Be My Guest. Please?

Sadly, it’s not just fertile females who are unable to attend my 30th birthday party this weekend. Nevertheless, I’m expecting a respectable turnout, as I explain to the owner of the bar we’ve hired.

‘There’ll be 140 guests,’ I boast, assuming this makes me sound pretty darn popular.

‘Hmm,’ he intones cheerily. ‘You should invite more people. The venue will look weird if you don’t invite more people.’

This is obviously ironic. ‘But I’m scraping the barrel as it is,’ I chuckle, playing along. ‘Most of the people coming aren’t even my mates, ha! ha!’

‘Whatever. It’s your funeral.’

‘Erm . . .’

Coming Of Age

Forsaking crisps for a month hardly constitutes a sacrifice of biblical proportions. It does, however, mark a significant autobiographical departure, insofar as it’s the first time I’ve ever had the inclination to give up anything. To my mind, this is a sign I’m entering a phase in life traditionally associated with slippers, Countdown and sciatica.

Reassuringly, I’m not the only member of my peer-group whose priorities are shifting. Today, for example, I call a female friend with a view to arranging a good old-fashioned knees-up. She tells me we can’t meet until late April – because she’s either busy, or she’s ovulating.

Crisps: Best Served Cold

Like The Dane, I have revenge on the brain. Once again, Terry on reception abuses me to damn me, cruelly targeting the imperfections on my head. Frankly, I’m beginning to wish his too too solid flesh would melt.

I need to strike back, so am delighted to learn he’s just spent £250 on hypnotherapy in an effort to quit smoking.

‘It’s worse than kicking smack,’ he complains, gnawing a fist.

‘If it’s any consolation, I know exactly how you feel,’ I say earnestly, inspecting my fingernails. ‘I’ve given up crisps for lent.’

[Terry’s reply cannot be published for legal reasons]

Schadenfreude

Following the unfortunate incident in the toilet, there’s now a two-inch divot running down the middle of my forehead. Thankfully, the skin has not been ruptured, but the indenture is of sufficient depth to cause both pain and embarrassment.

Of course, the fact I have a relief-map of the Mariana Trench on my noggin is not wasted on my colleagues.

‘Morning, Mr Merrick,’ says the comedian on reception, as I walk into the building.

I try to scowl but it hurts, so I don’t. ‘I’m fine, Terry. Thanks for asking.’

‘No you’re not. You’re head looks like a baby’s arse.’

I See His Face – Everywhere

With Jim Davidson haunting last night’s dreams like the bastard son of Freddy Krueger and Enoch Powell, I should’ve realised today would be ill-fated

I’m in a urinal at work, trying to zip-up. Frustratingly, my flies are stuck. As I wrestle with them at the door, it swings open and cracks me on the forehead. I cry out in pain and thrust a hand up to my brow. My other hand, meanwhile, is still in the vicinity of my flies, and instinctively clamps around my nuts.

My attacker is a cleaner from Hungary. I swear she looks like Jim Davidson.

The Butterfly Effect: No Laughing Matter

According to the meteorologist Edward Lorenz, a butterfly that flaps its wings in Brazil can cause a tornado in Texas. Lorenz, of course, is the forefather of chaos theory – a theory that continues to have a practical application in manifold spheres.

Take the poll to find The 100 Greatest Stand-Ups of all-time, which aired on Channel 4 this evening. In it, several morons from Romford radically reconfigured the cosmic order just by picking up their telephones. How else can one explain the fact that Tommy Cooper finished fifty-third in the public vote – a whole 16 places behind Jim Davidson?

I’ll Drink To That

In a classic episode of The Simpsons, Homer borrows money from Marge’s sisters to get himself out of a financial fix. Naturally, he neglects to tell his wife about the loan, presenting Patty and Selma with the opportunity to blackmail him.

Of the many brilliant lines in this episode – ‘you can’t spell obsequious without I-O-U’ – one has particular resonance following my pistol-whipping at the casino. It comes when our hero is bemoaning his predicament to Carl. Carl, though, is unsympathetic: ‘Quit wallowing in self-pity. Pull yourself together and come get drunk.’

Now that’s what I call good advice.

One More Time

Friday

As Thursday night bleeds into Friday morning, it occurs I’m not The Cincinnati Kid, but a feckless wastrel who should know better.

Did the Vegas debacle teach me nothing? That weekend, the only person who got lucky was the jock in an adjacent hotel-room, who spent 48-hours having operatic intercourse with a prostitute, while I pissed dollars up paper-thin walls. Christ, did they go hammer-and-tongs – with her talent for faking orgasm matched only by his Brobdingnagian libido.

One more time, he kept saying, one more time.

Coincidentally, that’s my mantra too – in relation to this last hand of blackjack, anyway.

A Sure Thing

Thursday

If you’re looking to generate extra cash, it isn’t necessary to steal a railway arch on which Banksy has left his mark. You can also go to a casino.

‘Blackjack’s a game of skill’ says my companion – a grizzled veteran of the tables – as we stride into a gambling den in central London. ‘Play the odds and you can’t lose.’

I follow his advice, and am cleaned out in five minutes.

They say a fool and his money are easily parted. But I’m no fool, I’m Britain’s answer to the Cincinnati Kid. I therefore withdraw another £100 and continue gambling.

Fifty Grand? It’s A Steal

Wednesday

With the invisible hand bleeding me dry, I need a more lucrative job. I therefore intend to pursue a career in vandalism.

Why? Well, it seems that Banksy, Britain’s premier graffiti artist, is doing rather well for himself. Each of his works retails at £50,000, which is a tidy return for a guy who prides himself on being an iconoclastic guerrilla, perpetually at war with the establishment.

‘Hypocrite,’ says a friend, as we inspect a Banksy original on a building in London’s East End.

‘Yeah, right, agree . . . so, er, how exactly are we gonna get this off the wall without power tools?’