Esther’s Face-ache; My Ball-ache


Wednesday 11th April:

Day 2 of Esther’s Face-ache.
Persistent moaning every 3 hours when her painkillers wear off.

Dream

Part 1: I suddenly realize that Esther and Lisa are Rik Mayall and Ade Edmondson. Esther is the twisted intellectual and Lisa is the frustrated punk. What does that make me? Neil?

Part 2: Kate Middleton decided to take me (me!) as her lover. It was all a bit touch and go, but finally we got our opportunity to consummate. Wills was playing polo on the big field at the bottom of the hill, and I slipped in through the tradesman’s entrance (ooer missus etc) of her mansion at the top of the hill. It was all building up to me getting to see her porcelain hockey-stick body, silhouetted in the dusty afternoon sunshine as it scorched between her royal blue curtains, but then Harry rocked up in his convertible with three ‘fast ladies” (as my nana would have called them), and I had to scarper.

Thursday 12th April

Day 3 of Esther’s Face-ache.
The doctor gives her codeine, with the instruction to only take at nighttime. We go to bed early.

On our way back from Lisa’s house, we came across a bearded loon in his pyjamas, outside the chippy. He was on the phone and was staring with guru intensity into the middle distance, saying something very loudly and sternly. As we passed into hearing distance (10 metres either side of him), we hear a snippet (intoned in with the gravity of an LSE team member on a 70s episode of University Challenge);

“Character assassination is a form of psychological torture. [Pause]. If you consider the thought experiments of the 1930s as a basis, you will find that what you did fits in perfectly…”

Fear of being subjected to his piercing gaze made us scurry past, and that was all that we caught. Lord knows who was on the other end of the line. The talking clock perhaps?

Saturday 14th April

Day 5 of Esther’s Face-ache.
No-one is safe.

Esther’s insatiable channel flicking has paused on T4. There’s a music show on. And she’s letting it play. Is there something wrong with her? There is a blanket no music policy in our house because it ‘makes her too excited’, ergo excitement is bad. The problem with this is that I am 70% puppy, and tend to get frisky when it comes to pop culture. I am a bad doggy.

“The amazing, talented Labrinth” Jameela announces
His song opens with excessive vocoder. 3 seconds in, and Esther casts her judgement.
“Can’t sing then”
“I’m not leaving Paris without a French kiss,” he sings
“I’m not leaving Rotherham without a black eye” I deadpan
“That’s funny,” says Esther
“Hmmf” I say, used to her caustic put-downs.
“No I was being serious” she says grumpily, “I hate the way no-one can tell if I’m being sarcastic or not. It’s a curse”.
The channel has been exited and it’s back to News 24, Esther’s default background noise.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask cheerily. My mistake.
“Stay in bed. Not walk the dog. End up drowning in depression” she bites back
“Oh no” I say with perfectly timed tenderness.
“Well if I stay in all day that’s how I’ll feel. And if I go out I’ll feel like that too”

End of convo, clearly.

During this exchange, Linda has clambered on me, her daddy/slave, and is kneading my belly and purring.

“Oh purr purr purr. What are you so bloody happy about?” she turns on the cat. “Ooh, I get my food, I get my strokes, I get to sleep all day. You’re just a bloody pleb.”
(Relenting a little) “Good job you’re soft or else you’d be out.”

As I write this down, she pipes up again.

“What the bloody hell are you writing now? More blog I spose…!”

I think it best not to respond, but the game is up and she clams up. Note to self: I will not profit from her misery.

Later, we watch Drive. Apparently, Lisa refused to watch it because she convinced herself that Ryan Gosling has H from Steps. It makes me want to shave my beard off and learn to drive. But then I remember that I look like a lesbian (Justin Bieber has the same problem) with no facial hair, and I can’t even ride a bike.

Sunday 15th April

Day 2 of Esther’s Face-ache.
I’m temporarily safe because Lisa is staying over. I’ll get my just desserts later, no doubt.

I get Esther to pass me the Rowntrees Randoms.
Last time I looked, the packet was half full. Now there are 3 lonely sweets glued to the bottom of the plastic.

