Bus drivers are bastards

Ever since I was about twelve or thirteen, I have always hated bus drivers. Now, there are about three or four separate accounts of things that bus drivers have done that makes me hate them so much, and it's going to take a while to explain. There is a risk that as I relate these stories, and as I try to explain my unadulterated animal hatred for bus drivers, I may get so angry that I have an aneurysm and die, but I'll try not to let that happen.

I think why I am so bitter about bus drivers is because as a rule, they all view anyone under the age of twenty-one as the scum of the earth. There are no exceptions to this rule, I think it must be part of a questionnaire that all bus drivers are given when they sign up for the job.

So, what is your view of people under the age of twenty-one?

a) I quite like them

b) I am ambivalent towards them

c) I think they are the scum of the earth, and I will endeavour to be obnoxious and unhelpful to all of them, regardless of how much politeness and respect they give to me.

Congratulations, if you answered c), then you have passed the only job requirement for becoming a bus driver. It would be helpful if over the next ten years you could become increasingly miserable and condescending, but that is usually a natural result of being a bus driver, and hence it shouldn't be too difficult for you.

One thing that sparked off my disdain for bus drivers was quite a small thing, but it annoyed me nonetheless. I got on a bus once, I think I was about thirteen or so, and very politely (I honestly was a very polite young teenager. These days I brandish my Pleases and Thank yous more sparingly) I asked for a ticket. He printed out a ticket, and before I had the chance to say anything, he said “say thank you.”

This really irritated me, so in reply I said “I find that to be a very patronising comment. You wouldn't say such a thing to an adult. In fact you probably wouldn't even notice if an adult said thank you or not, so it is unfair to target a child out for criticism when you would not do so for an adult. It is mean and predatory; I am obviously of too young an age to retort your comment in an intelligent and articulate manner, and besides, I was about to say thank you, but you rudely interrupted me, now I don't think I'll bother, as you obviously lack the common courtesy that you wish to receive.”

But of course I didn't say any of that. What I really did, was I mumbled a sarcastic “thank you” under my breath, and then when I was safely out of earshot, I called him a dick.

Another incident with a bus driver that really made me angry happened a few years ago, I think I was probably about sixteen. I got on the bus and saw that my bus driver today was an overweight, bald man, who was probably in his forties or fifties. I asked him for a ticket, and in the most apologetic tone I could muster, I revealed to him that I would be paying with a twenty pound note. “Is that okay?” I asked shyly. “Grumble grumble grumble,” he grumbled, obnoxiously, and took my money. And as he gave me my change, he said to me, with nothing but bitterness and disdain in his voice: “get a haircut mate.”

As you can imagine I was slightly taken aback by this comment. I said, “with all due respect Mr. Bus Driver, but I don't really think it's your place to give such advice. Now there are two main reasons why it is not your place to tell me to get a haircut. Reason number one: you are my bus driver, and therefore not one of the select group of people who are allowed to tell me to get a haircut. Those people are my Mother, my Girlfriend and my hairdresser (and even then, when my hairdresser tells me to get a haircut I do usually assume that their comments are motivated by self-interest more than they are motivated by a general desire to see me have nice hair).

“The second reason why it is not your place to tell me to get a haircut,” I said, “is because you have no hair, and as a result, you are not adequately equipped to give hairdressing advice to anyone, unless you are standing in an American military training base, a Buddhist monastery, or a convention for Neo-Nazis.”

But of course I didn't say any of that. What I really did, was I mumbled a sarcastic “thank you” under my breath, and when I was safely out of earshot, I called him a dick.

The most recent incident that made me hate bus drivers even more happened when I came to Warwick University and I got on the number 12 bus for the first time. Now as you may or may not know, the number 12 bus runs between Coventry and Leamington Spa, and you have to put your money in this little box, and you don't receive any change. I didn't know at the time that you don't receive any change, so I got on the bus at Coventry station and asked him how much it was for a single to Warwick campus, and he said it was £1.60, so I foolishly thought I would just put £2 into the box and get 40p change, as thirteen years of studying maths would have me to believe. But no, the box took my change, and the driver dispensed my ticket, and I said “can I have my change please.” He just looked at me straight in the eyes, and shook his head from side to side (the conventionally accepted head gesture for 'negative'). In order to clarify the situation, I said “oh, do I not get any change? I didn't realise that was the case, being new to the area. I don't suppose on this occasion I could have my money back?”And this time he didn't shake his head, but he pointed to a sign above his head that said “our drivers have the right to work in an environment free from intimidation,” and he started the bus and drove on in silence.

