Monday, 8 February 2016


"How was your weekend?"

The question often posed on a Monday (or Tuesdays, in my case, given that I normally take Mondays off to escape all of this). Is anyone really bothered by the answer? This jabbering is just an excuse to get out of work for five minutes without involving tea-making.

It bothers me when the answer is, "Oh, nothing much really, just a quiet one."

It makes me wonder what they're hiding.

Or maybe they're the sort of person I aspire to be, the sort of people who can veg without feeling guilty about it. If I settle down with a good book, my mind flickers to incomplete tasks that warrant attention. Doing roots. Working out. Writing to friends (yes, I still do this). Watching that documentary a friend recommended. Listening to new bands for research. Painting toenails. Sending over the family photos I promised to send my half bro and co (originally snapped last June, I believe). Developing that book idea. Dusting.

Maybe, these people who have 'chilled ones' and 'nothing much really's actually fucked off to Amsterdam for two days to sample all the delicacies it has to offer. They're not obliged to tell me.

But I've a sneaking suspicion they really did do bugger all. And I envy them.

I am currently booked up til July, I think. If I ever see a blank weekend in my diary, instead of treating myself, I often email one of my workplaces and ask if they could use an extra pair of hands. I can't just do nothing.

(That's a lie. I did rinse up four serieseses worth of Prison Break in about a month. But only in the evenings after completing my chores. Honest guv. And because I'd fallen in love with Wentworth Miller. Honestly, I hadn't had that much of a crush on a character since, and I shudder to admit this, but you must remember I would've been about seven, Omri Katz in Eerie Indiana).

The Love Katz, then and now. I hope you can still hear me over how loud that shirt is.

Come Wednesdays, we're already on to "Any plans for the weekend?". This involves me fishing out my diary because I can't remember a thing without it, and reeling off a list of stuff. When I ask the same question in polite return, I inevitably get, "Nothing much, really." They sometimes look a bit sad. I'd be fucking delighted.

Wednesday, 3 February 2016


I was recently standing in a long line of ladies at a tourist piss-stop between the geyser (which I loudly proclaimed to be a "GEEZAAHH!" at every opportunity) and the waterfall part of an excursion while holidaying in Iceland.

Naturally the queue for the gents was non-existent. I've asked the question before but I'll ask it again, in the hope I may have amassed readers exceeding those I can count on one paw since beginning this blog: ladies, what is it you do in there? I can only assume it's drugs.

When it was finally my turn, the woman leaving the cubicle said the flush didn't seem to be working. I replied saying I'd take my chances.

I glanced at the bowl full of used tissue, sighed, and pressed the flush. And do you know what? The paper drained away. Magic. Move over David Blaine.

"Come, it's okay to use the toilet now"

Okay, I know there are different flushes for different toilets. Some you have to press and hold. Some need a quick yank (I said 'YANK'). Sometimes you have to stand on the lid to reach the pulley. I know, because I have done this. In Heist, BTON. Which isn't there anymore. Presumably because those not as adventurous as I gave up trying to flush and it's now become a sewer tour.

But honestly ladies. It is neither brain science nor rocket surgery. Flush the pain away.

The amount of times I've seen a lass in nightclub loos turn her nose up, wincing at - gasp! - the sight of a bit of blimmin' bog roll curled up in a toilet bowl like a ghost snake (Ghost Snake, coming to a cinema near you). "Not using that one!" she'll sanctimoniously screech. All the other girls give the Ghost Snake a wide berth, envisaging the toilet from Trainspotting with the Loch Ness Monster rising from it. (Must be all the drugs they're on).

Except for me. I calmly go in, sigh, and flush. That's all there is to it.

There does seem to be a competition between women, and I've noticed this in various workplaces too when it concerns desk cleanliness, about who can appear to be the most disgusted by a bit of dirt. We've become a nation of wusses. When I think some of these women have babies whose bums they've wiped, who've regurgitated food all down their clothes, whose snot they've sucked, it does baffle me why excretions and their accompanying accessories which can so easily be removed at the touch of a button can cause so much offence.

And so I don't cause offence by saying "man up", I'll settle for "bog off" instead.