Trick or treat?

When I was a nipper, I was never that keen on Halloween. Back in Lincoln me and Steve used to always make a Guy around this time of the year. Mum had some of Dad's old clothes in the loft, so I used sneak up there and help myself to some trousers and a jumper and stuff them with newspaper, then we'd sit outside the paper shop shouting 'penny for the Guy' as people went in and out, then when we had enough spare change we'd go into the shop and buy some air-bomb repeaters.

That wasn't the best bit though, the best bit was on November the 5th, when I used to take the Guy down to whichever of the local bombfires that hadn't already been set alight in the weeks preceding and throw the effigy on the flames. I used to fantasize that Dad was going up in smoke just like the dirty old Catholic Guido Fawkes.

Halloween always seemed a bit like an American invention really. I preferred bonfire night. I suppose in a way Guido Fawkes was the original religious terrorist. I wonder whether if the Americans caught Osama bin Laden that they would have a public execution and then every year on the same day build bonfires, watch fireworks and eat baked potatoes?

The thing is, Halloween isn't an American invention (apart from the Hollywood film series and the heavy metal band musical not to be confused with Helloween the German power metal band). It's a very much a British invention. Like Christmas, Halloween is a pagan religious festival and it predates Bonfire Night by thousands of years.

There are loads of things that at first glance seem American but are actually olde Englishe. The word 'fall' meaning autumn, is very much an English word, the pilgrims took it over and it wasn't until we fell out with America that we started using Frenchisms like autumn. Zeds in words is also English, yet loads of people think it is an Americanism..or maybe that should be Americanizm, to use zeds instead of esses. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Paganism is the religion that Ruled Britannia before the Romans arrived and gave us Christianity. You know Stonehenge? Well, that's like the pagan version of the Vatican. Probably. I say probably because no one truly understands what paganism is. People sometimes use the word pagan as a derogatory word. To imply that the target of the venom is godless. But there is nothing wrong with being a pagan, any more than there is something wrong with being a Christian.

The Romans realized that they'd have a hell of job converting the Britons to Christianity. Since Christianity is a pretty boring religion. So, as a way of making it more fun, they repurposed Christmas. Maybe you don't know this readers, but Jesus Christ wasn't born on 25th of December. Someone (a Roman, possibly Julius Caesar) decided that the pagan winter solstice festival in late December would be a good time to have a Christian festival too. They probably thought, 'look everyone's a bit miffed, cos it's so effin cold, yet here are all the pagans having a wail of time, throwing parties, dancing around bonfires naked, having group sex. They love it. I know, let's tell them that Jesus was born on the 25th and they're use it as an excuse to keep boozin it up, everyone know the Brits love any excuse to get on one'. And thus Christmas was born.

No one knows when Christ was born, there's absolutely no documentary evidence to suggest he was born in December, in fact, there's bugger all evidence that he was born at all. But still, Christmas is great fun, and far be it from me to be a party pooper.

Although, I must admit, I am usually a party pooper about Halloween. Not because I'm anti-pagan. I think I have proven on many occasions to the blogosphere that I am very religiously tolerant. Gill used to complain when we'd sit in on Halloween and I used to refuse to the answer the door when the local kids came knocking. This year though, my flatmate Dan has talked me into going to a party with his friends.

I wasn't going to go, since I know for a fact that Dan is almost certainly a gay, so it might make things a bit awkward at home and in the office. I haven't really decided to come out myself and I think I might still fancy girls a bit. I have no problem with going to a party at a house full of strange homosexuals, but if I'm still straight, I'd probably want a few girls to chance my arm with. But then Dan told me that he'd invited Suzi and some of the other girls from the office. Apparently Suzi us going as a "a sexy zombie" sounds good to me ;-). Anyway, Dan was most insistent. He even got me a costume. So I agreed to go. I'm going as the caped-crusader himself, the dark knight, Batman.

I feel a bit daft readers, I've got the outfit on as I write these words, I think there might be some parts missing, I've got a fake foam six-pack, but the bottoms are just a pair of black lycra leggings. You can easily make out the shape of my packet, so I've got two pairs of pants on just in case and I've bolstered the undercarriage with a sock. I figure if girls can give Mother Nature a helping hand with a Wonderbra, why not fellers with a Wonderpant!