Now, I don't know what it was about me that made him feel intimidated. But I took that message as a challenge, so I smashed through the plastic barrier with my face, ripped him head-first through the shattered pane, threw him on the floor and started stamping on his head, shouting “GIVE ME MY 40P CHANGE, YOU CUNT. GIVE ME MY CHANGE. YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE 40P FROM UNWILLING CUSTOMERS THAT ARE NEW TO THE COVENTRY AREA. IT'S NOT FAIR. TWO POUNDS MINUS ONE POUND SIXTY IS 40P. I DID A-LEVEL MATHS, IT'S NOT NOTHING, IT'S 40P. I HATE YOU. I WILL KILL YOU. I WILL KILL YOU, AND THEN I WILL FIND OUT WHERE YOU LIVE, AND THEN I WILL KILL YOUR MOURNING FAMILY, IF YOU DO NOT GIVE ME MY 40P CHANGE.”

But of course I didn't do that. What I really did, was I mumbled a sarcastic “thank you” under my breath, and when I was safely out of earshot, I called him a dick.

Biscuits for breakfast

Ever since I started a comedy blog, everyone has been asking me what I have for breakfast. I thought I would clear up everybody's concerns once and for all today.

Every day in the morning I have Nestle's Cookie Crisp for breakfast, and it is amazing. It tastes so good because it's basically just biscuits. I get to have biscuits every day for breakfast now, because I'm at university now. THAT'S RIGHT MUM. YOU CAN'T CONTROL MY BREAKFAST CHOICES ANY MORE NOW MUM. I'M HAVING BISCUITS FOR BREAKFAST NOW I'M A BIG BOY AT UNIVERSITY. I'VE GONE OFF THE RAILS MUM. I'M USING WHOLE FAT MILK ON MY BISCUITS TOO! NONE OF THAT SKIMMED SHIT. I'M HAVING BISUITS FOR BREAKFAST! WHOLE FAT MILK! EVERY DAY! I'VE GONE OFF THE RAILS MUM. IMAGINE SOME RAILS. GET A CLEAR IMAGE OF SOME RAILS IN YOUR HEAD. DO YOU SEE ME ON THOSE RAILS? NO. NO YOU DON'T. I USED TO BE ON THE RAILS, BUT THEN I STARTED HAVING BISCUITS FOR BREAKFAST, AND NOW I AM NO LONGER ON SAID RAILS. YOU CAN'T HOLD ME BACK ANYMORE MUM. I'LL HAVE WHAT I WANT FOR BREAKFAST NOW AND I WANT COOKIE CRISP. SOMETIMES I HAVE A BOWL BEFORE BED. IT'S SO DETRIMENTAL TO MY HEALTH. I'VE GONE OFF THE RAILS MUM. IT'S A SLIPPERY SLOPE. TODAY I'M HAVING BISCUITS FOR BREAKFAST AND TOMORROW I'M INJECTING HEROIN INTO MY GROIN BENEATH A SLIDE IN A CHILDREN'S PLAY AREA. I'VE GONE OFF THE RAILS.

But I didn't start this blog post in order to imagine a satirical dialogue with my mother. I started this post today because my box of Cookie Crisp cereal challenges me ethically and emotionally. Now, let's take a look at this box:

Only a wolf with two spoons can adequately tackle the sensory onslaught that is Cookie Crisp.

You've got the wolf there, licking his lips. I bet he's licking his lips, they taste fucking good. Perfectly reasonable front of a box here. Then, turn this box around, and look at this ludicrous side of cardboard:

Okay so here's the thing: I don't actually know how to transfer a photo from my phone to my laptop (that's right I did genuinely take a picture of the back of my Cookie Crisp box in order to demonstrate the follow point.) Now I've just had to recreate the image on Paint. Luckily I have a decade of Paint experience, and I feel I have effectively portrayed the essence of Cookie Crisp. Anyway, you should probably have ignored this and just started reading the next paragraph, because now it isn't going to flow, is it?

Here is where the good people of Nestle somehow try to claim that eating biscuits, chocolate chip biscuits, for breakfast, every day, is in some way healthy. You've got the pictures there, of cookie crisp cereal, and other things that you could have breakfast, and you've got the nutritional information, and the claim that the good, child-fattening, artery clogging people at Nestle are making is that they are somehow healthier than your average breakfast choice. But look, look what they are comparing it too. Okay on the one side you've got jam, margarine and white toast. Lots of people have that breakfast every day. Your being a bit liberal there having both margarine AND jam, but hey, your at university now, fuck it, you can have margarine with your jam.

I'll give you that one Nestle, but look. Look at the other common breakfast choice that they choose to use to demonstrate their point. Crumpets with a shit load of margerine. Crumpets and margerine, that common daily breakfast choice. Let's take a closer look at crumpets (because why not, they're delicious):

Hardly the fruit salad of the breakfast world (which is a fruit salad, obviously).

