I Am Livid

It is understandable that readers of this site could be mistakenly under the impression that my life is one long series of disastrous events, interspersed with minor annoyances at regular intervals. Though this is mostly true, good things do happen to me from time to time.

This week was one such occurrence.

The end of January is normally a nightmare for me, due to the Tax return deadline 31st January. This usually results in me spending a week at the end of the month rifling through my poorly-kept records looking for receipts, statements, invoices etc. I hate it. I know I could get an accountant, but why would I pay an accountant a few hundred pounds for something I could do just as well. You will be suggesting I get a professional to service my boiler next.

Anyway, after a week of rooting around in dusty paperwork I was finally in a position to submit my return online.

That is when the magic happened. It appears, that due to some unwise investment decisions on my part, that the Tax man owes me NINE. HUNDRED. POUNDS.

This is unprecedented. I always owe extra. Always. It is like an unwritten law of the universe that they snuck in there between the ones about gravity and atoms and that, “The Tax man will collect a few extra pounds from Mr Angry at the end January. Every. Single. Year”.

I can only imagine this is what it must be like to turn up to court for a speeding offence, only for the magistrate to give you an expenses paid two week holiday in Dubai.

Of course, I do not actually have the cash yet, but it is surely only a matter of time. Surely?

I sincerely hope that in the coming weeks you will not be sat there reading the Jonnyb-esque headline, “I have inadvertently committed tax fraud!!!”

Following last weeks little accident I have finally been to the dentist.

Visiting the dentist is not something I particularly enjoy, as it is one of lifes irrational fears. Like really tall women, wasps and nuclear weapons.

As I lay back into the chair I began to pray for a swift end to the treatment. I carefully explained to my dentist that I had chipped a bit off the side of my tooth where I have an old filling, and she had a quick root around in my mouth, much like dentists tend to do.

“Oh, I see what you’ve done, you chipped off the side of your tooth where you’ve got that old filling.” she stated, calling on all twenty minutes of her dentistry schooling.

“aas wo aye sai…” I pointed out.

“Right, we’re going to trim a bit off that filling, so we can bond a new one. There’s no decay, so we won’t bother with numbing it first. It should be fine.”

Should?

SHOULD?!

Having a dentist tell you that what they are not anaesthetising you because it should be fine, is like being told not to worry because your parachute should open. ‘Should’ is not sufficient. I want to know that every conceivable precaution has been taken. I was just about to make this point when she began drilling.

It is difficult to bring attention to your perfectly valid point, clearly and concisely, when your mouth contains two cotton wool balls, part of a woman’s latex-covered hand and at least two medical instruments.

“Errrrr…” I began, looking directly at her through the nifty safety spectacles the had given me. This got her attention. She stopped drilling and looked at me.

“Is it hurting already?” she asked, with a disdainfully questioning look that I imagine all Jehovah’s Witnesses are quite familiar with.

A closed question.

Not, “What is the problem?” or “How much does it hurt?” but a question that made it impossible for me to give her anything other than the one word answer she wanted.

Perhaps she had been properly trained after all?

She probably skipped the lecture on “How to anaesthetise your patient to your satisfaction, and more importantly, theirs.” but she was clearly present and correct during the all important, “Time is Money: Stop you patient asking stupid questions when the meter is running.”

“errr, oooo..” I responded, shaking my head and wondering if I could possibly make my point using only vowel sounds.

With that she drilled onwards, until the drilling was complete and a new filling could be added.

No, it did not physically hurt, but that is not the point. It COULD have hurt, and so the pain I suffered was purely psychological, which as anyone who has yet to suffer any real physical pain will tell you, is much much worse.

It is episodes like this that ensure I continue to have nightmares about receiving dental treatment from a six foot two female dentist in a wasp infested surgery during a nuclear holocaust.

I like to think of myself as a man of the world. Someone who is willing to accept the individual tastes of people very different to himself.

However, there are a number of pastimes, hobbies and activities which leave me completely baffled as to their levels of popularity. I simply fail to see even the slightest attraction in them, and sometimes, normally in the wee small hours, I wonder if it is just me that does not get it?

Or maybe I am completely right, as usual, and what I am witnessing is really just a case of the Emperors new clothes?

