Why Bother?

I think the Summer really makes my social skills deteriorate. Not seeing people as regularly as I would when college is going, it just seems to render me a bit ‘rusty’ with social interaction - with embarrassing consequences.

Last week I was heading off on my break from work. I strolled out into the village and heard some commotion. Up the road there was a group of pre-teens, all wearing the same t-shirt, which had something about Jesus on it. There were two big speakers pumping out music. A man with a clipboard seemed to be in charge of them all. They were standing around seemingly chatting and stuff, so I assumed they were still in the preparation stage of whatever they were doing.

On the other side of the road was a bus stop, with a lot of people standing, watching this group of kids, wondering what they were up to.

I’m walking towards the group of kids, trying to figure out what they’re doing, and if it’ll be alright if I pass through them.

Hoping I wouldn’t get harassed or anything.

As I get to them, I noticed they’d started arranging themselves in a formation. Like, five of them in a line at the back, then another four in front of them, and three at the front. I still can’t figure out what they’re doing, and nobody has tried to talk to me (though I did have earphones in), so I assumed everything was fine and I could walk through them unharmed.

Natural assumption like.

It was an incorrect assumption.

The very second I stepped into the gang, to pass through, they BROKE OUT INTO A FUCKING DANCE ROUTINE.

What are the chances?

If they’d started dancing even just a second sooner, I’d have been able to stop and go a different way.

But no.

I manage to time it so perfectly that I step in, they begin dancing, and I have no choice but to continue walking, interrupting a dance routine like a massive square.

A dance routine for Jesus, too. I crashed a Jesus dance.

To an onlooker (of which there were many, across the road), it could have looked like I was the group’s cue to commence dancing - if it weren’t for the fact that I was in work clothes, was considerably taller than all the children trying to dance around me, and was looking embarrassed and trying to get away from the scene as quickly as possible.

Anyway, I tried to recover from my unwilling debut into street dancing, and head to my destination - a little park down the road from work. It’s really nice, and always has lots of people walking with their kids and dogs and that. I go to this little bench that’s about a ten minute walk into the park. I plan to sit, eat some food, listen to the iPod, and head back. Lovely.

I get to the place with the bench.

The bench is no longer there.

I considered walking further on to try find another bench - but what if there wasn’t any more? I’d just be getting further and further away, on a wild goose chase.

My thoughts became angry. Anger fuelled by my own embarrassment.

Why the fuck was the bench moved?

They can’t just move benches without giving notice. There should have been a sign on the bench stating the imminent removal of the bench, so I, and any other bench-users, could prepare for it.

So I needed to turn around. Simply turn on my heel and walk back in the opposite direction again. But I felt weird about doing this.

There were a lot of people around. Some people standing chatting to other people they’d bumped into.

Lots of people.

People with eyes.

Eyes that could see me for the bench-less fool that I am.

So I took my phone out. I didn’t have a plan.

I considered faking a phone call, but then realised I’m not in a sitcom. So I just looked at my phone as if I’d gotten a surprising text message, slowed down my walking pace, furrowed my brow thoughtfully, and turned around.

So if anyone had been looking at me, they’d simply assume I’d received a text that stopped me in my tracks, and forced me to turn around.

Smooth.

I’m a regular James Bond, me.

A real cool cat.

A few days later in work, an ex-employee dropped in to say hello. She had stopped working there before I began, but we’d met once before, a good while ago. So we did the whole “Oh we’ve met before haven’t we?”. We’d both forgotten each others’ names, so we re-introduced ourselves.  All fine. A nice chat between me, her, and my co-worker.

Lovely.

Then, she has to go.

She says goodbye to me.

I say goodbye to her.

Then, my brain malfunctioned.

Because we’d introduced ourselves again earlier, I went to add a pleasant “nice to meet you” after my goodbye.

I began the sentence, then realised we’d met before, so it’d be a foolish thing to say.

So I stopped myself, but only after I’d uttered the first word - “nice”.