You thought Cookie Crisp was bad for you didn't you? Well, oh no... you idiot, because Cookie Crisp is better for you than crumpets and margarine. So you don't need to feel guilty about having biscuits for breakfast, because if instead, you were going to have crumpets and a shit-load of margarine, like you usually do every day for breakfast, and like other people always do when they aren't busy downing pints of marshmallows, if you had crumpets and margarine, that would have been worse for you according to the arbitrarily selected hierarchy of nutrients that Nestle values. Marginally worse for you.

Forgive me for being facetious, but it feels a bit like MacDonalds saying “our big Macs are healthy. Look, bear with us. If you took the apparatus of a chocolate fountain, and replaced the chocolate with melted lard, pure melted lard, and you used this apparatus to make a lard fountain, and instead of dipping in strawberries, you dip in rashers of bacon, glazed with bull semen, if you had that for lunch, like you normally did, instead of a Big Mac, then that would be, using the arbitrary hierarchy of nutrients that we have selected, that would be less healthy, than one of our big macs. These are the facts. You can't argue with the facts.”

The amount of times I've been outside MacDonalds with a friend, and I've gone, “hey do you want to get a Big Mac, they sure are tasty,” and my friend goes, “I don't know, what about that new place down there that does that thing with the lard fountain, and the rashers of bacon, with the bull semen,” and I go, “oh that does sound equally appetizing, but I wonder which one is more nutritionally beneficial to my diet,” and my friend goes “I don't know. Neither of us knows which one of the two choices of lunch that we usually have all the time is more nutritionally beneficial. If only the company producing the healthier of the two options could put up a sign, with pictures, detailing the arbitrarily selected nutritional values of both lunch choices, then we would have all the information at hand, and we could then choose, with ease, the healthier of the two options.” and I go, “yeah, that would be great, ever since Nestle did that on Cookie Crisp cereal I have stopped eating crumpets and margarine for breakfast every day.

So I got a bit distracted there and I went off on an irrelevant tangent in response to that innocent and imaginary question about my breakfast preferences. I've been thinking about doing angsty, self-referential OUTroductions rather than the conventional introductions, just to mix things up a bit. But I guess the point of the introduction is to act as comedic foreplay for that hilarious sex we just had. Then usually I would end with a joke or a pleasing turn of phrase that puts an end to the blog post in a nice and satisfying manner. By ending on a weak note that rambles into nothingness I'm only really going to evoke dissatisfaction and unease, which really, if we're going to continue that analogy I started earlier about comedy blog posts being like sex, then this may well be the purest, most true self-reference of them all.

Mumble mumble mumble. Mumble mumble mumble. The end.

Save our homosexual alpha-males from severe depression

So this is my first blog post in quite a long time. I seem to have overdone the hilarity when I started blogging a few weeks ago and the Idea Well has hitherto run dry. I actually tried my hand at a bit of stand-up in a café a few days ago, where I essentially verbalised my Cressida Dick material to an audience that was basically just my friends and a Big Issue man (to his disappointment my routine skimmed over the big issues for the sake of dick jokes. He was irate and called me an 'inane philistine,' before pissing in the milk jug).

Anyway, I have noticed that I have somehow developed some sort of fan-base in Russia, oh the wonders of random internet self-promotion. I say fan-base, I've had about six views from there, but for me that's a lot. So, this ones goes out to my homies in Russia. If you aren't Russian, I'm sure you can still manage to derive some sort of enjoyment out of this post that actually has nothing to do with Russia whatsoever.

Okay, so if you don't know me, and you don't spend all day drooling over me/stalking my Facebook pictures, here is a picture of me:

That's me in the middle next to the Asian man, being molested.

I want you to look at me. Specifically my body. I want you to look at my body. Now, I am a man of a petite frame. So much so that saying the word man in relation to myself feels a bit ridiculous. I'm at that awkward stage really where I am technically old enough to call myself a man, and on legal documents, or if I was horrifically murdered and I was on the news, I would be referred to as a nineteen-year-old man. However I tragically have the frail frame of a boy. A starving, pre-pubescent boy. And having the frame of a starving pre-pubescent boy, I hate every man that does not have the frame of a starving pre-pubescent boy. I mean I really, really hate them.

Don't get me wrong, there is definitely no question of jealousy here. No, put those foul thoughts aside.

