Little yellow flowers

Strange moment from work last night that I really do have to share with you.. There were four of us on tea break, talking about illnesses and intolerances and immunity problems from the past. Jim from the warehouse has terrible hay fever and looks like he has second degree burns on his eyes and nose. The conversation advanced, as they do, and we were comparing allergies. Gracie, one of the older till girls, also has hay fever, but whereas Jim struggles with tree pollen and needs antihistamines by the bucket load, Gracie’s suffering is caused by one particular Spring-blooming flower..
Vince, from the veg department, walked over just in time to hear Gracie say “I’m allergic to rape.” With an astounded look on his eyes he fell into a seat before saying ‘well I can’t imagine any woman finds it pleasant, to be honest’ Those of us who weren’t shocked were busy stifling giggles, while Gracie looked at him the way a five-year-old looks at you when you steal his train set. I don't think she'll be nominating him as 'Employee Of The Month.'
Vince, by the way, is the one who destroyed 12 cases of champagne last month in a clumsy, dope-fuelled fork-lift truck mishap. (investigation pending)

I have to admit, the countryside looks beautiful at the moment. Even a die-hard, stay-in, only-watch-nature-on-television Neanderthal like me is being taken by the changing colours and refreshing aromas. The more I look, the more I see to enjoy.
But I’ll never be able to look at a field of rape now without laughing.

RC 29-4-09
2030 BST

Ho, or no ho?

I’m wondering whether I should visit a prostitute. It may be because I’m drunk right now, or it may be because I’d quite like to have sexual intercourse without putting up with the usual shenanigans and bullshit that go with it. One thing is putting me off, and it’s nothing to do with shame, the credit crunch or diseases. I just have a horrible feeling that – knowing my luck with women – I’d end up with some middle-aged hag with brown teeth and a moustache who’ll only agree to touch me with a glove on.

Maybe I’m destined to be single. Would it be so bad? I could choose my own meals every day, not have to worry about leaving my dirty pants on the kitchen floor, and I’d never again have to spend six days traipsing around perfume stores for the perfect scent, only to be told when she’s wearing it “you’ve made me smell like a whore.” It’s tempting…

Jared at work has a bit of a history with prostitutes. Maybe I’ll ask him for a recommendation. Although thinking about it, it’s bad enough using a pallet truck after he’s had his hands on it. They end up dirty and smelly and with their wheels pointing in different directions. God knows what state he’d leave a woman in, especially one he’s hired and therefore doesn’t have to take care with.

Do prostitutes advertise in Yellow Pages, I wonder?

I really shouldn’t write these blogs after an evening of Stella.

RC 25-4-09
2227 BST

My musical eyes are opened

I feel like I’ve been reborn today. For the first time in my life, I spent some time listening to The Smiths..
Those of you who were youthful in the 80s probably had this revelation passed upon you years ago, but those of us who were still shitting in nappies and hunting for breast milk in those days missed out on it all. Until now..
I’ve always thought Morrissey was a moaning, quiff-haired twatter with a poncey voice and an attitude, but man was I wrong. Well, actually all that is true, but he’s also a writer of unequalled ability, and a vocalist of unique expression and emotion.
"In a darkened underpass
Oh God, I thought my chance at come at last
But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn’t ask"
Brilliant. And that little pause, then drum beat, just before the chorus.. Inspired…
I can’t believe I’ve reached a quarter-of-a-century without hearing ‘The Queen Is Dead’ before.. All those nights at uni where we swapped CDs and battled to be the one who suggested the most obscure album, and not one of my erstwhile colleagues mentioned The Smiths. Not once. Heathens. Scabs. I bet they’re all sitting around now drinking Campari and debating whether Westlife or Sinead Quinn are Ireland’s greatest ever musical export. Kids today.
I’m off online now to by Morrisseys entire back catalogue.
And what I wouldn’t give to hear a collaboration between Morrissey and Antony and the Johnsons. Now that would be something.

RC 23-4-09
1127 BST

The worst mistake of my life..

I accepted an offer/dare from a couple of guys at work and accompanied them to the gym today. It sounded like such a good idea at the time. But then I realised the only gym clothing I’ve ever owned was my school PE kit, which is now too small, and unusable anyway after my mum once used it to mop up her vomit, and then left it in the garden for a fortnight. So I had to walk into the gym in a pair of Bermuda swimming shorts, and a borrowed L.A Lakers basketball shirt being distorted by my fatness.
And then I met ‘Tony’ the gym guy. What a sadist. A bald, attractive, muscular, uncaring swine of the first order whose only goal in life is to make fat people look stupid, and laugh at them while he does it. I ran, I rowed, I lifted weights, I sweated, I felt sick.
He asked me if I’d be back again tomorrow, and would I possibly like to join in the Hardcore High-Jinx Fighting Fit Circuit Training Club that meets tomorrow night? ‘Sod that for a game of soldiers’ was the phrase in my head, but I managed to continue my new-found politeness and say ‘I’ll see how I feel later’
Well it IS later now, so how do I feel? As if my body has been flattened by a steam roller and then filled with sand to re-shape it. Dieting is bad enough, without putting myself through this shit as well..
Never again.

