So anyway. I was talking to Jane the other day and she came up with this idea. (I’d love to take credit for this cos it’s genius, but not even I’d do that. And besides, she might read this nonsense). She said “John, what are you doing with this banging your head against a wall? Why not do something you’re good at?” Well, to cut a long story short she came up with this new concept: Jewgolos. A Jewgolo is a bit like a gigolo, but essentially Jewish in nature. Listen.
Basically, where your regular gigolo maybe takes you for a drink and then upstairs for the jiggy stuff, your Jewgolo will take you out to eat and moan. Like I say, it’s genius. Everyone thinks they like the jiggy thing but you do it once, it’s enough. What people really like doing is eating and moaning. You never get bored with that.
This is the thing. The older you get, your ideas change. When you’re younger and your head’s full of unrealistic ideas you think the moaning that comes when you’re doing all that jiggy stuff is the good moaning. OK if you’re 18 or something but be honest. If you’re a grown-up by the time you get into bed all you want to do is have a sleep. “You carry on with all that. No, no, it’s fine. I’m just going to close my eyes.” No. The good moaning is actually just moaning. Sitting down, having something to eat and moaning.
Once you start eating and moaning you can keep going for hours. You can eat as much as you want and you don’t feel bad about yourself because your body’s started migrating. And you can get home in time for EastEnders on BBC3. You know I’m right. Trust me. Jewgolos.
I’d been thinking about doing something new anyway. Things haven’t been… I don’t know. I won’t bore you with it– you don’t want to know – but I’d erased everything on my computer and life was, as my Landmark chums might say, full of possibilities. E-mails, address book, files… gone. My calendar had been wiped which meant that now I had a load of spare time, but it’s a question of perspective. Jane said that at my age I can do with all the spare time I can get. That’s the sort of thinking that made me want to marry her. The literary agent, the one who was going to whisk me off into a bright new future, hasn’t replied to any of my e-mails and now I’ve lost his address anyway. His loss. What’s an agent anyway? Write your own book if you’re so clever.
A new career. It’s easy. I’ll put up ads in all the usual places – Evolution, Janet, the back pages of this mag. I’ll tell them it’s an ancient Native American tradition, that always works. The alfalfa sprouts believe anything if you say it’s Native American.
“You’ve got a back ache? OK. I’ll put a candle in your ear and then set light to it”.
“What?”
“No, no. It’s an ancient Native American tradition.”
“Oh, OK then”.
Maybe we could maybe do a deluxe service where we complain about the size of the portions.
Poppy
Sunday 26 October 2008
CHAPTER 9 - Charity Begins At Home
CHAPTER 9 - Charity Begins At Home
9.30 and I’m upstairs, in the attic. Feeling sweaty, but smug and self-righteous. I’ve done 50 sit ups on one of those “abs buster” machines, I’ve lifted up those weights I bought in 1987 and I’ve had a wheat-free breakfast and a tablespoon of psyillican husks. I must be at least half a stone lighter already. Minimum.
You know what it’s like. It’s the summer. You get out your favourite summer suit, put it on and… So you say to yourself “I’m going to get fit. I’m going to take this in hand and do something about it.” Then you go to a lovely, shiny health club, hand over roughly the same amount of money that would otherwise buy you a small chateau and make the small but familiar joke: “Hah. I’ve only just joined and I’ve already lost a hundred pounds”. As gags, it’s up there with the vasectomy nurse who told me “You’ll just feel a small prick”, but hey.
Anyway. So I’m in the squash league. I used to play squash but that was back in the days when racquets were made of wood, not the titanium or schmitanium or whatever it is these things are made of now. Missed out graphite entirely. Now these things are so powerful they’ve had to introduce a new ball, also made of schmitanium to withstand the battering.
My first game, I bounded on to the court, head to toe in my virgin kit, which comes courtesy of my favourite designer, Primark. Total cost: £3.50.
The bloke I was playing looked OK. My kind of age, my kind of follicle count. We started hitting.
