The office cleaner has just been to clear the bin next to my desk. Having recently moved to a new office, this is the first time I have met him. As regular readers will know, I am a man of the people and not concerned with such things as social standing, so I engaged him in polite conversation.

“Wow!” I said pointing at his eye-patch. “You’re really getting into this Talk Like A Pirate Day thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“The patch, it’s a nice touch, you know, for national Talk Like A Pirate Day. It’s all over the Internet, err, m’hearty! Arrrrr!”

“I don’t have the Internet. And I only have one eye.”

Sometimes it’s better just to keep your mouth shut.

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As I walk into the local I’m greeted by Fat Jim at the Bar. I have not seen him since I got back from my holiday. Fat Jim likes to think of himself as ‘down with the kids’, not in the Gary Glitter way of course, and when he sees me he cries, “Sup Dawg!” in an American drawl. I consider leaving immediately, but I really want a beer.

“How was your holiday Angry?” he enquires.

“Not bad thanks Fat Jim.” I respond, trying to avoid conversation.

“Any action?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, lady action.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, a bit”

“Nice one. Snoggy Woggy?”

“Yeah.”

“Boobie Feely?”

“Yup”

“Touchy Wouchy?”

“Indeed”

“Sucky Wucky?”

“No unfortunately.”

“Licky licky?”

“Nope”

“Fucky wucky?”

“Not a jot.”

“Shame, good week though? A pint of the usual?”

And that is how todays grown men inform each other of how the weeks endeavours with the opposite sex went.

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