"Do you want to help me finish the crossword?" Debs asked as we were lying on the sofa together. I gave my approval with an enthusiastic grunt and we tackled the Daily Mail's taxing clues with determined aplomb. Normally The Daily Mail is not a newspaper that I approve of because it has deteriorated into tabloid trash over the past ten years, but to its credit it does have an achievable, and sometimes challenging, crossword. Debs had bought the paper to pass time on her train journey to work that day and had put some answers to a few clues in the appropriate boxes, but there were several blanks left and the gauntlet had been laid down.
"7 Across" Debs said, "Stand Firm, six letters".
"Have we got any letters already?" I asked, to which the response was "yes, the third from the end is G"
"G?" I queried, puzzled at the odd positionin of the letter 'G' in this mysterious word. "Not sure, let's have a look" and I took the newspaper from Debs and studied the word. The 'G' was indeed in a strange place. I was convinced the answer to the clue was 'insist' but that meant that the 'G' was wrong and it should be an 'I', so I went back to the clue with the 'G' in it and read the clue.
"3 Down ... 'Snow Runner', three letters". I mused for a second before coming to the conclusion that the answer to this clue was 'ski', which would mean there was an 'I' in the right place for 'insist' to go in. But where had the misplaced 'G' come from? Well, it had come from the bizarre brain logic of Debs. When contemplating the correct answer to the 'Snow Runner' clue, Debs had not reached the 'ski' conclusion that had popped into my mind. Oh no. The answer that Debs had come up with that she thought was the correct response was .... DOG.
Further interrogation deducted that Debs had thought 'snow runner' had meant the husky dogs that pulled sledges in the North Pole, because they run in the snow. Bless her.
In the adapted words of John Lennon in his famed 'War Is Over' Christmas hit, "and so that was Christmas". Three days of excessive food and alcohol amongst family and friends and, given Christmas' exponential commercial appeal, a mountain of presents.
Christmas morning came and went with a fried breakfast and an investigation into what Santa Claus had left and by lunchtime, although I wasn't particularly hungry, we all polished off Mother's delicious roast turkey, bacon-wrapped sausages and all the trimmings, and then some. Dessert was profiteroles and two bowls of those meant I was as stuffed as the fateful turkey.
And then it was time for the Christmas games. Well, game. There were only four of us so we split into two teams and sat around the stereo system answering questions to the CD quiz. It seemed that the quiz had been designed by an over fifty for a group of over fifties, since the section on music (on which I was supremely confident) produced questions on Bob Dylan's 1963 chart entry, something about someone else in 1981, two opera questions and one other that I can't remember.
By now I was feeling a little dubious. I had a headache and stomach issues, so after lying on the sofa for a few hours, I went upstairs to lie down. By nine o'clock I was vomiting, had a temperature of 100 degrees and could do nothing other than lie in bed, shivering. The night was spent with regular half-hour trips to the bathroom to expel what was in my stomach, including little bits of carrot for those that were wondering, and this continued until about 4am. I hadn't rehydrated at all though, which was indeed an error, since all the sickness had rid me of bodily fluids. What little sleep I had that night was semi-delirious, my body starved of water and my brain half dreaming of liquids and half trying to deal with the strange dreams. What seemed like a three hour sleep was in fact only forty minutes and I couldn't down a whole pint of water for fear of throwing it all up again half an hour later, nor could I venture downstairs to fill my glass. But by 7am I'd had enough of tossing and turning and being so dehydrated, so I plucked up the courage to go get a drink.
Boxing Day was spent lying in bed, drinking Lucozade and catching up on sleep - the worst part of the sickness was over and this was the road to recovery. I even managed to take part in the annual jigsaw puzzle and open a few more presents. The next few days were spent resting and recovering, and after a 48 hour period of no food, I managed to get some pasta down my neck in an attempt to restore the half-stone that I appeared to have lost.
So that was Christmas. The one time during the whole year that I get incapacitated with illness and it's on Christmas Day. That is so very very typical. I didn't even have the priviledge of taking time off work with illness, since the days after Christmas I had already booked as holiday. Still, I did get to watch the following films: Wallace and Gromit: The Wrong Trousers; Wallace and Gromit: A Close Shave; Who Framed Roger Rabbit; Signs; Tomb Raider; Chicken Run; The Quiet American; The Goonies; Dr Dolittle; Dead Man's Folly (Poirot); The Incredible Theft (Poirot); and an old episode of Supermarket Sweep.
But don't worry, it's now New Year's Eve and I feel as right as rain....
Last Christmas I bought one of these (for those of you too lazy to click the link - it's a small punchbag that whenever you hit it, it swears at you) as a Secret Santa present for a work colleague. Highly amused by such a toy, I decided to buy one myself at the same time and keep it on my desk at home. My current colleagues decided the other day that I swear too much, so I decided that my new year's resolution for 2006 would be to cut right down on swearing and what better time to do it than the beginning of December.