“I haven’t played for ages,” I said to him.
“Neither have I,” he said. “I haven’t stepped on this court since I broke my leg”.
“Blimey. Was that long ago? Are you OK?”
“Fine now. Amazing how these things heal”.
So we’re hitting and I’m thinking. (and cue the sound of a penny slowly dropping).
“You broke your leg on this court?”
“Yeah, I just twisted round and, for some reason my leg got stuck”.
“It’s just there. You can still see it”.
And he pointed to a faded blotch on the floor. And it was just there. And you could still see it.
“There was blood everywhere. The bone snapped and went up through…”
“Blimey” I said, secretly thinking: Fantastic. He’s a raspberry. I’ll be home in time for EastEnders. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine now, but it forced me to give up competitive squash”.
Forced me to give up competitive squash. As a psych-out, it was high art. One minute I was playing a hobbling cripple with a broken leg, the next I was up against the Roy Keane of squash. A competition standard player who’d risk life and limb for the glory of getting the ball back. Whose blood still marked the court. I looked at him. He looked kinda muscular. And his hair wasn’t thin, it was cropped. Curious how these things look different in a different light.
“Do you want to start?” he said.
“Might as well” I said. “EastEnders starts soon”.
9.30 and I’m upstairs, in the attic. Feeling sweaty, but smug and self-righteous. I’ve done 50 sit ups on one of those “abs buster” machines, I’ve lifted up those weights I bought in 1987 and I’ve had a wheat-free breakfast and a tablespoon of psyillican husks. I must be at least half a stone lighter already. Minimum.
You know what it’s like. It’s the summer. You get out your favourite summer suit, put it on and… So you say to yourself “I’m going to get fit. I’m going to take this in hand and do something about it.” Then you go to a lovely, shiny health club, hand over roughly the same amount of money that would otherwise buy you a small chateau and make the small but familiar joke: “Hah. I’ve only just joined and I’ve already lost a hundred pounds”. As gags, it’s up there with the vasectomy nurse who told me “You’ll just feel a small prick”, but hey.
Anyway. So I’m in the squash league. I used to play squash but that was back in the days when racquets were made of wood, not the titanium or schmitanium or whatever it is these things are made of now. Missed out graphite entirely. Now these things are so powerful they’ve had to introduce a new ball, also made of schmitanium to withstand the battering.
My first game, I bounded on to the court, head to toe in my virgin kit, which comes courtesy of my favourite designer, Primark. Total cost: £3.50.
The bloke I was playing looked OK. My kind of age, my kind of follicle count. We started hitting.
“I haven’t played for ages,” I said to him.
“Neither have I,” he said. “I haven’t stepped on this court since I broke my leg”.
“Blimey. Was that long ago? Are you OK?”
“Fine now. Amazing how these things heal”.
So we’re hitting and I’m thinking. (and cue the sound of a penny slowly dropping).
“You broke your leg on this court?”
“Yeah, I just twisted round and, for some reason my leg got stuck”.
“It’s just there. You can still see it”.
And he pointed to a faded blotch on the floor. And it was just there. And you could still see it.
“There was blood everywhere. The bone snapped and went up through…”
“Blimey” I said, secretly thinking: Fantastic. He’s a raspberry. I’ll be home in time for EastEnders. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine now, but it forced me to give up competitive squash”.
Forced me to give up competitive squash. As a psych-out, it was high art. One minute I was playing a hobbling cripple with a broken leg, the next I was up against the Roy Keane of squash. A competition standard player who’d risk life and limb for the glory of getting the ball back. Whose blood still marked the court. I looked at him. He looked kinda muscular. And his hair wasn’t thin, it was cropped. Curious how these things look different in a different light.
“Do you want to start?” he said.
“Might as well” I said. “EastEnders starts soon”.
