The World As It Is To Me

I was running.

…Well, not so much running, more a gentle stroll.

I guess…if, I’m being totally honest, I was skipping.

Not physically, I should add. I was just skipping through my thoughts. After all, I was 27 years old, and my skipping was for my eyes only. For some reason, if, people see a 27 year old man skipping through the streets they automatically make their own assumptions up about him.

I guess, looking back over my last 27 year, I’ve never really made the best first impression. Mainly, I assume, because people introduce me as ‘this is, Stuart, he’s that guy that insulted a woman in a wheelchair, ejaculated while thinking of a seven year old boy, and kneed a child in the face.’ Then again, scrapping the mind puddles from my mind, that can’t be any worse than some people introductions.

“Hello, Eva, lovely to see you. Who’s this strapping lad?”

“Mum, this is my new boyfriend. He’s murdered lots of Jew’s, destroyed millions of life’s, and has ruined the name Adolf forever.”

It’s the greeting I often suffer from. I’ve noticed, after spending much more time with BoldTextGirl, that a greeting has a lasting effect. The very first time I met her, BoldTextGirl that is, I shock her hand. I’d been speaking to her on facebook and text’s for three weeks, or so, before we met. We knew each other pretty well, via the modern medium of texts, that our first meeting was not awkward and boring. Via the hundreds of texts we had sent each other, the conversation never faulted. Then, in the last few months we have started to meet each other’s friends and family. Now, I always thought that a good firm handshake was for the man, and for the woman normally a slight nod, and if feeling adventurous a cheeky hug…if you’re feeling ultra adventurous feel free to pull out a sexual organ, either one of their’s or one of your own.

I tried; I really did, to make a good first impression. To make that first impression, on someone, last so well, that any mistakes you make during your time with them turn weak and feeble because they remember the first time you met them. How nice you were, how funny you were, how you complemented them, how you were honest, and how you seemed like the nicest person in the world, who would comfort and look after them no matter what. Then again, for me, I was happy if I just got a ‘he seems alright.’

“What did you think of Stuart?”

“What the guy who winked at a doctor? The chap who got a girl to rub his penis because they thought he was gay? The man who head butted a teenage girl? The gentlemen who fucked a woman that looked like Alice Cooper? The lad who assumed a woman took drugs, and even claimed ‘I bloody love drugs?’ The male who said he ‘had cancer’ to a man in a wheelchair to shut him up? The geezer who did the ‘windmill’ then passed out? Him, that Stuart Clarke?”

“…Yeah.”

“Meh, he, seems alright.”

I wasn’t though. I wasn’t alright. I hadn’t been alright for ages. The fact that the greeting ‘hello,’ has been changed to ‘alright’ in more a question form pushed down the tickles of my mind to remind myself I wasn’t alright. How could I be? After everything I done, or did, how could I be alright? Normal people don’t say they ‘have cancer’ to a man in a wheelchair, just to shut him up. Normal people, people who are actually ‘alright’ would calmly say ‘Excuse me, I don’t like how you’re talking to me. I’ll listen to your views, but I can’t talk to you when you’re being so rude.’ That’s how a sensible person reacts, not, ‘Actually I do, I have cancer.’

“Meh, he, seems alright,” they’d say.

“Well,” I’d say as I pull of my Neil Armstrong mask, “I’m Stuart, and the truth is…the truth is, I’m not alright.”

“…I really thought you were Neil Armstrong, there. I was going to ask ‘where are you now?’ What a waste of time…do you know what he is up to, by chance?”

“Yeah…I remember I looked in to it a year or so back. He’s fine….at least someone is.”

****************************************

THE EX- a.k.a Denise

Denise started all this. The moment she broke up with me after seven years together. I look back, over three aspects of my time knowing her.

1- Going out- I think looking back now I can see the signs, the markings, the mumbles of me and her not working. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her, I did. I guess when you’re with someone, who you love, then you don’t see the signs as well as that person you love, who doesn’t love you anymore. We did, however, have fun.

2- The break up- I was upset. My whole life was on a rug, and she pulled it right from under my feet. Unaware to her, or maybe she knew from the word ‘go,’ I, to, was standing on that rug when she gave it the largest of tugs.

3- A year or so on- Here I’am. Better off for not being with her anymore. I feel happier, more alive, and have that youthful bounce back. I heard she is engaged to her new fella, and while I don’t partially care about her, or have any feeling for her, or remotely upset I’m not with her, I do hope she’s happy.

I should, as well, get round to thanking her sometime. Thank her for letting me go, and me moving on to better things. I would, if only I could remember her face.

********************************************

“Stuart, sit down, how are you,” my local doctor said, shaking my hand? I was glad he was shaking my hand now, as I don’t think I’d want to be shaking it after he is done with me.

“I’m very well thanking you,” I said sitting down. The chair was without doubt one of the most comfortable chairs I have ever sat on. It’s long black back, and bottom area, was covered in leather. It looked new, as well, and it seemed that no expensive was spared in the making, or buying, of this chair. I sat back, and did a gentle rock. I could sit here for hours, and just spin around. I took a glance at the chair in front of me, some wooden chair, which looked like it had seen better days. Why anyone would want to sit in that chair, was beyond me?

Then it dawned on me. I was sitting in his chair. Dr Moore turned around from shutting the door and saw me sitting in his chair. His luxury well spent chair. The chair he had probably been given for serving so many years at the surgery. The amount of willies, fannies, bums, boobs, blood, scar, tissue, and bladder infections, he had seen, had earnt him this chair. What had I done, hey, aside from helping customers locate cheese, and throat punching a Down’s syndrome boy? I hadn’t earnt this chair. This was the chair of a man of great experience, and gentle fingering of the prostate gland. This was not a chair for me. The chair, the wooden one in front of me with the cushion half torn, was the one for me. That was the chair of someone who had spray tanned one of his bum cheeks. The tan I would have to explain to the owner of the most comfortable chair ever* and try and justify it in some way.

*I was referring to Dr Moore, as the owner of the most comfortable chair in the world. Dr Moore has a more engaging presence in this story; where as Dave Adams is, in fact, the owner of the most comfortable chair in the world. Dave Adams (who I used to work with years back), aside from being the most racist and offensive person I’ve ever known, does own a green lazy boy chair. Now, it’s horrible to look at. It’s like the Hulk has done a massive shit on a chair. To sit on, though, ‘wow.’ I came away, after sitting on that green chair, feeling four years younger, and that my arse has been moulded in to the perfect shape ever. I never liked Dave, and only went around his house the once to drop his sister back home. His sister, you may remember as being called I’ am Number Four. We never had sex on that lazy boy chair, but not a day goes by when I don’t wish we had.*

*Obviously I also wish for world peace, and for children with AID’s to get better…but, if I’m honest, not having sex on that lazy boy chair just pinches it’s way to the top.

*************************************

My Perfect Weekend Girl- a.k.a Laura

I have one massive thing to thank Laura for. The first part was re entering my life. I sort of knew her, years ago, but not really as friends. Then randomly one night on facebook we had a massive catch up and chat. Then, well, you know the rest.

What I have to thank her for, is for making me feel something for another woman again. We met, mainly, on weekends and she was perfect in making me better. She was funny, intelligent, and sexy, allowed me to enter her in a sexual way, and cared for me. When I split up with The Ex, I really had no idea what I was going to do. I sort of floated around for a bit, and convinced I’d never love someone again. I guess, at the time, I really thought me and Laura would be an item. I got so carried away in the moment, that ideas of going travelling with her felt real. Alas, I stayed and she went. I still talk to her, via e-mails, and we keep updated in each other’s life. I really don’t know when, or if, I’ll see her again, but the odd e-mail and update fits perfectly with both of us. She is dating a Scottish man named Andrew, and she seems really happy. They are going on a trek around America soon, and I hope America enjoys her. I remember when she came back, from travelling, and we ended up sleeping together again, she told me she wants to see everything the world has to offer.

I generally hope she fulfils that dream.

**************************************************

You were playing more and more on my mind. After you said you wanted us to be official, I knew I was a fool to take another step back. I loved you, and being with you made me happier then anything. I’d have day dreams, the sort that lingers in your thoughts while the whole world and its serious issues pass me by.

I have the thoughts of us growing old, and being that cute old couple that still hold hands, and giggle as the world passes them by.

I wanted you and me to be together. Not just as a proper couple, I mean, we were basically that anyway, but a couple that would stand the test of times. The biggest test, though, would be if you went to Sweden to work. I’d already told you that I ‘wanted you to stay,’ and that ‘I loved you.’ I knew, however, this had to be your choice.

I’d dealt with shame, heartbreak, and lose over the last year. I knew I had learnt enough with all that, to make me a better person. A better boyfriend.

The fact was, you were going away, and I didn’t think I was good enough. I wasn’t ‘alright,’ and I sure as hell was good enough to be your boyfriend.

I like how we are now, and perhaps making it official would scrape away that magic.

I was just making excuses. Honestly, it just came back to me. I was blaming myself for something I hadn’t even done. I was blaming myself for ruining your life.

***********************************

Dr Moore started walking towards the desk, and towards where I was sitting. ‘Do I just get up and swap seats,’ I thought? Maybe he wanted me to sit in this seat? Maybe the whole idea was the patient sits in the luxury seat, and they feel more relaxed about seeing, and talking, to their doctor. I met his eyes, as he walked across. This was the moment; this was the moment where I had to make a decision about what to do. Will he be angry I was in his seat, or would it not bother him? Would insert his entire fist up my anus, while doing the prostrate exam? ‘NO ONE SITS IN THE MOORE’S CHAIR,’ He’d cry out!

I didn’t fancy looking to deep in to eyes.

Everyone had their top blog story. Lots of the readers, of this blog, loved the Martin Luther King story, lots liked the Red Bull era, and many adore the BoldTextGirl story, and so on. The one everyone agrees on liking the most is the time I winked at the doctor. For weeks, and weeks, after the event I woke up thinking about it. It was awful.

The way he rolled his chair back after doing a testicle examination, and just before he asked me to bed over the bed for a prostrate exam, he looked up, our eyes met and for some reason I winked at him.

“Am I in your chair?”

“Yes,” Doctor Moore said, very stern. I looked at the ground, and, then started to get out of the chair. I felt his hand on my arm and he pushed me back in the chair. “Stay there, Stuart, you won’t be in it that long.” I didn’t know what he meant. I’m sure he just meant ‘be fine, we’ll be doing exam soon,’ but he made it sound so nasty. Maybe he did remember ‘the wink.’

“So, Stuart, how have things been in the last year? Last time I saw you, was at Mike and Karens house.”

“…Oh yeah,” I said. It suddenly came back to me. That night in September. That night I went to a party and make a joke at a woman in a wheelchair, brought up the fact her dad had been killed, and then finished it off by asking if she ‘needed a push.’ I did a fake grin, “That was a fun night.”

He paused, and looked at his notes. “So health wise, you’ve been okay?” Why had he just moved on? Why bring up the fact that the last time him and me met was at Mike and Karen’s party, and then not mention it again? Did he even know I insulted the woman in the wheelchair?

“Did you not have a good time?”

“At Mike and Karen’s? Yeah…” His voice trailed off. “Just my wife got really drunk and vomited in the punch bowl.”

