Sanctuary.

I am at work.

Having little better to do, I call one of my clients upon the tele-phone.

The client is not a happy man. He has a hardened artery in his leg and has had to suffer much surgery, and even more time off work. He is self-employed. He is not content.

Me: Hi George. [His name is not George.]

George: [Remorsefully] Oh. Hi Tired.

Me: Going mad much?

George: The holidays are the worst. I mean. If I don’t work for a couple of weeks I go a bit mad anyway.

Me: With you. Me too.

George: Aye. But. The holidays. The kids are ALWAYS around. I think I’m losing it. It’s been two months now. I can’t walk far.

Me: Look. They’re your children. Enjoy the time. I know it’s tough when you don’t really think you can do anything and there’s not much money about, but take the time. Relish this time with-

George: You don’t understand.

Me: What?

George: My wife’s a nanny.

Me: Oh dear God.

George: Yes.

Me: She doesn’t-

George: Yes.

Me: How many?

George: Eight. Including my two. In the house. All the time. All summer. All day.

Me: Christ.

George: I know.

Me: I love children. If they’re actually MINE.

George: Yeah. The same.

Me: God. You know what you need? A shed.

George: Done.

Me: What?

George: Had a couple of mates build one at the end of the garden last week. I’m talking to you from there now.

Me: You've actually had one purpose-built? Superb. All you need now is one of those little fridges that you can fit six cans of lager into and you’re sorted. [I assumed I was joking at this point.]

George: Done.

Me: What?

George: I got satellite television now.

Me: In the house?

George: Naw. Got the dish put on the side of The Shed this week. Sky Sports. Plasma screen.

Me: You’re joking?

Silence.

George: [Puzzled] No.

More silence.

I’m not a big sports fan. But this sounds too good to be true.

Me: Can I come round?

George: No.

The Cliches Continue.

It's true, I've become all that I hate and have become a living blog cliche.

The MOST hateful cliche is the smug, self-satisfied 'oh, I'm away on holiday so there will be a guest blogger filling-in for me' thing.

Like you've got a column in the Guardian and you hand it over to one of your writer mates for a couple of weeks.

That's almost ok, but when you have a blog? Fucking hell. The assumption that people will wither and die if there is no content on your silly web-thing? Christ.

And the whole clique - thing. Jesus.

It makes me SICK.

My current post can be found at www.non-workingmonkey.blogspot.com

I'm filling-in for her whilst she's on her holidays.

Look. She's actually quite nice. Although the blog's a bit weak since she got happy - Dating Monkey's better and contains some sound advice and big laughs.

The Last Chance

Seriously. I know I’ve mentioned my local Emporium of Alcoholic Beverages before, but FUCK ME.

I occasionally frequent for two reasons.

1: It is situated one minute and thirty seconds walk away from my current abode.

2: The clientele are so uniformly appalling. It’s like a zoo or something. But a zoo full of people who can’t wait for the next film starring Jason Streathem. It’s like they’ve rounded-up all the twats and put them in one place so that Normal People can avoid them. I have to look. On occasion.

I HATE The Last Chance. It is a horrible place. But on the odd time I frequent, I always walk away feeling better. You know. About myself. Because I’m a prick, and think that mingling with the underclass secure in the knowledge that they’ve never read the Guardian makes me better than them. It doesn't.

Tonight.

I’ve mentioned Imaginary High School Friend I feel sure. He lives across the street from me. I am not convinced that he isn’t stalking me.

I bump into him. He insists we drink together. I have ABSOLUTELY nothing better to do. We retire to The Last Chance.

The following events occur:

1: A random woman informs me that ‘Steve’ got the job. Great. I do not know anyone called Steve.

2: A man I have never met insists I am ‘staring him out’ and attempts to head-butt me, fails terribly and falls to the floor. Apparently this means I am ‘queer’. According to him.

3: A Very Large Man also insists that I went to high-school with him. I’ve no idea who he is. He doesn’t seem to mind. But insists upon shouting my name a lot.

4: I ask my ‘friend’ – the one I apparently went to high school with for several years without realising – who a guy I faintly recognize is. It transpires that said guy is the biggest coke dealer in this small town.

5: Coke Dealer and Very Large Man retire to the car park for the world’s quickest cigarette and Very Large Man goes straight to the Gents afterwards .He probably needed a wee after his two-second cigarette. He was very chatty afterwards though – that cigarette perked him up no end.

6: Very Large Man, whilst reminding me of the non-existant fun we had at high-school – where we never met – randomly thinks this would be the perfect time to take his shirt off. So we could see his tan. And the fact he’d had his back waxed. In the pub.

I’ve had a busy week. I finish my drink and go home.