Take the opera for example. I have been once. I went to watch Puccini’s Madam Butterfly in an open air amphitheatre in Verona (that is in Italy for the heathens among you). It was a beautiful summers evening, and I have been told by opera aficionados that this should have been a truly life changing experience, yet I was bored rigid. It was the night of a thousand years as far as I was concerned.

I will grant you that some of Puccini’s songs are good, but I’d rather listen to the CD to be honest. People will try and tell you that opera ‘is about the drama though’, but you only have to flick to the back of the programme to see how it ends. You don’t get that at the local multiplex when you go to see the new Will Smith film. Plus it was all in Italian.

Another pastime I fail to understand peoples affection for, is horse racing. The sport of Kings? Well no, in reality it is a sport based on running races for really big dogs ridden by men in tight-fitting brightly coloured silk outfits. It is all a little bit homo erotic for my tastes. So thanks, but I’m really not interested.

And finally, topiary. The ‘art’ (and I use the term extremely loosely) of fashioning farmyard animals out of hedges. Really. People spend actual real cash money on getting people to turn their bushes into a cocks. An utter waste of time and effort as far as I can see.

Is there anything you just don’t get?

I like to think of myself as a man of the world. Someone who is willing to accept the individual tastes of people very different to himself.

However, there are a number of pastimes, hobbies and activities which leave me completely baffled as to their levels of popularity. I simply fail to see even the slightest attraction in them, and sometimes, normally in the wee small hours, I wonder if it is just me that does not get it?

Or maybe I am completely right, as usual, and what I am witnessing is really just a case of the Emperors new clothes?

Take the opera for example. I have been once. I went to watch Puccini’s Madam Butterfly in an open air amphitheatre in Verona (that is in Italy for the heathens among you). It was a beautiful summers evening, and I have been told by opera aficionados that this should have been a truly life changing experience, yet I was bored rigid. It was the night of a thousand years as far as I was concerned.

I will grant you that some of Puccini’s songs are good, but I’d rather listen to the CD to be honest. People will try and tell you that opera ‘is about the drama though’, but you only have to flick to the back of the programme to see how it ends. You don’t get that at the local multiplex when you go to see the new Will Smith film. Plus it was all in Italian.

Another pastime I fail to understand peoples affection for, is horse racing. The sport of Kings? Well no, in reality it is a sport based on running races for really big dogs ridden by men in tight-fitting brightly coloured silk outfits. It is all a little bit homo erotic for my tastes. So thanks, but I’m really not interested.

And finally, topiary. The ‘art’ (and I use the term extremely loosely) of fashioning farmyard animals out of hedges. Really. People spend actual real cash money on getting people to turn their bushes into a cocks. An utter waste of time and effort as far as I can see.

Is there anything you just don’t get?

…is the best policy.

Or so they say.

Not that I am sure who ‘they’ are, of course. But I think it would be a pretty bad policy to adopt if, for example, you were a sexual predator under investigation by the police. I would definitely recommend lying in that situation. Not that I want to be seen as offering advice to sexual predators (though I think there only a couple of them that read this blog anyway).

Have you ever tried to be completely honest for a day? It is not easy.

I tried it recently and it did not go well. When you have committed to be completely honest for a day, you really do not want people actively soliciting your opinion on things that could be seen divisive or contentious.

Here are a few sample responses to questions I was asked during my day of honesty.

“Well, it looks a little bit like you’re wearing a blond crash helmet. A crash helmet that is a slightly lighter shade of blond than your hair was yesterday. So if that’s what you were aiming for, then great!”

“I can’t tonight, it’s not that I’ve got anything else on, I just find you quite tedious company.”

“No, no thanks, I really don’t want one. Last time you brought cakes into work I hid mine until you’d gone back to your desk, then threw it out.”

“‘Well, ‘look big’ compared to what?” 

It is quite a cathartic experience, and I recommend it you all, apart from the sexual predators that are reading, you should all carry on lying and covering your tracks.

Crack!

The noise was quite loud, to me anyway. Y’know, in the way that things tend to be really loud when they occur in your own mouth. It was probably silent to anyone else who might have been in earshot.

I knew there was something wrong immediately, and after spitting out the mouthful of sandwich (a home-made pastrami club, what a waste) I could feel a gaping whole on the side of one of my rear teeth.

Things always feel bigger in your mouth than they really are, which I suppose explains the disappointment of any woman I’ve slept with who was kind enough to give me a blow job first. Though it doesn’t explain the disappointment of the ones who did not give me a blow job. Anyway.