What I hate most about them is that they go to the gym. Now, I have never been to a gym (as you may be able to tell), but it just seems to me the most despicable place. I mean, people go there, they lift up heavy objects with their stupidly big arms. Then they run on the conveyor belt of solitude and they cycle on the bicycle of loneliness, it's all utterly ridiculous. They don't even go anywhere, they just run or cycle on the same spot until, satisfied with their failure to move anywhere, and exhausted by their lack of progress, they get off and drive home. Why can't they see that if they just get off the conveyor belt and walk around it they can actually beat the machine?

So while I was vociferating these thoughts of mine to anyone that would listen, someone told me that the purpose of these machines is to simulate the process of running or cycling in a confined environment in order to exert oneself physically in a way that can be artificially controlled. Then I said “I know, I was merely feigning idiocy and being satirical in order to belittle your attempts to better yourself.” Then they said that pretending not to know things that are incredibly obvious is one of the lowest and least amusing forms of comedy, and I said “I know, but I was hoping I could get at least a paragraph or two out of it for a comedic blog post on the internet.”

I don't have many friends.

In truth it's not the running or the cycling that angers me about gyms, it is mainly the men lifting heavy things in a repetitive and monotonous fashion. Who does this? Why? So that you can gradually lift heavier and heavier items until you can one day lift up a small boat or a grand piano or something? Or is it about trying to sculpt your body into something that is appealing to women and (more importantly) gay men?

Okay, so I accept that women are attracted to the body shapes that men try to carve themselves into in gyms. But, and call me crazy (as nobody ever has ever; “distinctly average” or “with a reasonably amiable personality, I suppose,” but never crazy), is there not something about muscular men, wearing very few clothes, lifting heavy things and watching other men lift heavy things as they grunt passionately, that resembles the activities of homosexuals? And when they all get changed together, tacitly comparing bodies with the other men, is there not something inherently gay about that?

Now, I'm not saying that every man that ever lifts weights in the gym is gay. No no no no no.

But... that does happen to be exactly what I think.

And I don't say this out of jealousy, but because I think it is simply unfair that these muscular men are forced to have sex with beautiful women all the time. It must be so difficult for them, being gay, but having to sleep with women that are so attractive that they don't even resemble men in the slightest. They are too insecure to accept their sexuality and pursue erotic relationships with other men (which they definitely want to do). Instead they try to go for those women that are a bit on the manly side, maybe with a mono-brow or with a really wide jaw in order to try and imagine that they are men when they have sex with them, but these masculine women are far too intimidated by the flawless physical appearances of the pursuing men that they run a mile when approached like pigeons being chased by a toddler.

Beautiful women: it is just unfair to have sex with these stunningly attractive gay men. Do you have any idea what you are putting them through? You are forcing them to have sex with your despicably feminine and slender bodies, when all the time they are wishing you were a man. They may pretend to like it, but they secretly hate it. I fear a continuation of this demonic and cruel ritual will only lead to depression and possibly (definitely) suicide among these men. So please, stop hurting these poor people, and boycott any sexual practices with muscular men.

And I don't say this out of jealousy. Definitely not. But if, once you have boycotted all sexual activities with muscular men (that are all secretly gay), you find yourself needing to have sex with a man with the body of a starving, pre-pubescent child (that is totally straight)... one that will not despise you for sleeping with him, and that will not suffer bouts of severe depression and excessive self-harm as a result, then I may be able to help.

It's all fun and games until David starts whining

Hey, do you remember when it was snowing a few days ago? Well, in order to give this blog post relevance, you are going to have to. There is actually still some snow about. I saw the shrivelled base of a snowman beneath a tree earlier, so don't call me a liar.

Okay fine I was lying. That was just an example I imagined for artistic purpose. I can do these things okay I'm a writer. You wouldn't understand, you don't have a blog WITH OVER ONE HUNDRED VIEWS. Anyway, my point...

I'm not sure if this is actually funny, but hey, you don't come here for the jokes, right? You come for my dazzling insight into contemporary issues. In honesty, the chances are you don't come here at all.

Now, if you think snow is fun you are severely misinformed. Snow is not fun. Snow is cold. And no good has ever come from that which is cold.

I can hear you're voices now, "but but but snowball fights, and snowmen, and you know, things involving snow. What's nicer than being outside in the lovely snow?"

Well imaginary sir, in rebuttal to this naive rhetorical question that nobody has in fact asked, I have compiled a satirical list of things I find more enjoyable than snow:

I would rather spend a Thursday afternoon trying to teach someone else's grandmother (with whom I have no blood relation to) how to set up a Facebook account. I would rather wait for a bus with an aquaintance with whom I have very little in common. I would rather walk towards someone I sort of know, but I'm not really sure if they know who I am, down a very long, straight path, and face a sustained period of indecision at whether or not I should say hello, just smile, or try not to make eye-contact at all. I would rather unload a dishwasher. I would rather be hugged for a slightly inappropriate length of time. I would rather be picked on in a seminar for which I have not done the required reading. I would rather sit next to a man of questionable personal hygiene on a train. I would rather drink a bad cup of tea. I would rather make a joke, and then no-one laughs so I think that they haven't heard it, so I say it again and everyone is like, 'yeah Dave we heard you the first time, it just wasn't funny.' I would rather accidentally send a text about someone to the person the text was about. I would rather try and read while there are people around talking at an inappropriate volume. I would rather listen to the most recent Black Eyed Peas album.

