclaimed Best Band in the World Ever.

When we get there at 8pm, they’ve already started.

“This is the best fucking song in the world,” slurs Ian McCulloch as the glissando first notes of The Killing Moon drizzle down our spines. The class of 1984 are here in force, filled out and worked over by time’s cruel bullying. But before we know it, the Echo has faded, leaving just some weird Kabbalah cursing in the toilets and a lake of tepid piss traversing the cubicles, looking for something 30 years too late.

James’ appearance on stage summons up unheard-of acts from men I would cross the street to avoid. In comparison, McCulloch’s lairy bravado was just a childish front, and now the soft underbelly of a thousand blokes can wobble in lovely sentimentality.

The only way I can see the stage is from the far corner of the balcony. Here, the floor shakes with drunken stomping, and tipsy men gyrate with 12 pint grins.

I eavesdrop a text convo between a fan and his absent wife (perks of being tall).

“Has he told you to sit down yet?”

“Nah. He’s played our album though, and some new ones what are good.”

Our album. Bless.

These hard men are united by soft anthems, as Tim Booth wiggles his metrosexual hips, a luminary in loon pants.

With Just Like Fred Astaire, (which he sang at George and Demi’s wedding), Tim walks among his people like Ben Kinglsey as Ghandi, a forest of arms sprout cameraphones along his path. He is their skinhead poet, their Singing Counsellor who listens while they softly weep of neglected boyhoods and the hard shell the world made them wear. This is Rimbaud, not Rambo, and the mad jesters of Madchester recite his poems with chest pounding love.

This is an armistice on machismo, a peace corp of men wearing flower t-shirts. Sit Down vs. The Killing Moon: I never thought such an anthem of domesticity and inaction would win devotion over such thrusting, masculine yearning, but tonight I glimpse my part in the phalanx of the phallus and it is just like everyone else’s.

“It’s weird”, Tim tells me afterwards, “but our fans are different everywhere we go. In Mexico, it’s teenagers; in Greece it’s 30 something women. And here it’s big blokes.”

As we leave, I make the mistake I always do, and try to pat Tim on the back and get some sort of friendly validation even we’ve only met once. He doesn’t turn round.

"When I open my eyes, I want you to be gone"

“When I open my eyes, I want you to be gone”

Wednesday

I’ve been referred to a Mindfulness course by my doctor. Mindfulness is like Buddhism, without the silly Buddha bit.

I manage to be 10 minutes late to the first one today.

There’s about eight of us here, and we all say our names, to ease the tension. It so happens that the two women either side of me are called Sharon. I can’t help myself.

“I’m in a Sharon sandwich!” I blurt out, leaning forward conspiratorially. Both Sharons stiffen in their seats.

Oh no.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, one of the women running the group forces out a chuckle and says,

“Ho Ho, well done!”

The Sharons start to relax again.

"Don't get fruity, Sharon."

“Don’t get fruity, Sharon.”

Thursday

I can’t stop thinking about a practical joke involving a rubber glove, with one finger smeared with Nutella. It would fall out of your victim’s bag at a crucial point, like an interview or first date.

They might lick it to prove it wasn’t poo, but that would be even worse.

"I always carry the essentials"

“I always carry the essentials”

Friday

Why do really camp men always look like their faces are in a wind tunnel?

Saturday

Summer is here. We’ve had 1.5 hours of sun and already the air is choked with BBQs, and a boy has cycled past me in a zebra onesie with a zebra face mask. He looked right at me, the face of something symbolic. No idea what.

"Look into my eyes. No around the eyes, into the eyes."

“Look into my eyes. No around the eyes, into the eyes.”

There’s a man in the pub. He’s so average. I wish I was average. He’s small, and cutely proportioned and he has a normal length neck. He is so healthy & taut that even the skin of his inner ear shines.

Monday

I’m off to interview funny Welsh artist Bedwyr Williams for Flux Magazine. His gallery are paying for me to go by train to his studio in Caernarvon. I’ve spent all week trying to come up with questions. I’m bricking it. I’ve tried to think of some really serious questions. And I’ve got my usual childish, inane ones that right now I am embarrassed of.

I have 20 minutes to get from one station to another in Warrington and I can’t resist going in a charity shop. Madonna is playing on the radio. I find a pair of big 70s sunglasses and try them on. About time for an Acid jazz revival, I tell myself. I get myself a red silk shirt too. When I get home later, I’ll realise that I was slightly delirious.

"Why ever not?"

“Why ever not?”