Friday 17 October 2008
Other Room Services
CHAPTER 9: Other Room Services
Things had got off to a bad start. I'd asked the cabbie, some bloke I met at the train station, where a man would go to find some hookers. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Momentarily, this bothered me. If he'd said that I should go to B&Q I could have rationalised it. Said that maybe he thought I'd said wanted some 'hooks'. But he'd said MFI. What did he think I want? How could he have mistaken 'hookers' for 'kitchen worktops? But... he didn't say I should go in MFI. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Was it some kind of Midlands patois? Like in London people say that you should go and have 'a butcher's hook' when they mean a look, so maybe in Nottingham to 'go and have a look at MFI' meant something else. Then again, maybe it was just that our sexual tastes were very different. Whatever, it was clear that it wasn't going to be easy to throw myself into issues pertaining to the modern man.
Tomorrow I'm going to sit in a 'sweat lodge' (no I don't know what a sweat lodge is) with a group of men and discuss issues pertaining to the modern man. So I just figured that tonight I should swig Jack Daniels from the bottle in the company of a couple of local hookers while watching the hotel porn. Maybe I'll put a £20 note up my nose. That sounds like issues pertaining to the modern man covered. (I read the papers: I know what's going on). We're off to see The Vines and The Libertines in the appropriately named Rock City, two bands renowned for their interest in issues pertaining to the modern man.
The journey was a treat. One of those times in life when you wonder just how life could get any better. You know, you find yourself in situations which are just so perfect you wish there really was such a thing as a time machine and you could zap back in time to that school careers advisor and show him. "There! Told you I'd be OK" and he would shake his head in wonder and put his hands up in defeat. Mr Goldberg, I think that's what his name was, he was the careers advisor. He used to sit in his office and told us as we filed in, one by one like the passengers on some Noah's Ark that was en route for a dating party, "Ah yes. I've been looking at you and I think law would suit you. There's a course at Middlesex Polytechnic that's particularly good..." It didn't matter. Boy, girl. Blonde hair, dark hair. Thin, fat. Bright, stupid. It didn't matter. The law course at Middlesex Poly was perfect for us. Looking back, I can't remember whether I was secretly impressed by his candour or depressed by the dull predictability of it all when I found out that the admissions officer of The Law Faculty at Middlesex Poly was his best mate and that they'd done some sort of deal. Mr Goldberg. I wonder whatever happened to him. Died, I guess. Well, it was a while ago and he was about 70-odd. So maybe I don't even need a time machine. Maybe he's been reincarnated as that woman who's sitting opposite. She's about 20. Could be. Could be but I don't think I'm going to risk it. You and I might recognise that life really doesn't get any better than sitting at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham listening to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records for those currently compiling their Christmas present lists) but there's every chance that the 20-year-old female reincarnation of Mr Goldberg might be hoping for something more from life. Bloody lawyers.
I like these trips. They give me a chance to read newspapers, somerthing I've studiously avoided doing since I became a journalist. I've read red-tops, middle market papers and broadsheets. I bought Heat, The New Statesman and The Wire. We just passed Kettering and I've had to take off Phil Collins and put on Johnny Cash's new album (The Man Who Comes Around on Lost Highway records.) I've always thought of Kettering as a real Johnny Cash kinda place. All fire and brimstone and men in black hats. Anyway, The Wire was the only one which wasn't full of Angus and Mr X (who, for legal reasons, we shall call 'John Leslie'). The Statesman piece was by John Gray and frankly inelligible. It was three pages long but only had about five words. Five very long words. The sort of words you could take a break from reading, go off and cook a meal and come back and finish reading. Words that take longer to read than it takes to watch an episode of EastEnders (which I might stop watching if they get rid of Trevor). Lynda Lee Potter in The Mail was the best. I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that 'John Leslie' should be made to sit at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham and listen to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records).
It never happened. I tried but it never happened. Forget the CitiLodge Hotel. OK, so it's central but listen. No mini bar. No Corby trouser press. And don't even think about your 10 minute freeview periods. There wasn't even a pay-for-view telly. Issues pertaining to the modern man? Issues schmissues.