***************************************

Martin Luther King- a.k.a Gemma what can I say, that I haven’t said already? If ever a spin off, from this blog, were to happen, then it would have to have her as the main character. Gemma is easy to love. She is beautiful, has long blonde hair, short, and has a dirty Sid James laugh. While we never had sex, due to either getting so drunk we’d both pass out in bed, or I’d say the faithful line ‘when I’m ready I’ll give you a call,’ our attraction for each other shone through. The dry humping and the playful banter were, for a time, amazing. Her gay boyfriend, her Italy dreams, and her crazy antics made my life more complicated, yet more amazing.

We shared each other’s deep dark secrets, and I think we both loved each other. We were meant to just be friends, and loving each other just as friends was all we could be. She’s in Italy now, and while my life is a lot quieter now, I know we have both gone our separate ways. For a few months we were the best of friends, and while our paths may not cross for a very long time, I know that both of us during that short time needed someone to share their lives, thoughts and secrets with.

I’m glad I was that someone for her, and that she was that someone for me.

**************************************************

“You remind me of my son best friend,” replied Carol. Carol was beautiful. An older woman, but in her skirt and shirt she looked like someone who needed to see me naked, but, alas she did not look like someone who was ready to move aboard like everyone else whose seen me naked.

“Do I,” I said with a grin? “Attractive bloke then,” I said making a joke, but deep down hoping she wasn’t going to play her next sentence of like it was a joke.

She laughed, “Bit too young for me, but he has a twinkle.”

‘Twinkle’, I questioned in my head, I hope that doesn’t mean something bad. “How old is he?”

“17. His name is Mike. You look just like him, though you look older. You act a little like him to,” Carol was a rep for Sainsbury’s, and it was her first time at the Sainsbury’s I work in. With any luck, I now think, it will be her last time as well.

She was stood down the yogurt aisle looking to make sure everything was in the right place, and somehow I got talking to her. She seemed very concerned about the, fact, the Sainsbury’s own brand strawberry pots were too close to the Yeo Valley Organic pots. I was less concerned. Mainly because I didn’t care enough.

Skeletor had left. His fight with the Big Bad had ended. He was transferred to another store to serve his time. No goodbyes and no last words. With Skeletor gone, the Big Bad had softened slightly, and was less stress filled. While the big battle, that was span a lifetime, was not happening, I was still working out a way to get rid of him. ‘I would’, I thought, I always have a plan in the end.

I found Skeletors badge, the other day, lying on my desk. I thought about throwing it away, but instead stuck a security sticker on the back of it, and pinned it to the inside of the Big Bad’s coat, when he’d left it in the canteen.

Watching him leave, and the alarms going off, and the security’s guards trying to work out what he had stolen, made my day. Perhaps, I thought, it’s not about the big battles. Maybe it’s not about winning or losing, or always getting what you want. Maybe it’s just about being in a certain place, at a certain time, and just being a part of…stuff.

It must be the writer in me, the part of me that makes situations ‘bigger,’ and more ‘dramatic,’ that makes me see things differently from everyone else. I mean, come on, some of these blogs are just about me having a massive wank…when really it was a mediocre wank, and it was over quicker then it took me to just write the title to that particular blog.

I need to concentrate on the smaller things in life, I think. Just to be able to appreciate the larger scale of where they come from.

“Ah, okay,” I replied to Carol, “At school, is he?”

“Well he has autism, so he goes to a special collage, but yeah.”

I didn’t even say ‘goodbye,’ I just walked away. Walked away looking, and acting, like a seventeen year old boy with autism. Just you wait Carol. I’ll fight you to the bitter death; I’ll burn your family, and destroy your world. I’m Stuart Clarke, and I can do anything!

I’ll start with the little battle’s tomorrow, today was about bringing down Carol. Bringing it all down around her!

************************************************

It was Easter Sunday. I had just got back from work, and picked you up on route. We laid in bed, kissing, taking each other’s clothes of, and then having sex. I enjoyed being close to you, and while we lay in bed for ages, after, now dressed in our pyjamas a thought slipped over my mind.

‘I loved you, and wanted you as my girlfriend. I wanted us to be to grow old together.’

I rolled us around, so my body hung loose on yours, and my head on your chest. Toy Story was playing on the TV. I looked up at you, in to your beautiful eyes, and I knew that if I asked you the question, the oldest question in the world, your answer would depend on how happy my blog ends.

A chapter of my life was coming to an end, and a new one was starting. Your answer depended on if the new chapter would have you by my side, more so then just as friends who touch each other naked, and are basically dating…but, not dating…bla bla bla(!).

“This is awkward, so let’s make it painless,” I said with a grin. “Would you like to be my girlfriend?”

A beaming smile lit up your face, that gorgeous face that would look so smug and content while it lay in bed with me on a morning.

Then…

She started her answer, with, “but you said you didn’t want to.”

**************************************************

ALICE COOPER- a.k.a Angerla. I still remember that day. That morning. Waking up fully clothed in bed with Angela. She was stark naked, and the morning light did her no favours. She was tall, very skinny, and had a huge amount of make up on. I crept out the room, and left her to it. My memory, and her reminding, is of me going down on her and then passing out due to high number of beers I’d had. A month or so later I’d go back to the pub she worked in, and I’d jumped out of that faithful morning, and end up being cold stone sober and having sex with her. Fast, horrible, quick sex.

She lives in Cornwall now, and for what I know, she seems happy. She lives with her two children and they run a hotel together.

“I’m surprised, most of them stay,’ is a line that will haunt me forever.

***************************************************

“Right, let’s start the lower part of the body, examination, shall we?”

“Before I take my trousers of, you should know something?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve spray tanned my arse…or at least one cheek of it. Look,” I pulled my trouser leg up to reveal my tanned marking there, “look how pale my skin it compared to that marking.”

“…Why have you done this?”

“I thought it’d be funny.” As it turns out, he to, thought it was funny. There I was, bent over the doctor’s bed, in his surgery; with my trousers and boxer shorts around my ankles, and all I can hear as he inserts his finger in my anus is his laughter. Solid, gold, laughter. Del-Boy hadn’t fallen through the bar, and Basil was not trying to mention the war, but both those first time reactions you have when you see them sounded like, combined, his reaction of seeing my one cheek white, and one cheek spray tanned bum.

I don’t normally like it when people laugh at me when I’m naked. Though on this occasion I’ll let him of.

I heard his surgery phone ring, I wondered if it was Sanji. I hoped it was. I hoped he was okay.

*************************************

CAPTIAN JACK- a.k.a Sara I met Sara on a night out in Sudbury. She was a fraction older than me, a she sounded Greek. She and I would often meet up for sex, sex, and more sex. Nothing else was meant to happen between us, and while her seven year old son played in my head one time during sex, and her gay roommate stopped us mid flow, and Ian the cat distracted me from the job at hand, we did have a great chemistry.

I did find it very difficult to have that relationship with her though. Don’t get me wrong she was a lovely woman, and very interesting (though maybe she was very interesting because I didn’t actually know that much about her, hence making her more so), I was just starting to realise that having sex, and nothing else, with someone was meanliness. I was starting to feel hollow, and my insides would feel wasted. I had a heart, and I needed to find someone I loved, and cared for, before I had sex again.

She was a lovely woman though, and I really hope she has found that special someone who just wants to fuck her, or she’s found someone she has fallen for.

*******************************

“Yeah, alright then,” BoldTextGirl said with a smile. We kissed, and a smile spread across both our faces.

“Shake on it,” I asked?

“Shake what?”

“My hand.”

I started this blog, and now it has to finish. I just feel it’s come to a natural end, after four seasons. I feel, now, that I can move on (and away from it). I had reached that point where I fully understand that there is much more in my life to come, some funny, some shameful, some silly, some heartbreaking, but I feel now they have to be my stories. Just mine.

I got my first follower after my second blog. Now, as I write this, the 100th post, I’ve gained 9,789 followers.

Daily I receive, on average 50-80 messages from you guys. Some full of warmth, some just asking when the next blog is, some full of support, some in disgust, some annoyed, and some just saying ‘hi.’

I’ve actually met some of you, and it’s been a delight. Maybe, just one day I’ll try and meet you all.

I hope so.

You all sound amazing.

And, I’m sure, you all have your own amazing stories

Thank you.

********************************************************

BoldTextGirl- a.k.a Emily a.k.a my girlfriend

A Classic Clarke, it seems, refers to me making a mistake. Be it getting a word wrong in a sentence, or heading butting a teenage girl. Mainly all mistakes are awful.

Though when I spoke to a girl, while very drunk, then Facebooked who I thought was her to say ‘sorry,’ but getting the wrong girl and in fact getting Emily.

That Classic Clarke, that stupid mistake, made me find a girl who nine months later would officially be my girlfriend.

I’ve never met anyone quite like her, and never been so happy around someone.

I don’t know what it was in my head that clicked. There was something, though, that made me know I was good enough for her. I can’t explain it. Knowing that she loved me, meant everything, and as dreams of us growing old together got closer and closer I started to feel happier, and better about myself.

We were now that couple, me and her used to mock. We were loved up, hand holding, and smug.

I didn’t care though.

I was happy.

I loved her. For someone who never finds the right words, or gets things wrong on a regular basis, telling her ‘I loved her’ was the easiest thing in the world.

****************************************

It seems I had come so very far, in the last year.

It started with all the jigsaw pieces, of my life, thrown all over the place, then, bit by bit I’ve re found them, and placed them in the right place. There was just one last piece to slot in to the puzzle.

This blog.

*****************************************

So, here I was, sitting at my desk, in my room, typing away on my laptop. Typing the final words to a story I never saw finishing. A tear fell down my cheek, as I began writing this. For the last year I’ve been writing this blog, and now, it just feels like the best, and right, time to bring it to an end.

As I typed away a final thought, regarding this blog formed in my head.

Could I really give all this up? There was still so much to say, and more then likely so much to talk about the in the future. There were stories I still hadn’t even mentioned. Like when I got suspended from work, when the D.F.S sofa man fell asleep on my sofa, how I walked to my mum’s house naked, when I passed out during sex with an ex, how a meeting with the BBC ended with me knocking a cup of tea all over the Head Of Entertainments lap, and, so on.

Unfinshed stories that I have started, in this blog. What will happen to The Big Bad? Will I see any of my past again? Will I leave my job? Will I ever go bike riding again? How does having a girlfriend change me? Will Emily go to Sweden? And so on…

Then there’s my whole life in front of me, filled (maybe) with moving in to a new house, getting a new job, being in that job and the people I’ll meet. What about getting married, how did I propose, what crazy antics did I get up to on my stag night, and where did I go on my honeymoon? Children! Having children and how I react to having to be responsible! Then, growing older, and see those children grow up to have their own children, and so on.

Life goes on. For some, though, not for long enough.

Maybe I should carry this on, one last chapter? Maybe I could do a sequel, say that this is ending one part of my life and starting a new? Maybe I could do a podcast on my life instead, or a radio show, or write a film based on it, or write it out in novel format, or…just…find another way to carry on writing about my life.

Then again, I thought, if I did any of that it’d just go to prove that I, still, wasn’t alright.

Then again,

Perhaps,

Maybe,

Or even, obviously,

I was alright all along.

THE END

“You know when you joked around, you know, about us being official? Well do you? Do you want to?”

“…We can’t. Not until you have decided about Sweden.”