Dan's given me the address and said he'll see me there as he's meeting the boys for a few drinks in Clapham. I've already had a few Cobras for Dutch courage, I think wandering across South London dressed as Batman is asking for trouble. Dan said to not turn up too early though, in fact, he recommended that I wait until at least closing time, which suits me, I can watch X-Factor and Match of the Day.

KK readers, I hope you have a good Halloween. I'll tell you all about the party tomorrow!

see ya

Baz
x

Old dog + new trick = Barry Newsdesk

More often than not there's a grain of truth in old wives' tales. I know that even great writers, such as myself, sometimes fall back on cheap cliches and lazy stereotypes. I've used the expression, 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks', more than once on the blog. But it's wrong. Both in its literal and figurative sense.

Last year, for instance, when Mrs Bradley turned her ankle on black ice, I took care of her dog Raffles. You remember Raffles readers? Way back in the early days of Newsdesk I wrote an expose regarding the lack of interest London's finest were giving to the shocking spate of canine thefts that blight the nation's capital. Anyway, I was looking after Raffles (49 (in dog years)) and I taught him a trick that involves me balancing a dog biscuit on the end of his nose until I clap my hands together, after which he suddenly twists his snout in a loop and scoffs the snack.

Now, I know I'm not exactly an old dog, but I'm no spring chicken either and only this morning I learned a new trick and not one that involves the balancing of biscuits on my noce. I was feeling pretty excited about my idea for an Abrahamic God holiday camp, particularly after reading the very encouraging words of encouragement in the comments section of the post.

I was feeling so excited that I actually broke one of the covenants of Newsdesk. I told someone about the posting. Even more foolishly I told Dan. Y'see, the thing is, ever since he moved in as my new lodger, we've been getting along famously, even taking the tube in together. (Although, when we get near the office he always either ducks into a shop or Starbucks or suddenly races ahead of me. If I was a paranoid type I'd think he doesn't want people seeing us together! haha lol.)

So now Dan knows I'm a blogger. I didn't tell him the name of the blog, but I was getting carried away, I was even going to ask him if it would be possible for me to write the occassional thing for the magazine. But when he heard about the Club 40-40 idea, he almost literally pissed himself there and then on the tube. We had to get all the way from Balham to Clapham North before he stopped laughing.

Seems our publisher extraordinaire didn't rate the idea quite as much as Mr Coleman (don't worry Mr C, I know who I would rather have on my side!). I was quite affronted, as you can probably well imagine.

"Got any more bright ideas Newsdesk?" he said, not even bothering to stiffle his mirth.

It was then that I decided to tell him about my other recent idea: premium phone lines for the delivery of management training courses for the busy professional. Well, I tell you what, that stopped him in his tracks. Then he put on his serious Mr Boss face and told me he liked my ingenuity. Jesus effing Christ, the man's more difficult to read than The Satanic Verses.

I was starting to feel a bit pumped, and I have to say, I'm not sure whether it was the train bumping around coupled with the excitement of seeing all the office girls, or whether it was the possibility of receiving some sort of acknowledgement and affirmation from my boss, but I started to get a stiffy. I had to use my copy of the Metro to protect my modesty (soz Kenny!).

Dan then said he was afraid that "audio conferencing" was already pretty big business! He's not joking reading, I just typed the expression into Google and came up with 54 million hits. I've said it before, but I tell you what, whatever you can think of, you can bet someone else has already thought of it, and it'll be on the web....well, I did just that, and I'm about to put one Dan Bantam firmly in his place.

The Holy Land Experience.

Praise (your God). I have to admit, the religious theme park shown above is ever so slightly more slick than the one I was planning for Cleethorpes. Still, there you go Bantam. Read it and weep.

That said, I'll give Dan his dues, after telling me about the existing proliferation of audio conferencing, he said that our magazine is planning to launch a whole host of what he called "webinars". I don't know whether Dan has coined the phrase, if so, you read it here first. Oh, hang on, I just typed it into Goolge and got 6.5 million hits. Anyway, that doesn't make it any less of a great idea.