RC 22-4-09
2215 BST

Road sense, or no sense?

I spent most of this morning reading driving manuals. None of this driving business seems to be sinking in, so I’m trying to do as much homework as possible. I’d love to have my own transport, and the ability to drive it. I’m sick of sitting on buses that are driven by lunatics and frequented by at least one fat ugly sweatbox with greasy hair. Especially when that sweatbox is me…
I’m considering a change of instructor. No offence to young Kathryn, but I need someone who knows what they’re talking about, and every time I ask her a question she has to reach into the glove compartment for a guide book.
I’m tempted to take advantage of Ted’s offer to share his driving knowledge and experience, but with respect to Ted, he’s a retired Army driver with a terrible memory and he hasn’t been near a steering wheel in a decade. It’s kind of him, but I’d like to get through to the driving test without maiming or crippling any pedestrians, or killing myself in a collision, and I’m not convinced that could happen under Ted’s tutelage.
It all just seems so confusing. It’s bad enough trying to change gear while checking your mirror when you’re as unco-ordinated and clumsy as I am, but what’s all this rubbish about stopping distances and braking patterns? I’ve got four A-levels and a chemistry degree, and I couldn’t work them out with a slide rule and a bloody blackboard. I think the safest, cheapest, sanest way to deal with driving is to keep away from cars for eternity.

RC 21-4-09
1430 BST

So far, so fat

I got myself weighed last night. Despite the break in Scotland I’ve lost two pounds this week! Although according to the wonderful woman at Slimmers World I should have lost more. “A fat bastard like you should be shedding pounds like a leper sheds skin” were her exact words. Aren’t these people there to encourage us????
The supermarket have pledged to match all donations and double them if I lose the three stone in three months, so the amount I expect to raise is nearly a thousand pounds now! More pressure on me, and pressure always makes me want to eat.. What I wouldn’t give right now for a fried sausage sandwich, dripping in melted butter, brown sauce and the yolks of two large eggs. But instead I have an apple flavour Nutri-Grain bar and a yoghurt. Life is shit when you’re dieting.
I went for a long walk this morning. Well, long for my standards anyway – down the footpath that runs behind the rubbish tip, and back past the college to the bus stop. I was sweating like a fat Greek walrus in a disco. Climbing the steps onto the no.47 for a quick lift home just about finished me off, and then I had to put up with the huffy snorts from the woman I sat next to for the journey. Admittedly, it was probably like having Pavarotti on your sofa after a 10-hour gig at La Scala, but she’s still a snooty bitch with an attitude.

RC 18-4-09
2028 BST

thoughts on a thursday

I’m still having trouble getting my head straight about this whole Donna episode. I feel like I set myself up for a massive fall by getting too attached too quick, which is rare for me, but I really was taken by her. I was starting to feel comfortable with her, and starting to look ahead to some great times we might have, just at the point that she told me she was already with someone. It’s hard to describe the thoughts and feelings. It’s like spending three years on a wonderful breakthrough in chemistry, only to see the exact same findings published in Science the month before you’re due to announce your discovery. So near, and yet so far. We must live and learn, I suppose, and maybe these things happen for a reason and someone better will come along shortly. (If I can think of any other appropriate clichés I’ll pop them onto the end of this posting.)

Ted’s in trouble with Beryl again. She caught him outside smoking a cigar, which apparently is a bad idea when you’ve had a recent heart attack. I called round this morning and walked into an atmosphere akin to Easter Sunday at Judas’s house when Jesus popped in to borrow sugar. Frostier than a polar bears ice cream, if you like. Beryl kept doing that thing where she was talking to me, but aiming all her comments at her husband. I may send them an invoice at the end of the month for them using me as an interpreter. Maybe staying single for life is the way forward after all.

RC 16-4-09
1919 BST

Edinburgh highlights

I hope you all had a Happy Easter.
I’ve just done my first night back at work after the weekend off. It was tough, but not the struggle I had expected it to be. I kept thinking back over the events of the past few days and smiling, and the time just seemed to fly by. I suppose that’s the good thing about having a job that requires no mental involvement whatsoever – you can just switch your mind off to a different setting and let your body get on with the work automatically.
Seeing Sophie in Scotland (I do love my alliteration) was a blast. Her nursy friends are all lovely and made me feel very welcome, and only lectured me once about my weight, which was nice. Once I’d told them about the sponsored diet I was more of a golden boy than Chris Hoy, so they’ve offered me encouragement, advice and sponsorship.
Most of the visit revolved around drinking and talking about interesting cases in A&E. Arianne – Sophie’s friend who is part-French, part-Malaysian and all-gorgeous – recently had to help pull a toy squirrel out of a Dutch mans arsehole. How European.. Thank God for surgical gloves is all I can say.
I’ve said I’ll go up again during the summer. Sophie will take a week off and we’ll go camping in the Highlands or something. Maybe Hannah will come along this time and make it a real family affair. If I can prise her from the arms of her latest leech..