So the departing conversation went as follows:

Her: “See ya now Mark, all the best”

Me: “See ya [her name] … NICE!”

I just said the word ‘nice’ at her.

Is it possible she might just think I have a pleasant version of Tourette’s syndrome?

I can only hope.

At the end of my shift that evening, I was being collected.

I was going to be picked up in either a silver car, or a red car. I wasn’t sure which. Down the road was a silver car, with a man sitting in it, waiting.

Grand, there’s my lift.

I get to the car and went to open the door.

I then realised that it was not the car I expected.

Out of instinct, I bent down to look at the man sitting in the car.

Needless to say, it wasn’t who I expected.

So I raised my hand in apology and walked away.

This man was sitting innocently in his car, when some buffoon strolls up to the window and waves at him.

I waited for my lift, praying that it’d come in a silver car, so maybe the man would understand what had happened (he was sitting in the car still).

No.

The red car came.

I don’t know why I leave the house anymore.

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This Marilyn Monroe Quote

There’s a quote that’s pissing me right off lately. People having it on their facebook and joining fanpages for about it etc.

Here’s the quote:

“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”

Marilyn Monroe said that.

Marilyn Monroe.

This woman:

Look at her.

Look at Marilyn Monroe.

Marvel at her.

Actress, model, and singer. An acting career spanning across three decades.

I would quite happily cut off my hands and feet, and drag my bloodied stumps across a mile of broken glass, just for a chance to sniff Marilyn Monroe’s hair.

Marilyn Monroe could stab me in the chest and I’d still give away everything I have in the world to lick her foot.

So yes. She can be “selfish, impatient and insecure” and “hard to handle” all she wants.

She’d still be Marilyn Monroe.

This facebook page has nearly a million fans.

I’m pretty sure none of them are Marilyn Monroe.

This page is a gathering of people who want to justify themselves acting like a cunt.

Well fuck off.

“Deserve” you?

Good luck darling.

You’re not Marilyn Monroe.

On a related note, you’re not one of the girls off Sex And The City.

Lady Gaga? You’re not her either.

Chin up, though.

Maybe someday you could hope to be like someone from Coronation Street.

Now let’s all just be quiet and go to bed and keep warm under the duvet of our own collective mediocrity.

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A Good Deed

I recently decided to do a nice thing for a friend’s birthday.

A very good friend of mine, but he lives a good bit away from me. College brought us together. It’s his birthday during the Summer which is a bit rubbish, I think. I like my birthday being during the school year, and you get people being nice to you etc.

So I decided to get him something nice and post it down to him as a surprise.

What a lovely young man I am.

You’d love to have me as your mate/boyfriend/son/grandson, you would.

I decided on a book, as he does like readin’ an aul’ buke so he does.

I picked out a book online that I thought he’d love. Postage was expensive and I wanted it soon, so instead I decided I’d have to get the local bookshop to order it in especially. So I wrote the book title and author down, and nipped down to the shop.

I knew the lad working there from school.

He looked at the name of the book and searched for it on the computer. He asked if it was for college. I told him no, it’s a present for a mate.

He said he could order the book in, and it’d take a couple of days.

Grand.

I went home, feeling all nice.

A few days pass.

I return to the bookshop to see if it’s there yet.

I walk in and there’s three women working, and the guy I know. One girl in particular is very attractive. She was tanned. I decided that she was Spanish, and was just visiting for the Summer, but she had a friend who got her the job in the bookshop. She probably spoke very poor English, but this only made her cuter.

I didn’t actually get to speak to her at all, but there’s no harm in making up a backstory.

In all fairness, she was probably Irish, but just got some coupons in the newspaper for free fake tan.

A book shop is the exact kind of place Bus Girl would work in.

Anyway. I explain to an older woman there about me ordering the book, I hand her the piece of paper where I’ve written the name and author down (this was necessary to avoid having to spell out certain words/names, and then having complications where they mishear what letter you’ve said etc. It’s a fucking minefield, this sort of thing).