It might sound totally contrived, but the word webinar is actually a contraction of the words seminar and world wide web. Geddit? They're basically online seminars. So they're like my audio conferences, but with pictures too. Dan reckons they're a quick easy buck in the world of marketing. You need to think outside the box if you're in advertising sales today readers. Marketers want more than adverts in magazines, it's all about personalization these days, tailored delivery of bespoke marketing solutions. Well, that's what Dan says.

Anyway, I've got to go now, Dan's been down the gym all night and I've got to get his tea on.

Yours in business

Barry

Business class

Well, readers, you join me here from the comfort of what I should imagine Richard Branson's front room looks like. It's the VIP lounge at Heathrow's Terminal 3. AMAZING eh?! Who would have thought that a lad from Lincoln would end up hob-nobbing with the stars?
Not me for starters. I got a call from Dan on Saturday, he was due to fly out to LA today to meet up with one of the magazine's top sponsors. But he said Clare finally kicked him out the house. Anyway, well, the poor man was in tears, sobbing like a baby he was, "Barry, it feels like you're the only one I can turn to," he said.

I had to invite him around. He was reluctant at first, he said he did fancy moving into town, but really he wanted to live somewhere 'nice'. Jeesh, the cheek of the man. I know my place isn't great, but he's never even been, and here I am offering a roof over his head! I had half a mind to tell him to read my last blog post regarding the importance of shelter. But then, I'm a charitable man, and Dan has been good to me. Really good actually, he gave me a job and then he's pretty much left me to my own devices, then when I saw him camping in Brighton he gave me all last week off. So I figured I'd put his impoliteness down to the stress of his marriage breakdown. I remember how I felt when Amber left me. I was distraught, but we get over these things fast.

He came over that night, and asked to borrow some keys, he said he was meeing some friends in Clapham. I gave it until about 11:30, then went to bed. The next thing you know, I hear the keys in the front door, it's starting to get light out, Dan had been out all night! I went downstairs and Dan was sitting on the sofa having a very earnest chat with another chap. They fell silent for a moment, then Dan introduced me to his friend, his friend seemed nice enough, I think they must have been up chatting, because they seemed very tired. It's funny but I don't think he told me his friend's name, he just kept calling him "my friend here". I did the decent thing and said he should really get his head down, but he said it was OK, he'd just go over to his friend's place for a bit.

I went down the Impy to meet Dave the roofer and watch his team get some revenge of sorts over Man Utd (I hope you enjoyed it Mess man?!). Anyway, I got home and there was no sign of Dan. Eventually, at about 8:00 I heard the keys in the lock again, it was Dan, and my word he didn't look so clever. He was incoherant with panic, ranting on and on about something, rummaging through his suitcase and panicking. "You'll have to go, you'll have to go. I can't, not in this state," he said.

It was then that he revealed I would have to take his place and fly out to LA to meet the client. And then here I am. Well, this Virgin Atlantic VIP business is AMAZING. I was picked up by a taxi and whisked to Heathrow and then ushered through check in, and then found myself sitting in Branson's lounge. There's atmospheric jazz music playing, two bars, waitresses dishing up free drinks, computers from which I can blog, a large screen showing FOUR channels. A pool table, those fancy round plastic chairs hanging from chains in the ceiling, there's an entire pick n mix table. I tell you what, I wish I hadn't bothered with my Shreddies this morning, becasue the eggs benedict looks amazing.

I've got a funny story about eggs benedict, but it'll have to wait, I've just seen Ricky Gervais and I need to get his autograph! These opportunties don't come up everyday.

I'll try and post something from Lala Land, but I'm not sure how much time I'll have. I really want to go to that Chinese take-away and have a look at the stars in the boulevard, not to mention check out the beach babes down on Sunset Strip.

TTFN readers, I'm boarding in just under an hour and I think I might go and treat myself to some Champagne and sushi!!

Baz Lax

Camping it up

I am currently sitting safely in front of the faithful laptop with a nice hot cup of tea close to hand and tales to tell of a never to be forgotten trip down to Brighton.

My weird weekend away kick-started on Friday, when - WHILST AT WORK!!!! - bloody Roger called me up. I'd been busy trying to forget all about last weekend's announcement up in Lincoln that he had somehow duped Mum into agreeing to marry him. But hearing his voice at the other end of the line brought back to front of mind the grizzly and inconvenient truth of the matter.