RC 15-4-09
1053 BST

Home Safe

I made it! What a weekend.
I fell asleep on the return flight and had a strange dream about helping Father Christmas deliver presents. All in all, the flight back was a lot less nerve-wracking than the one that got me there. It might be the fact that having had a good flight last week calmed me down a bit, or maybe I was still half-pissed from the weekend. Either way I got through it without brown trousers or a heart attack, and for that I’m incredibly grateful.

I had a horrible encounter with a medical device over the weekend. It’s called a ‘mooncup’ apparently. Its a plastic, re-usable, sanitary, feminine hygiene product; a new-age, modern, environmentally-friendly alternative to tampons.. It’s placed into a ladies pleasure-parts during ‘her time of the month’ and catches all the menstrual blood, which can then be flushed down the toilet and the ‘mooncup’ can be washed out. No uncomfortable towelling involved, no five million tampons a week being flushed or dumped in the countryside, and no embarrassing pharmacy moments where you have to ask the shop boy for the Large ones.
I think it’s a great idea, I’m just not happy about Sophie’s best friend using one, and leaving it on the bathroom sink when she’s staying over. In my drunken state, I thought it was an eye bath, and used it accordingly. It may have been my imagination, but I’m sure Edinburgh had a tinge of red about it all day.

RC 14-4-09
1012 BST

Apprehension

I’m off to the airport soon.
I’m shitting myself.
I keep trying to think about the weekend ahead, and how good it will be, and how safe flying is, but my thoughts keep getting interrupted by visions of the Yorkshire countryside racing up towards me at breakneck speed as my plane seat drops from the sky.
I’ve got some books and magazines to read, and I’m keeping my mind occupied at the moment, but every so often I feel a cold chill go up my back, beads of sweat appear on my forehead and my anal sphincter starts reacting like a leaky washer on a tap.
What am I doing? We’re only a few generations away from being simple hunter/gatherers and riding horses and working the land, and now I’m about to be lifted 30,000 feet in the air and propelled unnaturally along at 300 miles an hour on board a man-made object that weighs several hundred tons. I wonder if the plane seats have airbags?
Sophie has booked us a meal at a Chinese restaurant tonight. I’m trying to concentrate on that. My nerves have been so bad this week I must have lost a stone in weight since Tuesday, so it’ll be good to have a decent meal.
Man, oh man, why didn’t I learn to drive ages ago? I could have been enjoying a crippling 13-hour trip in a knackered old Vauxhall Astra today instead of dragging myself off to the Deathtrap Airport of Doom.. Or why didn’t I just tell Sophie to shove her invitation up her pooper and stay in Norfolk and work all weekend? Shelf-filling may not be a great way to spend Easter, but at least you can’t plummet to your death in the freezer aisle.
Pray for me…..

RC 9-4-09
0924 BST

Is it Tuesday?

What a strange 10 days or so…. Dumped by Donna; driving lessons; starting the diet; working over the weekend; Edinburgh in the pipeline.. I’m not sure where I am, or where I’m going.
The return tickets to Edinburgh cost me £121, so the extra shifts Friday and Saturday will be useful. The store was a hell of a lot busier than it is during the week, but the clientele weren’t of any better standard. I think a bus full of guests from The Jeremy Kyle Show must have detoured straight to our supermarket on the way back to Chavsville. The clothes department sold out of women’s large elasticated jogging bottoms, and the cheapo sherry flew off the shelves like a pigeon flies off a pavement. I think I’d meet classier people if I got a job at a whorehouse. Speaking of which, one of my lower-end-of-the-intellect-spectrum colleagues at work has given me the number of a ‘really top-notch’ prostitute in Edinburgh. Apparently she can suck the yolk out of an egg through a hole in the shell, and ‘takes it up the churner for a fifty.’
Chances are I won’t be using the number.

Sophie has to work Monday, but has lined up loads to do over the weekend. We’re going out with a group of her nurse friends on Saturday, so she’s warned me to leave my liver on a stretcher somewhere, and be prepared for a late-night curry and a nightclub. And the diet had been going so well..

RC 7-4-09
2213 BST

Plans into action

I booked a plane ticket to Edinburgh today! Following on from yesterdays good news, I decided to grab life by the horns and ride the positive waves to happiness. So I’m on Flight BE1472 to Edinburgh the day before Good Friday. The taxi is booked, I’ve e-mailled Sophie with the time to collect me from the airport, and the calendar in the kitchen has a massive highlighted HOLIDAY on it for April 9th-13th inclusive. Now I just have to buy enough valium to get me through the flight and all will be well.