“Where have they all gone?”
“Dunno” says Esther, all butter wouldn’t melt.
“When you say that with your face all swollen it looks like your cheek is stuffed with sweets,” says Lisa
“They’re not random anymore are they?” I add accusingly (and rhetorically) “They’re all green!” Green is after all statistically everyone’s least favourite flavour, the tangy tart of the pack.

In other news, Esther catches me using the microwave as a TV. I am ‘cooking’ (microwaving readymeals that don’t require chewing) and I am so bored. It has been 5 minutes since I put my laptop down to come downstairs and already I am getting pop culture withdrawal symptoms.
So I put the microwave on with nothing in it and begin to chatter away

“Ooh let’s see what’s on TV shall we?”
I am bending over, staring into the amber box when Esther comes in.
“What the hell are you doing?” comes a voice from behind me, her autoresponse when I am caught acting oddly (when am I not, dear reader?).
“Just watching TV” I reply innocently.

Just Say Probably Not


"Oh my fucking God, it's real money!"

Today I accidentally donated £2 to the Socialist Worker Party.

As I was walking into work, I saw a Ban the Cuts stall with 3 sad looking people on it. They were watching all the Trustafarians and Ugg ungulates pass by.

I felt sorry for them, so I went over. They were trying to get rich, spoonfed students who notice them, but without offering naff double entendres (Shag/Pounded etc) and an RnB soundtrack, they were invisible.

"No more compliments, please!"

Not that I am any different. I still believe Tony Blair is the best PM we’ve ever had, with his lovely hair and smile.  Tony, you’re welcome to pop round for tea, as long as you bring the pudding.

Anyway, I went over to the socialists and they instantly came alive like robots on tandby. There was a jolly middle-aged woman, an over-excited long haired boy, and someone who was so unnoticeable I just didn’t notice him.

I signed their petition, but halfway through my name, I realised that there was a box for Donation at the end of the line, and everyone so far had entered an amount. Shit.

I don’t do donations.

“If you give us 75p, you get a sticker” the woman chuckled.

I had 2 £2 coins in my pocket, and I wanted to get my lunch and a coffee with them. I pulled one out, and as the gold disc gleamed in the afternoon sunshine, a gold glimmer lit up their socialist faces.

Just before I was about to ask “Do you have change for this?”

T he young man piped up with “Oh, that would be wonderful, thankyou”

“Oh, yes, there you go” I said, watching my hand lower it into the lip of the money pot and drop it in.

Like the fairground fortune teller in Big, as the coin dropped, the longhair came to life, gushing about how he was running for council and he was talking at a big talk somewhere and he was growing his hair until the socialist party got into Westminster.

I wanted a bloody coffee, and now I couldn’t because these cunts had used my politeness against me like a weapon of mass niceness. Yet again I had gotten myself in a fix because I could’t say no.

"Red is SO my colour"

God how many hours of my life have I wasted trudging along on some stupid, pointless or scary journey because I couldn’t work out how to avoid it? (Answer- a lot)

I nearly got abducted by the Moonies because when an overfamiliar man asked if I wanted to go and see a video about how to be happy. I thought “He can tell I look miserable, so he will never believe me if I say I don’t need to watch his video”. So I went to some cult HQ where people attacked me with smiles, and watched a video about Sun and Yi Moon, the Fred and Mary West of Eastern religion.

"Smile you godless heathens"

“I don’t think I am ready to commit” I said after it finished, and was escorted out by a man who made the joker look sad. I found out later that the party trick of this cult is nighttime abductions. I should have put Harvey’s address down.

"Sorry"

Oh. I just killed a midge. I wouldnt mind, but I wanted to save it from Esther, who would have crushed it if she’d seen it first.

I saw it and grabbed it before she did, and threw it out of the window to freedom. Then I noticed it was half crushed on my palm. Balls. I can’t do right for doing wrong.

What’s the point of morals if they just make you feel crap because you can’t live up to them? I want to go around punching pregnant women in the stomach and trapping old lady fingers in doors and shouting at disabled people who can’t talk properly.

I want to do everything I am scared of doing by accident because I am crap at not doing them. Life is a constant series of near social disasters, where the thin membrane of convention and decency is ruptured and ripped by my semi-erection of clumsiness and apathy?

"Down with morals, up with erections"