“Oh yes, it’s just came in today! It looks fabulous, we were hoping you wouldn’t come in for a while so we could flick through it. Weren’t we?”

She looks at the other girl working there.

“Oh yeah, it looks fabulous“.

I stand there smiling, and figuring I need to say something, I say “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it alright”.

Then the guy I know says “The question is, are you going to give it to him now?”

I’d forgotten I’d told him that it was for a friend. Now I’ve been exposed. The last sentence I’d said was obviously a lie.

The girl says “Oh it’s for someone else is it?”

I say it is, but I’m a big fan myself so I’ll probably flick through it a bit before giving it. (This was true)

Her: “Oh so you won’t be wanting me to wrap it up or anything?”

Me: “No no, that’s fine thanks.”

Her: “So you’re going to be getting some serious brownie points now?”

Me: “Oh yeah absolutely, I’d have to!”

Then we all have a jolly ol’ chortle, and I say goodbye, they say goodbye. I take one last longing glance at my Spanish senorita, as she’s putting away books in the corner, and take my leave.

All sounds good, doesn’t it?

Now.

Let’s revisit the situation in the knowledge that the book I was buying was called “Mozipedia”. It’s about The Smiths, but more specifically, their frontman - Morrissey - one of the biggest gay icons ever. According to this article, he’s number six in the top ten gay icons.

Right.

I’m especially ordering in a book about a huge gay icon, as a present for a male person.

But I’m a big fan myself.

Oh, and it’s going to earn me some “serious brownie points”.

I know now why my Spanish senorita was cowering in the corner, pretending to put books away. She was fighting back the tears. The tears of anguish that all the good ones are either gay or taken, or in my case, apparently - both.

Well that’s just fabulous.

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Greetings

Lately I’ve noticed myself fucking up on basic sayings a lot.

Simple things that should be the easiest part of any conversation - yet I manage to fuck them up.

For example, a casual greeting to a female shop assistant.

I intend to say “How’s it going?”, but right at the last minute I consider changing to a more suave “How’re ya doin’?”.

Naturally I blurt out a charming “HOW YOU GOING?”.

Ugh.

I recently took a semi-formal phone call. It got to a part where I had to take down information that they were going to call out to me.

They ask if I’ve got a pen.

I do, says I.

I then intend to tell them to “go ahead” or perhaps, “fire away”.

Obviously, I told them, in an enthusiastic manner, to “go away”.

The panic that flooded my mind right then was immense. Do I bother clearing up the situation and explaining what I’ve done, and hope they’ll find it charming in a Hugh Grant sort of way? Or do I just leave it and hope they didn’t hear what I’d said?

Impossible situation.

Also, saying goodbye to a mate.

Do I go with “See ya later” or “Take it easy”?

Of course not.

Either of those would be the parting words of a competent human being.

“TAKE IT LATER”.

It’s times like this I think about the people in this world who have really suffered, y’know?

The Jews in the Holocaust.

The workers and firefighters of 911.

The young men out there fighting for their countries in god knows where.

The mothers of these young men, worrying themselves to death about their children.

All the victims of natural disasters.

So many people that have suffered.

And I bet all of them could articulate an every day greeting without making a complete tit of themselves.

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What A World

It was a lovely day.

Really sunny.

I was sitting on a bench in the village, eating a sandwich and listening to my iPod.

Looking at all the people walking around. Everyone’s so much happier in the sun.

There were children with ice-creams.

Young scrawny men walking around topless, and wearing sunglasses that didn’t suit them at all.

Middle-aged couples out for a stroll. I imagined the husband asking the wife “are these shorts are too young for me?” but the wife insisted they weren’t, since the kids had bought them for him for Father’s Day, so he had better wear them. Dunnes Stores’ finest.

Hayfever sufferers rued their tingly noses and watery eyes.

Young girls showing off their legs, streaky fake-tan and all.

Pensioners out enjoying the Summer weather. Could be their last.

