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.

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.