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.