McDonald's hiatus

No more McDonald's for me. We're done. I have been an enthusiastic patron of Maccy D's for over 20 years, but only now have I experienced my first junk-food epiphany. As I surveyed the scene around me mid-nugget, I gradually realised that my physical surroundings were exciting feelings of shame, anger and remorse. All of which are powerful appetite suppressants. It has taken me 20 years to clock that being ensconced within a gaggle of chomping, fat weirdos is a less than ideal eating environment.

Today's McDonald's lunch actually got off to a bit of a flyer, due to public degradation of a go-getting businessman. When served, he interrupted his conference call with the marketing crew at Bosch to order a Mars flavoured milkshake. Unfortunately for this Jerry Maguire wannabe, the Warren Street McDonald's "doesn't do milkshakes". The carefully cultivated visage of the self-styled mogul slipped when he replied "what? not any kind?" The desperation clearly tangible in his plea. He tried to style it out with a nonchalant "don't worry about it" but you could tell this was a personal catastrophe, and that his afternoon had been thoroughly ruined. Later that day, the marketing crew at Bosch would be treated to a distinctly lacklustre PowerPoint presentation.

As I chuckled at the misfortune at the aforementioned Blackberry freak, my mirth was interrupted by the poorly-dressed fat man next to me requesting that Pavel from behind the counter "Whack a couple of barbecue sauce in there". This chap's voice possessed the timbre of an Essex-reared castrato, managing the difficult job of creating a noise that is both creepy, and highly irritating at the same time.

Disorientated, with ears still ringing from the highly-pitched demands of the BBQ sauce fan, I managed to sit myself down next to what appeared to be a depressing Hugh Grant-chunkalike. He bared an uncanny resemblance to what the foppish blowjob Grant would look like if his water-bloated corpse had just been fished out of the Thames. Slurping on a Fanta whilst hunched over his iPad, he loudly guffawed at the havoc wreaked as a crazed bull gored the fuck out of a gang of Spaniards.

It was only when polishing off my last nugget that I clocked that there was music playing reasonably loudly in the background. Mcdonald's have adopted a soundtrack that inoffensively masks the unsavoury din generated by fat people eating shit. The playlist is carefully constructed, utilising a selection of the blandest indie bands on the face of the earth. In this instance it was Two Door Cinema Club's "Come back home", a track in which they defiantly celebrate their own tediousness.

Fun Story

WORD UP. Below is a very short story I have written whilst I should have been doing my job.

Disclaimer: For any of my colleagues reading this, I don't think that YOU are a cunt. It's everyone else. :-)

Last Day

February is the ugliest month. No one looks well at this time of year, certainly not in Catford anyway. It is a Vitamin-D free zone on the 7.52, and I look right at home amongst the crush of pasty-faced tossers who populate this particular Southeastern service. I immediately realise that there is no chance of me burying my face into the Metro this morning, my energies instead focused on having to crane my neck away from the troublingly loud breathes of the obese punter to my left. The carriage is so stuffed with spastics I am incapable of extricating myself from this fat arse’s personal space. I succumb to my surroundings, ceasing to squirm as I feel his gingivitis upon my neck, the odour so potent it registers on my sense of touch before reaching my nostrils. I stifle a gag, and well up with rage.

It’s a cunt of a Monday. After enjoying a forcibly protracted Christmas break, I am returning to work. My first obligation of the working day is to pay a visit to the gimps in HR. Although my recent festive interactions with elderly relatives had to some extent versed me in art of tolerating the mentally impaired, it is immediately clear that that the inhabitants of planet HR are a far more primitive breed. The distinction between a once vital human being whose faculties have been impaired by age, and the born cretin, is an important one. Even though she possessed the short-term memory of a ball bag, Great Aunt Edith was a fucking pistol compared to Ken from HR.

Ken’s opening gambit is characteristically profound

"Hey Jack, how was your Christmas?"

I’m aware that this is the first of many times that I will be asked this question today, and I give him my standard response for those who make such an enquiry while clearly not giving a fuck about the answer

"Very pleasant"

I follow Ken as he guides me to a glass-walled room at the far end of the office. En route Ken's pitiful attempts at small talk are ignored as I become grimly fixated on his hair, which has been crudely daubed with wet-look gel. Obviously Ken's personal grooming habits had not evolved since he had first discovered Brylcreem way back in '93. I am becoming disproportionately troubled by this grown man sporting a haircut usually found on year-8 boys. Ken's unsavoury demeanour strikes a familiar chord of anxiety within me. Creeps like this often evoke this feeling, and I am now accustomed to the warning signs. Needing to establish a first line of defence, I begin trawling my mental repository of positive images. What had previously had been inert and manageable tumour of anxiety; settled and benign within my gut, is now beginning to encroach upon my breathing. Thanks Ken.