Lovely stuff.

Then I saw an obese girl unashamedly have a big ol’ sniff of her own armpit.

And I think to myself.

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Bus Girl

Ah, Bus Girl.

The girl you often see on the bus. You’ve never spoken to her. You don’t know anyone that knows her. You don’t know anything about her, except that you love her.

You hop on the bus home and sit upstairs, bored, and hope it doesn’t start raining before you get home.

Then she gets on.

Bus Girl.

In all her glory.

She sits upstairs, a few seats ahead of you. You always sit upstairs on the bus! You have so much in common!

She’s wearing her usual purple scarf.

Leather jacket?

Haven’t see that on her before. Suits her though. Everything suits Bus Girl.

Normal jeans - a girl next door sort of thing, y’know. You wouldn’t want Bus Girl wearing a short skirt or anything. She’s classier than that.

She always wears Converse shoes. Pink ones. They’re cute. Just like her. The cute little Bus Girl that she is.

You can’t see her face properly from where you’re sitting, but thankfully, as you look out the window, there’s a great shot of her in the reflection. Jackpot. Now you can pretend to be looking out the window. When really you’re pining.

She has earphones in. I bet she listens to the same music as you. You could go to gigs together. The kind of gigs you want to go to, but nobody else really knows the band, and you don’t fancy going alone.

She’d definitely knows some bands that you don’t though. And vice versa. So then you could make each other compilation CDs and everything.

She takes out a book and starts reading. She’s already half way through. She uses a bookmark to keep track of where she is in the book, instead of bending the pages like some people do. You don’t like bending the pages either! Made for each other.

She sneezes.

Just the one little sneeze.

My god that’s the cutest sneeze you ever did hear.

You’d marry that sneeze in a heartbeat.

She takes out her phone and sends a text.

Too far away to see what it said. Or if there were kisses at the end.

SHIT.

What if it was to her boyfriend?

There could be literally nothing worse in the history of the world than Bus Girl having a boyfriend.

She doesn’t have a boyfriend.

Bus Girl wouldn’t do that to you.

The text was to one of her parents. She’s just letting them know that she’ll be home for dinner soon.

She definitely doesn’t have a boyfriend.

She looks after her parents. And her little brother. She definitely has a little brother.

You could teach the little brother football skills and she’d watch and laugh and be impressed with your skills. Afterwards she’d tell you how adorable you were when you playing with the little brother.

Wonder if you should get the little brother a birthday present? She’d be really impressed if you did. And then him and the parents would really be on your side.

The mother would like you anyway, you’re polite and can eat anything she cooks for you so that’s grand. The father would be a bit surly but you’d win him over by knowing about football and cracking a couple of jokes. If he drinks Guinness then simply chat about places that do a good pint, and you’re sorted.

She’s taking out her phone again.

She reads it and puts it back in.

And there it is.

Clarification that she was just texting home.

Wonder if she’d make you change your Facebook status to “In A Relationship with Bus Girl”.

Wouldn’t really fancy that.

But if she insists.

Bet she does something cool in college.

Then she crosses her legs.

A real lady.

You wish you could see what she’s reading. Maybe it’s Catcher In The Rye - just like you’ve read. More likely though, it’s one of those books you wish you had read, but just have never gotten around to reading. She’s cool like that. Might have to brush up on your reading.

Maybe she’ll love your blog though.

She’ll find it really funny and think you’re really funny and girls love funny guys so therefore she loves you.

Shit, maybe you’re not ready for love.

What is love?

BABY DON’T HURT ME. DON’T HURT ME, NO MORE.

Right. You know she gets off at the same stop as you. She walks in the opposite direction, but still.

Except that time when she got off way before the stop. Wonder what that was about.

Say something to her. Crack a joke or something.

Then again, you’d probably make an idiot of yourself.

Don’t say anything to her, whatever you do, you massive fool.

God loves a trier though. And fortune favours the brave. And she’s not going to fall into your lap.