His opening gambit didn't help my mood, he said he was angry with me! WITH ME!! The f*cking cheek of the man, he was angry with the way that I'd treated Mum. Me!

Here he was talking to me about my Mum, my Mum who he bearly knows, my Mum who I've stood by through thick and, let's face it, increasingly thin. The very same Mum who I've supported emotionally totally single handedly since Dad left us.

I told him to 'eff-off', I don't usually use that language with the elderly, but he didn't miss a beat, the gold digging scroat. He told me he had to write down my mobile number from Mum's phone and then wait until she went out shopping before making the call, because since she was Christian she was prepared to forgive my childish ways. Then he started going on about Gill and accused me of being emotionally retarded.

I told the old cunt to 'eff right off', and then he accused me of being an aggressive moron whose time of sponging of his own mother was up, he said that since they agreed to marry, they had agreed to get a joint account, and he had spotted a regular direct debit that she was making to Nationwide Building Society. He said he knew for a fact the house in Lincoln was paid off in full (HOW DID HE KNOW THAT?????) and said even though she'd tried to skirt around the subject he'd found out that she had been paying the motgage of my flat and that it had to stop!

Jesus. I'm her only son. And she's betraying me for this wanker she bearly even knows. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I said I needed to speak with her and he said it was too late, she was going to cancel the payments and that I'd need to pick up the tab and start acting like an grown man.

Well, readers, you know me?! You probably know me better than I know myself. Ordinarily, I'd take this sort of news badly, I'd seek solace at the bottom of a can (or eight) of Cobra. But I thought I'd do something positive instead. Inspired by my blog about the Woodcraft Folk and Richard Dawkins' atheist camp, I thought I'd get myself away from it all. I thought, 'fuck it, fuck Mum and fuck bloody Roger, they can stop the payments and I'll just move out, I've got a tent, I can become a gipsy, travelling the land (well, the land that's within commuting distance of the office anyway) and set up camp wherever the notion grabs me'.

I went straight home, got my camping gear together and headed off to Brighton. Unfortunately, when I arrived at Brighton's one and only camp site at Sheepcote Valley they told me all the pitches were taken. They told me about a site down at Hove. Thankfully the Hove site had some space, but I tell you what, it was bloody crowded. Crowded with tents anyway, but all the occupants must have gone out for the night. I managed to find a spot, it was near the loos, but that's OK I figured, once you're inside the tent it doesn't really matter about the views does it?

Anyway, it was getting dark by the time I managed to set things up, and I was pretty drained, both physically and emotionally, so I did the only thing I could. I got cracking into a few of my fav lagers! I know what you're thinking, you're thinking I'm an alcoholic who resorts to the booze when life's troubles get too much.

Maybe you're right.

Anyway, once I'd polished off the cans I dozed off into a blissful slumber. However, the next thing I know, I'm being woken up by the sound of voices, loud voices too, loud, pissed up voices, shouting too, and music. I was not feeling too great but I was still a bit pissed up, I'd managed to get down to my briefs and was lying half in my sleeping bag, the night air was chilling me to the bone, but I needed the toilet desperately. I figured it was just a short scramble to the loo, so I grabbed a black beach towl and wrapped it over my shoulders, unzipped the door and made a dash for it.

Jesus readers, I thought I'd walked into a nighclub, it was packed with my fellow campers. They were friendly enough, but my attire certainly raised a few eyebrows, some wag called me the caped crusader and started singing the old theme tune from Batman. Well, I'm no spoilsport readers, these chaps might well have woken me up, but I was still feeling the effects of the Cobra I guess, I started fake fighting with some of them, throwing a few judo moves, they were clearly impressed and I was having a great laugh. All thoughts of Roger safley gone. The healing effects of Cobra and fresh air!!

I had a drink or two with a couple of guys and then things started to quieten down. This camping lark wasn't all bad I figured. But then, about half an hour later, it started. Tents are great, they keep out the wind and the rain, but there's one thing you can't really stop with canvas, sound waves! Getting woken up by everyone getting back from the clubs is one thing, but hearing the noises of nature is another. It brought back the terrible memories of hearing Roger and Mum at it. But the noises I was hearing in Hove went beyond human, they were animal noises, angry animal noises, angry, painful sounding animal noises, prolonged bouts of hefting grunting and panting, it started off in just one tent, but soon another started and then another. I was surrounded by inescapable aural rape. I plugged my fingers into my ears but it didn't help, then I heard someone shouting 'where's Batman, I want Batman'. I gripped the zipper of my tent door so hard I can still see the red marks it left in the palm of my hand.