With the aid of a torch and a mirror I managed to get a good look at the offending tooth, which had already been repaired many years ago with a filling. A pretty small chunk of the tooth had fallen off the side of one of my molars, and the size of the missing piece reinforced just how bad the tongue is as an instrument of measurement.

I phoned the dentist.

“I’m afraid the only time she can see you this week is Thursday. The next appointment after that is next Tuesday.” said the receptionist at my local Bupa approved dentist.

“But I have a HOLE IN MY TOOTH!” I pointed out calmly.

“I understand that Sir, but we just don’t have any appointments.”

“You don’t understand, the hole FEELS MASSIVE!”

“It’s OK, in my experience these things tend not to be as big as you think.” she concluded, in a tone that suggested she had spent her lunch hour gossiping with a gaggle of my ex-girlfriends.

This is what happens when you go private. I am now reduced to spending the week eating soft foods and only drinking things that are room temperature for fear of squealing like a council estate lottery winner every time something hot or cold touches my tooth.

I really hate it when someone tastes something revolting, or tries something painful, and then immediately suggests you try it.

Do they think we’re fucking stupid? Perhaps if they kept their feelings and opinions a secret we might be tempted, but invariably the discussion goes something like this.

“Fucking hell, this soup is revolting. Try it.”

“Just how revolting are we talking here?”

“It’s a bit like a warm puddle that has been strained through the pants of a particularly incontinent tramp.”

“Oh go on then!”

Has anyone ever said that last line? I do not believe it would ever happen. Ever.

Yet, despite millions of years of evolution ensuring we have an altruistic gene guiding our behaviour towards others (most of the time), the complete opposite tends to be true when they experience something pleasant.

I know this to be the case as not once has a friend ever offered me a ‘go’ after spending the night with a particularly attractive lover.

The selfish bastards.

We have all seen the adverts with all the naked supermodels on the Internet. Apparently they are making us aware of the fact that wearing fur is murder. You know, whilst in the nuddy. This is an excellent way to make your point. The most memorable work presentation I ever gave was the one where I got naked halfway through.

But enough about my nakedness, back to the naked supermodels. I am in agreement with them. Sort of. I believe that if people want to wear fur, then fine, but they should have to catch and kill the animal themselves. That way, it would not only be a fashion statement, but also a trophy of sorts. A bit like decorative medals in the military.

I am pretty sure that mink coats would be less popular overnight. Those little fuckers actively seek out fights with snakes.

SNAKES!

The crazy little bastards. As such, I don’t imagine an ageing middle-class woman in need of fashionable winter wear would hold much fear for the mink. Plus the fact it takes several minks to make a coat, so even if the elderly huntress managed to catch one of them, I’m pretty sure she would change her mind and decide a mink scarf would suit them much better.

I am not a hypocrite though. Yes, I do have a leather jacket, but I think it is made from the skin of a calf, though I can’t be 100% sure, as I had it made whilst on holiday in Turkey years ago. Of course, I would have no qualms about catching a calf to make the jacket. They are not dangerous, and pretty tame, so the actual chase would be quite easy.

If this rule was brought in it would make it much easier to tell who you should not mess with. I would have a new found respect for anyone wearing the skin of a bull and would stay well clear of anyone in Crocodile shoes, and not just because they look like an utter fucking twat.

I have recently been watching the repeated BBC Four documentary series The Atom.

I am not a geek by the way.

When I was at school I was always interested in science, but there was no money or chicks in it, so I gave it up at GCSE level. This was almost immediately after my Biology teacher showed me a pickled baby in a jar. This was during a lesson and in front of the other children, not part of some sort of one-on-one after-class punishment, it was not that sort of school.

It was a real baby though, I kid you not. She claimed the baby would have been older than us had it lived, but someone (another blogger of some repute) who was taught by the same teacher a few years earlier, does not remember the pickled baby. This is not something you forget, so he must have been off the day they brought the preserved foetus out to play.

Anyway, the presenter of The Atom was describing the world of Physics in the 1920’s and 30’s, and how one physicist in particular, whose name escapes me, had become known as something of a party boy and a womaniser.

This is does not strike me as correct. A nerd? With women? The life and soul of parties?

I can sort of understand why he said it. I mean, he is presenting a programme about his vocation, so it makes sense that he is sexing it up a bit. So, making it seem like it was lab coats by day and labia by night might result in him getting a bit of reflected glory. Or an invite to at least one party.