Bedwyr picks me up from Bangor station. Within seconds, I know the silly questions will work. He really reminds me of someone I used to know, but I can’t think who. Maybe this boy that we called Sexual Sam who played Thirteenth Floor Elevators on vinyl and I was sick in his garden after a bong.

Every so often as he’s driving, he turns to me with an impish Malcolm McDowell grin. We seem to get on pretty well. But then he tells me he’s already had people from The Times, Observer and Guardian to see him, with their witty anecdotes about famous people. All I have is a silly hat which I bought from Oxfam and now think was a bad idea. All the best material happens when we’re chatting on the way there and back- as soon as I turn on my Dictaphone, things go a bit stiff and formal.

But time flies and he drives me back to the station with only seconds to spare. “I’ll wait in case you miss the train,” he says, which means he gets to see my silly run where I have to pull my skinny jeans up every 3 steps of the way because my belt won’t work. Mine is the generation who can’t run anywhere.

Finally, on the train, I devour the pasta salad that I didn’t eat on the way in the hope that Bedwyr would feed me something interesting. I start reading the book of performance scripts that he gave me, and it makes me manically grin and choke on laughter, so I have to put it away. Still flush with the overfamiliarity of interview, I text him about laughing at his book, like he’s a drinking buddy.

He doesn’t reply.

Wednesday
The thought police have declared an armistice.

“Give up your most dangerous ideas,” they say, “and you’ll come to no harm.”

I can’t think of anything worth handing in.

Thursday
There’s a pair of gay ducks in the stream on my way to work. Sometimes a moorhen hangs out with them like a fag-hag.

I submitted a short story about Taylor Swift for discussion in my writing class tonight. It leads to the immortal line;

“You know the bit in your story that starts ‘She pushed me against the big tit…’?”

I may never beat this moment.

Friday
I’m so sick of walking Goldie in the park and hearing hundreds of birds who somehow manage to totter round the other side of branches when I look up. But I have a plan. If I can weaponize some rohypnol, I can fire a canister into the trees and take my time catching them in a net and ruffling their tummy feathers, before setting them back in their roosts.

I sit down on the grass for the first time this year, enjoying the sun
while Goldie eats grass like a sheep. I feel nostalgic, and remember when Russia used to be called CCCP. That was weird.

"Nyet! Not TCP, CCCP!"

“Nyet! Not TCP, CCCP!”

Don’t Let the Bells End!


Christmas Day

This was mostly uneventful, apart from Esther crying about how shit her life is, and moaning about how crap her presents to me were. The roast was postponed as well because it hadn’t thawed out.

Boxing Day

Esther didn’t moan as much today, and we finally had our Christmas Dinner while watching the Borrowers. I fucking hate the BBC family dramas, and Christopher Eccleston has never been good. He didn’t reject Dr Who because “it wasn’t serious enough”; it dumped him because he has no sense of humour. So, in combination, The Borrowers was enchanting. Then we had trifle with yule log and squirty cream. Then we went to bed and and tossed and turned, racked by heartburn.

Day after Boxing Day

Esther went into town to get a present for Weasel, and I walked the dog and tidied her side of the bed. I think she might have a problem because most of the rubbish was sweet wrappers (Twirl bars, popcorn packets, Lindt truffle wrappers), screwed up tissue smeared in eye-makeup, the plastic filter tips of a million e-cigarettes, and a giant subterranean beast made of entwined tights.

Later, Weasel and Kung Fu took us for a Mogul Room meal. As Esther squeezed past the table to go to the loo, Kung Foo slapped her bottom heartly and said;

“Nice arse; use it wisely”

To which Esther let out a disgusted squeal of indignation.

Lisa insisted on trying a bit of everyone else’s meal before her own, convinced as always that she would have made the wrong decision. This is normally my feeling, but seeing it demonstrated by someone else, I vowed never to be so silly again.

Xmas is Dead; Long Live Xmas

I had a sexy dream last night. I think the sexiness of my dreams is hampered by my limited sexual appeal, ability and experience in real life.
I met some random girl and we were making out while she chatted to her BFF on her mobile. She was going on about all the lame guys that hit on her, and how cute her husband was, all the kind of stuff that makes your willy shrivel up and your decency start to growl. But instead, I soldiered on, unzipping her bustier and kissing her back. As I started to finger her, she put down the phone and said;

“I’m going to slop you out so much you won’t believe it!”

I gathered from this that I was in for some fellatio, and supposed this allowed her to tell her husband that-

“No darling, I would never cheat on you”.