Still the noises continued. It was as though I'd set my tent up at the after-show party of Sodom and Gomorah. The beast with two backs was abound. I have never been so terrified in my life. I just kept hold of the tent fastener. But I think I must have passed out through exhaustion at around dawn, because the next thing I knew I was being woken up to the gentle pitter patter of raindrops on the tent walls and once again by the sound of laughter.

I got myself ready inside the tent, I thought I'd better beat a hasty retreat, so pretty much packed up all my stuff and took down the tent from the inside, I've got one of those dome jobs, where the inner sleeping part hangs from an exo-skeleton - they're very good modern tents.

Anyway, I got my shit together and emerged into the mid-morning grey. Thankfully, a number of my fellow campers had already departed, but a group of lads about 50 yards away were playing frisbee with cans of lager in their hands!

Then, who should I spot among the group? None other than Dan Bantam!!! He was having a merry old time chucking the disc back and forth with his mates. I watched him for a while, it was nice to see him smiling, he's so serious in the office, always putting on a show, but here he was just having a game of frisbee with his pals and he was loving it.

I was so pleased to see a friendly face that I decided I'd nip over and have a laugh about what was surely Britain's most hedonistic campsite. I tell you what, I have never seen a face change so quickly, he just stared at me, then he pretended not to know me and kind of whispered under his breath: "Fuck off Newsdesk, you can take next week off, full pay, don't breathe a fucking word of this to anyone. Go!"

I was mystified readers, mystified. But I did as he said. Now, I'm back in the flat. I don't think I'd really cut out for the life of a vaggabond. There's no broadband for starters, so I'd struggle to keep you guys updated on the blog. I suppose I could do posts from works, but really I guess I'm going t ohave to bite the bullets and start paying the mortgage in full myself.

It's tough readers, it really is. There's only one thing for it I reckon, I'm going to have to nip out get myself a Frey Bentos and a few cans of the finest beer known to man: Cobra,

Much respect

Barry

ps. The marketing executives at Cobra have yet to get in touch. But it's surely a matter time. Surely.

Job done

Well I’m not sure if this is good news or bad news bearing in mind the circumstances, readers, but I’ve rejoined the ranks of the gainfully employed. I got the job at the magazine (definitely not going to tell you what it’s called now, lol) and there was no need for underpants, thank (your) God.

(There’s always a need for underpants, obviously. I hate going commando. In my post on The Jews, as longer term readers will remember, I revealed that I am uncircumcised; the proud owner of a foreskin. As any other foreskin owner will tell you, catching the foreskin in the zip of a pair of trousers is actually one of the most painful experiences known to man. And that’s not just man, as in the male of the sex; that’s mankind as in all of us, ladies included.

Tests have proven that catching your foreskin in the zip of a pair of trousers is actually more painful than childbirth. But you’re best off not saying this to a woman who is experiencing an actual childbirth, apparently, because they can get a bit testy. Other things known to be more painful than childbirth include Cluster Headaches.

In fact, I read somewhere recently that it was after catching his foreskin in the zip of his jeans that the CEO of Levis decided to reintroduce the button fly, thereby inadvertently launching the career of Nick Kamen, who was in that famous Levis launderette advert. Remember? Anyway, there you go, it’s like denim chaos theory, no distance at all between the CEO of Levis’ cock and Nick Kamen. And that’s how it was in reality, if you believe the rumours.

Plucked from obscurity? I don’t think so. Plucked from one of those fruit machine places with cheap vases in the window which front for knocking shops that specialise in ‘chickens’, more like. Not that I know anything about the sexual exploitation of young runaways, of course. Lol!!!

Interestingly, that advert where Kamen strips down to his boxer shorts is what actually made boxer shorts popular again. Before that it was all about the briefs. After that we had the boxers again, and then some years later the lycra trunks. See where I’m going? There’s a weird kind of circuitousness to this whole thing. Because the lycra trunks is where this all started. Kind of. Anyway, I should end this bracketed section.)