The consciousness of my laboured breaths and horribly greasy palms leaves me squirming my way across the office floor in discomfort. No longer the poised, mentally capable professional, I am betraying the physiological changes more characteristic of the flustered pervert. Am I suffering from the preliminary stages of a panic attack, or have I just caught nonce disease from Ken?

My attempts at transcending this anxiety are clearly doomed. Any positive thoughts are promptly usurped by the image of this 5'8, paunchy 30-something, squeezed into an improbably warped school uniform. Protruding from his BHS shirt (ages 13-14) is his pasty Greggs-filled gut, and his excess of arse is now visible through the seat of his annihilated grey trousers. Playtime is well and truly over in my head.

To make things worse the creep is eating a packet of Cheese and Onion McCoy's. It is enough to put you off crisps for good. And I fucking love crisps.

Once seated, I struggle to follow what Ken is saying. For one thing I know that this berk's HR bullocks will be of no interest, and more importantly I need to focus on pulling myself together whilst in the midst of this psychological episode. I have got a serious sweat on and my shirt is saturated.

"... while we are glad that you have returned so promptly, you should be aware that Brian has remained on administrative leave and shows no signs of returning..."

No wonder I can't take in what this cunt is saying. As well as being a less than pleasant aesthetic proposition, Ken is also a seriously boring fuck. I begin to bite and grind my lower lip, and an internal monologue of hate kicks in:

FUCK OFF KEN YOU CUUUUNNNNNNTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

This silent scream has a surprisingly soothing effect. Though in the long-term, I imagine that such a virulent coping mechanism will end up physically manifesting itself as colon cancer or something.

As well as the plethora of tedious forms I am filling in, something in Ken's tone is fucking me off. He isn't being downright rude, he wouldn't dare. But there is something there. I’m not sure if he is just trying to get a serious point across, or is disturbed by the amount of sweat I am transferring to his manky, menstruative-red HR sofa. I sign the papers he passes me and get the fuck out of there. I am becoming fixated on his hair again and if I stay another minute I will smash the cunt’s head open. These glass walls have probably saved lives.

I’m in no rush to get on with my working day, and am also aware that lurking around HR will only serve to get me embroiled in unwelcome conversation with colleagues. I duck into a toilet cubicle and sit myself down. Then and there I decide to have a crap. I wasn’t in that place when I entered the cubicle, but when in Rome. The poo serves as a much needed emotional breather, and after applying the hand dryer to my hands and sweat-soaked shirt, I feel like a semi-functional human being.

I enter the office to find my desk-mate Andy perched in front of his Dell; the spreadsheet on his screen glinting in his eyes like kindling. I smile, and find myself whispering

"My rock"

I panic. Why am I vocalising this private joke? He hears me express these somewhat creepy sentiments. Andy turns his head

"What was that?"

Embarrassed that such grossly inappropriate remarks were expressed aloud, I overcompensate and am disproportionately spiteful with my retort

"None of your fucking business cuntcakes"

Seemingly oblivious to my unprecedented outburst my boss gets cracking with the pleasantries and chimes in with a

"How was your Christmas? Did you enjoy your leave?"

Is she taking the piss? I’m in a bad place and reluctant to break character so I ignore her question, switch on my Dell and let her hang for about 10 seconds. As I type in my username and password I then chirpily tell her to "Fuck off".

An awkward silence pervades the open plan office.The vibes of fear and confusion that my teammates are emitting soon became tiresome. I am missing the calming effect of the innocuous chitchat that generally accompanies my working day. While I definitely do not care about what everyone had eaten for dinner last night, the fact that I don't know is bothersome.

"Who wants a hot drink, fresh from the oven?"

I try using humour and the offer of hot drinks in an attempt to lighten the mood, yet no one seems appreciative of my gesture. The mild humiliation that accompanies any ill-received joke suppresses my appetite for reconciliation, and the indignant rage begins to subjugate my more generous sentiments. One more go.

"Seriously, I'm making a cuppa, does anyone want anything?"