I do wonder though if I made a massive career error in not following the sciences into University? Would a thorough knowledge of protons neutrons and atomic weights have guaranteed me more poontang?

* Yes, I drafted this entire post in an effort to incorporate the word ‘poontang’.

I tend not to buy tinned food any more, despite living on the stuff whilst I was at University. It wasn’t just me, a friend of mine had a close relative who worked at a supermarket who would feed his habit at a massive discount. So, at the start of each term he would arrive with a couple of large boxes of tins which he would diligently stack in the kitchen cupboards. Then, at the first possible opportunity after he had finished unpacking them, we would remove all the labels. Oh how we laughed.

“What’s for dinner? Peach halves on toast?”

To this day I still have a sneaky look in friends cupboards whenever I visit in the faint hope of finding a large selection of tins just to play this brilliant, and massively underutilised practical joke.

Unfortunately, it seems most people have given up tinned food, which is a shame for practical jokers everywhere. I have also always found it amazing how long food lasts when it’s in a tin. If you were to buy fish from a fishmonger, it would start going off within 24 hours. However, if you put that same fish into a tin, then you could put it in the cupboard and make plans to eat it whilst watching the London Olympics (unless someone removed its label and you opened it whilst looking for fruit cocktail).

Does anyone know why does tinned food last so long? Is it magic?

When I die, I would like to be buried in a tin, so that if they find a cure for whatever I died from, they can dig me up and revive me. I hope that day is not too soon in coming though as I have not decided if I would prefer to be buried in oil or brine.

I am fully in favour of technologies that make our lives easier. A little effort saved here, a little less time spent there, and I can have much more time to focus on productive activities like blogging, watching The Wire and coming up with witty new euphemisms for sex with which to impress people in the pub.

This is why I quite like predictive text on my mobile phone. With me no longer being in my teens, texting can take a while if you need to select every single letter. So I like the idea of the phone guessing what I am trying to say. It saves time.

I tried to send a text to a few friends to see if they fancied meeting for a pint at the pub later that evening.

I looked at the text before I pressed send, and it read, “Fancy a shot at the local later?”

For some reason my phone had decided that I should go out drinking shots, rather than pints. It was judging me. They say that binge drinking is a problem in today’s society, and yet here was my phone actively suggesting that I ditch the nice quiet pint with friends in a local pub, and go straight for the tequila and sambuca. It was almost as if it has been reading this blog yesterday.

Luckily, predictive text has the option to select the next word that fits the keys you have pressed. So I ignored the kind invitation to fire straight into the spirits and pressed ‘Next’.

My text message read, “Fancy a riot at the local later?”

What the fuck? Now my phone wanted me to partake in organised violence. In fact, not only partake, but actually ring lead the whole thing. It does make me wonder if there are people out there less strong-willed than I, who would read that message and think of it as a reasonable suggestion. I suppose it is possible that the recent Burmese riots began with a monk trying to organise a few beers with his mates.

Worse still, what if I sent it by mistake? I would hate to turn up at the pub and find Fat Jim sat at the bar tooled-up and in full kevlar body armour.

I finally got my message to read as I had planned, and sent it. No-one was free for a pint.

I went to visit my friend Nuttman, who I have mentioned before.

Nuttman and I have very different modus operandi when it comes to planning and executing an evening out. He, in an effort to maximise the party potential of the evening, will complete much of his alcohol consumption before leaving the house. Whereas I, in an attempt to spend at least part of the evening sober, will tend to drink quickly when I have finally arrived at the venue of choice.

When we go out together it creates something of an alcohol infused perfect storm.

Before we left his house in Reading I remember some vodka, Sambuca, a few more vodkas and a Sambucca chaser.

Once we were out and had finally met up with our other friends, it was further pints and shots. Much of the evening is a blur, but I do remember trying, and failing, to climb a stripper pole whilst upside down.

The next thing I remember is being woken up by Nuttman the following morning.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at me. I looked down at my bare chest to see I had slept fully clothed but with my shirt open.

“I left my shirt open so the guns could breath?” I offered, weakly.

“No, that.” he continued pointing, only a little lower.

I looked over the side of the futon and noticed the pile of vomit next to me. I did not remember drinking snakebite and Black, or in fact being sick, but the evidence was there for all to see.

