Mum is dead

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

“Your mother is dead Barry,” he said with stony faced callousness. “The British consulate has organised for you to attend the funeral on compassionate grounds. It is unprecedented. Frankly, I am amazed. Cocaine smuggling carries the death penalty in Thailand. It seems your wife's family is very well connected. You will serve out the rest of your sentence at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. ”

Talk about bitter sweet readers, I’d just secured a one way ticket back home and out of the very jaws of death. But at what cost? She was gone. Probably the only woman that I have ever truly loved.

I’m not sure what I would have chosen if it were presented to me as a choice like in that thriller The Box starring Cameron Diaz. Push the button and you can go home, but your Mum’s life will be cut short on the streets of Lincoln.

I say short, it wouldn’t be cut short would it? She’s already had her life. A full and frankly wasted life, the latest folly of which was marrying away my inheritance to Roger bloody Leache. I would have pressed the button readers, I would. At least I am man enough to admit it. It’s only the same as those people who take their Mum to Switzerland and have them put down isn’t it? Only my life isn’t a badly made Cameron Diaz movie based on an episode of the Twighlight Zone. Even if it looks like it might be a bit.

It turns out Mum was hit by moped while she was crossing the road coming back from Aquagrans (it’s a swimming pool-based aerobics class for geriatrics), coincidentally Steve’s dad, Steve, was the only witness. She was killed instantly apparently. Although quite how Steve’s dad knows, I’ don’t know. Now I’ll never see her smiling face again. Or drink her tea. Or hear her laugh. Or taste her Cinnamon Sponge.

Oh Mum, how could you? I know we all need to go in the end, but not this way. Not a hit and run victim caught under the wheels of 125cc Cobra Scooter of all things. Not Mum. Nooooooooo!

I was oblivious to all of this walking up to the check-in desk with Tia. We’d be travelling back as man and wife. Barrington Enoch Newsdesk and Tia Maria Yodsowen Newsdesk. I realised that I might have to put up with a few jibes back home, but I knew that underneath it all Tia was twice the man than most of those idiots in the pub.

Only we didn’t get back home. We got through check in and I was fingered by security the moment I passed through the metal detector. Just like Gary suggested I’d been to see some of his friends and I had packed about a dozen Apple iPads into my suitcase. Only I didn't realise the iPads were packed with grade A toot.

I was whisked off to some shit sodden prison cell, where they stripped me naked, then poked me and prodded me. They were looking for more gear up my bum readers. Up my bloody bum. Nature's pocket. I honestly don't know how much they expected to find up there. It seems illogical, why would I go to the trouble of packing a dozen iPads shells full of charlie, then stick some up my anus for good measure.

The amount they poked me you'd think they thought I might have some sort of secret compartment. Maybe they thought I had a plastic arse like Joanna Lumley. Dave the roofer said that he knew Lumley back in the 60s when she did an awful lot of cocaine (maybe that's why she like the gurkhas so much?). As a model and actress, Jo was wary of the damage the coke would do to her nose. She therefore started doing it up the bum, like Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac is rumoured to have ordered her PA to help her do. However, Ms Lumley did so much that she corroded her bottom and so has a plastic anus. Allegedly. A lesson to us all, I think you’ll agree.

I looked back over the bare table at the man in the grey suit with dead eyes. He was looking for a smile. Judging me. He was unblinking. He was reading me. Or trying to at least. When I was at uni I went to see a stage hypnotist. He couldn’t put me under. I was too strong then and I’m too strong now.

“Tell me what you know about Gary and Roger Leache,” he said offering me a cigarette.

Countryphile

Hi there readers

First up, I feel I need to proffer up my all too usual apologies for a severe lack of regular posting recently. You wouldn't believe the last two weeks I've had. Although, if you're a long termer you might. I just don't ever seem to get the rub of the green. So far 2010 has been one of the worst yet. Which, if anyone takes the trouble to read 2009's postings, is saying something!

My misadventures with Dippy in Australia were followed by returning home jobless to find the Tories in charge. I was then unceremoniously kicked out of my own home. And if that wasn't bad enough, just when I managed to get myself back up and online, I was burglarized!

I've feel violated :-(

I thought South London was bad enough with its dog and bike thievery, not to mention its legally and positively encouraged by the powers that be Day Light Bloody Fucking Robbery. But I'd not been out in the sticks five minutes before my own domicile had been breached and evacuated of its contents.

On the night of my last post, I signed off the pages of Newsdesk and proceeded in a southerly direction to the local pub. To be totally honest I fancied a crack at the barmaid. Sadly, I didn't really make much progress. I sparked up a conversation fair enough saying that I was new to the area and wouldn't mind finding someone with local knowledge to show me around. I name-checked a few famous people I'd met as a successful writer down in London, names like Pete Andre, Bruno Brooks and Barry McGuigan, but I could tell she didn't really 'get it'.

That's the thing with these country girls, they lack sophistication, imagination and ambition. They end up working behind the bar of their local village pub, getting up the duff with the centre forward of the pub football team and then settling down to a life of domestic abuse, misery and dreams of what might have been.

In many ways that barmaid reminded me of my own poor mother. I still can't believe she's been blinded by Roger Leache. You would have thought she would have learnt her lesson when dad ran off with the lollipop lady. Some people are just born victims.

I can't really remember leaving the pub that night or indeed the long and dark stagger home. I woke up with a splitting headache and dragged myself out of bed only to discover that the front door of Greta's place was wide open and some git had been in and made it away with half my stuff. My laptop (and dongle), mobile phone, wallet, my TV (still boxed from the move), microwave which was brand spanking new - and while not technically mine, per se, was still something I was looking forward to using - my passport and the box set of The Wire!! Still at least they hadn't discovered the six pack of Cobra in the fridge. I had to have one just to settle my nerves.

Once I'd had the police around and spent about two hours going over the previous night's events and the details of the stolen contents, I had to walk all the way to Lincoln because the tealeaf had also nicked the keys to Roger's Ford Focus that he let me borrow for the move. Honestly, judging my his reaction when I got there you'd think cared more about his missing motor than the fact that I could have been murdered in my sleep.

I had to sleep on the sofa that night. IN MY OWN HOME! The indignity of it all!!!!

I did a lot of thinking that night on the sofa. I was going to have to sort my life out. I was going to have to get home. But, well, I was also pretty bloody excited about the World Cup. The thieves had at least not stolen Greta's ancient, but fully functioning telly.

Mum came up to me the following morning when Roger wasn't around and gave me a few quid. Not 'gave', as such though, because I will pay her back, natch. She's a great old girl really my Mum. Although, I think she's lost touch with reality a bit, I doubt she even knows how much a Frey Bentos pie is these days. Fortunately, I know where she keeps her spare credit card. I thought, if England get past the group stages I could be holed up in that cottage until July.

When I got back to the cottage the next day I was in for yet another unpleasant surprise. Roger's son Gary was on the sofa watching TV in his boxer shorts. He barely even diverted his eyes from the set to acknowledge my entrance. "All right Barry mate," he said, "have you got any booze?"

'Cheeky twat,' I thought as walked into the kitchen, 'there's no way I'm letting him get his hands on my Cobra.' "...only I've finished off that flat shit in the fridge and I thought you might have something decent on you.." bellowed Leache.

Even above the din of my internal rage I think I heard him scratching his balls. I went straight to my room, and I'm not afraid to admit it readers, I had myself a little cry.

Later that night Gary shouted up asking me if I wanted to go to the pub, I didn't bother answering, I thought I'd just pretend to be asleep. I heard the door slam a little later and I went down and polished off the contents of Greta's liquor cabinet while watching a documentary about sex tourists in Vietnam. Makes you sick really, hopeless, socially inept, middle aged men picking up girls young enough to be their daughters.

I woke in the night to the sound of rhythmic banging. Leache had clearly been more successful than I had down at the village boozer. Stands to reason really, he's exactly the sort of uneducated Philistine that impresses teenage barmaids. When I got downstairs the following morning both Leache and his companion were nowhere to be seen.

Gary has kept himself to himself since that first night. He turned up the day after England v USA with an XBox and a copy of FIFA 10, and he even bought me a case of Heineken to replace my Cobras. We played a few games and thanks to my management training with Zach Abrahams I didn't disappoint on the virtual pitch.

It turns out that Gary keeps quite odd hours and is sometimes away for days on end, but he seems to be amazingly successful with the ladies. I had to buy some ear plugs from the chemist just to get a full night's sleep when he's around!