All these things are far more appealing to me than the concept of frolicking in the snow. So before you ask me if I would like a snowball fight, please bear in mind the fact I like to keep slightly humorous lists of things that are better than other things, and I am prepared to use them.

Having said this, I would probably still join you for a snowball fight though, because hey, who doesn't like snow?

Why Homebase is a physical manifestation of Hell on Earth

The only (and by far the worst) job I have ever had was at Homebase. I won't mention which one; if I don't get a good reference out of my two and a half months of labour in that place then I will probably have an existential breakdown at such an outrageous waste of almost one hundred hours of my time. Yes, that's right, I was only there for two and a half months. I know what you're thinking—a spoilt middle-class white teenager can't handle a little bit of hard work, he's too busy lying in bed in his pyjamas masturbating and watching repeats of Pointless on bbc iplayer (not at the same time though, no matter how good-looking Alexander Armstrong may be), and while this is irrefutably true... Homebase was really really bad, okay. Just trust me on this one.

On my first day at Shitbase I was shown around the shop by a balding middle-aged depressive named Brian, who sported a wispy monobrow and an expanding waistline. I thought he must have been on the verge of suicide when I first met him. One of the first things he said to me was when he pointed to the balcony overlooking the shop floor and said, 'try not to jump from there when it all gets too much, I know it can be tempting.' Okay Brian, thanks for the heads-up in the first twenty-five minutes that I have ever worked, ever.

In fairness, I can see why he chose to work there. If one wants to share their misery with other hopelessly miserable people then what place better than one where couples have their marriages tested to breaking-point over the idiosyncrasies of the Dulux colour chart. (Seriously though, voluptuous red or seductive crimson? This is important people.) Then there's the question of whether a cylindrical or a rectangular lampshade will ultimately give maximum feng shui to the spare bedroom. Oh and don't forget about heart-wrenching conflict over whether or not one should buy the floral duvet set or a checkered duvet set. (It's a no-brainer of course, flowers are gay and checks are awesome.)

After the customers had been through this brain-numbing ordeal, they had to pay for their ridiculous items through me, the checkout worker. And they were never happy. Its probably because buying items such as paint samples and paving slabs is the most tedious way to spend one's hard-earned money. Anyway when they got to me they responded to my small-talk like I had just eaten the miscarried foetus of their unborn grandchild and burped the remains obnoxiously in their face. They were horrified. Little alarms went off in their heads: 'oh god what are those noises the checkout boy is making? Can those things talk? I thought it was all self-service now.' This was when I did actually try to make small-talk. In fairness I usually tried to zone out, avoid all communication and pretend I was working on the checkouts in Habitat across the road. One can dream.

Anyway I hated Fuckbase more than life itself. It was the most monotonous, banal and brain-shittingly dull waste of my oh so precious time. I went back there the other day. I stopped outside the door; I was terrified about going in. All those sad people arguing about nothing while the bored staff pretend not to look or are too busy fantasising about working in Habitat or are lamenting the financial state of Habitat and how it went bankrupt and now even their dreams are dying slowly. But I pumped myself up outside the shop. Come on, I said to myself, it can't be that bad; you're imagination makes it sound worse than it is. So I did eventually go in, and the first thing I saw was Linda, a checkout worker probably around fifty years old, and as she walked past me to return a shopping basket from her checkout I noticed that she was crying. She was a fully grown adult woman and she was physically sobbing with grief at having to work in such a place. Seriously. Fuck Homebase.

Tea for One (part one)

Here's a cheeky bit of fiction for you all. I say a bit, it's a three parter of almost five thousand words. Sorry to break character, but I hate hate hate the first paragraph of this, so any suggestions for improvement would be appreciated. Or you, know, just flatter me and say you like it.