No, what actually happened was far stranger than an office-based underwear modelling session…

You’ll remember from yesterday’s post that I went along to the interview only to find that Dan Bantam, the well turned-out publisher, had called in sick. So home I went, and posted. But then I got to thinking, although I try not to be superstitious, maybe fate had intervened. Maybe, just maybe, my decision to buy the more reasonably priced Rocha Jon Rocha lycra trunks from Debenhams’ Designers range had been mistaken. And when you get to thinking like that, there’s nothing you can do.

I became consumed with the notion that I’d bought the wrong pants. So I hopped on a bus to head into town and rectify my mistake. Where would a man with an eye for fashion like Dan buy his pants, I wondered… Not Debenhams, that’s for sure. No, I needed to head for the very epicentre of London fashion: Selfridges!!!

I very rarely go to Selfridges, because once I had a panic attack in the food hall. There was just too much stuff there, too much to choose from. And one of the lights was flickering. I’d picked out this truckle of Somerset cheddar and I was about to go to the till when I was just, like, seized with this uncontrollable urge to run. There was actually a voice in my head screaming at me to run. Fight or flight, they say, and you can’t fight cheese (no matter how strong it is lol!!!) so I legged it. Ever since then, I’ve tried to steer clear of the place. Not just because of the cheese and the panic attack, though, but also because it tends to be full of complete fucking wankers.

Anyway (sorry, this is going on a bit, isn’t it) off to Selfridges I went. I didn’t go in the front door, I went in the side because it’s less intimidating. I can’t stand that bit with the Louis XIV bags and stuff. Horrible. Lots of blokes with jumpers knotted over their shoulders. Where the hell did this notion that continentals are more stylish than us ever come from, anyway? They all look like nancy-boys, with their pastel tones.

So I hopped on the escalator (which I don’t think has a different name in the US, like lifts and elevators) up to the menswear department. As I was heading towards the Armani section (which I’d decided was probably Dan’s brand of choice) I could see that something was going on. Something quite swanky, in fact, because there was a big catwalk set up and there was music on and disco lights and everything. In fact the whole section of the floor was roped off.

There was a big black dude with a radio and sunglasses and I went up to him to ask what was going on. But before I could get a word out he said: “Ticket?” and I said “no, I’m just here for some Armani pants.” So he said “Ticket?” And I said “No, no ticket.” And then he said: “Alright love, in you go.” I had no idea why he called me love, but I wasn’t about to quibble over it because he was built like a brick proverbial.

Anyway, it turned out that I’d just accidentally blagged my way into the launch of the new Armani men’s underwear collection. I couldn’t believe it. The only disappointment was that there weren’t that many girls around. I’d have thought there would be loads of girls at something like that, but it was mostly us chaps. I soon learned that, had I got there earlier, I would have seen none other than Mr Posh Spice himself, fresh from spraying the balls all over the park at Wembley. Apparently David Beckham had been there!

I once got mistaken for David Beckham when I was in Tiananmen Square, but I’ll tell you about that another time. Also, one day I’ll tell you about the Singaporean policeman who sat outside my hotel room for five days before asking me out.

Anyway, there were young guys walking up and down the catwalk in these little pink briefs and then I saw someone right at the front, taking pictures. And who should it be but none other than Dan Bantam. Not looking too sick, either. I might add. So I stood on tiptoe and waved and shouted “Hey, Dan, Hi, it’s me Barry, from the interview. I’ve come to get your pants.”

Well, you should have seen him. He nearly leapt out of his skin. He ran over to me and frogmarched me out of the special roped off bit, down the escalator and into the street. There I was on the street, in a flash. And then we had a weird conversational exchange.