Anyway, he turned up last Friday night and we sat down together to watch England/Algeria. I hate to admit it, but we had quite an entertaining night, despite the fact that he kept calling the Algerians "rag 'eds". Still, he's not really a man of the world like me, I think he's pretty much never moved away from the East Midlands and he certainly didn't go to university.

This morning he turned up at the cottage driving a black Peugeot 206. He was giving me a lift over to Mum's place for Roger's Father's Day meal.

I took a calculated risk, remembering comments that Gary had made to be about his father when we first met, and revealed to him that I knew about Roger being a nazi. It was as risky gambit as I had suspected during the England game that Gary might also being a member of the BNP. But it turns out he hates Roger even more than me. He didn't really have a decent word to say for the man. Gary's racism, it turns out, is not politically motivated, he's just a bit provincial.

Anyway, they're all downstairs as I write this post - I'm using Roger's computer which is set up in Mum's room. That's one in the eye for fascism!

I can hear the laughter and clink of glasses. I know for a fact that Gary has only really turned up to brown nose Greta. He reckons she'll be dead by Christmas and he'll have a third share in the cottage.

I'd best get myself back down there before the pigs in blankets have all gone.

Yours in News

Barry

Evicted

Something terrible has happened readers.

Last night, it seems, Roger's ageing mother Greta had a bit of fall getting into her bath and broke her pelvis. Apparently, she lay in the water for over three hours unable to get out. She had to keep letting water out down the plughole and refilling it from the hot tap to stave off hypothermia. Ingenious really. Mind, she looked like an old prune when she was on dry land, so (your) God only knows what she would have looked like after being submerged for that long!! lol ;-)

Get this though, once she's out of hospital, Roger wants to move her into Mum's place, my house, my bloody room! I'm being kicked out of my bloody inheritance thanks to the incompetent bathing habits of a sour-faced Nazi. Nice one.

I pointed out to Mum that Roger should sell his mother's house and use the funds to put her into a retirement home. She threw a complete eppy. WFT? It makes sense, she's had her crack of the whip, I don't see why I should suffer thanks to that Teutonic tit-willow.

I thought I was a prisoner in my home, turns out I was just the unwanted squatter.

I just stormed off into MY ROOM when I found out about Roger's plans. I've been watching the box set of The Wire this week. God it is brilliant!

After about half an hour or so, Mum came trudging sheepishly in carrying a plate of Spag Bol and a can of Cobra. She was clearly feeling guilty, and rightly so. I took the Cobra and told her I wasn't hungry. I was bloody starving too.

Then she started up: "I would have thought you'd understand Barry. You're a grown man. You should be living your own life, like you were before Christmas. You left behind a perfectly steady job and let that lovely Gill slip through your fingers. You chased off to the other side of the world after some Australian. I thought I'd lost you for good. I've moved on with my life after first your father and then you moved out, and I think you should move on too. You know Roger loves his mother dearly and only wants the best for her. He knows that his mother wants more than anything to leave the house to her grandchildren. I like to think that perhaps when I get a bit unsteady in later years that you'd look after me if anything happened," she said, talking right over a bit when Omar is finally getting his revenge over Stringer Bell.

She knows I hate it when people talk over the top of my dramas. I just picked up the remote and rewound to the beginning of the scene. "You don't need me to look after you," I pointed out, "You've got bloody Roger!"

I whacked up the volume and took a deep pull on my Cobra before pressing play. Sometimes the bitches need to learn the hard way, you feel me?

Baz

Undercover Newsdesk

Well, readers, what an interesting weekend I had. Operation Sword of Truth began in earnest and – I tell you what – I should have been a bloody spook. I’m a natural.

Operation Sword of Truth is the codename I have given to my plan to open my dear Mother’s eyes to the reality that Roger is a fascist maniac, like that bloke from the motor racing who goes with all the prozzies. His dad was the leader of the British Nazis and the apple never falls far from the tree, does it. Well, it did in my case because I’d never leave my wife and child and run off with the lollipop lady – who was nearly twice his age anyway – leaving my child at the mercy of all the other kids who take the piss out of him for his dad running of with the lollipop lady.

Most people look at lollipop ladies and think: "Ah, that's nice, a lollipop lady". It even sounds nice when you say it. Not me, though. I look at lollipop ladies and it's all I can do to stop myself screaming at them for being bow-legged, home-wrecking c*nts. I don't mind lollipop men, though, because I don't think many wives or mothers would run off with a lollipop man. I guess that makes me unusual because most people, if they're honest, look at lollipop men and think: "nonce".

By a bitter twist of fate, Mum ended up being the lollipop lady for a while – we had to make ends meet somehow, and she remains for me the only lollipop lady I've looked on with fondness – and the kids were so cruel to her about dad. That’s why I learned judo, at which I am a black belt, as you know, and not – as my mate Steve maintains – because watching Brian Jacks on Superstars gave me a stiffy. That’s just the kind of stupid shit Steve likes to say. And, as he well knows, I had been thinking about Jane Jarvis from school (she was the first girl to get boobs) while I was watching Superstars and Steve just happened to notice that I had a stiffy and that’s where that silly rumour began. Anyway, he told everyone at school, as if it wasn’t bad enough already, and I made it worse by saying it had nothing to do with Brian Jacks; I’d been thinking about Jane Jarvis’s new boobs. At which point her brother Ian beat me up. The humiliation continued, because Jane Jarvis let all the boys feel her boobs apart from me, and I asked really nicely. Even Ian Jarvis felt them – there was something wrong about that family. Like the Carpenters.

Sometimes I don’t know why I’m still friends with Steve. He did a lot of nasty things to me. Once when I was round his house for Sunday lunch he did a fart that smelled so bad that his Grandma threw up. He then blamed this on me and his mum took me home and told my mum that I was never going round there again with my filthy habits and no wonder my dad ran off with the lollipop lady if that was the kind of thing he had to put up with at home. Steve told everyone at school and nobody would sit near me for a whole term. Apart from Fat Alice, who was in pretty much the same boat as me; although she deserved it and I didn’t. Jesus Christ she fucking stank. Rancid. She did let me feel her boobs, though. They didn’t feel much different from the rest of her to be honest. But, when you’re that age, you take what you can get.

Anyway, I digress. Operation Sword of Truth, to bring any stragglers up to speed, involves me pretending to be a BNP/Fascist sympathiser in order to con Roger – my mother’s Nazi beau – into revealing his true colours so I can get my mum to leave him. He’s pretty sharp at keeping it hidden, I have to say. I guess you get good at keeping things hidden when you’ve got such dark secrets.

When I arrived in Lincoln, Mum said she thought we could all go for a curry in the evening. Here was my chance! “Can’t we have something British?” I said. “Why do we have to have foreign muck?” Here I smiled at Roger. Mum said: “But you love curry, dear.” And Roger said: “Actually Barry, it’s not muck, it’s got an AA Rosette and it’s listed in the top 100 restaurants of Lincoln. The city of Lincoln has become quite cosmopolitan,” he added, “which can only be a good thing.”

Christ, I thought. You’re good.

I could see that I was going to have to play a fairly long game here. Roger wasn’t about to let his gravy train be derailed that easily. So we went for a curry, although I had an omelette, which was bloody awful. I absolutely love curry, so you can see the kind of sacrifices I’m prepared to make so that Mum can be happy. Roger wolfed down his prawn dansak. He had mushroom pilau, and a peshwari nan. It looked magnificent.

I could tell that here was a match for me in every way. I even began to feel a grudging respect for him. He must detest curry, given his Griffinesque politics. It’s interesting that the word “Griffin” has two meanings, according to the Collins English Dictionary. The first is a beast with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion – ie an animal of mixed race – and the second is a person from Western Europe who moves to the Orient – ie an immigrant.

Alanis Morissette would have a field day with that. It’s way more ironic than ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, which isn’t really ironic, it’s just a cutlery fuck-up.

As Roger and I left the restaurant (mum was inside, settling up. What kind of man is Roger, just letting the woman pay? Unbelievable) there was a woman begging, with a baby. She was clearly foreign. Roger, slick as you like, gave her a pound fifty.

There were two options open to me here. Option one was to lead with the: “There weren’t any homeless in Berlin in 1939. Whatever you think about Hitler, you can’t argue with that” line. This a bona fide racist opener, a fact I can vouch for because it was said to me by a black cab driver in London once. (I should point out for my overseas readers that the driver was white; it was the cab that was black. You don’t get a lot of black people musing on the impressive social achievements of Adolf Hitler. You don’t get a lot of black black cab drivers, either. Institutional racism is alive and well and it gets round town in a taxi.).