Tea for One

I've been drinking for four days. That's a lie. Sort of. I don't know. I've never had a very good memory. Sometimes I go completely teatotal but it doesn't usually last longer than half an hour. Besides, I've never been able to have more four or five cups before the sugar starts getting to me and I start to feel sick. But no, I am not an alcoholic. Not a proper one anyway. I often get so drunk that I lie on the floor of an appalling nightclub toilet cubicle vomiting and screaming and writhing in other people's piss, but at least it's my own vomit. But that is socially acceptable; it's part of our culture, like Shakespeare and the Royal wedding and Morris dancing. Anyway, it only happened once. I usually keep my vomit to sinks, bushes, toilets, bus stops, bus seats and sometimes my own lap. Sometimes someone else's lap. They usually mind, but I eat well. And by well I mean cheaply.

Drugs. I did drugs twice. The first time was unremarkable; a slight dizziness and a vague feeling that someone was after me with a chap-stick. The second time, however, I lay on the floor of my bathroom dabbing my forehead with a wet flannel because I thought my face was burning and worrying about what I would do if my hair caught fire. I would scream and put the flannel on my head of course. But what if the flannel I was dabbing my face with was not wet with water but wet with petrol, and Thames Water has been taken over by Shell in a controversial takeover bid. They now had complete control over my water and my sewage, and they were pumping petrol through our taps and burning our waste in an attempt to combat global warming so that they could win a Nobel peace prize or something. Anyway, the flannel had petrol on it and now my face was on fire. I was in unbearable agony. My face was melting. I had lost my eyebrows and half of my fringe. I plunged my face into the bath but it was filled with petrol! I turn the shower on and it releases more petrol! My bathroom became flooded with petrol! Petrol everywhere!

Thankfully the heat was internal and the fire imaginary and my water pipes weren't filled with petrol but with water, so a nasty situation was luckily avoided. There's not a day that goes by when I don't thank Thames Water for the efficient service that they provide. Ever since that day when they saved my face from a terrible fire with a damp flannel I have left a Christmas hamper outside their head office every Christmas with an extensive assortment of jams and chutneys and shortbread and a small teddy bear wearing tartan clothing. It has been six months since the incident and there hasn't been a Christmas yet, but my mind is resolved. I'm thinking about going to the fair and winning a massive teddy bear for them too on ring-a-duck or throw-a-dart or shoot-a-thing but I have never been any good at ringing, throwing, shooting or any other verbs for that matter except sleeping and masturbating, but they don't offer any stuffed animals for excessive masturbation. Fair gypsies probably don't want to attract that sort of customer to their humble establishments. So anyway Thames Water will probably have to make do without a stuffed bear with a heart-shaped cushion reading “I WUV U” in cloying capitals. The hamper is enough. Hopefully I can get one with apricot jam, because it's a good flavour and it is often overlooked by the more mediocre compilers of Christmas hampers. What a bleak world we live in where apricot jam is not universally appreciated.

Anyway, the real reason I want to get them a hamper is not because they saved my eyebrows from a fire with a damp flannel. You didn't believe that did you? And it's not because they refused to accept a takeover bid from Shell, but even if they had accepted, Shell would probably have the business acumen to fill their pipes with water or jelly or something other than petrol. They've built a successful business and I'm sure they know the difference between those times when people do want petrol and those times when they definitely do not. No, the real reason (and I probably didn't make this up, I can't remember) is because one day my water stopped working and someone sent over the love of my life to fix it.

Tea for One (part two)

I was turning the taps and nothing was coming out. No water, no jelly, no petrol. Nothing. I turned both taps both ways and then I turned other taps in other places in other directions but, alas, nothing was coming out. When I ran out of taps to turn and directions in which to turn them I gave up and resigned myself to the fact that I would have to find a man to come and fix it. Being completely unprepared for any situation, no matter how simple or straight-forward, I was paralysed with indecision and panic. How do I find a man? I thought. Like, a real man, not a useless one like myself. Who are these men that inexplicably turn up and make my water work again? Why do they do it? How much money do I give them? Do I tip them? What if he does a mediocre job? What if he doesn't want to make small talk? What if he makes too much small talk? What if we make small talk and he finds me boring and does not maintain an attentive countenance and I manage to pick up on his boredom? Technically he hasn't done anything wrong and the fault is mine, but the offence is there to be taken nonetheless. Do I still tip him? Is it ten percent like in restaurants or is it different for water fixers? And I think I heard once that now you aren't meant to tip ten percent but now it's twelve percent. Or was it fifteen? It's like tip inflation. But are tip inflation rates different for the men who fix my water? And how do I judge whether or not he has done a good job and if he is worthy of a tip? If I could critique water-fixers I would fix my water myself, I imagine.