Jared, one of the cleaners at work, has suggested hypnosis. He told me he was a chain-smoker for ten years and tried every which way to quit without success. Then he paid ninety quid to see a hypnotist in Yarmouth and he hasn’t touched a cigarette since. Sounds great, but stopping fags isn’t quite the same as convincing me to climb aboard a tin crate that I know is going to plummet from the sky and kill me. Plus, I have some family history with hypnotists. My cousin Frank had to sue one after an incident on holiday in Clacton. Frank went up on stage as a ‘volunteer’ and wasn’t the same for months after. Any time a phone rang, he’d dance round the room like a monkey. Poor bugger. It hit a real low when he started throwing faeces at the neighbours.
No, I think I’ll stick with the valium…

RC 6-4-09
1957 BST

Suddenly it doesn't seem so bad

I’ve got Easter weekend off work.
I’d spent the last few days feeling sorry for myself, and feeling hated, and feeling persecuted, and then I just thought “I hate the frigging job anyway. Why not just tell them I have to have the holiday granted, and tell them to stick it up the dairy aisle if they refuse it?”
So last night I spoke to Dave my manager and said something like ‘Look, Dave. I’ve had a really shitty few weeks and I need a few days off. I haven’t seen my sister for over two years and I’ve got the chance to go and visit her. I don’t mind working every Bank Holiday until the end of the year, but please can we find a way to get me off working Easter?’
Two things amazed me about this. First – the fact that I spoke so nicely, because I’d spent all day psyching myself up for an argument and resignation, and secondly – the fact that they actually went for it!
Just before I left today, Dave walked up and said “No probs with Easter, Ches – senior management have ok’d the holiday”
I almost felt like crying. But he’d called me Ches again, so I just grumbled my thanks and came home.
Talk about elation though! Maybe this is a corner turned… Instead of keeping these things in my head and letting them get to me, I should act on them and try to turn things to my advantage, and it might all turn out for the best! Maybe I should try this with Donna and try to win her back. Or maybe I should just petrol bomb the library, and Nottingham…

RC 5-4-09
2230 BST

The undeniable link between the heart and the stomach

I’m back at work tonight. Overtime, because someone’s mum has just died or something. I have no girlfriend now, so I figured why not work?

The diet seems to be going quite well. I’d like to say it’s because I have stunning will-power, a determination to succeed, and an overwhelming desire to be fit and toned in time for summer, but it isn’t that. It’s because I’m heartbroken. Every time I wake up my first thought is always about Donna. Up to last weekend, that thought used to fill me with joy and light a fire of possibilities in my heart and life, but now it just fills me with bile. I can’t stop myself replaying the horrible conversation we had on our last evening together. Then I feel sick and emotional, and the thought of eating anything abandons me for several hours as I wallow in self-pity and stare at her picture on my phone.
Bloody women.
Not only has she left me feeling worthless, unattractive and damaged, but she’s taken away the one thing that might have made me feel better in this time of despair and self-loathing – my urge to binge on junk food. Not even the thought of Crunchies melted on top of toffee flavoured ice-cream can stimulate my juices enough to want to eat. I might just fade away to nothing while she counts down the days until she can return to her Nottingham-based Romeo and love him.
Bloody women.
Who was it who once said ‘If Man spent as much time on research as he spends on chasing fanny, we’d have an eternally-lasting lightbulb and a cure for AIDS by now.’
I think it was probably me.
Bloody women.

RC 3-1-09
0925 BST

Fool

A new month. You’d hope it would be a fresh start but I seem to be back in familiar territory. Recently dumped by someone I wasted my heart on, overweight and ugly with a crap job and hair that won’t obey me. And miserable. April is not a fun place to be thus far.. Normally I’d be comfort eating and watching a Laurel and Hardy film, but I’ve started this stupid diet, and the DVD player’s kaput after Hannah’s latest boyfriend threw up on it.
My first driving lesson was a disaster. My instructor is the same age as me, and only recently qualified from a quick-step, fast-track course to be an instructor. I’m only her third client, and the first two were her sister and her cousin. She was more nervous than me, and that’s saying something. She even managed to get her own name wrong. It was like trying to learn to walk by listening to a toddler. Nothing she said seemed to make sense, and the bits I did understand were things I’d already learnt watching ‘Top Gear.’ Ted’s offer of some extra lessons is sounding more and more attractive by the day. Plus, my holiday request for Easter hasn’t been approved. It’s not company policy to allow bank holidays off in the first six months of employment, apparently. Fascists. Now I either have to miss out on a weekend visiting Sophie, or risk not having a job to come back to.
It never rains, does it?

RC 1-4-09
2217 BST