Option two would see me raise the problem of British homelessness. We’ve got a lot of homeless people here, and Griffin likes to say that we should look after our own, before we start giving handouts to bloody foreigners. I went with option two. Roger said: “She’s a young mother with a baby, Barry. It’s our duty to help her. How can you be so callous.”

I tried to change the subject. I said: “There’s never a bloody bin when you need one, is there. And you know why? Because of the Irish; that’s why. The litter on our streets is down to the Irish. No surrender, eh Roger?”

“There’s a bin right there, Barry.” Said Roger, pointing to a bin that I hadn’t seen. “What do you need to throw away?”

He had me here, and I had nothing to throw away. Out of desperation and in a moment of panic I said: “This watch. I’m sick of it.” And then I took off my watch and threw it in the bin. It was a lovely watch, Gill gave it to me for my birthday a few years back. But I couldn’t risk blowing my cover.

"That looked like a very expensive watch, Barry," said Roger. "Why did you throw it away?"

I said the only thing I could say:

"Bloody foreign, that's why." Roger looked me in the eye for a long time, while neither of us said anything. I thought we were about to get a breakthrough, but then Mum came out of the restaurant and we went home.

So now I’ve got to buy a new watch. Maybe when all this is over and the scales have fallen from Mum's eyes she'll be so grateful she'll buy me a really expensive one.

Peace

ND

Roger, over and out

It was Winston Churchill who famously said, "keep your friends close, but your enemies closer". Wise words indeed, and something of an irony that I will be using them to fight my own personal war on terror.

As regular readers will recall, I discovered that Mum has been hoodwinked into a relationship with a bone fide nazi, Roger Leache. Since discovering the truth about Roger, I have been trying to think of a way that I could use the information to my benefit.

When Mum, whom my love for is beyond compare, first fell for the elusive charms of Roger, I was aghast. In my haste to get Roger out of our lives, I told Mum that Roger had actually made advances in my direction.

Amazingly, Mum took his word over mine. Unbelievable really, but there you go, they say that love is blind. And, although it sickens me to the pit of my stomach, Dad did leave us both an awful long time ago, so I suppose when someone came along and bombarded her with amorous desire, it is little wonder that she was blinded by the truth, and chose his word over mine.

That said, he never actually did make any movements in my direction, but even if he had, she still would have believed him over me, and I think that's the point. It's a matter of principle. Anyway, when I discovered that Roger is a nazi using the the BNP nazi finder website. I thought to myself, "hold up Bazza boy, you're going to have to be a bit canny here." After all Mum's political views are stuck in the 1950s at best.

Indeed, much to my eternal shame, but I feel I can admit the truth here on the blog, my middle name is actually Enoch. There, I've said it, Barrington Enoch Newsdesk. I'm not proud readers, but then again, he did have a point in his infamous Rivers of Blood Speech. Immigration has been something of a headache. Not that I for one am a nazi.

In the comments section of the post where I announced that Roger is a nazi, my excellent follower (who refuses to add the follower widget) The Vegetable Assasin said: "I think whenever you're next forced to acknowledge him, instead of a terse "Hello." or "Good night" you should greet him with a spirited "ACHTUNG!" and see how he reacts. If he goose steps around the living room like Basil Fawlty on Ritalin, you've truly sussed him. If he doesn't react at all you've still sussed him because that means he's familiar with the greeting. Maybe instead of "Achtung!" you could yell "HEIL ROGER!" but then he might take it as a compliment..."

Clearly, something of a jokey suggestion readers, but you know what, sometimes playing a little curveball is the best move.

I'm off up to Lincoln this weekend and instead of being openly anti-Roger, I have decided to win his confidence by pretending to be a nazi! It's fucking genius isn't it? I'll be like a double-agent in a John Le Carre novel.

It's a long game readers, I'll win his confidence and then using one of the dictafones that I 'borrowed' off the editorial desk, I'll get him to reveal his true colours!

When Mum hears with her own ears how evil and twisted Roger is, she'll surely (jack)boot him out for good!

auf weidersen
Baz

Roger is a Nazi

I knew it, I flippin well KNEW IT! Mum's new squeeze is a bloody Nazi readers, I knew there was something about him. I just thought he was a classic Tory. But, well, I typed Mum's postcode into the Nazi finder website and a certain Mr Roger Leache turned up living at that premises.

I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry. I knew there was something fishy about him, Mum wouldn't listen though. She never bloody does. I love that woman more than all the cans of Cobra on the planet, but OYG she has such terrible taste in men.

I've not told you about dad yet have I. He never loved me or her, but she stuck by him through thick and thin, and there was a lot more think than thick, if you catch my drift. But I knew there was something fishy about the old scroat, and he finally did one. Mum still wouldn't hear a bad word said against him, and I said a few, I can tell you that for nothing.

But, I tell you what, as little time as I did have for dad, at least he wasn't a fucking Nazi. Not like Roger bloody Leache! Ha! GOTCHA!

I have you now Leache. You walked into my trap. Well, it wasn't really my trap, it's not like I established the BNP then made Roger right-wing. I just happened to stumble across the fact that he is a member by using that clever website gadget. But still, I can't help feeling chuffed with my detective work.

The question, of course, remains. What to do? What to do? As my good friends will testify, I can be quite tempestuous. When I presented Mum with allegations that Roger was a sex-pest and had made unwelcome advances on me, she didn't believe a word of it. She probably thinks the BNP party is like the local Conservative club. In fairness, it probably is.

But she has to see him for what he is. I know Mum's no Nazi, she didn't even like war films when we were growing up. I've been thinking about it all day, and I need to find a way of revealing Roger's true colours.

When Mum finally sees through the nicely tailored suits and the highly polished shoes, when she sees through the slicked back hair and the Ford Mondeo, she'll see him for what he really is. A money grabbing Nazi hell-bent on evil.

I know he brings her happiness, but it's a false happiness. She'll be much happier without him in her life.

I feel like Van Helsing the vampire slayer!

Yours in news

Baz

The grey army

I was wrong about the weather readers, today was much more miserable than yesterday, although it did pick up for yours truly when I logged on to Facebook and read this wonderful email from Mr Coleman.

"Sorry I have not been commenting on your blogs over the last 3 weeks, but recovering from the heart op has used up much of my energy. This doesn't mean I have not been following your blogs with zeal - on the contrary, they have kept me motivated (even though laughing out loud - as your blogs tend to make me do - hurts like ****!) I'm feeling just great now and have already made plans to be back at school in January. Best of luck with the "Read My Blog" campaign - I'm following your progress with great interest - even thinking of running a book on it! If ever a blog deserves to be read, it's yours!" Cheers - MrC

It's so good to hear from him again. (Although, and I asked Mr C this question. Is it grammatically correct to say I heard from him, when the communication was in writing? (Answers on a comment below!)

More great news on Facebook is that the Friends of Barry Newsdesk currently stands at 27 members (so, minus me, that's the same number of followers following the blog). Amazing, I think my good friend Mess helped drive the number up, he emailed a whole bunch of his mates and urged them to join!)

And this piece of brilliant news on Facebook was followed by the news that David Cameron et al might have just shot themselves in the foot. They've suggested that if they come to power they'll up the age of retirement to 66 and save themselves a massive wedge on pensions.

I happen to think it's an outrage, a lot of pensioners fought and died in the wars for people like David Cameron, the toffy nosed twat, to come along and take away their basic human rights.

I don't know the exact figures readers, and I can't really be chuffed with visiting Wikipedia to find out, but you've got to expect a good proportion of the blue coffin dodgers won't like that news one bit. If they switch sides, we might just see David Cameron miss out on the title! I should imagine there could be some sort of uprising. And I'm not talking about the kind of uprising bloody Roger gets on his Viagra!

OH - that reminds me, following my return to form and Mr C's return to good health, I decided to take up my fav teacher's advice and patch things up with Mum. Now, for you newer readers who have yet to make your way through the back catalogue, I'll give you a quick truncated recap .
I love my Mum, more perhaps than all the Cobra and Fray Bentos that money could buy. She's more than mother, she's like an aging best friend, sure she's not with it when it comes to the zeitgeist, she doesen't really share my eclectic tastes in music, indeed, we're talking about a woman here who owns the entire back catalogue of Chris de Burgh. But she's always been there there for me, through thick and thin. Until, that is, she met Roger.

Roger is basically a canny old gold digger that managed to get his hooks into my inheritance, unbelievable really. Anyway, when push came to shove, I asked Mum to make the choice that no son hopes he'll ever have to make. It was a case of me or him.