Oh god, I had been asking questions to myself for fifteen minutes. It's a good job my time is worthless. What do I do? Internet. Do things with the internet. The internet will know someone who can fix my water. Where is the internet? On the box. Good. Right. I went onto Google and typed in “MY WATER IS NOT WORKING. SEND HELP.” Then Google searched for me and the first page of words was about people called plumbers. I knew that was the word. It was useful to get that learnt (or not learnt but at least remembered again and these days that is practically the same thing.) Yes, plumbers, that was what I needed. So the website was asking about where I lived and naturally I gave them my postcode, and miraculously they found a plumbing company that lived in my area. Brilliant. So I go over to my phone and put in the numbers on the screen and it starts ringing.

“Hello,” said a man, “Someone and Son's plumbing services, how may I help you?”

“My water,” I said, “it's broken.”

“How is it broken?”

“I don't know can't you tell me that? Can't you send a man or something?”

“Yes, I can send someone, but what's the problem?” He said in a tone that I assume was annoyance or weariness or pure hatred; I can't really remember.

“The water won't come out. I've tried all the taps in all the directions. It's hopeless. I'm going to die of thirst. Help me.”

“Okay, sir, just tell me your address and I'll send my colleague over straight away.”

So he took my address and thirty minutes later a van pulled up opposite my house. Great here's the plumber, I thought to myself, and I walked over the door and waited for the bell to ring. The bell rung and I counted to five so that I didn't open it too soon and reveal the fact that I had been waiting there ever since I saw the van pull up. I think this was slightly uncomfortable for them because my front door has a large, translucent window on it and it was obvious to both of us that we were staring at each other's smudged body shapes through the glass. Anyway I opened up the door and to my shock I saw not a man but a woman. My first reaction was one of anger; I had been swindled. This was not a plumber this was a woman.

“You're not a man,” I said to the woman.

“No...” She said. “I've come to fix your water. I'm a plumber.”

“But... You're a woman.” Such a fact was incomprehensible to me.

“God, Paul said you were slow. Can I come in?” And she walked past me towards my kitchen.

Who the hell is Paul? What has he been saying about me? Do I know a Paul? I don't know many people, I think I would remember if one of those people I know was called Paul. Did she mean Paula? Because Paula's a bitch, she would say that. I'm going to go call Paula right now and tell her how much I hate her and that she should stop talking about people behind their back... No wait... She definitely said Paul. One of these days I will find Paul, but by the time I had finished with these thoughts I heard a noise coming from my kitchen. Who was in my kitchen? Oh yes, the woman.

“The pipe's broken,” she said. “It looks like it's been sawn in half. Someone has written something in permanent marker.”

“Hmm... Yes... I see... No I don't understand.”

“It think it's a haiku... It says:

Elephants won't drink

From the bagpipes, I think;

To nothing I sink...”

“How strange,” I replied. What did she want me to say?

“It's utter nonsense. What does that even mean? There's not even enough syllables in the second line.”

“It's a work in progress, okay. What are you a critic?” God she was smug with her words and her talk about syllables.

“I'm sorry what? You wrote this?”

“What?” Oh god, panic. Quick, what do normal people do in these situations? What's the protocol? Is it tea? I think it's tea. I have definitely heard normal people say things about tea. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please. I'm just going to the van for some spare tubing. I'll be right back.”

She left the house and closed the door and I realised I had let her leave without asking how she likes her tea. This was a nightmare I had all the time but I never thought it would actually happen. What was I to do? If she came back and the tea was not made and I was just standing there waiting she would think I was strange or totally incompetent, and while both are true I try my best to keep it a secret. But if I made her tea and I got it wrong then she would have to drink my disgusting tea and that would be hugely unpleasant for her. For the rest of her life she would remember me as the guy who made her a horrible cup of tea.

Do I even have tea? Yes, good. I'm just going to have to guess. What do people normally have in tea? I settled for one teabag, milk, two sugars, one cinnamon and one ginger, with a leaf of parsley in whipped cream on the top. Okay, so I misunderstood my own question; it happens sometimes. When she came back through the door I turned to face her, ready to present my mug of tea.

But facing her there in the kitchen, I was suddenly struck with an astonishing realisation: the woman, the plumbing woman, was exceptionally beautiful. Not just attractive like that woman who works late in Dominos and gave me a pizza for half price that one time because I didn't have enough change to cover the whole cost and I was crying and slightly inebriated. And she was not just pretty like the woman who works behind the bar at Wetherspoons on Mondays and Thursdays and always smiles at me when I stare at her as she gets prettier as the night goes on, but never beautiful. No, this plumbing woman person was actually beautiful, and naturally this was a total disaster.

I had been standing motionless and staring at her for a while with her tea in my hands, when her voice brought me back into the realm of reality.

“Um, is that... my tea?” She asked warily, looking at the mountain of whipped cream.

“Yes! I made it for you.” I said as I presented her with the sugary gift.

“Wow, I've never had whipped cream with tea before. Or... is that parsley?”