I am never sick after a night out, ever. Of course, I was not aware of the Norovirus epidemic at this point, but the Winter vomiting bug is a serious illness that has been affecting people up and down the country, and I am clearly one of its more unfortunate victims. As is Nuttman’s carpet.

I had seen him a few moments before, from the vantage point of my first floor window where I was sat working, reasonably diligently. He had walked passed a few times, looking around as if he had lost something.

It slowly became clear to me that the ’something’ that was lost, was in fact himself.

Where I live is technically known as a ‘Court’. I do not know why, but I will admit that it is a slightly unusual layout for about forty residential flats. However, if you know what you are doing (like I do) you can be out of here in a matter of seconds, but this is clearly not the case if you are old.

He tried the large gate at the back, but this is only ever opened for the fire services (just the once in all the time I have been here), so he continued wandering backwards and forwards, looking this way and that.

I watched him for about ten minutes wondering if I should help. Then it struck me. He was merely looking for a place to hide! I do not know why I discounted the possibility that he was playing a game of hide’n’seek just because he is old. That was very prejudicial of me. I am not normally like that. I am very much in favour of equal opportunities when it comes to juvenile behaviour.

You rarely hear people complaining about the social menace that is gangs of old people playing games and causing a general nuisance, and this example showed me why. He was very quiet and was not disturbing anyone. The youth of today could learn a lot from the old people about how to entertain themselves quietly .

Clearly old peoples hide ‘n’ seek is a bit different to the game I used to play. For a start they must count to a really really high number, as he seemed in no particular hurry. Though I suppose when you are retired, time is one thing you have an awful lot of. I was actually quite pleased to see him making the most of this free time. Despite the cold and unpleasant weather. And the rain.

He finally chose to hide by laying down sprawled out, face first, in plain sight, after going down on one knee for the briefest of moments. I have seen enough Spy movies to know that hiding something in plain sight can be an excellent tactic, but the small patch of grass seemed a little conspicuous for my liking. The old person doing the finding would have to have very bad eyesight indeed not to find him immediately, but that was certainly probable.

I wanted to open my window and shout some encouragement to him in the hope he would find a better hiding place, but I felt that would be unfair on the Finder, as it was not my game to influence. So I left him to it. It was not for me to ruin their fun.

Later, I found out that the Court also opens the gates for Ambulances.

Once the sobbing had subsided to a more manageable level, I gathered my thoughts sufficiently to undertake some research as to what I should do next about my damaged macbook screen.

Whilst browsing various Internet forums, I found one useful post which asked if the user had bought the machine with a credit card, as sometimes this gives you extra insurance cover.

I had!

I had bought it with my HSBC Premier Mastercard! What amazing foresight on my part! It was almost as if I knew I would fuck it up within a month.

I dialled the bank immediately, and the nice lady said yes, there was cover available, but you need to register the product you have bought and that she would now kindly transfer me to the relevant department.

“Hello, I was err, wondering what extra coverage I would get if I bought a laptop with my credit card?” I asked politely.

The nice lady went on to explain how the policy worked and how, if I paid in full with the credit card (I had), then I would receive an extra two years of warranty including parts and labour and three years of accidental damage cover.

Three whole years of accidental damage cover!

I was comfortably two years and eleven months inside the three year limit so this news was like angels singing, except the angels are all really fit and topless. I broke out my first smile in over twenty four hours.

“That’s great, great news. Really. Right, I would like to register my laptop as purchased on the card then please.”

“Certainly Sir, first I’ll need to take some details. What make of laptop is it?”

“It’s a Mac, more specifically a Macbook.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Erm, I just need to check something. I’ll be back in just one moment.”

This was not good. It never is. People never say they’ll be back in one moment and them come back and say “Congratulations, you are our one millionth customer! Have some free cash, tax free!”. A few moments later, she came back.

“Hello Sir, I am afraid that we can’t cover Apple products as part of the policy.”

“What? You just told me about the cover I’d get for buying it with my credit card, which I did.”

“I know, but we don’t cover Apple products as they won’t allow us access to the parts we need to make the repairs.”

“So what you are telling me, is that the extra coverage you go on about in all the literature, is only applied to an approved list of products? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“You would have to check back with your bank I’m afraid.”

I hung up feeling even lower than I had before making the call. The possibility of a reprieve had been dangled in front of me and then cruelly snatched away again.

I went back to preparing for life with a watermark.