I was forced into divorcing Mum and vowing never to speak to her again. Well, plenty of water has passed under the bridge, and Mr C's close shave with the Grim Reaper, combined with the news that pensioners would have one more year to wait until they could cash in their chips and sponge of the state, encouraged me to give her a ring this evening.

I can't say it was easy, but - and it's a small step at this stage - I think I will be able to see it in my heart to forgive her. Forgive, I might add, but not forget.

This change of heart doesn't mean for one second that I'm prepared to get on with Roger, but I will tolerate him, for now.

Anyway, Mum invited me up to Lincoln this weekend, and I've got to admit, the thought of her roast beef and Yorkshires is going to be with me all the way up the A1.

Also, I'm looking forward to quizzing Roger about Cameron's pledge. Can't wait to see the look on his face!! lol!

All the best

Barry

1945

IT’S OVER. No, I’m not talking about the war. War never ends. I’ve read 1984. If you join me on the blog today, as at the time of writing 1945 others have in the past (that’s how many hits Blogpatrol says I’ve had, and far be it from me to argue), then I’m afraid to say the relationship between myself and my Mother has reached an irreconcilable end.

Selfish bitch that she is. I called her up last night and told her that her f*ckbuddy, bloody Roger, had threatened me over the phone, he was threatening me with financial ruination because he was jealous of the relationship we had. She told me that she had been speaking with Roger and they had no secrets, she said she agreed with him, that she’d been too soft on me. It was at this stage that I revealed that Roger is actually a paedophile. She said I was being ridiculous. Maybe I am, readers, but surely I can’t stand by and watch her walk into the biggest mistake of her life. I told her that he had made inappropriate advances towards me.

She put the phone down on me. ME. Her only son.

Well, that’s it. It’s over. I’ve discovered a website that gives helpful hints and tips on how you can divorce your parents. It’s pretty straight forward actually, there’s no binding legal contract between a parent and its progeny, and once the child is considered an adult in the eyes of the law, they can pretty much do as they please.

Much like the Muslims who can divorce their wives by verbally announcing “I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you” then clicking their heels together, divorcing a parent requires nothing more than sheer will.

SO, mother of mine, until you see sense, I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you.

Your (no longer faithful) son

Barrington

Ps. I’ve decided not to bother with the Bill Chill, festivals are so last year.

New Dad

I've just had one of the worst weekends of my life.

No, scratch that.

I've just had the worst weekend of my life. Period. (I wonder why Americans only ever pronounce the full stop? I remember back at school me and Peter Bloor decided that we'd spend the physics lesson pronouncing all the grammar in our sentences, but instead of the grammar we substituted in different words. I think we used the word 'powersupply' for a comma, not sure why and I can't remember the rest, but I think we'd seen Monty Python for the first time and we thought it was hilariously surreal - our teacher, Mr Salt, put up with the tomfoolery for about half an hour and then sent us into the corridor).

Anyway, this weekend, I decided to go up and see Mum in Lincoln. I got a Funfare on the National Express. Funfare! What a misnomer, I've had more fun scraping the dog shit out of my trainers. Still, I'd do anything for Mum. Even scrape dog shit out of trainers. Regular readers will know that I love my Mum. She is more precious to me than life itself and all I really want is for her to die happy.

I went up to see her because this weekend it was Father's Day. Which is not called Fathering Sunday, unlike Mother's Day. That's to say Mother's Day is called Mothering Sunday, unlike Father's Day. Which is just called Father's Day.

Mum usually gets a little bit down on Father's Day. She tried to top herself once, not long after he left us. I don't tell many people that, because she told me in confidence herself. There's no love lost between me and my long lost father. I've not really told you about my dad have I readers? There's just so much to tell, but it'll have to wait until another time.

I let myself into Mum's place with the key that she keeps under the flowerpot by the door. There was no sign of life, so I went into the kitchen and got myself a cuppa. I flicked on the TV. She's got satellite these days. Satellite, it costs a bloody fortune, but apparently Roger is a big golf fan.

I flicked it onto Dave and sat down to watch a repeat of Top Gear. I can't make up my mind over whether Jeremy Clarkson is a genius or a complete cock. I think that's part of his universal charm.

Anyway, after about a quarter of an hour or so, I heard some noises, bumping around upstairs, I bet Mum's having an afternoon snooze, I thought. I turned the sound up, I didn't want to startle her and I quite fancied some dinner. After a short while I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and in walks bloody Roger, bold as brass, wearing a satin sleeping gown.

"Hello Barry," he said, "we weren't expecting you until later."

We!!!!!!!!!! We!!!!!!!!!!! WFT!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was dumbstruck. Things got worse, Mum turned up a few minutes later, her hair was slightly disheveled and I swear blind, on (your) God's earth she'd been smoking. AT HER AGE!

Things went from bad to worse, I had to sit there while the two of them mucked about like teenagers. Giggling, she was, AT HER AGE!

I actually felt sick. In the end, I went around to see my old school chum Steve. His wife suggested that we go down the pub instead of sitting around the house. I get the impression that she doesn't really like me, readers. I know, it's difficult to believe. I think she's just jealous that me and Steve have a shared history that she can't compete with.

In fairness, it was a pretty dull night, I don't think we've really got that much in common after all. We ended up playing darts and I was back home by 10. No sign of Mum or Roger. The next thing I know I'm being woken up at about 2am by the The Thing That Should Not Be. There are certain things a son should never hear. I won't go into details, it was too ghastly for words.

I got to sleep in the end, but my dreams were f*cked up readers. I dreamt that I'd invented a new sandwich spread made from Marmite and marmalade, it was called Marmalite and I was trying to sell it to Alan Sugar, but then he turned into my dad and told me I was fired. When I finally got up in the morning, it felt as though I'd done five rounds with Barry McGuigan.

I didn't think things could get worse, but there I was expecting a Mum special fry-up on Sunday morning and then she announced that we were all going out for lunch at the Harvester to meet Roger's children and so she didn't think we should have a fried breakfast because Roger's got high f*cking cholesterol. I can't believe I'd gone all that way to see Mum and now she was taking me to a Harvester.

Roger Leache, it transpires, is a widower. He has three children. Michael is the eldest (about 45), he's a property surveyor and is married to Kate (slightly younger than Michael I'd say, she was clearly something of a yummy mummy once, but I reckon she's let herself go a bit), they have three daughters (I can't remember their names, I think one was called Emily). The middle child is Alan (early 40s) an architect and single (quite possibly gay - but then if I hadn't heard what I'd heard, I would have assumed Roger was gay. I won't rule it out, Mum could just be a cover - maybe he's bi-curious?). Then there's Gary (late 30s). He didn't say what he does for a living, he muttered something about helping out with local bands - I think he might be in the music business or a drug dealer.

What a torturous three hours that was. Three bloody hours, Gary slopped off before the end of lunch saying something about a soundcheck and Roger announced that Mum and Kate shouldn't' have to pay, then bloody Michael parps up that it's Father's Day and 'Dad' (Roger) shouldn't have to put his hand in his pocket. He flippin' well split the bill three ways and I was expected to cough up. He's not even my dad. Jesus, I'm not tight or anything, but sometimes you've got to stand your ground. I was standing it too, then Mum slipped me a couple of twenties, so I caved in. I'm pretty sure Roger saw too, but he didn't say anything. He just looked at me, face like he was chewing a lemon.

I made my excuses and left. I said I had to run to catch my bus, but in truth it wasn't for another hour and half, so I nipped into the pub near the station. Who should I see propping up the bar? Gary bloody Leache. He was chatting to this right n'ere do well. I kept my distance, but he spotted me after a while and made his way over.

"Your Mum's got a few bob," he said, as he sat down next to me. You can imagine my reaction.
"What my Mum's got is hers," I said.
"Aye, 'ers 'til she cops it. Eh?" He said and he winked. He winked, readers, like some character out of a Charles Dickens novel.

Oh readers, how I've struggled to drop that disgusting East Midlands twang. The dropped aitches and gees, a fake friendliness with the underlying thuggery of the market town inhabitant. 'TAKE ME BACK TO THE METROPOLIS,' I was screaming inside.

"Don't worry mate, it's not me yo after worry about," he said, "I'm not the crook in our family."

He slurped down his pint, patted me on the shoulder and made for the door.

It was the longest coach journey back down south I've ever spent.

Newsdesk out.