Then my mum walked in the room and I woke up.

You can probably tell from my dream that I have never talked dirty apart from once when me and Esther were both drunk and I was yelling at the top of my voice;

“Touch my thing! And those too!”

I think I sounded more like an angry film director than a dominatrix.

Anyway, going back to the dream, I have to ask what I was thinking to come up with “I’ll slop you out” as a turn on. She sounded like a Prison Warden or a cleaner at the dog kennels. I wonder if some people are born sexting and talking smut, like other artists? I’ve always felt too guilty to watch porn, so maybe I missed a certain kind of education.

The dream effectively ended when Linda got her claw stuck in the end of my nose in an attempt to rouse me. I threw the duvet off in frustration and strapped myself into my tiger-print all-in-one. Yet again, the day began with my immortal words;

“Come on you fuckers”,

and a cat trying to trip me on the stairs, unable to predict that she would never, ever get her biscuits again if she succeeded. I almost want it to work, just to teach her a lesson…

In other news, it’s the Deer Leader’s funeral.

I wonder what the funeral will be like for our Tortoise Leader?

Dear Dr “finger up my”…


I like to think that I have an open mind. I like to think that I can understand most people and their odd ways. But I am starting to doubt this. Mainly because WordPress can tell me the search terms that people Googled to reach my blog.

I’m starting to get quite scared. First of all there are the perverted ones. Granted, some of my entries have a sexual theme. But really?

Some people know exactly what they want:

no clothes katy perrys bum in a shower

aroused walrus,

penis in the emporer’s new clothes

constipated push hard ejaculate

pirate erection
saggy tit sex

and the evocative

doctor “finger up my”

Christmas is fast approaching. For those people who have everything, here’s some tips:

rastafarian clothes for dogs

or perhaps a “masturbation chair” and some “masturbation mutual books” for the full experience of “mutual mastrubation in our bed room”

and lest us not forget a fresh supply of

ugly slaves

Then there are more personal cries from the heart. This ‘beautiful’ poem brought some freak here:

me & your mom never dreamed you’d be so beautiful…in all of the times we tried to imagine every last detail of who you would be,thru all of the nights we spent quietly thinkingof how we would feelwhen we first looked at you,we patiently waitedand silently wondered.we hoped and we prayedand we tried to imagine…but we never dreamed you’d be beautiful.

Probably the same person who demanded of Mr Internet

“i feel poorly who gonna cheer me up”

and “box don’t lock”

and the touching appeals for:

fat bastard prosthetic

emaciated old man

very fat chav woman

and
down syndrome midget

Celebrities also get a look in:

Bjork eating own cardigan

cher lloyd ugly face

winona ryder and the penis

and old JC:

jesus reborn hitler

chocolate jesus and vienna

So, this goes out to you, freaks of the interweb: yes I’m talking to you guilty as sin security guard with the beer bellies and beards calendar  . Whatever your kink, you can find it in my blog.

The Stockport Shenanigan


Finally, Lady Gaga has released a new single. I play ‘Born this Way’ and am chronically underwhelmed. I can feel the wool being lifted, the spell being broken- from  this moment I have ceased to be a Lady Gaga fan. I no longer know what I ever saw in her.

Her lustre has fallen away like clothes off dyspraxic stripper.

My dream started this defection- I picked a side and joined the Madonna Army. It’s like the Jesus Army, but with a better God. Born This Way is a Tesco Value Express Yourself.

"Oh fuck, the gods are gonna kick off!"

This weekend, I had a reunion with the only 2 friends I had at school: Harvey (because he looks like JFK’s assassin) and Dave (because he’s an everyman, a cipher).

As we sat round a pub table in Heaton Moor, a suburb’s suburb, I got to thinking: we each represent a different lifestyle, and each of us is a sloppy mixture of failure and achievement. I am drifting through life, chasing pleasure and numbing myself to pain. Harvey took the genius-savant route, wearing wolf masks to Cambridge and flying high in Hong Kong. Dave took perhaps the most stable route, finding a career and starting a family. Next to Dave, we both look like fuckups. He has brothers and sisters- we are only children. Fantasy is always preferable to reality for us.

"sweet and sour?"