“Waitrose's finest parsley I'll have you know. Grown and hand-picked by Delia Smith on her own personal parsley farm in Norwich.” I hoped she didn't know much about parsley. It was Tesco value and I had stole it from my mother and used it in everything ever since when strangers came round in the hope of looking more sophisticated.

She took a sip from the unusual beverage and a bit of whipped cream was left on her nose as she took the mug away from her mouth. It made her look like a kitten. I was strangely aroused.

“It tastes... interesting.”

“It's a secret recipe. Passed down through generations. Just tea, milk, sugar, cinnamon and a secret ingredient.”

“Is it ginger?”

“No.”

“It tastes like ginger.”

“It's not ginger.” Damn she was smart. Smart and attractive. And she was a plumber; she had a practical use, which is more than could be said for me. My infatuation with such a remarkable woman could only be a terrible mistake. My case was hopeless. I should abort the mission immediately, I thought. I should go and take a cold shower fully clothed and cry and feel unbearably ridiculous fifteen minutes later when I emerge from the shower in sodden clothes and not even the slightest bit cleaner. But my water wasn't working, so I was forced to bear the torment of this intolerably beautiful woman.

It suddenly struck me that I did not know the name of this fantastic creature.

“What are you called?” I asked, wording the question as uncomfortably as possible for no obvious reason.

“I'm Beth” she replied, smiling. “And you?”

Ah Beth, what a lovely name. One perfect syllable. Rhymes with breath and Meth and death. How poetic, her name rhymes with other words. Maybe I'll write a haiku about it one day, I've already got three rhymes. Beth would love that. If there's one thing I know about women it's that they love a good haiku. That's why all the women loved Byron: he was a true craftsman when it came to the haiku. He could write a haiku using only sixteen syllables. It was really revolutionary stuff. And then Yeats came along and managed to write one in fifteen. What a genius. The women weren't as crazy about him though for some reason. I wonder why...

My thoughts were interrupted by her staring. Why is she looking at me?

“What?”

“What's your name?” She asked impatiently.

Wow, she actually wants to know my name. This is brilliant. A beautiful girl like her wanting to know my name. This reminds me of the time I was arguing with the man at the kebab van about the ratio of chicken to beef in my mixed kebab, and the police drove by and saw the terrible drama that was evolving at three o'clock on a Thursday morning, and—

Wait a minute, I can see where this is going. Quick, before I forget:

“It's Marcus.” I replied belatedly.

She looked bored. I think she was growing weary of my delayed replies. I wasn't quick enough. I wasn't putting my lightning fast repartee into action. What would Wilde say in this situation? Probably something brilliant about how things might not seem like other things but they are actually similar to those other things. My life would be so much easier if I thought in ironic witticisms. But I don't and it isn't. Instead I had to flounder about in an ocean of words and things and try and work out which ones to use and in which order so that I could impress this beautiful plumber.

“I like your hair. It's really blonde. It's like a banana or the sun or something.” I thought this line went down brilliantly. I mean, why not? Not only is it a heartfelt compliment, I also managed to exhibit my poetic prowess with an exquisite simile. One of my best ones yet. I must remember to write that one down for later, I thought.

“Um, yeah I guess it is, thanks...” She was loving it. Her arousal was practically tangible.

“Or like, one of those old fashioned yellow raincoats that fishermen wear. It's like that too.” I continued.

She smiled encouragingly.

“Those curtains are also yellow.” I said, pointing to the floral curtains hanging by the window in my lounge. Technically they were more of a maize or saffron. I was really grasping at yellow straws. She must have picked up on my poor attention to detail because she seemed eager to change the conversation. I was losing her.

“I should really fix this.” She said, turning toward the sink.

I was perceptive enough to pick up on the fact that as much as she enjoyed my elaborate imagery she had a job to perform, and wished to get it done. She was obviously very passionate about her work. I went into the lounge to watch T.V. and to consider my next move in this smooth old game of Lovechess. I almost had my queen in checkmate, and I was moving in for the kill. By the way in Lovechess you try and capture the queen and not the king. The killing is purely symbolic, the only things that actually die in Lovechess are my dreams, over and over again like some cruel game of whack-a-mole in an arcade played repetitively by a twelve year old with fourteen thousand pounds in fifty pence pieces and an infinite attention span. Seriously, why does my face keep popping out of the hole? There is nothing out there; just a moron with a hammer. I should just stay underground where it's dark and there's a T.V. But I always pop out nonetheless.

So here I was, safe in my underground lair with my T.V. and my sofa and a box of chocolates left over from my birthday, and I couldn't stop thinking about Beth and how I could poke my stupid face out of this lovely hole.