Mission Impossible


Tues 1st

Lisa: “Have you heard of a rapper called Tupac something?”

Wed 2nd

Esther “I couldn’t sleep last night until I could remember Fred West’s wife’s name. I ran through the alphabet over an over again looking for the right initial”.
After 5 hours, she took some codeine, instantly remembered that it was Rosemary and passed out from exhaustion.

Thurs 3rd

News 24 really comes into its own when something terrible but epic happens. I didn’t have it in time for 9/11, but I did for 7/7 and the London Riots. Currently, Esther and I get our perverse kicks from watching Anders Breivik’s trial. You can tell he’s a baddie because his facial hair has fled to the coast of his face, where it is waiting for his nose to find it and shoot it.
Much has been made of the way he only cried at his own propaganda video. Apart from a bit of rough editing, I didn’t think it was so bad.

“It’s because he can see his mental illness in it” says Esther, who knows about such things.
“He can’t hide from it. He made the video because he was driven to do it- it he hadn’t, he would have gone mad. He had to kill everyone to make the thoughts go away. He should be tried as insane- why can’t anyone see that?”

Friday 4th

Me: Can we get Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol out?

Esther: No, we’re going out tonight

Me: Oh yeah

Walking through work, I overhear 3 guys in a business suits leaving a meeting:

“…So, we can call the suncatchers ‘Sunnies’…and then we can call windcatchers…erm…’Winds’?”

Sorry chap, I don’t think a promotion’s on its way.

Friday night is Lucas’ 30th birthday. His girlf Gabby has managed to keep his party a secret for over a month, no mean feat in this Facebook-mediated social world where people whore out their secrets for a handful of ‘Likes’.

Did you know that Esther bites her own toenails?

Ben is a very lovely cockle-warming sort of chap, and the tiny pub Gabby had hired could barely contain the love.
The long, long night passed in a blur of dancing, platonic hugging and homoerotic wrestling. Clearly, it had been some time since so many alpha males had been in the same confined space with so many beta-males and fillies to provide an audience for their prowess. “Long, thick” Lucas, as he is now known (after his prodigious oversharing), won most bouts and so managed to combine exercise, ego-massage and overindulgence in one epic night.

Way to go, Bday Boi! (Incidentally, I wonder if there is a superhero called Bidet Boy who squirts water at baddies’ privates, thus embarrassing them into ceasing and desisting their naughtiness? Thought not.)

Saturday 5th

Me: Can we get Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol out?

Esther: No, I won’t be able to concentrate on it.

Lisa: That laugh you did then sounded like Axel Fawlty from Beverly Hills Cop.

Sunday 6th

Today it’s time for an altogether more sedate party: My grandad’s 90th. Or perhaps not:
“I’ve had a shit, shower and shave,” he informs us upon arrival.
90 is a jolly good age. Or as he puts it “Been dead ten years, most men.”

Lord how he can talk. Today I learned the correct name for ruler-based corporal punishment:

“I’ve still got my dad’s tools from before the Great War” he enthuses, “I’ve got the 2 foot rule he used to twank me with. If I was naughty at the dinner table, he’d bend it under the table and twank me on the knee”.

Perhaps due to his incessant talk of goldfinches, Mum has made Grandad a gold cake. It is the goldest thing, for the oldest person in the world. He stopped taking an interest in popular culture around 1945, and manages to be casually sexist and racist, sometimes even at the same time (“I don’t like The Voice, there’s all these silly women singing negro songs, going up an down like they’ve forgotten the tune”). They don’t make em like they used to, and it’s a damn good job.

On the train home, I am roused from my torpor by the traumatic sound of Angela Lansbury’s name being dragged through the mud.

“Angela Lansbury was terrible!”
“Oh but she was good as Jessica Fletcher though wasn’t she.”
“Yes she was, but she was terrible as Miss Marple.”
“That old lady was very good, what was her name?”
“It was…(pause as reads from a Wikipedia app)…Geraldine McEwan.”
“Oh yes, she was very good.”