Harvey went to Cambridge and had Stephen Hawking as his personal tutor. His method of teaching often involved ordering in Chinese Takeaway for the class. Then he got addicted to online gambling and rogue physics and was kicked out. He went to work for a major banking firm on the nth floor of a Honk Kong Skyscraper. He is a FILTH (Failed in London Try Honk Kong), a dirty capitalist, a purveyer of CEO’s wet dreams and sticky pauper’s nightmares. He always carries around a book on theoretical physics. This time he also has with him ‘Traders Guns & Money‘, about

“the mega-trillion-dollar derivatives market, the one economists say might be next to collapse on our heads”

Harvey may be sticking his celery in the next double dip. He tells us how he has had to run for his life from a ‘beast’ in the outskirts of Hong Kong. “I was out walking at dusk and I heard something in the bushes. It sounded like a growling monster, and was shit scared so I ran and ran and tripped over and ran. I called a cab and as I waited on the road, I could hear more of them out there in the bushes. Logic would say it was a wild boar, but I think it was a man-eating beast.”

"Please get bigger, I promise I wont look"

We rounded the night off with a little boundary bashing. Dave had gone to bed and I was sat drunkenly with Harvey. I decided I wanted to show him my penis. I warned him beforehand, and tried to get a sychronised pants-down on the count of 3. However, on the first attempt, I was alone in my nakedness. My penis had been replaced by a cocktail sausage lying in a bed of straw.

“I can do better than that”, Harvey said with relish. He unearthed a beached brown whale, languishing on tanned thighs.

“I’m a 7.5 incher” he said matter of factly. My cocktail sausage shrivelled in agreement.

We watched some porn on his Ipad, marvelling at the high definition and sleek finish. An asian girl was being impaled. As my sausage stirred, I said “Quick, look, this is more like it”

As both our pairs of eyes fell on my crotch, the growth reversed and it hid amongst the straw like a spooked mini guinea pig. Speaking of which, Dave had a guinea called Alfie. He thought he was a dog. What’s it all about, Alfie?

Well there was no getting away from it. Harvey had a big cock.

“May I?” I said politely, reaching across, and lifting it. It was a thing of, if not beauty, then wonder. It felt heavy and warm, substantial and soft. I laid it back down.

It was a bit of a non-sequitur so we went to pass out in the guest bedroom.

Another box ticked? One can go through life without ever touching a same-sex sexypart. We see them, thanks to Channel 4 and YouPorn, but they are mythical, massive, virtual. It was a moment that made sense, holding Harvey’s helmet.

We went to sleep in a bunk bed. The next day it drizzled and my head hurt. Dave was monosyllabic; I was morose, and Harvey marvelled at the weather.

“This is amazing!” He said, eyeing the sky. “You just don’t get this kind of weather anywhere else. Let’s go for a hike!”

This chipper celebration of our mundane Northernness was irritating. “No thanks” we replied. Holidaying in misery is the only way to enjoy it.

Instead, I turn my attention to Alfie.

“Make him make that noise that guineapigs make” I say.

Dave goes over to a draw and pulls out a carrot. Alfie sniffs the air. Dave starts to peel the carrot, and Alfie starts

“Weet weet weet weet”

Simple pleasures.

Parental Guidance: No Olds Beyond this Point


Hear Ye! Hear Ye! I made it to Esther’s fifth base last night (how many bases are there?)- the final one anyway. I was a free-baser. I covered all the bases. I was totally addicted to base.

"Stop: Are you over 18?"

After a quiet weekend, the girls were craving some socialising, and around 7, Esther got a conspiratorial text from Lisa, and she went down to hers for a wine-fuelled girly chat. I started to get very bored, and before I knew it, I had accidentally Google the word ‘showering’ and selected the video format. Oh no, I thought, as I watched, I can’t get these images out my head now, I am like a biased jury, so I’d better use it to spice up my own well overdue shower scene. I did this instead of ringing my granddad, which I had been ordered to do by my mother. I tried hard not to think of either family member as I touched my member.

 

A little later, I decided to watch Less Than Zero, the film of Bret “American Psycho” Easton Ellis’s first novel. Robert Downey Jr. spends the whole film fucked off his face, sleeping on beaches and puking down toilets and getting darker and darker eye bags. It’s all about the vacuous, nihilistic, decadent club scene in Cali in the 80s. It’s about much the same mental turmoil as is laid out in this blog- being young(ish) and bored and filling the time with self-made misery and danger in an attempt to provoke some emotion in our dulled creature-comforted brains.

"I'm wet and wild"

Anyway, it was just getting to the bleakest bit with dying and crying, and I get a text from Esther:

“I’m coming home. Meet me at the door with a blindfold. Don’t say anything”.