”..Oh. That’s not the answer I was expecting.”

“Well, we can’t. You told me you couldn’t think of making us official until you had sorted out Sweden.”

“Okay. Right. Well I’m still not sure about Sweden. But I know I want to be officially…‘us.’”

“What’s suddenly brought this on?”

“Just lately…We have spent so much time together, and I just realised how much I love you and how happy you make me. I’m not saying this to be some crazy psycho woman, but I love you. You’ve made me realise everything I want in life, be it Lavender Cottage, a penthouse, or a shack because we are so poor, I want it with you.”

I took ages, disgusting, this. Memorising every single word, right down to the full stop. I sucked it all in like Rain Man, and threw it around my head.

“…But Sweden,” I said in a form of either a question or a statement.

**************************************

My birthday was fantastic. Turning 26 had been a blur of drunkenness, and heart break. Three weeks after being dumped, and, there I was…broken.

But, like I said, my 27th birthday was fantastic. BoldTextGirl took me to London, where we visited the Natural History Museum. I hadn’t been there for years and years, and loved it. We then had a lovely dinner, before heading back home. Then, in the evening friends, and partners headed down to the pub for drinks and smokes.

Being 27, now, surely meant I was growing up. Alas, this story (part two) shows little signs of this happening.

It begins with me around BoldTextGirls house, and me holding a can of her spray tan.

*************************************

I had realised why my success with woman had never reached the heights of my dreams. It started when I got married in the game Skyrim. I had got married, and, soon after me and my wife moved in to the local inn. We made love, and she made me dinner, and gave me gold. If anything this, made up, world made me happy. Everything was so much simpler. In Skyrim I could marry a woman, and slay a dragon or two, and still have time to pick pocket a king.

The real world was much more difficult. If anything it took more work. In Skyrim me and my wife knew where we both stood. She would give me gold, cook me dinner, have sex with me when I asked, and look the other way when I fire an arrow at a child.

Woman in the real world were harder to understand. If anything I didn’t understand them. If anything the confused me. My Ex, My Perfect Weekend Girl, Martin Luther King, Captain Jack, Fag Hag, Professor Ex, BoldTextGirl, nor Sanji would ever look the other way while I fired an arrow at a children, and blew up a chicken. They’d get freaked out, and start screaming. Perhaps the only woman in my life who would understand my child shooting obsession, would be Alice Cooper and her boney fingers. In fact the goblin I battered to death with my sword the other day (in Skyrim) looked a little like her.

Yes, it was fair to say I was happier in Skyrim. I knew where I stood.

Then, like in the real world, I ruined everything.

********************************************

I laid in BoldTextGirl’s bed, in her family house. I had just met her parents for the first time, and they were lovely. I could sense the father’s disappointment that I didn’t like football, but never the less he shock my hand and did’nt spit at me.

Although me and BoldTextGirl were not at item, as such, everything pretty much felt like we were. We went on dates, we talked to each other 24/7 via texts, we’d have little ‘in jokes,’ we’d have sex, we’d spoon, and all the other stuff that made couples…well, couples.

Sweden still played on mine, and her’s mind. How could we make this, us, official if she was going to work, and live, in another country? Still, neither of us wanted to stop having all the fun we were having with each other. We both loved each other, and I just…I just…I didn’t know. What I knew, for a fact though, was I wanted her. I wanted her to be my girlfriend.

The other thing I was noticing was the fact that everything was a lot easier with BoldTextGirl. Meeting the parents, meeting her friends, having to work out what I can say in front of her was a breeze. It was nice. Normally, back in the past, I used to get nervous about it and hate it.

Now, however, it was…really nice.

Still, she was moving away. The other week I laid in bed with her and told her that I wanted her to stay, and that I loved her.

She looked at me, and her eyes started to form tears. I didn’t let her answer, or reply. So I lent in and hugged her. She squeezed me back, and I knew she was gone. I kissed her cheek, and I don’t remember what I said, but I changed the subject. Made a joke. Moved on.

“That’s my spray tan. Give yourself a shine,” BoldTextGirl said joking, with a laugh. She turned around, and without a pause I picked the spray up and sprayed a bit on my leg.

Nothing happened. I assumed it would pour out quickly, a lot like spray paint. She left the room to go and fetch me and her some drinks.

I looked at the bottle. A thought crossed my mind. It was an immature thought, but…you know, sometimes they are the best.

********************************************

So I had killed my wife on Skyrim.

********************************************

“How brown is it,” asked Nicky? Nicky sat in the work canteen with me and a couple of others, as we discussed my recent disaster with the spray tan.

“It’s pretty dark,” I said rolling up my left trouser leg to reveal a very large, dark, brown stain. My legs were pretty white, so a random splodge of spray tan right up the side of my leg, didn’t look great. It looked like someone had been rubbing tea bags on my legs, or I’d suddenly developed a rare type of skin cancer.

Saying that, though, it would serve me right the way I had treated cancer lately.

“So, is that all you tanned,” asked Nicky, as everyone in the canteen looked at my leg laughing?

“…Yeah,” I lied. “That’s all I tanned.”

**********************************************

I had gone back to my wife, in Skyrim, and she had cooked me a dinner and gave me some coins. This was the life, I thought, as I tucked in to some grub and worked out what I was going to spend my cash on. I needed some stamina potion, as I’d run out a few days back while chasing a deer.

My wife, a long haired beauty, with a green face and scales, walked in to our bedroom. I knew what she wanted. She wanted some rimming, of her own. I wiped my mouth, and stood up, walking towards the bedroom. Tonight, I thought, I would be a gentle lover. The kind of lover you never see in porn, but you might catch a shadow of a glimpse of in a Sunday night TV drama. Something, like, I dunno ‘The Sunday Bore,’ or ‘Rubbish At Heart.’ Either way it was bound to star Bradley Walsh, or if they can’t get him, then the guy who played Nigel in Eastenders.

She waited in the bedroom, looking as beautiful as the first day I ever clapped eyes on her. That sunny day, where she needed me to pay of a stable boy who had been threatening her. Little did she know that I didn’t pay him of, I killed him and stole his clothes. Unfortunately, there was not an option to bend over him and take a shit on his chest.

As I walked towards the bed, she stood up and walked out. What?!?! I turned, around as she walked out the room. I followed, the tease, to get her to come back in to the bedroom. If she didn’t want full sex, then perhaps a handjob with suffice.

She stopped, in the middle of the living room. Standing still, doing nothing. I tried to talk to her, but she wasn’t responding. I left the house, then went back in again, and she was still stood still. I stood at the other side of the room and took a run at her, seeing if that would move her. It didn’t. It seemed this huge game had gotten a glitch. So, I did what any normal person would do, I pulled my sword out and poked her with it.

It worked!

She fell back on the floor, screaming. She ran out the house. ‘Oh, now she moves,’ I thought. I chased her down the street as she ran in to the forest screaming. Let’s just say…she didn’t leave the forest.

Yet again, I thought, I was single. I was alone. It seemed that, like in the real world, I was set to be single. I turned the X-Box of, and I went outside for a smoke and beer.

The night was fresh, and as I lit a cigarette, and then took a sip of a light ale, my mind drifted back to BoldTextGirl.

How could we even be, official, if she was moving away? Then again, how could I turn her down when I was so smitten, and in love with her. I wanted us to grow old together, and be that old couple at the seaside sharing each others chips.

The night was fresh, and as always the stars looked beautiful, but answered nothing.

**************************************

Had it really been a year? A year since I was last in this waiting room, waiting for a medical? Having my medical and then winking at the doctor after he had touched my balls? Christ, I thought, hasn’t time flown?

“Mr Clarke,” the nurse, shouted across the waiting room, “the doctor will see you now.”

“Thank you,” I said, standing up. I walked towards the doctors room. A year later, and aware that after last years winking, I needed to go in to the room and do nothing shameful or embarrassing.

So, yeah, I walked in to the room, with my tanned leg. That was fine, I thought, but what’s he going to think when he does my prostrate exam and sees I’ve tanned one of my bum cheeks?

“What I need, for the blog, is a catchphrase. Something the kids will repeat in the playgrounds?”

“What, aside from ‘eugh, what’s that man doing in the playground with his dick out,’ or something to that extent?”

Ignoring Martin Luther King, I changed the subject. As usual she was no help in solving my problems for the day. She had rung me up a few days before my 27th birthday. She was filled with excitement and joy. I hadn’t really spoken, vocally, to her in weeks, so this was the first time in ages. She filled me in with her gossip and laid questions for me to answer. The main one being ‘what’s going on with you and BoldTextGirl?’

So, like any good friend, I told her.

*****************************************

The fish and chip shop was run by a man with a deep dark past. He used to live in the Eastend of London, so I took my knowledge of Eastenders and, the film, The Kray’s (or anything else Martin Kemp may have stared in) and made the assumption he was a gangster. He wore a suit, which for starters is a weird thing for chip shop owner to wear. Though, thinking about it, he never actually served behind the counter. He used to stand there, sometimes checking the till, but, mainly just chatting to the customers.

“Got a new member of staff starting soon, Stuart,” he said with a proud smile on his face. The smile either suggested that he was happy with this new member of staff, or he was just happy to have remembered my name.

“Oh right,” I said. I didn’t really know what else to say.’ New Chip Shop Workers’ was rarely my conversationally masterpiece. If the chip shop worker turned out to be any of the members of the Lost, TV show, cast, then perhaps the conversation would flow a little better.

‘Bloody hell,’ I’d start to say, ‘what’s Matthew Fox doing working in a chip shop in a small Suffolk village?’

‘You could say,’ the chip shop owning gangster would say, ‘he lost his way in life and ended up here.’ We’d all laugh, and have a chuckle at his great use of the TV shows title, but deep down we’d all know it wasn’t’t funny, nor, clever. Matthew Fox, on the other hand, would more then likely cry little man tears in to the batter. I’m sure, though, if he did his tears would get lost and he wouldn’t have ruined the texture or taste of the batter.

I was nearly 27 years old, and my birthday was only a few days away. I could sense the change of my life in the air, and the smell of pies and gherkins did nothing to wash this sense away. My phone rang, and, I answered without thought.

“Hello, Mr Clarke?”

“Sanji?”

“Mr Clarke? It’s Chris from Amazon, calling in regards to your order.”

“The Amazon? How have you got a signal?”

“Excuse me?”

“…oh, the website!”

“Yes.”

“Ah, okay, shoot.”

“You placed an order with us a few days ago regarding the X-Box 360 game Skyrim.”

“That I did. How can I help?”

“You send an e-mail confirming you’d received the game, and would we be willing to ring you to check you were enjoying it?”

I let out a little laugh. I had sent an e-mail to amazon.co.uk, saying the following….

Dear Mr/Mrs Amazon,

Well, what can I say? You have changed my ways and views on you. You delivered my game in such speed.

I’ll forever love you.

Perhaps give me a ring sometime to see if I enjoyed it.

Loves x

Now this was done in an immature slice of silliness. I meant nothing by it, and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t ring me up. Though the fact they did, made me laugh. It was cute. Then, out the corner of my eye I saw a woman walk from behind the back door, and walk up to the counter. I looked at the Gangster Fish and Chip shop owner and he pointed at the woman. This was his new worker. His new worker, and she looked just like Hitler.

***************************************

“Even Blakey had a catchphrase,” I said on the phone to Martin Luther King.

