Fat Club

Is it too much to ask to walk around a garden centre without being stalked by Pudsey fucking Bear? I eventually lost him by doubling around the heated propagators and ducking into the café for a pot of tea. The Cafe was empty apart from four large teenage girls celebrating a fourteenth birthday with an ocean of triple-mallow-hot-chocolates and a tray of cakes.
After I had finished my tea and decided against pocketing the newly posted ‘strictly no smoking’ ornament, I rolled myself a roll-up and made my way outside to have a smoke.
As I walked past the teenagers, the birthday girl said to me, "aren’t you going to say Happy Birthday?" I wanted to say . . . You would have a far happier birthday if you lost about three stone. Trust me. If you don’t, you will only ever have fat friends. When you are older, you will never get a boyfriend and even if you do get lucky on a Friday night, you will find out that he only shagged you for a bet. The thermometer will only have to go above fifty-eight degrees and your top lip will start to sweat. Your metabolic rate will go into freefall, taking your hormones down with it. Then one morning you will wake up with facial hair. And just when you don’t think it can get any worse . . . you will develop diabetes and your toes will fall off!

Short skirts and hosiery

I found myself in Banbury High Street, giving out flyers for one of my swindles to the good people of that market town, when I saw a face. Or rather, I saw a pair of long slender legs encased in patterned hosiery atop a set of three inch heels. Her short dog-tooth woolen skirt was revealed by the split in her coat as she bent down to tend to her young son. As she walked towards me, I knew that I had to savour each moment of perfection. I mean . . . what the fuck was she doing in Banbury with her child and her mother? A footballer’s wife? In Banbury? Anyway, what I hoped was going to be a short period of agony in beauty as she passed me by was lengthened. She took her boy into the barbers for a trim; the very barbers that I had been standing outside freezing my nuts off for the last two hours. I was desperate for a smoke, but now, behind the glass, she had taken her coat off and was sitting in profile watching Banbury High Street pass her by. Oh for the love of God, how long does it take to cut a boys hair? Please take this woman out of my life. With every maternal smile and kiss on her son's lips so did her skirt rise. I really needed a cigarette. I can smoke forty times a day but this is a one off. I would wait until they left the barbers, then I would give her a flyer and watch her leave my life as suddenly as she had entered it. She did leave. She left in a Hollywood romantic comedy way, an exit that was all smiles and with no tension. And I did give her a flyer. My tongue seemed to have swollen three times it’s normal size. I couldn’t speak. She smiled. And the three of them walked towards the hotdog van and disappeared. I caught a sight of my reflection in the lingerie shop window and thought . . . you silly, silly, ridiculous old man!

There is a God !!!

And now, while reviewing the trite-shite that I have written, I am finishing my bottle of Australian shiraz. A sneezing fit upon sneezing fit led to me blowing my nose upon a tea-towel, which, although clean, still smelled of roast dinners. I am cleansing my soul with Piano concerto number two in B flat major.
At three-thirty in the morning, after opening another bottle of tesco's special offer Australian shiraz, I was so pissed that I didn't hear my wife come down stairs and into my office. She caught me on the internet looking at . . . Leeds Universities philosophy departments treatise on transubstatiation. You see, there is a God. If she had crept up on me any other night of our ten year marriage, she would have caught me looking at 'Big and Bouncy!!!'

Persian tantric sex

Oh let me tell you gentlemen. One day without a drink and your beer tastes like the adverts says it does. One day without a drink and the drink really does do what you want your drink to do. And after one day without a drink, I went, as usual, after the-worst-pub, to Tesco-metro for the well being of my wine and something to eat for my tea. The beautiful Persian girl with the bad skin served me. “How are you?” I asked. “I am good thank you,” she replied. “Good.” I replied to her reply. “Do you live nearby?” She asked in her broken English and an unusual directness. I told her that I did. She then told me that she did as well and told me the road she lived in and house number within that road. I suddenly realised that my shopping basket was a sad fucks shopping basket with only red wine and a seventy second microwave rustler burger. I apologised for my crassness. “Not very healthy eh?” And her imperfect skin cracked into a perfect smile as she said, “I love to cook. See you soon I hope?”

On the wagon

'Twas a good day to climb aboard the ever moving wagon. I had slept in an odd way and had woken up with a neck that I couldn't turn without revolving my whole upper body. As I had dog training at seven it meant that my usual calling for a six o' clock snifter was never going to happen. Dog training was very stressful. If I had ever wanted to cut off a spaniels nose and sell it to Spanish pirates it was tonight! I arrived home at eight-thirty and prayed to God for the strength to stay out of the pub and not open the bottle of unopened red that was sitting on the shelf above the toaster. As Behan had always advised his faithful that it was wrong to drink upon a full stomach, I had fed myself a nine-minute microwave chicken dinner at six, hoping that it would do the trick. It wasn't enough. At eight-fifty I was ready for any amount of booze you could throw at me. After much agonising. I stayed in and ate two bowls of cocoa-pops and had a few cups of tea while watching spooks. I looked in my diary: I hadn't had a day without a drink for nine months. I was expecting a sleepless night full of night-sweats. I slept like a baby.

The Racist

As I drove home from Oxfordshire, the night sky was illuminated by all those good people teaching their young that it is right and proper to burn a Papist on top of a bonfire and celebrate his death with fireworks. And indeed, I expected some sort of ritualistic firework show of support as I entered the-worst-pub on the eve of my climb onto the wagon. But, instead of the two lines of ruddy-faced drinkers cheering me up the red carpet towards my period of sobriety. It was empty. The smoking-table regulars were slavering over the new barmaid, who was off-duty, sitting at the table underneath sky TV. After a couple of sips, O'Donnell joined me and we were well. Then George approached the table talking of my beloved boys. This was just his prawn cocktail before he got onto the medium steak of his racism and then the black forest gateaux of his bad-breathed hatred. I left my beer!

Holy Day of Obligation

All Souls. It's up there with Good Friday for me. There wasn't a morning Mass which was a good job as I couldn't lift my head from the pillow. Walt had come back to mine last night after the pub and we had carried on until the early hours. But, I remember being alone. He must have gone home at some point. Anyway, I awoke this morning with a body that ached like only a man who drinks can know how his body can ache. My sweet wife had taken the kids to school while I inhabited a delerium world of dreams and sweat.
After the longest day dying, I Went to seven o'clock evening Mass to pray for the departed souls within my heart, and, oh Stephen, my dear sweet Stephen, I prayed for your soul like a man possessed. As the weather has turned cold, I was wearing a hat. As I easily removed the hat from my head before entering the church, I wondered how many generations of my family had made the same ritualistic gesture before me. All Souls is always a very moving Mass and I spent forty minutes fighting back my tears. "The Mass is ended, go in peace." And indeed I did go in peace, straight to the-worst-pub. Liam was in an odd mood. He always is when Wilson is elsewhere. Panic Attack was particularly spikey. The twins were arguing. Wallace was at the bar on his own and Tony Blackburn was setting up for quiz night. Even though I was standing at the smoking-table, the back part of my head was still in Mass. I left soon after I arrived, and as I walked home with the moonlight reflecting off the red-terraced brick, I prayed a prayer of thanks. I thanked God that the three Irish nurses kneeling in the pew in front of me all had really bad figures . . . otherwise I wouldn't have been able to concentrate.

Late drink

Great night out with Walt down the good pub. Had to pass the door of the-worse-pub on the way home and popped in to play on the top shelf. My glorious boys couldn't score a goal. Wilson was laughing and sweating. And for the first time in five years and six months . . . I got my first late drink