What kind of fools omit Joan Hickson, I want to shout! But they sound like they mean business…I zone out, and when I next tune in…

“Prince Phillip is known as Prince.”
“No, it’s Prince Consort.”
“I don’t know what that means…”
“Kate doesn’t put a foot wrong and she works hard.”
(Sarcy) “She’s well rewarded for it too!”
“It’s not as easy as it looks”
(Derisive laughter)

Another 30 seconds later…

“Seeing Nadal would be my dream come true. If I see him I think I’d probably cry.”
“If it’s Murray I’d be well happy”
“He needs a haircut”
“I don’t like him”
“He’s all we’ve got”
“It’s ae-ro-dy-namic”
“What is?”
“Murray”

Me: Can we get Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol out?

Esther: No.

Mon 7th

Me: Can we get Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol out?

Esther: Yes

Me: Oh goddammit, no we can’t. Silent Witness, Made in Chelsea AND Eastenders are on tonight.

Lisa: I’m to angry to eat tuna.

 

What’s Polish for Devo?


Devo has become obsessed with an Alsatian called Pogo that he meets in the park. Their friendship dynamic involves Devo annoying the hell out of Pogo, and then Pogo knocking him to the ground and making him cower.

Pogo’s owner is a para-military-looking Polish man.
Yesterday, Devo headbutted the man in the balls so hard that he fell to his knees.
“It’s ok, he is too small to make me hard” he reassured Lisa and Esther in broken English.
They presumed this was a bad translation.
The girls were on their own, and the Polish man asked to meet them at 12 the next day. Presuming it was for the dog’s sake, they agreed.
The next day, Lisa has forgotten and at 1pm she sets off to the park with Dom. As they near the entrance, she seems the fed up Polish man looking up and down the road. As he spots her, and them Dom, he quickly turns and disappears up the road.

How can you tell between being friendly and consenting to marriage, Lisa thinks.

Yesterday, we met up again with the Pole. He seems to have accepted that he cannot take any of us. He called Goldie “the queen mother” because she is old and slow and dignified. If you could see her you would know this is a stroke of genius.

"Biscuit please"

He suddenly goes marching off into the woods “You smell that? That is wild garlic”. He marches to a bunch of leaves, pulls one up, and sniffs. “Not this” he says and marches off again. Finally he has found the garlic. He offers me some to smell.

Why do we not learn this stuff at school? We are like urban foxes who only know how to hang out by the Subway bins. We are rubbish at being wild.

It is both scary and exciting the way that Europeans do everything you wish you could but are trained not to as a good, upstanding Englishperson. Balls to that. I want to act like a big kid, sniffing plants and forcing poetry into mundanity. I am on the bus and a boy next to me has his right leg resting on his left knee (I’m sure there’s a word for this).

His foot is pointed towards me, inches from my knee. His shoe looks fucking massive. Dammit, my size 11s are feeling inadequate for once. I want to mirror his position and press my sole to his and compare sizes. I almost do it, but chicken out.

Is it normal to want to strike up a conversation with bigfoot? Is it normal to feel drawn to giants and want to ask exactly how high?

At some stage Esther and Lisa are going to have to find a new park, because they can no longer scurry past anonymously if there is someone who expects them to chat like normal functional adults. The stuttering snippets of convo so far are the outer limit of their capabilities, not the precursor to casual friendship that mr Polish man expects.

Such is the life of a social phobe.

Esther and me walk Devo and Goldie today. We always keep Devo on a lead until we are safely on the big field where he can harass other dogs and chase sticks rather than eating small children and biting bottoms.

As we unleash him, he gallops across the field and stops in his tracks. He’s smelled something nice. He throws himself on the grass and begins to furiously rub himself again and again.

Oh God, he’s found some duck shit, we think.

Dogs seem to love having greasy, stinky duck faeces on their necks. Eau de toilette indeed.

I start to walk over to stop him, and he ignores my shouts and claps and writhes in ecstasy on this patch of ground.