DB: Right, what do you want?
BN Um, nothing. I just came to buy some pants for the interview.
DB Did you fucking follow me?
BN What? No, of course not. I didn’t know you were here. I thought you were at home, sick.
DB So now you know I’m here, what are you going to do?
BN Nothing, what do you mean?
DB Do you want something from me? What are you going to do?
BN Could you tell me which pants you like, only I want to get a bit of a head start on the others. I’ll tell you the truth: me and Richard, we know each other from before and I don’t want him to get this job.
DB So you want the job, that’s it?
BN Well, yeah, of course. That’s why I’m here.
DB To blackmail me?
BN No, to buy you some pants.
DB Are you going to tell everyone I’m gay?
BN Are you gay?
DB What?
BN What?
DB Well?
BN Um, are you gay?
DB Is that what you’re going to tell everyone?
BN What about your wife?
DB What are you going to do about it?
BN Nothing. My cousin Geoff is gay. I’m fine with it. And he’s a nice guy. Although he went through a rough patch when he was suffering from Sudden Death Syndrome like that footballer, but he’s ok now.
DB Did I say I was gay? Do I care about cousin fucking Geoff?
BN I don’t know.
DB Are you homophobic?
BN No, no, not at all. I tried to think gay thoughts when I was a teenager [as you’ll remember readers, from my post ‘confirmed bachelors’] but it just didn’t take.
DB So what do you want?
BN Look, what I really want is to just go home, really. Can you let go of my arm, please?
DB Alright, alright, you win. I’ll see you tomorrow.

At this point he let go of my arm and, not for the first time in my experience of Selfridges, readers, I beat the hastiest retreat my legs would allow. What a fucking nut bag. I had to go home and have a few cans of Cobra. And do you know what the worst of it was? I still didn’t have any pants for Dan. Jeez. Not that he deserved them anyway.

Still, I’m not the kind of guy that’s about to be diverted from my course like that. I like to see things through. That’s something that Mum taught be; that and never to try and wee standing up right after you’ve had sex. She was sick and tired of wiping the seat after Dad, she said. (Not sure if that applies to blokes who’ve been circumcised as well, maybe that’s just us ‘Skinners.)

So this morning I packed my Rocha John Rocha pants into a bag and set off for the interview. I don’t mind telling you I was pretty worried about Dan being there, but I figured he wouldn’t do anything mad in front of all the others.

So you can imagine how shocked I was when I got there to find that none of the others had turned up. I was shown into the meeting room and the only person there was Dan, who was drinking one of his body-building Horlicks drinks. It was squeaky bum time, and no mistake. We had another one of our trademark weird conversational exchanges:

DB Sit down, please, Barry.
BN Thanks. How are you feeling this morning?
DB I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?
BN Um, no reason.
DB The job’s yours.
BN What, just like that? Don’t you need these?
DB Put those bloody things away. You’ve got what you wanted, so stop messing me around, ok?
BN Ok. Listen, if you ever want to talk…
DB Just shut. The. Fuck. Up. Ok?
BN Ok.
DB You say anything, to anyone, and I will make your life a misery. Understand?
BN About last night, you mean?
DB For fucks sake, Barry, the job’s yours. Cut out the song and dance.

And then he left the room. So there you have it. I’ve got a job.

I start Monday.

Over and out.

Budgie Smugglers

Life is full of strange twists and turns. It's almost as though someone is watching over me, making things happen. Sometimes I feel like that character, I've forgotten his name now, in that Jim Carrey film the Truman Show, god I feel like that could be me sometimes. Do you ever feel like that?

Today was the day of my second interview for that job as a sales executive on a personnnel magazine. I've decided against mentioning the name of the magazine here, because you hear about people losing their jobs and stuff when they write stuff in personal blogs about work and, even though technically it's not my job yet, I don't want to get fired before I've even started.

Although, I tell you what, I think I might really have my work cut out if I want this job. Not surprisingly I am not the only candidate for the position. I had arrived at 9am on the dot and was shown into an impressive looking boardroom. Already sitting around the table were about ten or so other people all suited and booted.

'Here we go Barry, Dan's got the team in to give me a grilling,' I thought.

I scanned the room, all my Citizen Journalism experience has given me the ability to quickly weigh up situations and act, rather than react, accordingly. There were a couple of blonde girls chatting, quite tasty they were, but you could hear from their estuary accents, they were thick as two short planks. There was a fairly prim looking girl, she was well turned out, but there was something about her mannerisms that reminded me of a sparrow and then this massively overweight lady in a flowery blouse. There was a older chap with a mustard coloured buttoned-down shirt, he had a MASSIVE knot in his tie, and he was talking with youngish chap who had the look of a simpleton about him, the younger fellow was holding a glass of water which was shaking visibly, poor lad was wracked with nerves.