Wooly-minded Liberals

Once again I was rudely awoken at about 10:30 this morning by the sound of someone stuffing uninvited pamphlets through the letterbox. Rather than right-wing propaganda, I was met by the tell-tale yellow of the Liberal Democrats.

As you'd imagine the LDs had taken a slightly different tack from the UKIP and BNP. They'd decided to use actual party supporters on their leaflet. They've been at this game for long enough to know you cannot fool the electorate with phony ballonie nonsense.

As a Citizen Journalist, it is my responsibility to remain and report from a neutral standpoint. I have a Duty of Care to my readers Mr Coleman and Mess, not to mention the countless tens of others who sometimes drop by the blog by mistake....

....speaking of which (if I may digress?), if you look over to the left sidebar you'll see my blog counter. A blog widget supplied by Blogpatrol. It doesn't just let me see how many visitors I've had it lets me 'drill down' into the stats. I can see all sorts of relevant information about my followers. I can see how many I've had, when they visitied, the computer browser they're using, which country they come from, their IP address and even what search terms they might have used to stumble across the ole bloggeroonie.

It's this last factiod that I'd like to develop further, and it is a factiod that I hope will bring joy to my loyal French friend Mess. Last month I was approached by a firm called WuTravel.com offering me riches beyond my wildest comprehension, at the time my other excellent follower, former school master Mr David Coleman (not the commentator) warned me against it, but Mess went one step further and did some research then sent me a Facebook email explaining that WuTravel.com is definitely an Internet fraud scheme.

Anyway, using the Blogpatrol tool I've noticed that countless tens of people have been drawn to the Barry Newsdesk blog as a direct result of Googling questions about WuTravel.com. Clearly, these people had also been approached by WuTravel.com and clearly they'd done a bit of digging and they came to this very blog and would have read Mess's words of wisdom warning them away from WuTravel.com. That, my friends, it Citizen Journalism in action!!!

Anyway, back to the Liberals, the flyer they sent features a good number of pictures of actual Liberals. They're NOT assamed! Take that BNP and UKIP. There's even a picture of Vince Cable, who looks like my friend Dave's Dad. I've always had a bit of a softspot for the Liberal party, ever since Paddy Ashdown (aka Pantsdown lol), then there was Charles Kennedy, he liked a drink, there's nothing wrong with that, and more recently Sir Menzies Campbell (any relation to Kenny from the Metro I wonder?) - whose name, GET THIS, is actual pronounced Ming. As in Ming the Merciless (he was bald too.....funny, you never saw them in the same room together).

The Lib Dems greatest ally is also their greatest foe. They can pretty much promise what the hell they like because they'll never get into power. It's one of the political ironies of our time.

Anyway, I'm starting to sound like a party political broadcast. I should really be out looking for a job, but it's very difficult to get motivated. If it wasn't for the fact I'm meeting up with Gill later I'd still be in my jimjams.

My own personal Credit Crunch is starting to bite. I'll have to meet up with Gill in Weathersoons I think. I was thinking about asking Gill to move in, it could well get me out of sticky patch mortgage-wise. Then again, I was also thinking that I might be able to rent out the place and go and look after Mum in Lincoln. I called her up the other night and Roger answered. I don't like it. He's getting his feet under the table. If I rent out this place, then I can stay up north for a while until I get myself a new job when the recession stops next year.

Catch you later one and all, reckon I can fit in some Pro Evolution Soccer before I need to go out.

Barry
x

Inspiration for da nation

I've just read an excellent blog post. It was written by none other than my favourite French follower Mess. On his new blog, Tangled Up. Mess is tangling with that age old dilemma, love. He's got a soft spot for Girls Aloud star Cheryl Cole.

To be honest though Mess, you shouldn't spend too much time waiting for the 'perfect' girl to turn up. I'm not sure that she'll be leaving Ashley any time soon and if she did, I dare say she'd probably be knocking on Christiano Ronaldo's door.

I've posted much about the subject of love. But, what can I say? If love wasn't so damn confusing, it wouldn't be so much fun! ;-)

Take me and Gill. Jeesh, first it's off then, well, I think it might on again readers. When I cast our relationship adrift, I thought Amber and I had a future. How wrong I was. OYG, how wrong I was. I should have seen the signs. Turns out she was dating Leigh all along and playing me for the fool.

She used me readers. I feel violated. I actually got Leigh sacked from Blockbusters, because I wanted to get sacked with Amber...jeesh, the irony. All along she was taking from the til and letting Leigh take the rap. Well, when I told Richard at Blockbusters that I thought it was Amber and not Leigh who was stealing, he told me shut and stop worrying about a few quid here and there - she's got him wrapped around her little finger, the weak willed cretin. There a word for girls like Amber.

Meanwhile, Gill's been up in Lincoln all this time looking after Mum. But Mum sent her home because Roger "can take care of things". ROGER!!! I saw Gill last night, she finally took me up on that Pizza Express offer. She told me about Dave, the roofer, it was a one-off she said. She started going on about how he made her feel "wanted". I felt a bit sick in the pit of my stomach. what a fool I've been.

Seeing Gill and just having a nice time made me think about my friend Steve's humdrum family life in Lincoln, maybe settling down isn't so bad after all.

I know, check me out, I'm having a life affirming moment.

I think I probably have this blog and trusty followers like Mess and Mr Coleman to thank for their support during the dark times.

I feel so proud that Mess suggests on his own blog that it was yours truly that inspired him to start blogging. Proud but at the same time I sense a tell-tale tingle of jealousy. I've got to admit, Mess's blog is excellent, a little too good! ;0)

It's a bit like the moment that a father realises his son can beat him in a fight. Maybe that's why Dad left us. Becasue he was jealous of me and Mum and scared that one day I'd be the one throwing my weight about.

Who's laughing now?

Newsdesk Out

Mixed messages

Hello readers. I’ll cut to the chase straight away, I’m not feeling very happy today.

Lots of things seem to have come together at the same time to make this the case. Mum’s got her voice back, which is great, but the first thing she used it for was to tell me about what a lovely time she’d had with Gill while she was up there.

Mum and Gill always got along really well but now I feel like it’s them against me. I mean, I know Gill’s mum’s dead, and that’s part of the reason why her and my Mum get along so well, but she is my Mum and I need her more than Gill does, really.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel bad for Gill about her mum. But jeez, readers, accidents happen, right? And everyone knows that, statistically speaking, hang gliding is one of the most dangerous pastimes there is. And if you’re going to go hang gliding – and I’ve never been – but if you’re going to go, you want to avoid pylons, right? It’s not bloody rocket science.

But Mum said they went out for a night together and they ended up in bloody nightclub. My Mum, in a nightclub! She’s my Mum, she’s not some pikey old granny, the kind that Wayne Rooney has a thing for. Is it just me, or does anyone one else think that Wayne Rooney has the look of a simpleton about him? Like he’s always got his tongue out and he looks like he dribbles a lot. Next door to my gran there was a couple who had a simpleton boy and he lived with them until he was into his fifties. He loved listening to music on his headphones, and he loved the snooker.

Anyway, Mum told me that all the blokes in the club were trying it on with Gill and that they both had a really good time. Also, my Mum met a ‘gentleman’ earlier in the evening, while they were having dinner, called Roger, who offered to drive her out into the country for lunch one day next week. And she’s going to go!!!

Now I love my Mum, but if there’s one thing that worries me about her it’s that she’s a bit of an easy touch. It’s like people take advantage of her and I just can’t abide that. I’m sure ‘Roger’ came across nice as pie, I can well imagine it. But I bet he’s just after the money; shit I hope she didn’t tell him how much she’s got. She mustn’t tell people that. And the thing about Mum is that when she’s had a couple of sherries, well, she gets a bit suggestible.

That’s all. So I think I’m going to have to go up there and meet Roger for myself, because I don’t think he can be trusted. And then I was feeling funny about Gill getting all the attention that Mum was talking about. I have to say, she is looking great at the moment, the last time I saw her I did feel a few of the old stirrings that I used to get. She’s obviously been out and got a load of new clothese and stuff. Because when I saw her, she said: “Jesus, Barry, you’re not still wearing that bloody Ned’s Atomic Dustbin T-shirt are you?”

Also, I went on a date, you know I’m doing that online dating thing, right? Well I went on a date and, not to put too fine a point on it, it was an absolute bloody disaster. I had a bit of stubble on the go, because I think the ladies like that, and I did some press ups before I went out, although not many. And I put my black trousers on, although I think they’ve shrunk a bit in the wash.