So last week I took the bag of abuse into work and sat it on my desk. Three minutes later I had broken it and it was in three pieces, but I somehow managed to fix it and put it back into a complete working order. It has provided a lot of amusement with its four catchphrases - "EAT SH*T", "F*CKING JERK", "YOU'RE AN A**HOLE" and best of all "F*CK YOU" and despite being taken apart and resurrected (must be the time of year..) it seems to be in full working order.
I wanted to get in touch with a supplier, but the phone kept ringing and ringing and I just couldn't get through. It was urgent so I hung on in there waiting for the voicemail to kick in. To pass the time, I tucked the phone onto my shoulder and held it in place with my chin, and picked up the swearing punch bag. Studying it carefully to see where the damage had been done, I twisted it around in my hands, being careful not to set it off, and looked at the broken bits that needed supergluing.
After the seventh ring, it was clear that the supplier wasn't going to answer the phone and my attention became completely focused on the swearing punchbag. Then the supplier answered the phone. "Hello?" she said in a friendly, quality customer-service kind of way. "Oh hello" I said in response, at which point I lost grip on the punchbag which I was holding far too dangerously close to the receiver and it shouted "EAT SH*T, F*CKING JERK. YOU'RE AN A**HOLE. F*CK YOU."
Oops.
My ex-girlfriend hated Ford Escort drivers on the grounds that they were poor, aggressive drivers that hogged the road and bullied others. In my opinion this is more suited to drivers of BMW vehicles, but further to this recent experience, it applies to both.
I'd stayed behind at the football club after the game for a social beer and a bit of food, but come 2pm it was time for me to leave and get home. Driving back to Harrow, I was doing 38mph in a 40mph zone plied with speed cameras when a blue Ford Escort appeared behind me and flashed its lights as if to say 'come on, you're going too slow and you're holding me up'. There was no way on Earth that I was going to speed up to please this hooligan, particularly with another camera looming, so I maintained my speed and passed the camera.
He flashed again and I knew he was going to overtake. This was a 40mph zone and there was just no way that I was going to let him get away with it. He moved out to overtake so I gently put my foot on the accelerator (since there were no more cameras) and kept him where he was - I was ignoring the 40mph limit myself now but I was making a point. His crappy Escort couldn't keep up (much to his frustration and my delight) and as a lamp-post island drew nearer, he was forced to pull in behind me again.
Once the island passed, I let him overtake. I'd made my point and as far as I was concerned if he wanted to ignore speed limits and risk his licence, his life, and the lives of others then there wasn't a lot I could do about it. As he pulled in front of me, he braked, gesticulated and called me all sorts of names. This wasn't a surprise so I smiled, waved and blew him a kiss before giving him the finger. He responded and so it continued for a few seconds before a set of traffic lights gone red appeared. I didn't pull up directly behind him because I suspected he was going to get out and approach me, so when his driver's door opened and he got out, I wasn't the least bit shocked. He was a fair-sized black guy but for some reason he just stood with one foot on his door sill making shoulder gestures that I simply couldn't interpret.
I couldn't help but start laughing. There was this fairly big, irate black bloke in his Escort who, even if I had let him pass at the outset of this incident, still would have got no further than he had, and now he was trying to act hard yet cool by standing with one foot on the inside of his car. So I sniggered to myself, dramatically shrugged and made a big deal out of a fake yawn before smiling broadly, offering a wave and gleefully pointing at the lights that had gone green behind him without him knowing.
So in he got and off he sped, turning right moments later and by my estimation would have ended up saving himself about three seconds had I let him overtake me. He offered one last flash of the lights and no doubt some cursing, but frankly I didn't care because I was having a whale of a time.
And then I got to thinking. I really really enjoyed that - maybe I should join the traffic police? Or maybe I should set up one of those underground righteous gangs that punishes bad people (or in this case bad drivers). I would be like one of those superheroes - fighting for good drivers against evil - I could even get myself a cape and a catchy name (Motor Man? Road Runner? Captain Mechanical? [suggestions?]) and bring the bad drivers of this world to motoring justice. Is anyone with me?
At the workplace of a friend of mine (read into this what you will), there is apparently a heavy focus on cutting costs - monitors switched off at the end of the day, all lights extinguished when leaving a room etc etc. And there's a drinks machine in the corner of the department (so he tells me).
This drinks machine requires daily servicing from members of the catering staff, in the sense that the delivery pipes need cleaning on a daily basis, the money needs to be emptied and the supply of plastic cups requires replenishment. On Monday, the director of the department inserted 15 pence and pressed the button for a coffee. After a couple of whirrs, a thud and a quantity of clicks, the machine poured the hot coffee. Only the machine had not had its daily servicing and didn't dispense a plastic cup in which to catch the hot coffee, meaning the director had to watch as the steaming liquid was poured straight from the pipe to the waste hole.