Then, sitting over on the other side of the room was the face of man I knew. The face of a man I had come to hate. It was Richard, my nemesis from Blockbusters.

"Hello Barry," he said smiling, "small world."

All the seats were taken, so I was forced into sitting next to him. It took all my powers of meditation not to smack his smug looking mug a slap across the chops.

"I see Blockbusters is shutdown," I said (one nil to Newsdesk) ,"I suppose you were sacked because of all that stuff with Leigh and Amber?"
"Not at all Barry. I took voluntary redundancy as it goes. I could see that things are changing in the world of home entertainment. Internet downloads and IPTV will make the high street rental outlet a thing of the past. I'd taken it as far as I could take it. I got a nice little pay out actually, before head office closed things down. It was great, I used a bit of the cash to go on a holiday. Amber and myself went to Thailand for a couple of weeks."

Before I could say anthing, the door swung open and Dan Bantam, the guy who'd interviewed me before, walked in. He was with with the tasty lass who's called him Popeye and this other bloke who I swear on my Mum's grave (and regular readers know how much I love my Mum) that he was half-pig (no offence Mr Coleman - this guy had a snout right bang in the middle of his fat, pasty, porcine face).

"Ladies. Gentleman," said Bantam, "welcome to the interview from hell."

It was all very dramatic. No one said a word. The only noise came from Bantam slurping greedily at his protein shake. He put down the container when he'd finished it off then explained that for the next two weeks we'd be competing against each other for the post of full time salaried sales executive.

"It won't be easy," he said "I'm going to split you into two teams and give you a series of challenges and at the end of every challenge, I'll bring you back into the boardroom and after I've had a full debrief from my assisstants and given you the opportunity to present your case for employment, I'll fire one of you."

Bantam then split the teams down into Boys v Girls. Colin, the bloke who looks like a pig, introduced himself as the girl's team mentor, while the tasty bird Susie said she'd be "taking care of the boys".

We were presented with the first challenge scenario: "As some of you may know, my wife Clare recently left me. As such, I've decided that I need a complete overhaul of my entire underwear collection. I want you to go out onto the streets of London and find me the most exciting, enticing pants on the market. I want you to come up with a full week's worth of unique briefs, boxers and or jockey shorts. I want to look as sharp in my smalls as I do in my Armani suit. By close of play tomorrow, you'll be putting on a fashion show here in the boardroom, selling me the concept of your underwear collection."

And with that, Bantam walked out. Susie took us all back upstairs and showed the boys team into another room, "I've got a company card," she said, "so I'll be taking care of purchasing the merchandise. You guys need to come up with a team name, and then a concept for Dan's summer season of underwear."

I wasn't going to offer myself up as the project manager, I've seen too many episodes of the Apprentice to know that the first challenge project manager always gets the boot. Thankfully, the younger gormless looking bloke, Alan, said he'd give it a go. We spent the best part of the morning coming up with a team name. We wanted something that really summed up Dan and the challenge ahead of us. In the end we settled on The Budgie Smugglers. Which I only really said as a joke, because that was the name me and Gill used in pub-quizes, but the other guys seemed to think it was hilarious.

Susie said we had a budget of £500. I thought that was ridiculous, you can get five pairs of perfectly acceptable briefs from M&S for £15. We could get ten for £30, that's enough pants to last years. Why would anyone want to spend more? I was fighting a losing battle on price. But I've seen the Apprentice more than enough to know, when the project manager spunks his entire budget on the challenge he usually gets booted off.

So then I got smart, I just encouraged Alan to start finding all the most expensive pants he could on Oxford Street. Richard saw what I was up to and started encouraging him as well. After a successful morning of buying a range of £30 Armani and £25 Hugo Boss pants we decided to get ourselves some lunch. Susie took us to this fancy pub and said that since this was a business meeting we'd "claim it on the firm" while waving the company plastic about.

To be honest, we had quite a good afternoon of planning for tomorrow's fashion show, in the end I left them all to it. I thought I'd get myself home for the England game. I almost got the result of the last one spot one, so I'll stick my neck out and say 7-0 to England tonight!

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