Anyway we arranged to meet at a pub I know in town, which is great and it’s a Sam Smiths pub, which means you can get a pint for not much more than two quid. Gill and I used to meet there. So when this girl – Susie – turned up I thought, “easy Bazza old son, she’s a bit of a cracker”. But she didn’t like the pub. Wtf? She wanted to go for cocktails, so we went to this place and the doorman looked me up and down and glared at me but chatted to Susie. Apparently she’d been here before. She told me what she wanted and it was TEN QUID! For ONE DRINK!

I only had £40 with me, figuring that we probably wouldn’t have more than ten drinks each in the pub on a first date but now a quarter of it was done for. So I had a water. Then she spent 15 minutes chatting to the doorman, while I sat at the bar with my water. She came back and asked for another drink, which I got, and then she said she didn’t think we had much in common, so let’s just chalk it up to experience. So I asked her for the money to cover the drinks and she just laughed at me. So I asked her again, and then the doorman came over and grabbed me and threw me out. And everyone in there was laughing.

It was an awful place, the kind of place that Gill and I would never go into when we were together, because we thought it was up its own arse. Which it was. I thought I’d call Gill for old times sake, but when she answered it sounded like she was at a party and she said she couldn’t talk. So I went back to the pub and got a drink, and, well, that’s about all I remember. Woke up at home with all my clothes on.

Checked my phone and I had a text message from Amber. It said: “Please stop texting me.”

So I looked at my sent messages and I’d sent her seven texts saying about how I thought we’d be great together, and I really like her and she’s hot and all this nonsense.

I’d also sent Gill 15 text messages, all saying the same thing: “Baby, what went wrong. Still think about you all the time.”

She hadn’t replied at all.

Shit, things are a bit messed up.

Mum's the word

Jeesh, you wouldn't believe the week I've had readers.

Firstly, I want to say a big "THANK YOU" to Mr Coleman. He advised me against taking up Wu Travel's offer to sponsor this blog. I sent Alyssa an email indicating that I would be interested in finding out more, and as sure as eggs is eggs, she requested my bank details. I didn't respond, I just deleted the email and put that one down to experience.

Without Mr C's words of wisdom I would almost certainly have handed my bank details over. It seemed so convincing and such a brilliant offer. Apparently, this is a form of fraud known as phishing - like fishing - Internet fraudsters ask for the bank details of a lot of people, it only takes one or two people to bite and hand over the deets and then bingo, Bob's your uncle, they empty the bank accounts and that's that. Game over.

I haven't exactly got much cash anyway, so in a way I didn't have much to lose, but it's the principle.

Secondly, I want to apologize. I've been up in Lincoln all week looking after Mum and so have not been able to post. As regular readers will know, I love my Mum. She's always been there for me, we're more like friends than mother and son. She's like the big sister I never had.

Anyway, turns out she's ill. It's nothing serious though, so don't worry. She just turned up on my doorstep last Sunday, having driven down, with a note pad and pen. Apparently, she'd been trying to get hold of me on the phone, but every time she called I just put the phone down. She's lost her voice! Amazing really, I thought I was being targeted by those Indian call centres that have automatic ringing machines. OYG they're so flippin annoying aren't they?!

Mum scribbled down that she was pretty much incapacitated with muteness and could I go up to Lincoln and help her out? Naturally, I pointed out that I'd have to miss work, but she said she could cover my wages, so that was OK.

It wasn't too bad, I just needed to help out in the shop during the day. In a way it was quite nice, there weren't many customers and I'd take my sandwiches up to the cathedral at lunchtime. It's a beautiful part of the world readers, the pace of life is so much slower than London, you can really take a step back and appreciate life.

Mind you, it brought back some painful memories. I used to come up and sit in the cathedral grounds to get away from Mum and Dad's constant bickering when I was a nipper. I haven't really told you about Dad have I? Maybe one day I will.

It's a bit dull though, Lincoln. On Tuesday night I gave my old friend Steve a ring. He's settled down now with a wife (Linda), and daughter (Siobhan), with another on the way (sex unknown). He seems really happy with his life up there, with his semi-detached and company car. But that's not for me, I tried to tell him about my new life as a Citizen Journalist, but he was only really interested in his Sky Digital and telling me about kids, and schools and all that.

In the end I was glad to get out of there and really glad to get back down here. Back where the action is. I had fried chicken for dinner and then caught the bus back and I didn't hear a single English voice. I think the bloke in front of me might have been English, but he was listening to his Walkman so I didn't hear him speak. There was a French couple, who seemed to be having a pretty serious conversation (I think he was dans le maison du chien), then there were some Somali looking chaps who were in turns arguing and laughing raucously, a Chinese couple, or possibly Japanese, it's difficult to tell isn't it? And a drunk Irishman who stank of wee. You just don't get that rich cultural diversity in Lincoln.

Mum's voice still hasn't really come back properly, she's having a scan up at the hospital tomorrow, but I needed to get back really, I can't fob Richard at Blockbuster off indefinitely and I wanted to catch up with Amber, she had an audition for some production. I've already missed out on a couple of dates from the online dating service and I need to get some love action back in my life. I told Gill that I needed to come back down and she agreed to go up to Lincoln and help Mum out.

Don't worry though, I can probably rearrange the dates, so I haven't missed out or anything.

Big Love. BN x

Cancelled

I'm really sorry to disappoint you all. Today was suppposed to be the day of the Big 1K Party. My proudest moment in blogging. As I type these words though salty tears are dripping upon the keyboard, I haven't had a wink of sleep all night.

It's doubly disasterous, as today I have a new follower too, Mandy. She's my 13th. Unlucky for some eh. Sorry, Mandy, I'll give you a proper welcome when I'm feeling more cheerful.

I was feeling jubilent when I went to meet Dave yesterday, then he gave me the news.

"Awlright Bawwry," he said, "you never guess who I bumped into the ovver day?"

I said "who?". He didn't tell me straight away, Dave always makes you spend a few minutes trying to guess, it's always futile, although I did guess it right once, when he's met Ashley Cole in Crazy Larry's.

After a few minutes of guessing, he put put me out my misery. Although, ironically he put me deeper into misery than ever before, "Gill," he said, "Gill? What my Gill?"
"Only she's not your Gill is she Barwrry?" he said with a wink.

Dave, my so called friend, then went on to tell me in tawdry detail of his night with Gill. I was agog.

How could he does this to me? My friend, Dave the roofer!!?

I had to make my excuses and leave, I was feeling sick. I would have punched him too, but I'm a pacifist.

I left the pub and picked up eight cans of Cobra and some Monster Munch for the party today, but I can't go through with it readers, so particular appologies to Mess and Mr Coleman and I know you guys were looking forward to it, but I'm sure you understand?

I texted Amber when I got back, but she didn't respond.

Think I might see if Mum wants to come down from Lincoln later.

:-(

A new leaf

What a beautiful day it’s been today, readers. Not a cloud in the sky, the sun shining brightly. You can see with such clarity on a day like today. Such perspective. The first leaves are on the trees on my road. God, spring is such an energetic time, don’t you think? All that life bursting through. And that’s kind of how I’m feeling today.

I’ve got so much life in me, I feel energised. I feel like shouting: "I AM ALIVE!!!"

Obviously I feel quite sad about the end of things with Gill. After all, we were together for quite a few years. And there was a time when we talked about marriage and kids and stuff. But these things happen. You can’t just settle for things in this life, because you only get one chance. Unless you’re a Hindu, I suppose, and you believe in reincarnation. Reincarnation is part of Buddhism as well but, to be honest, I don’t really buy it. I’m more into just the whole, you know, calmness of the whole thing.

Anyway, so this chapter of my life is drawing to a close and I suppose I do feel a certain, sweet pang of tristesse for the whole affair. Gill said some stuff when we spoke about how she waited all this time for me to grow up and that she doesn’t even know if she’s going to be able to have kids now, because she doesn’t feel she can get into another relationship in the next couple of years. Then she called me pathetic and made some comments about one of the branch managers at her estate agents who asked her out at the Christmas party a few years back and she should have gone because he was kind and he had a BMW.

I let her have her anger (thanks Buddha!). But then I told her she was being unduly negative. First off, sure she’s 38 but I read the other day about a woman in India who had her first child at 70-years old. So technically Gill could have another 32 years to meet Mr Right and start popping them out.

Second, who’s to say she’s not going to get into another relationship soon. What would be so wrong with that? There’s no set amount of time you’re supposed to wait in these situations. You’ve got to follow your heart. She’s not bad looking for her age, especially when she wears that purple dress – I told her all this and I’m pretty sure she found it helpful. I also told her that Dave, my roofer mate, has always had a bit of a thing for her and suggested – gently of course – that I could ask that he calls her.

