Mehallabiyyah, Anyone?

April 4, 2007

As you well know, it’s party season. School’s out for Easter, and the children are out in force, cavorting through the streets like Eastern Bloc revolutionaries. I walk into a restaurant where 15 of these stubby, prepubescent rabble-rousers have gathered for a birthday bash. Nothing wrong with that per se, except for the fact that the ‘restaurant’ is a kebab house.

A kebab house?

For a 10-year-old’s birthday party?

What the fuck’s going on?

What the fuck are they eating?

Sponge-cake with chilli sauce?

Blancmange and cock-sized pickled gherkins?

Lord, give me strength.

And some of that jelly in Pitta.


96-Hours, 100 Words

April 3, 2007

Go to work. Come home. Watch TV. Go to bed. Wake up. Loaf about. Go to birthday party. Drink shots. Dance badly. Humiliate myself. Return home with friends. Continue drinking. Pass out on stairs. Wake up. Go to bed. Wake up. Invite friends over for breakfast. Sit in garden. Eat bacon sandwiches. Drink Bucks Fizz. Go to pub. Watch football. Come home. Eat curry. Fall asleep on sofa. Wake up. Go to bed. Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Watch TV. Go to bed. Wake up. Go to work.

That, I think, just about brings us up to date.

Be My Guest. Please?

March 27, 2007

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

March 26, 2007

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

March 23, 2007

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]


March 21, 2007

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

March 20, 2007

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.