“Who?”

“The guy from On The Buses! ‘I hate you Butler!’ Maybe I could steal that as a catchphrase? But, you know, put a new age slant on it.”

“Do you know anyone called Butler?”

“…No.”

“This is an issue.”

“I could hire a butler, then say it.”

“…I could see the comedic potential, but really you’d have to hire a rubbish butler who kept getting things wrong, and you’d have to hate him.”

“…Yeah,” I said defeated.

“Anyway, BoldTextGirl! So, what, you told her…go on?”

“I..I told her…I said, ‘Don’t go. I love you, and I think you should stay here with me. We’d have so much more fun together. Please don’t go.”

“Ah, Stuart, well…what did she say?”

***************************************

I didn’t fancy carrying on the conversation with the amazon man. Sure, I could see this owning a blog of its own, but I was so dumbstruck by the woman that looked like Hitler. I hung up my phone and looked in shock. The Hitler woman was serving another customer, and seemed pretty happy. She was tall, slim, and had very short hair. Sure, okay, she didn’t have the tash, but her face looked just like Hitler. Kirsty McColl once sang ‘There’s a guy in the chip shop who looks like Elvis,’ but, now there was a woman in mine that looked like Hitler. It was uncanny. If I ever needed a Hitler look-a-like for functions or parties, or a pretend date, I’d hire this woman. Perhaps, I thought, she gets this all the time.

I looked at my watch, how long does it take to cook a pie, I thought? The Hitler woman went out the back to fetch some ‘change bags.’ The Gangster owner looked at me and smiled, “she’s a cracker isn’t she,” he said with a grin?

I walked over, smirking, “Yeah, but…you know, she looks like Hitler.” I burst in to a little laugh, but he did not. Maybe he needed to see her again, now knowing this reference point. “Wait till she comes out again, you can see it all over face. She looks like the Fuher.”

“Who does,” The Gangster asked?

“That woman. The one who just walked out the back.”

“That’s my wife.”

******************************************

BoldTextGirl laid next to me in bed. We had spent the evening watching TV, her drinking tea, and having adult time. Tonight she looked really cute. Her hair hung down, and her top showed enough cleavage for me not to look else where. We talked about Sweden, and what she was going to do.

“What do you think,” she asked?

*******************************************

A horrible pause hung around the air. I looked around the shop to see if anyone else had heard what I had just said. Lucky, for me, they hadn’t.

I placed my hands on the counter, and felt the rising heat from the ovens. “I thought she was your new worker.”

“No. She doesn’t start to Thursday.” His face to blank, and no humour shone through.

“Oh…I’m sorry.”

“That’s my wife, Kacy, you’ve met her before. Plenty of times.”

“That’s Kacy,” I asked in shock? I had met Kacy a few times. He said ‘plenty’ but he was just making maters worse.

“Yes.”

“She’s had all her hair cut of, it used to be really long.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t seen her for ages. Look, Terry, I’m so sorry. I was only joking, she doesn’t really look like Hitler,” I lied. Well, I lied about the ‘sorry.’ I wasn‘t lieing about the Hitler remark. She did look just like Hitler. I remember Kacy used to have long flowing hair, dark and wavy. She used to cut a fine figure down the pubs on a Friday night. All the lads used to pay her second looks, and mutter about how they would like to have sex with her with their penis. I hadn’t seen her for ages though, but now, seeing her again, and seeing how much like Hitler she looks was enough to make me retract all those drunk Friday night comments of ‘I’d stick my willy inside her fanny.’

“So you don’t think she looks like Hitler, then?”

“No. I was having a joke. You know, what with the short hair and…when she came out…”

“You know why she has the short hair, now?”

“Ah…,” I knew what the answer was going to be. It had to be the same answer which had haunted me over the last few blogs. It was like a running theme. “New hair cut,” I shrugged, knowing full well what he was going to say?

“Cancer. She had cancer. Thankfully she had beaten it. Her hair has just started to grow back.”

“Terry…I’m so so sorry,” I said with honesty and shame. “I didnt…”

“Perhaps just get your chips and go, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Kacy came back, she had change bags and a smile. “Oh hello, Stuart, how are you,” she asked with a beaming smile?

“Yeah, great. You look well.”

“Thank you. Hairs growing back. Won’t look such a man now,” she said laughing, while giving a customer their change.

I laughed, she laughed, Gangster Chip shop owner laughed. Deep down the joke wasn’t that funny, and I just wanted to cry man tears in to some batter.

***********************************************

“I think you should stay. I love you, and I want you to stay.”

BOB

I enjoyed staring at the young teenage boys, whilst sat on the train…

Wait, no! I’ll start this blog again.

The teenage girl, the teenage boys, were chatting to was sexy…

No. That’s not right either. I’m trying to explain that I was sitting on a train, on the way to Lincoln, and I was watching teenage boys talk to teenage girls. I just can’t seem to convey it in a way that doesn’t make me sound like a pedophile.

Okay. So. Yes, I was on a train. This much was true. I was on the way to see my good friend Lewis, who was at University in Lincoln. He had gained us tickets to see one of our favorite comedians, Stewart Lee. Stewart Lee, or Stewart Wee as (his old sidekick) Richard Herring would prefer, aside it would also be nice to see Lewis and to have a catch up, and see what Lincoln looked like.

“Good morning Cambridge, this train is set for Lincoln, and your driver for today is Bob,” the train driver tannoyed.

All this was true. Even Lewis’s name was his real name, and not some random name I picked from the sky like Lord Zong, or Randy McPeters. It was also true that there were some teenage boys on the train, they sat near me and while they could probably count the amount of pubic hair on one hand between them, they seemed calm and unruly. They were fascinating to watch, in a non pervert like way, as they were speaking to some teenage girls. These teenage girls, they clearly knew from school. The girls were wearing boobs tubes, and mini skirts, and I felt awkward just being around them. One of the girls, who saw I was sitting near, covered her thighs with her handbag. Perhaps she thought I was looking, and I can promise you I was not. The only other reason I assumed she done this was she saw me as a father figure and felt ‘naughty’ and ‘embarrassed’ to have come out dressed like that.

The reason the teenage boys were fascinating to watch, again in a non pervert like way, was how awkward they seemed around the girls. They were giggly boys, chatting to each other, while trying to chat to the sexy girls…their words not mine.

It was a stark reminder that I used to be like that.

It was, also, a stark reminder I was still like that.

************************************************

MARC

Marc, and, myself had a great rapport. Perhaps, what with my previous exploits with a gentleman with Downs Syndrome, I was making up for bad karma. The last time I had a confrontation with a man with Downs Syndrome I elbowed him the throat.

Not my finest hour, as I’m sure you can imagine. After the throat punch I think head butting a teenage girl and winking at a doctor seems pretty darn tame.

I had met Marc a few times, and I found myself instantly warmed to him. He was in his mid twenties and often carried around the 2010 Doctor Who annual. He came in shopping, to where I work, with his mother every Tuesday, and he would often come running up to me for a high five. A high five, that, I was often wary of. When someone with Downs Syndrome forces there hand towards me, I automatically assume they are going for a punch.

I don’t know if people with Downs Syndrome have a club, or a group they all go to, and chat about having downs syndrome, or snooker…etc, but if they did I assume the story about how a nearly 27 year old male throat punched one of their own, would get around. Every Time I saw some who suffered, if that’s even the right word, with Downs syndrome I often assumed they’d wait till I was alone and knife me for my horrid act.

Marc, though, was lovely. We would high five, and have a good old chat. Normally about Doctor Who. Since late December we would stand around chatting for about ten minutes before his mother came over and they carried on their merry way.

The other week I found myself being taught, by Marc, how to do the moon walk. He was a, recent, Micheal Jackson fan and had been watching of Jacko’s concerts. He did a quick five second routine, which although I clapped at the end was rubbish. Utter rubbish. I wouldn’t hire him for parties or ‘STUART CLARKE THE MUSICAL.’

I’m actually thinking of doing a musical about this blog. I’m going to get Micheal Ball to play the part of Stuart, and John Barrowmen to play the part of Nathan, Martin Luther Kings ex.

Songs would be written by Andrew Lloyd Weber, Lulu, Chris Brown, and myself.

“I got dumped by my ex

and then I had sex,

with a woman who looked like a rock star!!!!”

And….

“I winked at the doctor before he fingered my bum

had to get lubed out of leather trousers by my mum.”

and….

“All the girls who see me naked move abroad!!!!!!!

Perhaps it’s my penis or they just got bored!!!!!

What will I do when I’m thirty….

Will I have a mind that’s still dirty!!!!!

Why, oh why did I wank when under my bed was a dog?

Thank god, just thank god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I have this blog!”

Throw in a cover of Knocking On Heavens Door, and the theme song from Home And Away and you have a show to battle the likes of Cats, and We Will Rock You. I just can’t see myself including Marc and his moon walking, still, I clapped and said ‘well done.’ He even laughed at my ‘you wouldn’t be able to do that actual walk on the moon though, due to gravity and shizz.’

This week when he came in to work he was telling me he had a girl that he liked. A girl named Chloe. He was going to take her for a walk down the park at the weekend and ask her to be his girlfriend. As he stood with me, telling me about Chloe, and how she ‘had the same problem was him,’ to paraphrase Marc, and how pretty she was, and how funny she was, I started to get really emotional.

He was straight down the line with it. He ‘loved’ this Chloe, and he wanted to make her his girlfriend. He didn’t care about what people would think, or worries of other sort, or anything to do with ‘what they had.’

It was stark reminder of how simple life can be.

It was, also, a stark reminder of how I should treat life.

*****************************************

Ponytail Man

I didn’t bother with buying the computer game SkyRim over the Christmas period, as I knew I wouldn’t have time to play it. It wasn’t the sort of game you could just dip in and out for half an hour or so. It needed your time, your space, and your soul.

Yet, when I saw it in Blockbuster for only £18 I knew I had to buy it. Sure, it was pre-owned but at that price I knew I needed it. I picked the game of the shelf and turned around to walk to the counter.

“Hello, Stuart, how are you,” I heard someone ask? I turned around the see a tall skinny guy, with a beard, and glasses. He was wearing a blockbuster workers uniform.

“Oh, hello,” I said, while turning the corner to face another shelf. I didn’t know who he was, and as he walked to the tills to serve a customer I saw a long ponytail hang from the back of his head. ‘Who the hell is he,’ I thought? He clearly knew me, unless he had been calling everyone Stuart, due to torrents or random guesses. I saw him behind the counter, and then looked back at the game in my hand. If I go to the tills I will either have to do one of two things….

1- Bluff my way around the whole situation, and dig myself in to a hole where I get found out for not knowing him.

2- Admit I don’t know who he is and upset him.

I put the game on the shelf and walked out the store.

I’ll buy it another day, I thought.

It was a stark reminder that sometimes I walk away from an ongoing train wreck.

It was, also, a stark reminder I didn’t have Skyrim.

****************************************

YOU

You were now unsure if you wanted to go to Sweden on not. I knew it had to be your choice, and while I tried to sound excited for you about Sweden, I knew I wanted you to stay. I knew how much I’d miss you if you were not around, and I knew how much I had fallen for you.

So, I told you that….