People off the telly

Television personalities are important to me. I know that they shouldn't be, but they are. So this past celebrity-laden week and a half has been a real treat. I still get a slightly tawdry thrill from seeing people off the telly in the flesh. This is probably because I have lived in Lewisham for the majority of my life, a borough in which the premier TV personality is Saracen from gladiators (last seen on television in 1996). In the last 7-10 days I have encountered the following punters:

Olivia Colman/Sophie from Peep Show:

Her face was literally 12 inches away from mine on a rammed train coming home from Charing X last week. I decided to ignore my instincts and not stare at her like an mildly amorous retard. Instead, I cracked open an issue of Kerrang which had been randomly donated to me by Alp that morning ("I thought you might like this. It has musicians in it.") As I struggled to maintain an interest in Paramore and their religious convictions, my mind wandered, and I soon found myself wearing my infamous comedy cap (IT'S NOT A REAL CAP). In no time I had conjured a hilarious joke about Innocent Smoothies for my theoretical stand-up routine. I started to jot down my smoothie-based joke, but as I did so I inadvertently inched closer to Olivia Colman. As I wrote I noticed that she was breathing unusually quickly. Presumably her nutter senses had kicked in and flooded her system with adrenaline. I extricated myself from her personal space as soon as I realised she was in discomfort, but it was too late. She probably thought I was some wannabe, Kerrang-reading comedy writer who wanted to ask her if she would star in my pilot. "I'm writing a sitcom based in a cat sanctuary. The twist is the cats can speak, and possess human genitalia. You want in?".

Simon Bird/Dweeby one from Inbetweeners:

Saw this guy as I shopped for lunch in the Marks and Spencer's on Tottenham Court Road. I clocked a brightly coloured teenager contemplating the Chicken and Bacon sub. This kid looked like a Size? had thrown up on him that very afternoon. All his garms were boxfresh and he was wearing garish red trainers. He looked very 'snazzy', but not in a good way. He reminded me of a 15 year-old from Harlow who had just been on a shopping spree fueled by Christmas vouchers and Big Macs. I then clocked it was the bloke off Inbetweeners. Because of his incongruous outfit I couldn't work out if it was actually Simon Bird or some 15 year-old lad who had just changed into his freshly purchased garms in the McDonald's toilets.

His identity became clear when he turned from the sandwich fridge empty-handed and gave me a look that suggested that he gets recognised like this all the time. It was him alright, and he was giving it big balls. I said 'hello' and held out my arm as I approached him, then reached over his head a plucked a 3 bean wrap from the shelf.

Phil Jupitus:

This one wasn't much of an encounter. I saw him lurking outside my office, and due to his harrowed expression I strained to avoid eye contact. He had the look of a man who had spent the night tearfully gorging on wafer thin ham.

Happy Birthday Derek

The UK's (and in my humble opinion, the world's) number one psychic medium turns 60 today. Hats off to you Derek, you're looking wonderful.

Girl next door

I know there have been no posts for a while. My creative talents have been employed elsewhere as I attempt to write a series of short stories that portray the experiences of West Indian immigrants in 1950's Britain. So far, so shit. The lack of West Indian pensioners in my friendship group is really hampering my research. I've resorted to transcribing episodes of 'Desmond's', with the only alteration being that in my stories a sneering copper occasionally walks into the barbershop and says something racist in cockney.

At the moment I only have hope for one of my stories (the plot of which I stole from a recently aired BBC drama). Colour Bind depicts the numerous obstacles facing a mixed-race couple cohabiting in 1950's London. The male protagonist is a skilled Jamaican carpenter, struggling to find work because of the colour of his skin. His lover is a white, girl-next-door type whose choice of man results in her being ostracised from her family. At the moment her character needs a bit of work. So far all I know is that she has a penchant for handsome blouses, underneath which lurk a cracking pair of bangers.

In today's Evening Standard, professional knob-friend Neil Saunders described Emma Watson as a "girl-next-door with a twist". Twist? Buff, millionaire, posh actress is a pretty substantial twist to be putting on 'girl-next-door'. If putting a twist on something allows you to take such sizeable liberties, then technically I could be referred to as "girl-next-door with a twist". In this case the twist is that I am a man. I will be expecting a call from Burberry in the morning.

Ever since I first encountered the phrase "girl-next-door" I have been troubled by it's meaning. It always seems to be used in reference to fit celebrity babes who just so happen to have sensible hair. When I lived with my mum in Catford, my girl-next-door was well into her seventies, suffered from cataracts and repeatedly fed our cat inappropriate foodstuffs, despite repeated requests that she stop. She was close to being different species from Kate Winslet.

FYI:

2010 Resolutions:

1. Go to Greggs less
2. Get 'Jean Claude Ran Damme' (random) into the popular lexicon. Example: "and the next morning I woke up covered in bruises, and John Barrowman was asleep in my bath. How Jean Claude Ran Damme is that?"
3. Write an edgy novel about 'The Ketamine Generation'
4. Join 'Metro Station'
5. Poo in a urinal