Things had got off to a bad start. I'd asked the cabbie, some bloke I met at the train station, where a man would go to find some hookers. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Momentarily, this bothered me. If he'd said that I should go to B&Q I could have rationalised it. Said that maybe he thought I'd said wanted some 'hooks'. But he'd said MFI. What did he think I want? How could he have mistaken 'hookers' for 'kitchen worktops? But... he didn't say I should go in MFI. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Was it some kind of Midlands patois? Like in London people say that you should go and have 'a butcher's hook' when they mean a look, so maybe in Nottingham to 'go and have a look at MFI' meant something else. Then again, maybe it was just that our sexual tastes were very different. Whatever, it was clear that it wasn't going to be easy to throw myself into issues pertaining to the modern man.
Tomorrow I'm going to sit in a 'sweat lodge' (no I don't know what a sweat lodge is) with a group of men and discuss issues pertaining to the modern man. So I just figured that tonight I should swig Jack Daniels from the bottle in the company of a couple of local hookers while watching the hotel porn. Maybe I'll put a £20 note up my nose. That sounds like issues pertaining to the modern man covered. (I read the papers: I know what's going on). We're off to see The Vines and The Libertines in the appropriately named Rock City, two bands renowned for their interest in issues pertaining to the modern man.
The journey was a treat. One of those times in life when you wonder just how life could get any better. You know, you find yourself in situations which are just so perfect you wish there really was such a thing as a time machine and you could zap back in time to that school careers advisor and show him. "There! Told you I'd be OK" and he would shake his head in wonder and put his hands up in defeat. Mr Goldberg, I think that's what his name was, he was the careers advisor. He used to sit in his office and told us as we filed in, one by one like the passengers on some Noah's Ark that was en route for a dating party, "Ah yes. I've been looking at you and I think law would suit you. There's a course at Middlesex Polytechnic that's particularly good..." It didn't matter. Boy, girl. Blonde hair, dark hair. Thin, fat. Bright, stupid. It didn't matter. The law course at Middlesex Poly was perfect for us. Looking back, I can't remember whether I was secretly impressed by his candour or depressed by the dull predictability of it all when I found out that the admissions officer of The Law Faculty at Middlesex Poly was his best mate and that they'd done some sort of deal. Mr Goldberg. I wonder whatever happened to him. Died, I guess. Well, it was a while ago and he was about 70-odd. So maybe I don't even need a time machine. Maybe he's been reincarnated as that woman who's sitting opposite. She's about 20. Could be. Could be but I don't think I'm going to risk it. You and I might recognise that life really doesn't get any better than sitting at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham listening to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records for those currently compiling their Christmas present lists) but there's every chance that the 20-year-old female reincarnation of Mr Goldberg might be hoping for something more from life. Bloody lawyers.
I like these trips. They give me a chance to read newspapers, somerthing I've studiously avoided doing since I became a journalist. I've read red-tops, middle market papers and broadsheets. I bought Heat, The New Statesman and The Wire. We just passed Kettering and I've had to take off Phil Collins and put on Johnny Cash's new album (The Man Who Comes Around on Lost Highway records.) I've always thought of Kettering as a real Johnny Cash kinda place. All fire and brimstone and men in black hats. Anyway, The Wire was the only one which wasn't full of Angus and Mr X (who, for legal reasons, we shall call 'John Leslie'). The Statesman piece was by John Gray and frankly inelligible. It was three pages long but only had about five words. Five very long words. The sort of words you could take a break from reading, go off and cook a meal and come back and finish reading. Words that take longer to read than it takes to watch an episode of EastEnders (which I might stop watching if they get rid of Trevor). Lynda Lee Potter in The Mail was the best. I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that 'John Leslie' should be made to sit at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham and listen to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records).
It never happened. I tried but it never happened. Forget the CitiLodge Hotel. OK, so it's central but listen. No mini bar. No Corby trouser press. And don't even think about your 10 minute freeview periods. There wasn't even a pay-for-view telly. Issues pertaining to the modern man? Issues schmissues.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