I didn’t know how I felt. I was gobsmacked, and the wind had been sucked right out of me. I mean, I had it all, and then I had nothing. Why did this happen? What was I going to do, now? How did I really feel about the whole thing? Then, the main question seemed to be ‘what now?’

What now? A question which hinted at even more questions. Question’s I just didn’t have the answer for. Here I was, sitting in front of a computer and just typing away. Typing thought and feelings in to a blank white box and clicking ‘post,’ once I had finished. To begin with I didn’t want anyone to read my thoughts and feelings. A closed in man who didn’t really like to let his emotions ride out of him like a train carrying blobs of emotions that, in the end, showed he was like everyone else. That when they cut him open blood would pour. That when alone thoughts would tick over like a bomb that can’t seem to ‘go of.’ That when dumped, would feel sad.

Somehow, though, my life continued. It didn’t just stop. The thoughts and feelings that I was trying to justify, or find names for, soon moved on to shame and embarrassment as I winked at doctors, said phrases like ‘when I’m ready I’ll give you a call,’ and meeting people that changed my life.

Though, ‘changed’ is the wrong word. ‘Change,’ seems to emote that these people pulled apart and reconstructed me upon how they wanted. I guess the word I need to use is ‘enhanced.’

A year on I’m still using this blog to write down my life. I guess because it’s a nice keep sake, something to look back on in years to come. I guess, it’s also, a way of getting stuff of my chest, and still doing what I was doing a year back and working out what I did/doing/will do with my life.

And, yes….

I do it because to this date I have 9,456 followers. It’s mental. Your messages are wonderful, if abet shocked at my actions, and your all lovely people.

I’m not sure if I’ll still have this blog in a year. I’m not sure if I’ll need it, or if there will come a point I’ll just say ‘enough is enough.’

But while…

BoldTextGirl continues to ‘enhance’ my life.

And…

The Big Bad and Skeletor roam around needing defeating.

And…

The ongoing saga, that lingers in a question, ‘why did you do that Stuart,’ continues?

I’ll keep this, and you guys, around.

Out of character, for this blog, and breaking the forth wall, I turn to the camera and face you and say ‘thank you.’

Every start needs an end….

…but, I can assure you, unlike a year ago, I’m happy…I’m better of.

The one question I kept getting asked over the last week was the same one…

“What if you see Samuel again? What terminal cancer are you going to say your dying from?”

********************************************

I stood in the police station looking at a large poster, which read…

‘Sexualy Assaulted? Visit your local police station NOW!’

It wasn’t the words that, first, caught my eye. The first thing, about this picture, that caught my eyes was the picture of a woman staring straight ahead, clearly bruised and battered, and I’m assuming sexual assaulted. To put plainly she looked like she’d had a rough night. Behind this woman, though, was a black man and a white man looking angry and holding facial expressions as if they were in mid-shout. The first thing I thought, as I studied the picture, was the fact they had taken a photo of a black man and a white man, as of to suggest other ethnic groups (i.e the Chinese) are not rapists. I really feel, if I were in charge of the photographer who took this picture, I would have put all ethnic groups in it. The only thing I could see good in this picture, aside from the message it was trying to convey, was that a black man and a white man can suddenly be labeled in the same class of man as each other. This is what, the real, Martin Luther King was missing. “Yes, we are all the same,” he would say, “but lets join forces and rape women.”

I turned around, as I realised my mornings issues were not going to be simply solved by staring at a picture of a rape victim. The final thought, about that picture, was the fact that it seemed Sexually Assaulted People have their own group, and us mere un-assulted people are left out in the cold. Which hardly seems fair.

“Oh hello,” I said as I turned around. I came face to face with Linda. Linda was in her mid forties and worked in the same place I did. Now Linda was one of those people I never really spoke to. Linda would get the usual ‘morning,’ nod, but never anything else. We didn’t mix. Maybe me and her should rape a woman?

“Hi,” she said. She seemed a little sheepish, and with a leaflet in her hand left the police station in a hurry. I glanced over at the leaflet stand and straight away my eyes were drawn to two of the leaflets.

‘Drugs kill.’

And

‘Domestic violence.’

‘Shit,’ I thought. Linda’s a drug taking battered wife. I handed my driving licence to the policewoman, behind the desk, so she could send it away to have the three points (from my speeding the other week) placed on it, then turned to walk out. I needed to find out Linda’s problem. Not because I wanted to care, but because I was plain nosey.

********************************

I sat on my sofa and flicked the TV on. Some channel five afternoon movie sprung before my eyes. Some woman, wearing an eye patch, was shouting at her dead husbands dog. Then it dawned on me, with no shock or regret, I remembered it was a year ago today that me and the Ex split up. This was merely a thought, a thought that crossed my mind for just a few seconds then vanished.

The fact I wasn’t writing an entire blog about her, my year, and so on meant I was okay. I was better then okay. I was me.

Then something else dawned on me. Something more important. If today was exactly a year since me and the ex split up, it meant that it was only six days till this blogs first birthday.

‘Wow,’ I thought sitting back. ‘…a years worth of wanking stories…dam.’

****************************************

I found myself in the work canteen. Me, The Big Bad, and Skeletor sat around a table talking about turkey orders for Easter. I say ‘we,’ it was mainly The Big Bad talking about the turkey orders, while Skeletor tried to inject his own thoughts (but being knocked down by The Big Bad), while I just leaned back in the chair eating a yogurt and thinking about Linda.

After my epic fail a few weeks back where I was misguided in to thinking one of my new neighbours was getting beaten by her husband, I felt jumping the gun and getting ahead of myself this time would be a bad idea. Yes, I was nosey, but I was also thinking ‘I could actually help this person.’ I mean, lets be fair, anything to stop myself from doing any work.

I saw Linda the other-side of the room, she was sitting on the sofas by herself watching Loose Woman on the TV. I finished my yogurt, and left the ‘exciting’ conversation about turkey orders and walked across the room towards Linda. If, it was true, and Linda was a drug taking battered wife I would need to be tactful with my detective work.

“See that programme on wife beaters the other night,” I said sitting down on the sofa next to her?

“Uh..no,” she said, slightly confused as to why I had sat next to her.

“Yeah. It does happen. Women get…hit. The ‘stats,’ prove this,” I said, realising half way through I had turned in to David Brent. “It’s horrible. Totally rubbish. There was one woman on this programme…Satchel…”

Was Satchel a name? I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like it should be. I turned to look at Linda, just to see if she was buying my story. She looked like she did, or if she didn’t she was covering it well with her confusion. “…and Satchel said she had no-one to talk to about getting beat up…except for her husband obviously…and he only talked with his fists,” I sat back pretty smug with how I had been able to turn the whole thing in on it’s self. “…But, not in a puppet way,” I said covering my tracks.

“Yes. It’s dreadful,” Linda said. How did she know, I thought? She, herself, must be a battered wife! It’s the only way she could know what it’s like…unless, of cause, she to has seen this imaginary TV show with Satchel, in?

The conversation dried up. I had to plan my next move carefully. “I take drugs.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, used to, not anymore. I got of them before it was to late,” then I looked her in the eyes and put my hand on her thigh, “and it’s never to late…you know…if you want to talk about it.”

Linda backed away, a disgusted anger flicked across her face, “What, just what, are you talking about?”

“I…I saw you other day,” I said with a whisper, “in the police station.”

“Yeah. So?”

“You had some leaflets in your hand,” I said nudging my head like a dog with a ball for his owner to play with.

“Yeah, for the toddler group I run. I was handing leaflets out, the police station always puts one up!”

“…Sorry?”

“…Wait, did you think I was a battered woman?”

“What’s that chap,” I heard the male voice behind me say. I turned around and saw The Big Bad standing behind me?

“A member of your team,” Linda whinged on, “just accused me of being beaten by my husband!”

“I think accused is a strong word,” I said looking straight ahead, “…I was just trying to help. Next time I’ll just let your husband beat you up!” I got up and stormed out the room.

I was just trying to help

**************************************

So you got told by your boss you had two months till you went to work in Sweden. Two months, I thought, ‘shit.’

I didn’t know what you wanted me to say, or what you wanted me to do, but I knew from the moment you told me that I had two months to prepare for what felt like would be a season finale.

***************************************

An hour or so later I regaled the ‘Linda’ story to a colleague, his mouth flung open when he heard it. “You idiot! Your aware Linda’s husband died of cancer two years ago?”

“What? Really? Shit,” I paused, “………………what sort, though?”

I was trying my best to keep up with my ‘bad boi’ image, after my run in with the law the other day. The closest I got, to being ‘bad,’ was saying the word ‘fuck’ loud enough in HMV, so that a small child could hear. Saying that, though, I did feel bad and to make up for it showed an old lady where the DVD’s of Downton Abby series two were kept. Couldn’t believe it, I thought, here I’am on a day of and I find myself in a retail shop still helping a customer. It wasn’t even like I wore similar clothes to the staff here. Still, I helped her out and felt my karma restoring itself.

“I need your help,” Karen said, as she stood on my door step. Although her name was fake, for purposes of shame, everything else about her was real. Except for her nose. She had, had, a nose job done about ten years ago. Not because it was to big, or to small, but because she broke it when a moving radiator smacked in to her face. Honestly, no word of a lie. Karen, when she was back living in her family home, was waiting outside trying to get a signal on her mobile phone. Hard to think now, but ten years ago mobile phones were only really at the start of their main stream birth. The size of her phone was so big she needed two hands to hold it, not to mention the aerial that stuck out of it. Anyway, it just so happened that there were some builders, and plumbers, inside her house fitting new sinks and radiators. I think the reason behind them doing this was because they were trying to update the house from it’s 1960’s esc quality. Now, as far as I can work out, she finally got a signal on her phone and was speaking to an old friend who had some exciting news to tell her. So excited was she, by this news, she ran in to the house to tell her mum, running face first in to an old radiator that two builders were carrying out of the house, at shoulder height.

Such was the sheer damage of her nose, they had to re build it. Even now, looking at her nose as she stood facing me you couldn’t tell she had, had, a nose job. “How can I help,” I asked.

“Well, you remember that book group you atended once?”

“Yeah, why?” I knew the, so called, book group very well. My friend, Martin, had taken me over there months and months ago. It was labeled as a ‘Book Group,’ but, once I got there I saw it was just a front. It was just an excuse for people to get together and come to terms with horrible things that had happened to them. It was rather sweet in a way, strangers coming together and somehow through this group found some sort of comfort. It was here that I meant a very attractive older woman named Maggie, who I nicknamed Cracking Cleavage after her…well, cracking cleavage. Maggie, aside from being a very sexy older woman, was also very strong willed. Her husband, a firefighter, had been killed on duty. She, now widowed, had adopted his daughter, and raised her as her own. It was a very moving story, and one that I hope is made in to a channel five movie one day.*

* To read more about the Book Group- Go To- Season Two Episode Two.*

* Skip past Season Two Episode One, however, as in that episode I lick an old woman’s fanny.*

* I know quite a lot of you, reading this, are in fact American. When I say ‘fanny,’ I mean her vagina, not her anus.*

*…and, when I say vagina, I do in fact refer to that place women would rather I didn’t touch.

I had only gone a few times, but, during this depressing period I was in at the time felt I had somehow been cured and didn’t, I guess, have the right to be depressed when there’s always someone hurting more then you.

