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.

 

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.