Come on, say something to her. It’ll be like the films.

Then in years to come you can make jokes about Dublin Bus bringing you together.

You both head downstairs as you near your stop.

You allow her to get off before you, with a “Ladies first” and a smile. She thanks you. And smiles.

After you get off she stops you and says “Is that The Smiths?”

Your iPod.

You took out the earphones to thank the driver (and try to flirt with Bus Girl) but left the music playing rather loudly. Clear for all to hear. And yes, you were listening to The Smiths.

You confirm that she’s correct. She gets quite animated and begins chatting away freely to you about how much she loves them.

And then you take her phone number.

Naaaaah.

You both went downstairs on the bus.

You took out an earphone and tried to say a suave “Ladies first”, but you hadn’t spoken for ages, and your throat had gone all funny and needed to be cleared.

So your charming “Ladies first” turned into a guttural “ladglarpi”. She looked at you with disinterested confusion just as the song on your iPod changed to some dogshit song by The Kooks.

She got off the bus and leapt into the arms of her troglodyte, mouth-breathing, illiterate, nose-picking boyfriend. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says “If found please return to pub” and there’s a ketchup stain on it. And on his tracksuit bottoms.

Ah, Bus Girl - the dozy fucking cunt.

Fine. They can go home and watch Jeremy Kyle together for the rest of their lives, feeding their idiot children icepops for dinner and having unloving, hairy sex, that gets interrupted with his growl of “Shite, I need a piss”.

I bet she was listening to some dance music shite.

And reading Ross O’Carroll Kelly.

And who the fuck wears pink Converse?

What is she, twelve?

Grow up you silly bint.

So you walk home and listen to this song and think about that girl that served you in the shop earlier.

Ah, Shop Girl.

You’re so much better than Bus Girl.

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Re: Old Man Walsho

A little addition to this post.

Another problem arises with women.

Back in school you knew all the girls in your year, and they were acceptable targets. The year below was okay too.

Generally in school there’s a two-year rule. Nice little rhyme there.

After school, this becomes “half your age, plus seven”. So a twenty year old can go for a seventeen year old, at the youngest.

So now, you’re older, and especially in Summer, you see the young wans slutting around the place.

And your brain tells you they’re too young for you.

But their boobs tell a different story.

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Old Man Walsho

I know I’ve touched on this before, but I really am getting old.

Lately whenever I eat a big meal, I get incredibly sleepy. It’s like when you had old relatives over at Christmas and they fell asleep after dinner. At like 5pm.

I’m very out of touch with stuff that’s going on.

Up until very recently I thought “Dubstep” was a band. Turns out it’s a whole genre of music. I’m really glad I didn’t find that out at the wrong time. Imagine I was trying to chat up a girl and she asked if I like Dubstep and I was all like “Oh yeah, their latest album is really good. Though I prefer their older stuff to be honest.”

And don’t even get me started on that band “Rock”.

In a similar vein, I’d seen a few mentions online of Gypsies On The Autobahn. I genuinely believed this was a load of gypsies after setting up camp on the Autobahn. Didn’t some gypsies live on an Irish motorway for a while?

Anyway, Gypsies on the Autobahn are a band. Not a current affair.

The Hills. Glee. Jersey Shore. I do not know what these fucking things are.

Justin Bieber is a person of some sort. He is male. That is all I know.

iPhones frighten me with how much they can do. Matter of time before there’s a mind-reading app.

I recently got in a bad mood because I couldn’t find any matching socks. This mood culminated in a mental rant about how socks are a scam, and that when I have kids I’ll only ever buy them plain black socks, so there’ll never be an issue with matching. Fucked if I’m buying my own socks yet though.

Facebook has countless things that confuse my poor pensioner mind. What’s with all these turban groups? At first I thought it was funny simply because it’s a bit weird. But now there’s so many different groups about turbans. One of them says to type a big long number into your phone as a text, and when you do, it spells “I love turbans”. I don’t understand why this is good in any way at all. Turbans do actually exist like. Some people do wear them. It’s not that outrageous a concept. Am I missing something? Did Justin Beiber appear in Glee and do a dance wearing a turban?