She said Dave was a chauvinist. I got a bit cross with her about that. He does have some strong views and they’re not to everybody’s tastes. But it’s part of his background. And he’s always been a good friend to me.

We were on the phone for ages, almost 20 minutes, and I thought at this point that it would be a good idea to disengage. I mean she can’t keep relying on me as her sounding board any more. She has to move on, to learn to be independent. I told her this and she started laughing. She said I didn’t understand anything about her or about life. She was really laughing quite hard. So I told her it was alright to cry, she shouldn’t feel like she has to pretend.

She said she didn’t feel like crying, she felt like punching me in the face because I’m such a ridiculous little child. Then she said she was stupid herself for trying to base a relationship on pity and maternal instinct, that she shouldn’t have allowed herself to be forced into the role of surrogate mother.

I told her to lay off my Mum, going on about that stuff. She said my Mum was going round there later for dinner.

My Mum’s so kind to people, that’s what makes her special. But I felt a bit funny that she was going round to Gill’s. But I decided to enjoy my first new night of freedom by going to the pub to see if Amber might be there. I felt like a chat about my feelings, having listened to all of Gill’s and been there for her.

Amber wasn’t there, though, and her phone was going to voicemail. Hey ho, there’s always tomorrow; the SECOND day of the rest of my life!!!

Amber

I think I might be in LOVE!!

I feel like jumping up and down on the sofa like Tom Cruise did when he announced his marriage to that girl out of Dawson's Creek on the Oprah Winfrey show. Fair play, she's a lovely looking girl, (the one out of Dawson's Creek, not Oprah Winfrey), although I personally thought she was a little on the young side for Tom.

I've just had a pub lunch with Amber. We both had nutroast. I must admit when I saw someone at the next table tucking into the beef, I was a little bit jealous. But then, as Amber says, meat is murder.

I asked Amber out last night at the end of our shift at Blockbusters. She'd been a bit down all evening as Richard sacked Leigh on Friday. She couldn't work out why. I said that I thought Richard was a racialist, she agreed. So I said I'd take her out today to try and cheer her up.

She's such a lovely thoughtful girl, just like Mum. She didn't stop fretting about Leigh throughout lunch. To be totally honest, I was getting a bit bored of it, I did try and steer the conversation around to Buddhism or judo - she was way impressed that I'm a black belt (in judo, not Buddhism). Although, less impressed when I demonstrated a pressure point move on her causing her to knock her red wine over. I got a replacement, natch, even though technically it wasn't really my fault.

The thing with Leigh, though, is he was taking the piss at Blockbusters, you can't expect to smoke drugs in the storeroom and get away with it, not in today's troubled economic climate, which is exactly the reason I let Richard know what was going on.

I joked to Amber that there's no smoke without being fired, but she was in no mood for my witticisms. So I steered the conversation around to Richard again. Amber really seems to enjoy slagging off Richard. I let her know that Richard takes me seriously. I won't be pushed around by the jumped up little Hitler. I let Amber know that Richard even asked me to keep an eye on things in his absence. Sometimes girls appreciate a man of power. Though she didn't seem that impressed. She just wanted to talk about Leigh all the time.

Leigh's a lovely guy, I said, but he's hanging with a bad crowd. I mentioned that he seemed to have a lot of friends who came to the shop, and that the M&M stockpile was going down, even though no one ever seemed to buy them. Richard might be a wanker, but he's not stupid. Perhaps not surprisingly, this observation didn't go down too well!! You can't win em all, but I think it's important for Amber to see Leigh for what he potentially really is. I'd hate for her to throw her life and career at Blockbusters away over some wannabe gangsta rapper from Thornton Heath.

She perked up when I asked about her about her dancing. I mentioned that Flashdance was one of my fav movies, but she'd never heard of it. It's the one about a beautiful spot-welder who, against all the odds, becomes a dancer. I said it was similar to Billie Elliot, she'd heard of that, so at least I showed her that I'm not completely dance ignorant.

Amber looks a bit like a cross between a young Bonnie Tyler and that Diana Vickers out of the last series of X-Factor. I bet Amber would be great singing Total Eclipse of the Heart at karaoke. I suggested as much, but Amber just looked at me blankly.

I let it drop. Sometimes it's best not to labour a point. I'll bear it in mind though, should Amber's dancing career falter (you've got to be realistic readers, dancing is harder than it looks, and even if you're really good at it, it's difficult to really make any money out of it, look at Wayne Sleep), with Amber's talents she could probably sign up for X-Factor or perhaps become a Bonnie Taylor/Diana Vickers imitator.

They say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. I've never understood that one. Surely flattery is the most sincere form of flattery. If I rocked up to my Mum's place in Lincoln wearing a floral dress and started banging on about Lionel Richie's latest album she'd probably think I'd turned gay. But if I rocked up and told her that she's the loveliest woman on the planet, the person whom I admire most, she'd be very flattered. See what I mean, readers, sometimes even well established sayings can be misleading.

I'm making it sound like the date was a disaster, but it wasn't, we had a good long chat about my Mum and about Amber's family. Like me, she's an only child. They say only children are spoiled, self-centred, egotists. But that's certainly not something that could be leveled at either Amber or me.

Clearly, though, we had a lot in common, we're both independent, creative individuals. We both like Coldplay. We're both vegetarians. I really think we were covering some ground, although like a lot of younger people today, she was constantly texting on her phone. I think it would have annoyed a lot of people, but I'm totally chilled, it's a generational thing, I know it's not offensive to multi-task your social networks. I'm on Twitter for heaven's sake.

There's nothing I like more than Twittering away. My friend Dave, the roofer, calls it Twatter, which just goes to show I'm much more in tune with the younger generation than with Dave's - even though Dave is actually two years younger than me!! The thing is, unlike Dave, the roofer, I'm down with the digital generation, I'm totally plugged-in to the Internet. Age is irrelevant on the Internet. Age has become totally democratised. Unless you're grooming children in chat rooms of course. Which is a whole separate issue.

Amber seemed to enjoy that we could speak the same language (I don't mean that we spoke English, I mean that we were on the same page culturally). In fact, I was about to ask Amber if she wanted to come back to my flat for a herbal tea and a look at my Mac iBook, but then Leigh arrived out of the blue, driving what can best be described as a Pimpmobile. You could hear the bass booming from the stereo as he pulled in the car park. "How the hell does afford a car like that on the salary at Blockbusters? Maybe there really is no smoke without fire." I said. Amber just shook her head, I think she was embarrassed for Leigh.

Leigh didn't even say hello to me when he came into the pub, he just said: "Come on then," to Amber, taking her by the had and almost literally dragging her out. So I didn't even get a kiss at the end of the date! :-(

Still, Rome wasn't built in a day.

I paid the bill and left, that red wine was pricey, the total came to over £30, I think I might be running into overdraft territory, I don't like to go into the red too much, neither a borrower nor a lender be. Perhaps I'll give Mum a ring and get her to transfer some into my online bank. It's either that or dip into the savings!!

Before that though I think I'll crack into a couple of Cobra and make myself a sausage butty, I'm bloody starving.

Newsdesk Out

Mothering Sunday

It's Mothering Sunday tomorrow readers, or Mothers' Day as our American cousins call it, although interestingly it's not Mothers' Day in America tomorrow. In fact, you might be surprised to find out that Mothers' Day or Mothering Sunday (as we rightly call it) is on a different day of the year all over the place.

Some people call it a Hallmark Holiday, in reference to the firm called Hallmark that makes greetings cards. Cynics have suggested that the reason we have different dates in different places for celebrating our Mums is so that Hallmark can sell cards all year around, rather than lumping all their revenue on one date.

I think that's a terrible viewpoint. That said, I totally forgot it was Mothering Sunday until this morning when I looked at the calendar and so now I've missed the post. So Hallmark won't be making any money out of me anyway.

I can't believe, in this day and age, that the Royal Mail still refuses to deliver letters on a Sunday. You can bet your bottom dollar it's not because the postmen are all in church. They're more likely to be down the bookies. Is it any wonder that the Royal Mail is going out of business?

Speaking of the Royal Mail, in the week, I read about a postmaster in Nottingham who was refusing to serve customers who cannot speak English. It sounds like out and out racism, yet amazingly, the postmaster in question was born in Sri Lanka. You would think he'd be sympathetic towards immigrants. He claims that he cannot serve them, because he cannot understand them.