Christ, I was scared! As I have told you before, I make a clumsy and ineffectual lover, and the thought of being blind and dumb while trying to maintain Esther’s sexual interest made a chill run down my spine.

Time for a wee I though, and as I was finishing, I heard her come in the door. Shit, I wasn’t ready with the blindfold. I’ve failed again.

Quickly, I put a scarf round my head and felt my way gingerly out of the bathroom. I could hear Esther walking slowly up the stairs.
After what felt like ages, I felt the end of the wall and pulled my self onto the landing, thinking that I look more like a mime artist than a lothario.

(Listen to the voiceover in this video. And they say teenagers don’t believe in magic any more…)

Esther’s footsteps stopped abruptly. She giggled. My penis shrunk a little more. Or my little penis shrunk more.

“The blindfold was for me, stupid!” she tittered.

Oh God. Oh Jesus why am I such a fool. everything below the waist started curling up. I uncovered my pink cheeks and put the scarf on her, and we made our way to the bedroom struggling to get past a confused dog blocking the doorway.

‘What the hell are they up to now?’ Goldie was thinking. ‘Some more monkey business no doubt’.

What happened next is rated 18+, and you will have to make the dog point to the relevant bits on a doll to find out the details. Suffice to say, that I made 2 deposits into the bank of wild oats that day, and today I am chafing.

"Swing Your Pants"

Mutual Masturbation starring Shaun Ryder and Kenneth Williams


Last Monday was apparently the “happiest day of the year”. It was Happy Monday, that celebrated day of old when Shaun Ryder woke up in his own vomit and decided to form a band. What a crock.

IMAO ‘the happiest day of the year’ only happens once a decade, when the Summer forgets to be so darn British and goes all out.

However illogically, most years just don’t have a best day, only lots of worst days.

Esther: "I'm out of here"

Me and Esther are moving house soon. This means downsizing, which means that Esther is going to get mean on my ass.

We start at the top of the house.

“We don’t need any stupid books!” she yells as I try to slip some into the ‘Keep’ box. “You can get books online now”
“But you can’t write on them or change them at all” I say falteringly. Why the hell do I want books?
“You can print them off” she retorts
“You might as well buy them if you’re going to do that!” Ha! I try to fault her logic
“Print it off then throw it away when you’ve read it. It’s so old fashioned to have books” She says scornfully.
I must work out more surreptitious ways to save my precious paper antiques.

“Old fashioned” really cuts me to the quick. My hip self image, with it’s jacket over the shoulder and ‘jazzy’ socks, starts to cry. Damn it.

I feel like Marty McFly being given a dressing down for his fashion sense:

Anyway why should I be taking advice from someone who only reads picture books?

I’ve got the girl of my dreams- and just like a dream, she’s pure illusion.

Our rules of interaction are:

  1. No caresses
  2. No kisses that last more than 1 second, with absolutely no trace of saliva.
  3. No groping or foreplay
  4. No sleeping naked
  5. No sex or it’s euphemisms: hanky panky, slap and tickle, how’s your father, rumpy pumpy etc

Plato would be proud of us. And Jesus. Shame they’re dead and I hate them.

We have a tea break from packing. In bed. Quietly, Esther gets under the duvet. I turn round, and before I can criticize she shouts

“No! No! No! No! Nothing is happening!” and buries her head under 3 pillows.

"Let's not bother moving house, let's just snooze"

Instead I watch the news. “Closing libraries will kill communities!” is the Liberal crusade of the week. Bullshit. Libraries are just full of mentally ill people who have nowhere else to go. Sheffield City Library has its own regulars: a man who sets up shop next to the Frank Zappa books and conducts a tea party with his multiple personalities, several people who pretend to read comics while they blatantly stare at normals over their glasses, people who try and have a shower in the toilet wash basin (one limb at a time). Oh and people who like to complain about the absence of porn in the video collection.

And then there’s the zero emission neo-hippies who come in with their fold up bikes and faint whiff of hemp, who hover like angry flies around the ‘Environment’ section and sneer at the materialists ogling the chick lit.
Where would these lost souls go instead? The public toilets? Charity shops probably, to get naked in the changing room or to repeatedly ask if any of the clothes are made with organic cotton.

Whenever I start to rant, I want a write a Manifesto. So far, all I can think of is:

  1. Bring back beatings for freaks. My dad used to be chased down the road for being a longhair. Now, anything goes and no-one gives a shit what you wear. I just wished people cared enough to want to hit me.
  2. Bring back Trevor and Simon: the gay Vic and Bob?