I also saw a group about poking people’s tongues when they yawn. The type of person who’d do such a thing is EXACTLY the type of person you’d least want touching you. If they go shoving their fingers in people’s mouths willy nilly, lord knows what they’re doing when they’re alone. If they can’t help but seize the opportunity to shove their finger into your mouth when it’s open, what happens when they walk by a stray cat? Or any animal with an anus for that matter.

I also don’t understand why club nights these days are all named after bad things - “PROPAGANDA”, “WAR”, “BLASPHEMY” and finally, “CUNT”.

These names just make me feel nervous and intimidated.

“Hey Mark, wanna go to WAR tonight?”

“Yo Walsho, fancy heading to PROPAGANDA this weekend?”

“Sup M-Dawg, we’re all going to GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM tonight. Fancy it?”

“M-to-the-A-to-the-R-to-the K, we’re just heading for a few pints in YOUR MOTHER’S BLOODIED VAGINA. You stallin’?”

Why can’t they be called nice things. Like “Picnics”, “Camaraderie” or “Harmless Flirting”?

I’d go to those.

I’ve also noticed (mainly from creeping on Facebook pictures) that some nights out now have a novelty guest of a snake. Obviously it’s not set loose but still, it’s a snake! A snake!

Why on earth would anyone want a fucking snake around them during a night out?

I think from now on I’ll stay at home in my duvet. And quiver with fear of everything until I fall asleep.

On a lighter note though, I was in the newspaper the other day. Check it out:

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First Impressions

I walked into a party not too long ago.

Strolled into the room where people were putting their bags and jackets/jumpers etc.

There was a girl sitting on the bed. Never seen or met her before. I think she lived there, but wasn’t sure, as I only knew one of the people living there (a few girls shared the place). I’ve got an empty bottle of beer in my hand.

“Is it okay if I put this bottle somewhere here?”

“Yeah no problem, just put that wherever you want.”

“Alright calm down love, we haven’t even been introduced yet.”

Some may consider that a risky reply to make to someone I’d never even met before.

Well that girl is now my girlfriend, and we couldn’t be happier.

So there.

Not really.

She looked at me with disgust and we didn’t speak again all night.

Worth it.

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Mild Misadventures

Yesterday was a very sunny day. Lately though it’s been very sunny at times, and then out you stride, in your t-shirt, sunglasses, and speedo, and then the rain comes a-pouring. I’ve learned it’s not worth the risk of wearing summer clothes.

So yesterday I had several things to do. Several simple things.

1. Go to the post office to post something.

2. Go to the bookies to collect winnings.

3. Buy beer with these winnings.

So off I go, around 2pm, to the post office. Wearing a jumper.

It was much hotter than I thought. Not to worry sure.

There was a woman in the garden a few houses down from me. She looked familiar, but I didn’t quite know if she lived there, or was just a friend of the person who lived there. I said an awkward hello just in case. I got a confused, mumbled reply. I don’t think she lives there.

So I get to the post office, about five minutes from my house, and I’m genuinely sweating. It really was roasting.

The woman working there was away from the counter. I hate this shit. How do I get her attention without being a knob? Clearing your throat can seem rude. You can take the risk of saying “excuse me” but you really have to get the tone right. If it comes out wrong, you could be facing a snappy response and angry service. And angry service leaves you pissed off for hours after.

Anyway, it all worked out in the end.

To the bookies!

Actually, no.

I’ve forgotten the betting slip.

Back home.

The neighbour-but-not-neighbour woman was there again. I figured I’d already committed to saying hello, so I did it again, except gave a little wave this time. She nodded in return. Yep, she does NOT live there.

Got the slip and went to the bookies. Collected my money. Next to the bookies is a newsagent. In this newsagent they sell World Cup Stickers, which myself and a few friends have begun collecting, to relive our childhoods. I recommend collecting them. It’s class.