“Well we are all going out for a meal, some posh restaurant, bit more up market then a KFC,” she laughed. I didn’t laugh, as I felt I missing a joke. Maybe it really was a funny joke, and she had just fucked up the delivery. Either way If I had paid money to see her perform live, and she told this joke in the same way she had just told me, I would have walked out, and asked for my money back. “There’s 24 of us going, and if you come along then we have 25 people, and the bill is sliced by 35%.”

“Wait. You want me to come, just to make up the numbers?”

“No, silly, there are plenty we could ask! I just thought you’d like to go all fancy. Meet up with Martin and Maggie etc.”

“…As much as I hate people who vocally use the word ‘ect,’ count me in.”

So, here I sat in a posh restaurant wearing a suit. Trousers, polished shoes, clean white shirt, waistcoat, a tie, and a jacket. I was ‘done up to the nines,’ so my Grandmother would say. Then again my grandmother used to say ‘That Myra Hindley doesn’t look the murdering sort.’*

* That’s actually a true story. When the dreadful, and horrific ‘Moors Murders,’ were thankfully coming to an end due to the arrest of Brady and Hindley, my grandmother would tell my Mum, who must have been ten years old at the time, ‘Ann, I’ll put money on her being innocent.’ My Gran believed Hindley had a ‘kind face,’ even though she has the darkest eyes, and a nightmare stare. Thankfully, for Gran, my mum wasn’t smart enough to except this bet.

The thing was everyone else in the group were casual in their clothe wearing state, smart casual (sure), but still casual. I assumed, it being posh, the men would at least wear ties. No. Just me…and one other guy. I’d never met this guy before, but when he wheeled up next to me I knew there would be a problem.

*************************************

I stepped on the shop floor. My shops floor, and turned and saw Skeletor. Him and me had been getting on better since Christmas. It seemed a little bit of stress, and a handshake from me had sorted himself out. He, however, was talking to his boss. I knew his boss from when he used to work in the store a year or so ago. He had, however come back. He was having a ‘go’ at Skeletor, and as Skeletor walked towards me, after his telling of, he looked like the air had been beaten out of him.

“I thought you said he was alright,” Skeletor asked me?

“Well, he was when he used to work here. I never had a problem with him.”

Skeltor’s boss, The Big Bad, walked up to us. “Chap,” he said referring to me, “I need you to clean up a fish box on the shelf that’s leaking.”

“Get a cleaner.”

“I’m getting you. Do it” he snapped, out of character. I was a little taken back by his sudden burst of rudeness. I cleaned the fish box up, and as I stood at the toilet sink washing my hands, trying to get rid of the horrible fish smell, Skeletor walked in. “He just had another go at me because I was five minutes late for a managers meeting! I was helping a customer. Jeez, I tried to explain that to him, but he didn’t seem to care. Fuck sake,” and I saw someone else, today, flip out of character, as he kicked the bin across the room. The Big Bad was a nice guy, and when he used to work here he was…alright(?). Then again, when he used to work here, he worked in another part of the store and didn’t really have the need to bother me. Saying that, since he had come back, and was now mine and Skeltor’s boss, he had started to show he true colours. Nice enough guy, but a guy that was worse then Skeletor. All the old dears who worked there were having chats about who they disliked more out of the two of them. As usual, people looked to me.

Me.

Well, as usual, I just wanted a stress free life. If the Big Bad was making Skeletor angry, then my life was going to be more stress filled.

I wiped my hands on some blue towels, then sniffed my hands, they still stunk of fish. “Lets take him down.”

Skeletor turned to me, he was bright red in the face and fuming. “What?”

“You and me…lets take him down.”

“How?”

“That’s the thing about me, pal, I always have ideas,” I said putting him on the back, and half wiping my wet hands on his back. I turned and started to walk out the room.

“I thought you hated me. How do I know you not going to get me in more trouble, just to get me out?”

I turned, and shut the door again. “You remember my Uncle Simon?”

“Yeah. You went to his funne…”

“Doesn’t exist.”

“What?”

“I made him up. I just wanted a day of.”

“How could you…”

“If I want something, I will stoop to any level to get it. Come on, we have work to do.”

*************************************************

“Great to see you again,” Maggie screamed flinging her arms around me. My chest fell in to hers, and it felt good. She was 18 years older then me, and I’ll be honest, I didn’t know if I wanted her to have sex with me, or if I wanted her to mother me. “How are you, I’ve kept up to date with your blog? Silly boy.” Dam, I thought, she won’t want to sleep with me now.

We all sat around the table, me in my suit, and we ate and drank and had a very nice time. The restaurant, which was also a of-shot to a hotel, looked back on acres and acres of land. It was pretty dark, so I couldn’t see outside that well, but it seemed to go on for miles. ‘The ground keep must be expensive,’ I thought. It was thoughts like that, that, were blocking out the annoying sounds of Samuel. Samuel was a horrible little spiteful man. If someone said ‘I sucked a rhino’s penis the other day,’ he would have to come back with ‘I sucked of two Rhino’s.’ He was a prat. No other way about it. He always had to one better you with a story. He was in his late forties, and from my understanding had come along with his wife. Now, his wife, was a very nice lady. She was well dressed, and although, quiet when she did speak her few words felt more then a breakage of sentences her husband managed to tangle together. Samuel, was also in a wheel chair. Sure he had a snazzy suit on, and was a prat, but he was also in a wheelchair. No story could ever be beaten, because, he had spent the last 23 years in a wheelchair after a sporting accident. Worse then that, Samuel, broke his back in a charity rugby match. So, not only, did we have to feel sorry for him because his back was broken (or chipped, or whatever word he used), but the fact he did it while doing something for charity made him some God like creature. I bet if a policemen went up to him and said ‘We have proof that your murdered four children with you bare hands,’ Simon would look a little sheepish.

‘Yes, I did officer. It was me…but, I’am in a wheelchair.’

‘Mmmmm, so I see. Still, I think…we are going to have to…I don’t want to, I should add, arrest you.’

‘I broke my back during a charity rugby match, though.’

‘Oh Christ, sorry I didn’t know. Look, although two of the children you killed were mine, I can’t arrest you. Now, speed away you little scamp,’ the Policeman would reply as he ruffed up Samuel’s hair.

After the meal, which thankfully was going to be cut half price, we all went around the table and we all had to say our most embarrassing story. Some stories were tame, Maggie’s most embarrassing story was about when she was in a supermarket loo, and the lights went of. Rubbish. Next! One of the other ladies, Linda, said her’s was when her husband caught her eating chocolate at 3am. Rubbish. Next! Then it dawned on me…what the hell was I going to say. Jesus, I thought, I’ve got so many of these stories I wouldn’t know where to begin. I needed a tame story. Then, as my mind flicked through all my stories of the last year I remembered a very tame story about I fell asleep in the dentists. It wasn’t that embarrassing, but it was tame and I’m sure I could lie to them and tart it up a bit more.

Though, as it turns out, I had a counterpart for embarrassing stories. His name was, and I’ll fake it for his own shame, Hugo. Hugo, when he was 15 years old was caught, ala Jim from American Pie, with his penis in the family tub of Mint Chip Choc ice cream. He regaled the story, much to everyone’s amusement. “I was…you know, thrusting back and forth in this freezing cold food. The end of my cock was going numb, but it felt so good.” Everyone burst out laughing, even Samuel. “So, anyway, I hear my parents come home from…shopping, or whatever, so I pull myself out. Slam the lid shut, and yes I did throw it away. Then later that day I went for a piss, and it stung so much. Turns out a piece of choc chip had got stuck…in it…in my cocks eye, japs eye, you know. Well, I was in so much pain, and it wasn’t coming out that I had to admit to my mother the problem. So, my Dad holds my hands, and my mum holds my penis and with tweezers pulls the choc chip out. Soooo embarrassing. The thing is they never asked how I did it. Never. Nor, did they question the full tub of ice cream in the bin with the hole in the middle.’

We all laughed. Made all the men’s eyes water, a bit, but we all laughed. Then Samuel, as he had done throughout the night, had to one better the story. Something about how he got caught masturbating by his Grandmother, some shit like that. Everyone was getting annoyed at Samuel. Even his wife looked a little embarrassed. At one point in the evening he went to the toilet, and they all started bitching about him. He was always like this, apparently. Just a massive prat. Anyway, it got round to my turn. Everyone was looking at me, “well, mines a bit tame, I’m afraid.”

Then, as if out the blue, Maggie shouts across the table ‘is it when you insulted a woman in a wheelchair.’ I just stared straight at the remains of my drink, that was on the table. I knew half the group were looking at me, the other half at Samuel. Suddenly, Maggie, started back tracking “Oh, not in a bad way. Sorry. No. It’s a long story. He didn’t insult her, insult her, he just…nothing. Nothing. It was nothing, right Stuart?” A bead of sweat started forming on my face. I think, somewhere in Rome, I heard a pin drop.

I looked up at her, and her face bright red. “Mis understanding,” I said. “So, anyway, I went to the dentists…”

“Is this the story about you insulting a woman in a wheelchair,” one of the ladies asked?

“No, no, this is something else. So, I was laying on the dentists chair, and I had gone drinking the night before…”

“I think I’d like to hear the story about how you insulted a woman in a wheelchair, Stuart,” Samuel said, with a wry smirk that looked like it was covering a fiery anger.

“It’s not actually that bad.”

“Try me,” he said staring dead in to my eyes. By this point the whole group were, either, feeling very awkward (as they had heard the story), or were intrigued (as they hadn’t heard the story).

“I made a joke about…drink driving…and didn’t know that a drunk driver smashed in to her and her dads car, killing the dad and bruising her spine. I didn’t mean to make the joke.”

“You fucking piece of shit,” Samuel roared.

‘Calm down Samuel/alright Samuel he just said he didn’t meant to/not now Samuel,’ shot out the cries from around the table.

“No. This woman, you knew she was in a wheelchair?”

“Yeah…but…”

“Your an idiot. What the hell is wrong with you.”

Samuel’s wife leaned over to him, “Samuel, I think you’ve had to much drink?”

“Oh, do you? This joker hear probably wants to make a joke about that, don’t you,” he said turning from his wife to me, again?

“…No,” I squeaked. How had these happened, I thought? None of this was debate worthy. “It’s not as bad as you think,” I replied, before then spilling the sorry story. The story from that fateful night, that night of shame and shock. The weekend before that night, that wheel chair insulting night, I had just spent my first night with BoldTextGirl. I was on an all time high, feeling good about myself, and perhaps feeling a little bit loved up. What followed, however, was a week of confusion while me and BoldTextGirl worked out our feelings, only for me to figure out we could only be friends. That, of cause, is no excuse for what I did. Like most things, in my life, it starts out with me trying to be funny but then it all falling apart. The girl who I tried to chat up, the same girl in the wheelchair, became the girl I made the wrong joke to. She wasn’t angry, more then that she was okay with it. I wasn’t to know. Then, I just kept digging…and digging…and digging myself in a stupid mess, until I walked away in shame, regarding it as the worst thing I’d ever done.

Samuel was getting more then annoyed. While everyone else around the table was trying to change the subject, or even try and calm Samuel down, nothing was working. Samuel kept on at me, fulled with rage, and yes, fulled with alcohol. I don’t think, to be honest, it was anything to do with him being in a wheelchair. I really do think he wanted a fight, some sort of debate, and he could then end it on ‘well I’m in a wheelchair.’