Not entirely impressed by this, the director grabbed a sheet of A4 paper and wrote the words 'NO CUPS' on it in large black lettering via the use of a marker pen, and sellotaped it to the front of the machine.
Another day passed. Nobody came to service the machine - people with brains grabbed a plastic cup pilfered from the staff restaurant and used that. Not the director. Two days later, with the 'NO CUPS' sign still boldly informing customers that there were indeed no cups in the machine, the director approached once more. Completely ignoring the sign that HE HIMSELF HAD WRITTEN, he rummaged around in his pockets, in went 15 pence, soon came the whirrs, clicks and clanks and before he could say "holy cappucino", more hot coffee was disappearing down the steaming waste hole.
Barely able to contain his laughter, my friend pretended not to notice and stared blankly at the computer screen. After watching the director wander off, he then got up, ambled over to the 'NO CUPS' sign and added the words 'COST CUTTING HITS NEW LOW'.
Not content with killing power to 73 homes in the Harrow area last week, Debs has now been involved in another power cut. This time at her new workplace (second day in the job) and as a result got sent home early.
"Who's that?" I asked Debs as an unfamiliar face appeared on screen amidst a backdrop of exotic looking trees and hammocks. "That's Sheree Kewell" she replied with an air of irritation that I could have been so stupid as to have not known. "And who's that?" I enquired moments later, pointing an accusing finger a jolly, oversized American preaching about 'bettering himself' and other such psychological phenomenon. Debs sighed, tutted and abruptly informed me that it was Jimmy Osmond. That really didn't help me at all, but I didn't dare press the question.
And then a third individual appeared on the screen, a much posher, clearly moneyed, butch woman by the name of Carole. I just had to ask. I waited a second or two, trying to pick the right moment. "Who's that Debs?".
"JACK, THAT'S CAROLE BLOODY THATCHER" came the response.
And so it came to pass that we were watching 'I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here' (or 'Outta' here for the grammatically inept), series number 489. In a quest to annoy Debs even further, I then set off on a ramble about how it was kind of ironic that people I had never heard of were appearing as invitees on a show for Celebrities. An obvious point, and one I'm sure a lot of people have made over the past two weeks (or however long the infernal show has been on for) but a point that I deemed necessary to make and to exhaust, even if it achieved nothing other than to serve as a severe irritation to Debs.
She then decided to sit on me - one of those 'I need a cuddle' moments, so I duly obliged and she sat snuggled into my arms in what was a lovely, affectionate moment. I couldn't resist it. Something inside of me just told me to do it, my soul urged me to go ahead, beating off the pathetic resistance offered by my conscience. 'Go on' my mind said. So I did.
"Debs?" I said, as she lifted her head from my shoulder to gaze at me. "Pull my finger". She looked at me a little perplexed, but grabbed my finger anyway and gave it a short, sharp tug, at which point I let off a loud, bubbly, vibrating rip-roarer of a fart which reverberated across the sofa and forced Debs to shriek in disgust and hurry out of the room.
She's so very, very lucky to have me.
that's the noise of the last five weeks whizzing by. Where have I been? What have I been doing? There's too much to write in full because I'd be here for hours, so I'll just summarize.
I went on holiday to the USA to meet Debs and bring her home from her travelling trip. We met up in Los Angeles, did the Walk of Fame, Venice Beach and a hike to the Hollywood sign and headed on to Las Vegas where we based ourselves for day trips to the Hoover Dam and Death Valley National Park. After that we went on to Flagstaff, Arizona and the Grand Canyon during which time I combatted my fear of heights with a six hour hike to Skeleton Point on the South Kaibab trail, as well as a half hour helicopter ride. From the Grand Canyon we went back to Vegas to sample the casinos, the all-you-can-eat buffets and the Vegas lifestyle before taking a long long bus ride to Denver, Colorado and the Rocky Mountains. A full report will appear on the site, but probably not before the year 2012.
Debs flicked the light switch in the kitchen and caused a mains fuse to blow, cutting power to 73 houses in the Harrow area.
I used the phrase 'bum chum' during lunch, forgetting that my gay colleague was sitting opposite me. Apologies once more for the terminology David.
A poker party at Simon H's house in Cranleigh turned into a 'fondue followed by drunken anecdotes' party with absolutely no poker played.
My Christmas shopping is all done and wrapped already, despite having a monstrous 13 people to buy for.
I helped Simon S take delivery of his new fridge, at the cost of the John Lewis delivery people thinking we were gay since we were two blokes in a one double bedroom flat.
I went out with a supplier who turned up with six grand in fifty pound notes in his pocket. We barely dented it, despite double Jack Daniels every round.
I got my burst tyre fixed for the princely sum of 110 pounds.