The only downside is that it can be embarrassing buying the stickers. I usually try to march up the counter confidently and buy them, in a “nothing to hide” sort of way. This was my plan of action yesterday.

I strode up the counter where they usually have them. The woman working there sees me doing this and paints on a smile, probably expecting me to ask for cigarettes or phone credit or something. Just as I get to the counter I see the stickers aren’t there. I panic and veer off. This confused the woman.

I pretended to be interested in some A4 pads in the corner of the shop for a while, before leaving. As I’m leaving I stop to look at the beer, to see if the deals can match Tesco. They can’t. Just as I’m heading to the door, I see the stickers. They’re now in the middle of the sweets.

Fuck it. I’m getting the stickers.

So I bought them. So it looked like I walked in, pretended to look at stationary and alcohol in an attempt to conceal the fact that I only wanted to buy stickers.

Oh, the stationary isn’t quite up to my standard. Oh, the alcohol section! Mmm, I do like drinking lots of alcohol with my chums. Such merriment we have! Oh, I could tell you a story or two about our high-jinks. Sadly this alcohol doesn’t quite seem to be wild enough for me. If only I could purchase some drugs, such as cocaine. That’s a favourite of mine. The old cocaine. I know, I know, it’s dangerous, but oh, I just love taking risks! So no stationary or alcohol for me here. I’ll just purchases these, eh, world cup stickers then.

Finally, I left. Red-faced. Outside there was a guy with a clipboard and a Concern top on. You know the lads that stop you for a chat and try get a donation thing set up. I try to be polite when declining their offer of a chat.

I’m about to pass him so decide in my head to just say “sorry” as I go by. Had it all planned. Fool proof.

So as I pass, I make eye contact and say “sorry”. Before I got it out though, he gave me a disinterested “howaya”.

Safe to say that wasn’t my finest conversation.

- Howaya?

- SORRY

Why the fuck did I choose to say sorry? What sort of fucking idiot am I? Maybe if I’d followed it up with “I’m in a hurry” or something. But no. A big, lonely, nonsensical, sorry.

Sorry is a great word though. Keep thinking about it there. It doesn’t seem like a word anymore.

Now, to buy the beer. Hopefully without stopping to wave at an empty car or apologise to a bush or something. Like a big idiot. A big, apologising, sticker-buying, idiot.

“Sorry”. Jesus Christ.

I get to Tesco and pick up a big box of beer. I walk to the self-service counter. This is a less painful way to buy. I feel shame when buying a box of beer in the afternoon of a weekday.

I was waiting for ages at the self-service. A little boy was buying sweets and paying in coppers. He took an age to take each coin out of his little coin bag and place it in the machine. Then he’d gawk at the screen for a while before deciding to put more money in.

Sometimes children are cute and their actions can be explained simply by the fact that they’re children. This little boy was just thick.

Finally, he finishes. I scan my beer, and it has to get approved. So I call the woman over.

She starts approving it, then stops and looks at me and asks for ID.

I give her ID.

She looks at me more.

I now became aware of how much I was sweating.

WHY THE FUCK DID I WEAR A DAMN JUMPER?

Still, she looked at me quite inquisitively.

Perhaps she thought I was actually underage, using someone else’s ID, and was sweating with the nerves.

Or maybe she thought I was the disgusting sweating pig who wears a jumper on a swelteringly hot day.

On the walk home I passed many children being walked home by their parents. I felt shame at carrying a big box of beer in the afternoon.

When I got home I looked in the mirror and there was a greenfly in the fringe of my hair. Strolling around in there. In the fringe of my sweat-matted hair.

I wonder how long he’d been there? Was that why the Tesco woman looked at me funny? She probably thought about telling me it was there but decided it wasn’t worth the awkwardness. Or maybe she thought I kept it as a little pet.

Anyway, I’m thinking Al Pacino to play me in the film adaptation.

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