Still, just because he was being a complete prat about it, didn’t mean I could say what I then said to him. I won’t justify myself, nor will I make light of it. In the future when people ask ‘are you proud of what you said,’ I will reply with a solid ‘no.’ At the time, though, it felt the right thing to do, and, in fairness it worked.

“I mean is that where you get your kicks from, eh? Making jokes about the disabled. Do you have any idea what it’s like? Do you understand the weight of people treating you differently? You have no clue…”

“I do actually….because I have terminal cancer,” and with that sentence I looked him dead in the eyes. He looked at me, then like a curtain falling, he looked away. Embarrassed. This will no doubt end up as his most embarrassing moment. I looked down at the table, then sorta up towards some of the guests who all looked dumb struck. I caught Maggie’s, and Martins, eyes but didn’t stay looking. I wasn’t proud of myself, nor did I think terminal cancer (or any cancer) was a funny thing. It did however, that line, defeat Samuel.

“I’m sorry,” Samuel said. My comment sobering him up, “What sort is it, may I ask?”

I hadn’t a clue. I had already killed of a fake uncle this year, and now it seemed I was killing myself of just as quickly. Yet, I, was real. “It’s the bad kind. So, this story of mine. I was at the dentist…”

*******************************************

A text came through on my phone, from Karen- ‘Thank you. I knew sitting him next to you he’d shut up.’ I put the phone down and crawled back in to bed with BoldTextGirl. This was the second night in a row she had stayed over, and I didn’t want to ruin tonight with my story about how I told a guy in a wheel chair I had cancer.

Not tonight.

I was a criminal. Though, I wasn’t, even, so much a wanted criminal. I hadn’t killed anyone, nor had I raped a badger…or at least the latter one can’t be proven, yet. I gave the badger some hush money, it’s all good.

I was on the way to Lakeside shopping centre. I hadn’t been for about 8 years, and going there today was a spur of the moment thing. A costly one, as I would find out. The last time I had gone, to Lakeside, a girl gave me a handjob in her car. Not just any girl, I should add. I knew her, we were sorta dating. She wasn’t just some girl offering them out like, how a, Grandfather hands out sweets. Her name was Suzy, and we had gone to the shopping centre so she could buy herself some products for University. After shopping around, we got back in to her car and had a little kiss. I think, if I remember correctly, she was on her period. Anyway, with my hands up her top and one around the drivers seat I felt her hands creep in-between my thighs. Instantly my penis reared it’s head, and before he could yell ‘I’m awake,’ Suzy played around with him until he was happy enough to cough up his fluid.

While this sounds young, and foolish, and naughty, it did have it’s downsides. Being in a Vauxhall Corsa, there’s not much in it to wipe away the large amount of semen that was up her right arm, around my thighs and penis, and up my (un-buttoned shirt) chest. There wasn’t some gadget next to to the cigarette lighter, which handed out towels.

I didn’t really fancy wiping it on my clothes, and after all the work Suzy had just done I felt it was a bit rude to ask, ‘Can I wipe this on your dress?’ Now, I know what a lot of you are thinking…and that’s fine. Yes, she could have inserted her mouth over my erect penis and took the unleashing of semen in to her throat. Normally, she didn’t have a problem with that. She seemed to enjoy it, or at least over the tears/screams/and broken jaw I’d given her she seemed to…anyone who is unsure if that was a joke, you need to stop reading my blog…now!

While she did, in fact, go down on me while we sat in her car we hadn’t really taken in two factors. One, with the gear stick and everything in the way it was rather awkward. Two, you can cover up a handjob a lot easier then a blowjob. If someone walks by and looks. Seeing two people looking out the window is one thing. Seeing a man sitting in the passenger seat with a massive smile on his face while a head bobs up and down is another. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I wiped myself down with a pair of leather driving gloves her father had left in her car by accident. Two days later I saw him wearing them, and as he walked by me he gave me a little pat on the arm, before holding his wife…me and Suzy never really spoke about those gloves again.

This whole story reminds me of a guy I work with called Matt. Who slept with a down syndrome girl (or close to it) while she was on her period, then wiped the blood of his penis with KFC wipes.*

* I’m pretty sure that paragraph of two sentences, 40 words, and a mention of a fast food outlet, says more then nearly 100 posts of mine*

*And, on that note, I’m coming up to a year since I started this, and nearly my 100th post…just saying.

So, anyway, back to the story.

I’m driving down the motorway. I was doing 77 M.P.H. People were over taking me, people were right up the back of my car, yet I did not go faster. I was already seven m.p.h over the speed limit, or in my defence, I only thought I was doing 75. I noticed a police car behind me, so I slowed down so I could get myself back down to 70 m.p.h. Sure, enough, a few minutes later I was flashed by the police and I found myself turning in to a lay by and stopping. I’ll admit it, I was worried. My heart was beating, and I started to panic. People around me had been doing way more then I was in speed, and though that’s not really a core argument, I wondered why it was me that was getting pulled over.

Then, as I saw the police woman walking towards my car, a thought crossed my mind ‘how can I not fuck this up?’

***************************************

I found myself, Sunday morning, sitting on my toilet. I was drunk, I’d been out drinking with friends, and was now a little more then drunk. I did something on that toilet, people, that I did again…mere minutes ago. It felt weird, and silly, and slightly pointless.

It felt, however, like I’d found a new and fresh way to entertain myself while doing a wee.

The next time your going for a wee, and I’m not sure how well this will come across if you doing this while doing a poo, but sit the opposite way round. Sit so your facing the flusher. It feels weird, but good weird.

It’s the way a man faces when standing up and doing wee, so it shouldn’t feel so weird. Go on…try it.

******************************************

I had gone away with BoldTextGirl last weekend. We had only gone to stay at a local seaside B&B, but the sea air, did us both good. I was happier, and content. Then as these thoughts rattled through my head, a week later, I saw the blue lights behind me, and I pulled the car in to the lay by.

“Can you get out the car, please” the Policewoman asked? I got out, my heart beating at such a rate I feared I’d fall down dead. Thankfully the cold breezy air kept my heat down. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

This wasn’t the time for jokes, but my brain didn’t seemed to care. “Because you liked the look of me,” I said. Trying to lay on some charm and hope this could all blow over with a cheeky joke and a hug. I could see it now, down at the police station all the coppers sitting around together laughing about that really funny joke that careless driver had said.

“You were speeding,” she said by passing the whole joke. She’d lay in bed tonight and kick herself for not laughing, and throwing some japes back and forth with me. She’d probably ring me up and say ‘Hey, Stu, forget the points on your license, lets have a beer together.’

“Yeah,” I said. This time my brain kicking in to focus and realising she could slap me down more then I could take. I took the £60 fine, and understood that I’d receive 3 points on my license.

I got back in my car.

‘Eugh,” I thought. I wish I was back at the seaside.

I lit a cigarette, put some gangster rap on my I-Pod and blasted it out the windows as I drove on with my new ‘bad ass bad boi’ image.

I no longer follow the normal rules of society, I thought later, as I sat on the toilet the wrong way round.

“Is this table free,” I heard a girls voice ask? I looked up, my burger half in my mouth. I knew a drop of sauce was rolling down my chin, but I didn’t want to look an idiot by wiping it away. In my view, I was a single man. This was a fact. I was nearly 27, this to was also a fact. I once headbutted a 17 year old girl, and that was also a fact. The thing is I knew the girl, who had asked me the ‘table free’ question, had seen I had sauce running down my chin, but if I wiped it away I’d have to do a silly smile, and make it even more obvious that I couldn’t eat my burger without making a mess. If I just let the sauce drip down, answer her question, we could avoid this whole scenario. Sure, she might think I was a patient of SCOPE, but at least I wouldn’t have to do the whole ‘rolling of the eyes,’ and napkin wipe, which would take up even more of my precious time.

“Yeah, go ahead,” I replied, letting the sauce linger on my chin a bit more. I had gone in to KFC to grab a burger. I had been shopping in Bury St Edmunds, by myself, and my stomach was threatening to write a ‘warts and all’ article for the local paper about all the things I had ever done. ‘I’m going to start with the winking at the doctor, then the pretending you were gay, followed by an in-depth look in to how many times you masterbate in a day.’ I caved in, due to these threats, and brought it a burger.

“Cheers,” said the young girl with a J.L.S jacket on. God, she looked a prick. She waved her hands to a group of girls the other side of the room, and within seconds I was sitting at a table with seven 13-15 year old girls.

…And I knew they had all seen the sauce on my chin. I grabbed a napkin, wiped it away, and hoped that this was the end of the whole ‘Girls Sitting At A Table’ story. Alas, it was not.

****************************************

“You and BoldTextGirl doing anything for Valentines day,” my mate Jay asked as we sipped a flat beer?

“Nope. She hates Valentines day. I hate it. Why would we do anything?”

“Just thought you might. You know, your first Valentines day…together.”

“How many more times, we are not…together. We are just friends.”

“Friends who touch each others sexual equipment?”

“…Alright, close friends then.”

I never liked Valentines Day. I know it’s a very bitter thing to say, and rather clique, but for me the whole thing was a mess. I needed days to remind me to buy Christmas presents, and birthday presents. Hell, I even needed days to remind me to wear a ghost costume and to eat chocolate eggs. I didn’t, however, need a day to tell someone I loved them. Even when I was with the Ex we never really did anything. We would get each other a card, and perhaps a token gift, but we never really went down the whole flowers and chocolates route that so many people did. I just found the whole thing very…well…a bit sick.

It was very clear, to those around me, that I really liked BoldTextGirl. She was, without doubt, girlfriend material. Yes, we were really close and our days apart were boring, and our days together were brilliant. Yes, we had naked adult time, and yes I wanted more. I liked having her in my life, and felt that she may well be that ‘darn allusive one.’ I wasn’t, however, about to go crazy and try and woo her with valentines gifts and stupid messages about how roses are red and violets are blue. She felt the same. Thankfully. So, to us, Valentines day was just a Tuesday. Just like all the other Tuesdays. We would both go to work, we would both come home, we would both go to sleep and await Wednesday.

Yes, Valentines Day was just another day.

********************************************

I flicked through the Facebook tat that people had posted about Valentines day. Saying how much they ‘loved so-and-so.’ How ‘great their day was.’

Such drivel and shite. Then, as if by magic I saw the greatest typo in the world. One person, a person who by their own admission thinks they are smart, wrote a status on his Facebook. It read…

‘Valentines is such a con.’

Or, at least that’s what I’m guessing he meant to type, as what he had done was write the word ‘Con,’ with two O’s.

*********************************************

“She is so beautiful,” Kelly said with a wry grin. The sort of grin which made me think the person she was referring to wasn’t that beautiful.

“Go on,” I said, having no interest in being set up.

“You’d like her,” she said, leaving me to fill in the blanks.

“…Why? Or, are you purely going on the fact that she has a pulse?”

“No. She is skinny, is looking for a bit of fun, and likes a laugh.”

“What? So, you assume she is my kinda girl. One, I’m not overly thrilled by skinny girls. Sure, I don’t want John Candy sitting on my face, but still! A bit of fun? I think I would like more then that. Likes a laugh? Yeah, don’t we all. But, to me she sounds like the kinda person whose idea of a laugh is getting smashed and dancing to some hip hop beats, and updating their Facebook status every five minutes. She sounds a cunt.”