I wonder if he still serves his mute customers?

Anyway, I thought I'd post on the blog today, because tomorrow I was thinking of going up to Lincoln to visit my Mum. Whom I love more than words.

I was going to nip down to the High Street and buy Mum Lionel Richie's latest album. He was on Jonathan Ross last night promoting it. My Mum loves Lionel. Though, I'm not sure she'd be too pleased that he appeared on Ross's show. After the furore with Russell Brand and the granddaughter of Manuel out of Fawlty Towers.

She was not too pleased that Ross and Russ got their jobs back, especially in the current economic climate. There are plenty of talented presenters out there, like Michael Parkinson, who wouldn't dream of phoning up national treasures and taunting them about the sexual habits of their family.

It's a disgwace. As Ross would probably say.

Lionel Richie wrote a song about his Mum (Mrs Richie, not Mrs Ross). You've probably heard of it. Three times a lady. It's a beautiful tune with a lovely sentiment.

Thanks for the times
That you've given me
The memories are all in my mind
And now that we've come
To the end of our rainbow
There's something
I must say out loud
You're once, twice
Three times a lady
Yes you're once twice
Three times a lady
And I love you

When we are together
The moments I cherish
With every beat of my heart
To touch you to hold you
To feel you to need you
There's nothing to keep us apart
You're once twice
Three times a lady
And I love you
I love you

Now I love my Mum readers, as you know, but that second verse is a bit dodge. Makes you wonder what went on in the Richie household. You hear about these child stars and sometimes it's not all sunshine and light.

They say that there's no smoke without fire. You've only got to look at how Lionel's own daughter, Nicole, has turned out. She's forever tumbling out of some bar or club with Paris Hilton. And we all know what she's like.

I'm pretty sure Mum wouldn't approve if I took up with Paris Hilton or Nicole Richie. I'd be much better off with someone like Amber. We're on at Blockbusters later today, maybe I'll see if she fancies going for lunch tomorrow. I can always give Mum a ring or something. She's probably forgotten it's Mothering Sunday anyway.

Women!

Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, apparently. I don't think I'll ever truly understand the fairer sex.

I told Gill about what Richard had said to me at Blockbusters, and about Leigh. She gave me a really hard time, I couldn't believe it. I'm just trying to put food on the table. I thought she'd be proud of the stand I'd taken, she knows that Leigh and I had become close, but I blew the whistle, and that takes real integrity!

Then after having a massive go, she wanted me to go out to the cinema, it's Orange Wednesday two for the price of one and she wanted to see some damn romcom, I wasn't really in the mood to be honest. Sometimes social obligations can be a little bit complex.

Then she kept going on about how I'd beomce distant, and commitment and moving in. I know it makes sense financially, but I can't be tied down, I seriously think that Amber and I have connected. I made the mistake of telling Gill that Amber reminded me of Mum.

Gill knows I love Mum, to be honest I think she's jealous (Gill, not Mum - Mum never gets jealous, despite what Dad used to say. I've not told you about Dad yet, readers, maybe I'll get around to it one of these days).

Anyway, Gill goes off on one completely about how I'm wasting my time with Blockbusters, and why can't I get back into media sales, and Citizen Journalism is a waste of time. I think it might be moon time :@ her emotions are so unpredictable. I shouldn't be blaming Mother Nature for her outbursts and criticism though, she's only got herself to blame.

In the end she went home in a huff. Didn't even finish her chardoney.

I called up Mum, and you won't believe this, she took Gill's side!!!

I told you that you wouldn't beleieve it, WOMEN!

Reality cheque

There comes a time in every man's life when he has to face up to his responsibilities. Well, there comes a time in every heterosexual man's life at any rate. The gays seem to get away with a lifetime of parties and promiscuity. Sometimes, I wish I was gay. I have a lot of friends that way inclined and they always seem so happy. I suppose that's why they were dubbed gay.

Sadly, I am one of the many men in this world who is not gay. So I must face up to the reality that my girlfriend will at some stage want to move in and 'settle down'.

Jeesh readers, I hate that expression. 'Settle down'. It's so middle aged, middle class and middle England. I'm so weary of conforming to society's norms. Even though I was a salesman at the time, I went on an anarchist rally a few years ago to protest against capitalism. Those guys seem to have it really nailed.

I've been reluctant to settle down. I love Gill, of course i do. But I look what happened to my dear old Mum when she settled down with Dad. Well, they had me and brought me up in Lincoln, so it wasn't all bad. But after that things went down hill. I love my Mum, and even though I'm not gay, I'm more than willing to express that love in tears. I've not told you about Dad have I? Maybe one day I will.

Maybe if they hadn't settled down then they'd still be together now. It's worth thinking about, as I said to Gill when we were talking about it the other day.

As I explained to her, I'm not interested in playing the field, of course I'm not. I believe in one man one woman - one vision, as it were (Freddy Mercury was gay, too. That's why the band were called Queen! But was he happy? Not if you listen to some of his lyrics. Although that one about the bicycles its pretty chirpy. Great band, though - and not in spite of Freddie being gay, but because of it!). No it's just I like my own space. I don't know, we'll have to talk about it some more.

I was going to see if Amber wanted to come around and watch The Passion by famous anti-semite Mel Gibson as part of my continuing research on religion. I'm not sure Gill would even bother watching such a film, she prefers romcoms. But Blockbusters is barely covering the mortgage, and I can't keep getting Mum to bail me out, she's not the Bank of England and I'm not RBS.

Gill pointed out that her moving in might help ease the burden financially. And I think she has a point. Maybe I should get a lodger. I wonder where Amber lives. We seem to get on really well, and would make great house share buddies. She's probably not even the type who'd worry about the fact there's no lock on the bathroom door.

Maybe I'll drop Mum a line and see what she thinks.

Blockbusters

Well readers I finally made it into the movie business!!

Only kidding ;-) I did my first shift at Blockbusters last night, it’s just to make ends meet until the journalism starts paying off. I did a six-hour evening shift and man I’ve got to take my hat off to the full timers, it’s really exhausting standing up for that long.

I’ve got to tell you readers it feels good to know that I’ve got some money coming in at last. I was starting to get a little worried. Ever since that fiasco with the redundancy package and my bloodsucking lawyers I’ve been tightening my belt. But I treated myself to a nice bottle red last night and take away curry.

Vegetable biryani. Mmmmmm.

My co-workers are an eclectic bunch and I can already tell that they respect my seniority. There’s Leigh (which is actually pronounced Lee! I know, it’s crazy isn’t it?) he’s mid-20s I’d guess and falls into the demographic that my Dad used to call, The Great Unwashed. My Dad was a bastard readers, I’ve not told you about my Dad, maybe one day I will.

I refuse to judge books by their covers, and that’s something you should probably take on board next time you’re in a Blockbusters (not that we’re moving back in time to become an old fashioned book library. Blockbusters is backing Blu Ray, which shows just how forward thinking we are).

Leigh was born and raised here in South London and has what can only be described as a faux Caribbean dialect, he peppers his sentences with the word “innit”. I must say, being a man of words I find this an abomination. That said, he seems to have a heart of gold, and I’ve never seen anyone in such demand!!! His mobile phone was practically clamped to his ear. I think he must know EVERYONE in Croydon. What a character!!

The store manager is a chap called Richard. He’s not short on confidence, I suppose you need that in order to rise so swiftly to the top. He’s a recent business studies graduate, he said he studied at Nottingham, but when pressed revealed it was actually Nottingham Trent University, which is a former polytechnic (I should explain to my American readers, and some of the younger readers from the UK, polytechnics were where people who didn't pass their A levels went). Richard seems to really know his stuff though. I do find him a tad arrogant, but I have to say I certainly see a lot of myself in him. Mind you, he didn’t react quite as I’d have imagined he would when I told him so.

Finally, there's Amber. Like me, she’s only really using Blockbusters as a stop gap measure. She’s an aspiring artist, who specialises in dance!!! She didn’t really say that much, she’s not that kind of girl. This is going to sound weird readers, but in many ways she reminded me of Mum. I love my Mum, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Generous and kind, thoughtful and thought provoking. She’s a vegetarian. Amber, not Mum. Jeesh, Mum probably thinks vegetarians are all lesbians.

I didn’t reveal that I’m a Citizen Journalist, I figure I’ll lie low and do some research in cognito. It’s a bit like being a corporate spy really. I did chat about religion though. Leigh said he supposes he must be a Christian, Richard is an atheist (typical!) and Amber, a Humanist.

Like I say readers, an eclectic bunch.