The thing that always pissed me off about accounts of the free-lovin’ 60s is that it was always so hetero. Gayness isn’t even considered; radical politics went with ultra-conservative sexuality. Boring. If you are really interested in deconstructing the personality and experiementing with non-normative ways of living, surely trying out same sex relationships is a no brainer? But no, it remained a taboo, and this is what makes me mad! Get over yourselves, you’re just a horny square trying to get unlimited booty calls!

Thinking like this made me wonder if I would enjoy gay sex.

I was discussing foursomes with my good friends Demi and George, and I realised that I am willing to have a penis up my bum, if at the same time I have my penis in a vagina.

And vice versa. Or some spit roasting; I do like KFC.

“Yes” George said, reminiscing, “I do quite like it with a finger up me”.

Whatever feels nice goes, I say.

Mutual masturbation might also be of interest (“Like this? Have you tried our other sexual favours?”). Apparently when Kenneth Williams first went to a gay bar, he was so excited that he ran down the street shouting “mutual masturbation” until the police were called.

Comeback no. 64: “Do you sit on someone’s face with that bum?” I’m not sure yet what context this will suit, but I’m convinced there is one.

Public Transport is a Breeding Ground for Undesirables


Jan 6th: Bussing it in Bedlam

Went to Manchester today and met up with my trash-culture partner in crime, Josephine. She is climbing up the Starbucks corporate ladder, knife in mouth, to take the world of hot beverages by its vajazzled balls.

She is a coffee connoisseur, a filter flaneur (perhaps even a frotteur), a mocha rocker.

She risks the glare of a jobsworth to ask for The Most Difficult Drink Ever, with the cocksure unblinkingness of a pro barista: a “One Shot-Soya-Mocha-with Amaretto Syrup” from NEROS. Interesting choice of name that, seeing as he let Rome burn to a crisp- a bit like calling your shop ‘Berlusconi’s’ and expecting people to stomach your ‘fish finger surprise’…

But the main rant of today is reserved for BUS DRIVERS. The lamb-chopped ferrymen of Hades.

"DOYOUHAVEANYHOTWATERORDOIHAVETOKILLYOU?"

Today’s driver looks like Catweazel (which in case I am the only person who gets this reference, is a TV character Medieval monk transported to 70s rural Britain. You got a mental image now?).

I think, ‘oh it’s ok, he’ll be nice to another member of the long hair club‘. Then, ‘oh shit, I’ve been thrown out haven’t I, I’m in the camp tintin club now’.

But ‘Oh he’s got a beard, he’ll give me the secret signal coz of that’.

But no. He is the grumpiest hippie I have ever met. I get on with my student card.

“50p”

I give him a pound.

A grunting, constipated moan comes out “doyouavthefefeepee?”

“Pardon?”

Again, the noise comes, and I can just about pick out these words:”doyouHAVEthefiftypee?”

“No.” As he slams the change down, I think ‘He’s no hair compadre, he’s a pre-postal serial killer’.

As I walk to my seat, I hear his gritted-teeth mantra echoing down the bus every few seconds as the queue jumps aboard. It’s like the guttural groan of Newspaper Vendors , for whom ‘The Manchester Evening News’ becomes a chinese poo-strain ‘Maaannneeeeezzzze”

As I sit and reflect on the emotional rollercoaster of having hair, I think back at the motley crew I’ve met on buses.

One time I got on and the busdriver said “You shouldn’t be allowed on here”. “Me personally or something I represent?” (bloody students, queers, men over 5 feet 9?) I ask, genuinely intrigued. Someone pulls the string in his back and he parrots “You shouldn’t be allowed”. I take my apparently undeserved seat.

Another classic was when I was really late for work, and I asked the big skinhead in front of me for the time.

“Time is irrelevant” he intoned, and turned back round. I should have said that to my boss.

One time, Aldo was waiting at the busstop, and a woman stopped and asked for the way to Mecca.

“Hmm, let me see, the sun is pointing that direction so East is over there…” he mused

Impatient, she butted in “No, Mecca Bingo I meant!”

“Dunno” he replied, suddenly deeply depressed.

“What would sir recommend?” “A little of everything?”

My new favourite phrase is “What would you recommend?” said with a disarming smile. You can cover up your complete ignorance of anything with this.

“What gear ya looking for?”

“What would sir recommend?”

“What stop do you want?”

“Hmm, where would you recommend?”

“To be or not to be?”

“Whatevs, I’m not fussy”

I think most of the recommendations would be a good kicking followed by A&E.