“…My sister is far from a cunt.”

“Your sister? Isn’t your sister twelve?”

“My other sister.”

“You have another sister?”

“Yeah, Hannah.”

“…Mmmmm. I don’t think so.”

“Oh come on you fat prick,” her boyfriend Keith piped up, “she’s nice. I mean it’s not like BoldTextGirl is going anywhere. I mean come on, she is dicking you around.”

“Hey, fuck off! She isn’t dicking me around.”

“What? She doesn’t want anything else from you. Your just friends, you say that enough to me,” Keith said, rather viciously.

“She’s going to Sweden! Why start something neither of us can finish? Anyway, you know fuck all Keith. You once ate a tub of marmite and threw up on a cat.”

“Stuart,” Kelly said waving her hand at Keith to stop talking, “Shall I tell Hannah your up for a drink at least?”

“Kelly, look, thank you…but, no.”

“Why,” she said with plea?

“…However nice you make her sound…or anyone sound…she isn’t…she isn’t BoldTextGirl.”

That’s when I knew. Just by saying that out loud, I knew. Knew I didn’t want to be with anyone else but her. I knew, for now, that me and BoldTextGirl were just friends. Cool friends. Fun friends. Close friends. The kinda friends who, yes have sex, but also have all night spoons, and trips away. It was me, saying what I said, which lead me to be standing in a florist ordering a bouquet of flowers for her.

A bouquet of flowers for her, on Valentines day.

********************************************

I felt sleazy and felt awful. Here I was eating a Big Daddy Meal on a table of 13 year old girls. 13 year old girls who swore…lots.

“This burger tastes like fucking trash,” was one of the many delightful sentences I heard. I sat there, quiet, and staring at my phone. They chatted away to themselves as if I wasn’t there. The thing is, when your choking on chicken leg, there is no way to be quiet about it.

**********************************************

It was a few days before Valentines day and the florist’s I was in was very busy. The shop had a wonderful smell about it, and for a few seconds I thought about hiding behind some of the display stands and having a cozy little nap.

“What sort of flowers would you like,” asked the helpful lady behind the desk?

“Uh…I don’t want dead ones,” I said with a precise honest tone.

“Well…we don’t normally sell dead ones,” she said with a precise honest tone.

I really didn’t know what I wanted to get BoldTextGirl. In the end I just picked a nice bunch of flowers, the wrapping, and the card, then paid my money and left.

***********************************************

I bit in to the chicken leg. It tasted so good. How the hell does KFC get it to taste so gooooooood. Then it happened. I felt a slice of it get caught in my throat. I did a few little girly coughs, and noticed one of the girls on my table look over at me. I waved back, realising only after how creepy that must have looked.

I kept coughing, this time banging my chest as if that would help. I grabbed my drink, and on seeing it was empty apart from just some ice my whole life flashed before my eyes.

It was just me…wanking lots. Head butting girls. Getting wanked of in a club. Then finally me at work getting shouted at by a customer. Fuck! Suddenly I started making weird grunting noises.

“Are you okay,” one of the girls asked?

“I’m fine,” I groaned back. Christ woman, let me die in peace. I held on to the table, this time the whole place was looking at me, though none of them ran to my aid. So, I did the most attractive thing in the world, I put my fingers down my throat, making myself gag, allowing the slice of chicken to fly back up and in to my fingers. I held the slice of chicken in my fingers and looked at it. I looked up and saw the girls all looking at me in shock, as they grabbed their food and found another empty table to sit at.

I hadn’t died, and as I put the slice of chicken back in my mouth and chewed it till I swallowed it, I thought about how I nearly died. I really, really, needed to do something with my life.

I wiped the droll from my chin and left to live my life.

***************************************

She was over the moon with the flowers I sent her. They were delivered to her work place, and it brought out huge smiles and love from her. I didn’t send them to her to woo her, or show her how much I cared, I just wanted to make her feel special.

That night she came over and we curled up in my bed watching TV, cuddled up and feeling a bit loved up.

It felt special, and it felt amazing.

She was, after all, my Valentine.

The snow, like all my heroes, had fallen. It was rather magical, watching it all fall down with erry grace and winter joy. The snow covered up all that was grotty, and all that we wished could stay hidden. Then, as the morning came along and the snow melted (abet only slightly) we met the dark and bleak snow, and we knew we were slowly climbing a stride back to normal

******************************************

The bath was boiling hot, and the fact I was cupping Henry The Chef and his two children Sarah and Christopher (otherwise known as my penis and two testicles. I’m trying to keep this blog clean for when it is made in to a children’s pop up book) was sign I was already burning myself. I looked down, as I crouched in the bath, and saw my burning red legs. Henry looked up at me, and from his one eye, a shocked expression appeared. He gently hovered over his two children, trying to protect them as I sunk lower in the bath. ‘I wish we were in the ice water the Titanic sunk in,’ Sarah screamed.

‘How do you know what it was like, you weren’t there,’ Christopher replied, with his lisp coming more in the focus?

‘I’ve seen the movie enough times. I mean there’s that bit in the movie where Stuart freeze frames and masterbates over, and, over again to’

‘Ah, yes. The bit where Kate Winslet gets naked?’

‘No. The bit where the poor Irish people drown.’

I lowered myself back in the bath, and found a place comfortable to burn. Steam rose from the bath at such an epic speed, I wondered if Dennis Hopper had planted a bomb in it. As the steam over took me, and the music from my I-Phone reached new depths of cheese, I found my mind wandering across memories which seemed apt.

**********************************

I hadn’t seen you for over a week, and I never realised how much that effected me. We were pretty much seeing each other 2/3 times a week, but lately due to work and shizz we hadn’t seen each other.

Our trip to the seaside, on one of the most coldest days of the year was insane. Wrapped up to the nines, we walked along the sea front, along the pier, in to town, with your arm locked around mine. Any passes by, mad enough to come out in the cold as well, would have assumed that you and me were a couple.

Then, as we sat, shaking, watching the sea, while eating sausage and chips, and chatting away, I realised what it meant to be with you. Be it as a couple, or just as friends, I knew more then anything that when I was with you, I was at my happiest.

*******************************************

“Bugger,” I heard the voice behind me say. I turned around and saw the landlord of the local pub swearing under his breath. He looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. Fully aware that words between me and this large man, with a white beard, and a smell of anal leakage, were not needed. Pretty much like any Adam Sandler movie.

I waited in line till I was served. The line was moving at such a slow rate, due to the stupid lady behind the counter whose name shall remain nameless…mainly because I don’t know it. Let’s call the frail old lady Lenny Henry. She was a short, white, lady with the beginnings of Parkinson’s (and, no, she was not about to host a TV show and get attacked my Rod Hull). It was either a real illness she was suffering from, or she was nervous about serving crisps to a man with a bald head. Either way Micheal J Fox would be proud. Though, even if he said he was, he facial twitches would suggest otherwise.

“Could this line get any slower,” the large man behind me said to someone else in the line behind him? Clearly I wasn’t good enough to utter a word to anymore. I guess the large man got all he wanted from me by just the nod. I did, however, think about his question, and my answer was a stolen ‘yes.’ ‘Yes,’ this line could get slower. Slower then…a…snail…going up a hill…that’s…covered in…ice…yes. Ice. I turned around to tell the large man this, but he was already out the door after throwing his paper on the ice cream counter.

I was in a rush, but I wasn’t going to say anything. I think since I worked in retail I had more time for retail staff. They say ‘the customer is always right,’ but that’s a lie. ‘The customer is more then likely a cunt.’

I finally got my items to the desk, and paid my money. Upon turning around I saw one of my neighbours. A middle aged woman whose smile made me think the Osmonds had returned. Her mouth full to the rim with shiny white teeth, massive and glowing. She was new in the area, and seemed to have grace about her. She lived with her husband, and she had a pre-teen son who liked jumping in the snow, and then running back in his house crying he had fallen over. We hadn’t really spoken, and only the odd ‘hello,’ had slipped from our mouths. I turned around, and I smiled at her and nodded. Everyone was getting the ‘nod’ today it seemed. I walked out the shop, but then stopped. I turned around and looked at the side of her face. She had a bruise on her cheek, and I noticed her arms were scratched.

“What are you looking at,” my friend Steve asked, later that day, when he walked in to my kitchen?

“There’s a woman over the road who gets beaten up by her husband,” I put the binoculars down, and, turned to look at him. “All those bad things I’ve ever done, I can fix them now.”

“How?”

“I’m going to find proof that he beats her, then I’m going to call the police, become a local hero and bring my karma back around. Come on, Steve, this is a good idea.”

“If you say so,” he said sitting down and opening a can of Lilt. “So your just going to wait there?”

“It’s what the best heroes do.”

“I’ve never seen Batman sitting in his kitchen, with a pair of binoculars, staring at bruised women.”

“And he wonders why he can’t find true love. Look, there she is…oh, no that’s a man.”

“You going to the clear your drive way, it’s like a massive ice rink out there. I died nearly doing the splits getting to your door.”

“I’m hiring out to little kids,” I said in a joke format that works better out loud then on paper, where it kinda looks sinister.

The lady, this bruised and battered lady was going to thank me, one day, when she is away from this horrible beast of a man. God, she must have a tough time, being some monsters punching bag, behind closed doors.

I think that’s the thing, isn’t it? Behind closed doors. You never really know what goes on between people once the door to their family home is shut. I mean in my case, the door is shut and I masterbate as many times as I can until I’m tired and need to go to sleep. In fairness, I assume when people see me they know exactly what I do behind closed doors. Then there’s other people. I know, especially, older people who perhaps have lost their partner and walk the streets shopping and chatting away, then get in to their home and spend the evening alone. Watching TV, doing the puzzles in the paper, anything to make the time run faster so they can sleep, wake up, and go out again.

Things like that make me sad. This is why, in someways, helping this beautiful woman get away from her violent husband would somehow make me feel better. “Is that her,” Steve asked as he stood behind me?

“Yep, that’s her.” She got out the car, holding a bag full of shopping. She seemed so happy, but a little unsteady on her feet. Bless her, I thought. Such a brave woman. “I can’t do this anymore,” I threw my binoculars down and stormed out the house. I was going to confront her. Tell her that ‘I was going to help her, be there for her.’ Steve run behind me, nearly slipping on the driveway. “What are you doing,” he asked?

I turned to him, “I can’t just let a helpless woman…”

“That’s the second pissing time I’ve done that!!!!!!”

Me and Steve both looked at each other, confused about where the women’s voice had come from. We both turned and saw the woman laying on her front on her driveway. Her shopping had spilled all over the drive.

“…Stuart…it seems she’s not a victim of…”

“Shut up.”

“Today your not going to be a her…”

“Shut up.” I turned and walked back towards my door, so I could shut it and hide.

“You not going to help her up?”

“…No. I better grit my drive though.”

*****************************************

The bath had eased my woes, and as I stood up to get out I saw the massive bruise down the side of my right thigh. Even rubbing it hurt. As I dried myself, sitting back on the closed toilet and texting BoldTextGirl, I couldn’t find the right words for many things. I wanted to say so much to her, but I didn’t want to ruin our silly, geeky chats. I’ll tell her some other time, I thought, and maybe at some point this week I’ll tell her I fell over gritting the path, when she asks how I got the bruise.