As I come up to him, I see a lump of flesh. It is round and pink with bits of fur stuck in it. It is the top half of a rat. And it stinks of rancid cheese, quite like my bottom does.

“Get away from it” I shout “you filthy fucker”

I chase him off it and the stench worsens. Esther and me gag, and throw sticks in all directions to make him forget about it.

On the way back, Esther runs ahead and makes Dom run a bath for the little filth hound. His coat is put straight in the bin. Meat and cheese are off the menu for today.

Why can’t animals ever finish off their dinners? It’s rude to leave stuff on your plate. It’s like if you sacrifice your child to God, and when you climb up the temple steps you realise that only the arms and head have been bitten off. “My baby was not a gingerbread man” you shout. It’s just not right.

"Go ahead, make my day!"

 

Happy Boring and Ugly- Xmas Special


Xmas Day:



Today’s Agenda: Sweet FA watching The Time Machine and TOTP. And a banquet.

What actually happened: lots of pain.

Today feels like my first adult Christmas. I feel like shit, and I can’t eat anything (especially not chocolate), and I am not excited about presents in the slightest. Instead, I’m bored and uncomfortable and goddamn tetchy.
All I can do is lay like a limp roast parsnip and watch TV while everyone (Lisa, Dom, Devo, Goldie, Esther and their parents) bustles around me in stress/hysteria. Even my old favourite movie won’t cheer me up:

The Time Machine.

A Victorian explorer travels into the way distant future (the cozy year 800,000) and finds a load of blonde haired blue eyed babes living like big kids. Turns out that humanity was all for nothing though, because they are merely jail-bait for the ugly mofos who live underground and do all the grafting.

Best Quote (thanks IMDB):

What have you done? Thousands of years of building and rebuilding, creating and recreating so you can let it crumble to dust. A million years of sensitive men dying for their dreams… FOR WHAT? So you can swim and dance and play.”

If the future is for a race of beautiful young people who have no worries and no conscience, it sounds like a fair pay-off to me. Surely the whole purpose of knowledge is to somehow find a way to return to our innocent childlike state of imagination and freedom? What finer gift could there be for culture than to produce the opposite of culture (no, not ‘popular culture’)- pure unmediated being: Giggling and frolicking like sexy lambs.
But oh no, Mr Victorian Neo-Liberal doesn’t want that. He wants us to suffer with knowledge, to aspire to greater and greater things. But this is what has made us grow weary by the late 2oth century. H.G.Wells failed to predict that progress would go out of fashion that we would become bored with the future and jaded by the pressure to constantly better ourselves.

Ah. Top of the Pops. I watch it religiously every year, knowing full well that out of the 20 songs played, I can stomach only 5 and out of those I will like only 2. What were they this year?
(1) Tinie Tempah- Pass out

And…Hmm do I really want to admit this one…yes fuck it, they’ve basically all seen my cock, and this is no more embarrassing:
(2) Take That-the Flood


Like everyone, I crave a bit of homoerotic sportsmanship of a cold winter’s day. Warms you up in all the right places. Like this, my all-time favourite movie scene:

Talking of gayness, I was going to watch The Queen’s Speech for it’s archaic, kitsch value (not coz I’m like a royalist, that would ruin my street cred. litrally). But I didn’t. It’s too hard to live your life ironically.
Apparently it emphasised the unifying powers of sport. Fucking crock of shit. The royals use croquet and polo to separate the chaff from the wheat, not bring us together. Take That’s vid is proof that ONLY people who get their hands dirty in life can achieve a life worth living. Sweaty=Happy. At least, that’s how I justify my pungent BO.

Instead, I caught N-Dubz Dappy’s alt. message on E4.

His best line: “Forgive me if I have painted a somewhat gloomy picture, but I am just real innit”
This may have to be adopted as the tagline for my blog…
Brilliant. I never thought a boy who looks like an upside-down acorn could dispense sense, but there we have it. And who knew he was a royalist?

Next year, I shall have to film my own message to the nation.