Twitching and planking


It’s been an ornithological kind of week.  On Wednesday morning, I stumbled across a flash mob of retirement folk on the sidestreet near the cemetery, pointing their massive telephoto lenses accusatorially at a tree which unleashed a flock of birds as I approached. As they high tailed it over the rooftops, I asked what the devil was going on.

Waxwings,” he said.

“Care to elaborate?” I said, slapping his arse.

“From Scandinavia. We got an alert on the pager network and headed down here.”

Then they all got back in their Volvos and vanished like posh pixies.

“I may be from Sweden, but casual sexism is simply unacceptable”

On Thursday, I spotted another suspicious bunch, this time of beauticians, standing and pointing at hundreds of geese honking overhead in classic V formations. It really was very exciting, so much so in fact that I let my mask of enigmatic urbanity slip and babbled “Geese!” to one of the women. Social hari kiri indeed, I shall have to hunt everyone down who heard/saw me and kill them.

I’ll have to get the cat and dog to teach me since they seem have been schooled in military tactics, probably part of that distance learning course in world domination I keep finding when I open the laptop. They’ve tried everything to get me up in the morning, experimenting for maximum efficiency. Their favourite so far starts with the cat planking on my face and the dog hissing “J’accuse!” and pointing at me from the side of the bed.

“Planking cat”

As soon as I’m out of the duvet, I get a heavy pet escort down the stairs, the waddling fat cat in front leading the way and the thuggish fat dog behind making sure there’s no messing around.

If I knew how to play chess, I’d play the Sicilian Defence and enlist the help of the scary monkey puppet from the middle floor. He was laughing and dancing behind Dom in my dream, but he only liked the other me, the one that was in the nice warm room and in on the joke, not the real me that was watching through the window. I hate it when me and I fall out. If I could convince the monkey that I was the other me, then maybe I’d have a chance, but I look nothing like him.

Oh, why wasn’t I born an aristocrat? I SO WANT TO BE POSH. I’d give away ALL my money and possessions just to be rich. You listening, evil genie monkey?

Sadly, most of my friends are some kind of Marxist, unaware of my right leaning posh sympathiser ways…it would be fun to have a posh synthesizer though…Here’s my first attempt at a Posho Pop melody:

“wot wot, totes, wot wot, totes, Oomska!, Oomska!, wot wot, totes!”

Most poshos are clean shaven. That’s a deal breaker for me. I’ve got to have some wispy stuff to hide behind. And you don’t see many with shaved heads.

Now I am officially BALDING, I like to think about hats and the stirling service they provide. I have yet to find The One, though. I have many hat mistresses who fall in and out of favour, but none are fit to be permanently betrothed to my scalp.

A crazy guy in the park nicely summed up the circular nature of hat fashion:

“Are flat caps coming back? In the 1950s, not that I remember them, no-one left home without a hat. Then in the 1960s and 1970s no-one ever wore a hat. Then in 1985 I saw a man with a baseball hat. Cilla Black, you know, the singer, used to wear one.”

I’m glad I wasn’t around in the Hatless Years. I especially like that his pop culture knowledge predates Blind Date, and he knows Cilla instead for her angry cat impression. “What’s it all about, Alfie?” she yowled to Michael Caine’s unreconstructed neanderthal. I hate bad boys coz I wish I was one…

Nail Hannon from The Divine Comedy looks like my schoolfriend, Mike. His moment of greatness came early, when he  stood up on the second day of school and announced himself to our newly formed friend group; with his arms outstretched, he proclaimed

Charisma!”

The next day after I’d gone home and looked it up (this was 1992 PG, the Pre Google age), I congratulated him on the delivery and timing, and he smiled his sage smile and gave me his glasses to wipe. Ah, those were the days. Those were the days.

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"