Seven

To see the previous post click here.

from: richardvhirst@acemail.com
to: martintrhiggins@acemail.com
sent: 10.02.10 at 04:58 pm
subject: RE: Hello!

Hey Martin,

As you can see, I’m up early this morning. Not for any particular reason: my sleep was interrupted by yet more David Blunkett nightmares. This time I dreamt I’d managed to trap him inside a jar of mayonnaise but he was using a pair of genetically altered arms -a masonry drill-bit on the end of one, a mad basking shark on the other - to bore his way out whilst giggling like a tickled cretin.

Sorry to hear about you and Veronica breaking up. That’s terrible news. But, as you’d probably gathered, I was never a massive fan of hers and I do kind of think you’re going to be better off without her. But still. I don’t imagine sleeping in French Tony’s bath is exactly a whole load of fun. At least you can get some much-needed peace and quiet. Does Tony still live in that tiny flat above the pneumatic drill museum? And does he still breed those Croatian Shrieking Lizards in his toilet cistern? Is he still hosting those late-night primal-scream and shotgun-practice therapy sessions? Of course you can come down and visit me whenever you want. As long as you don’t mind sharing a sofa with a tramp - Virgil’s still hanging round my place till the bonus cheque from his gang comes through for him to put an deposit payment down on a luxury penthouse apartment in Pelmet Heights. Don’t worry though - Virgil won’t interfere with you! Ha ha lol ha! (Seriously though, he has done a stretch for violent sexual assault fairly recently, but I’ve had no problems with him. Not really.)

I didn’t really want to tell you this, but this seems like as apt a time as any to come clean: Veronica once made a pass at me. It was about eighteen months ago. Remembered when I was round at your place with Dog-Patter Geoff for our fortnightly Malibu And Guess Who ‘poker-evening’ and I borrowed your dvd of City Slickers 2: The Legend Of Curly’s Gold? Just as I was leaving I said I’d bring it back next time I was over to which Veronica replied: ‘No need for that. Just post it through the letterbox.’ Understand? See what I’m saying? Just post it through the letterbox. Get it? It’s pretty unambiguous, right? Clearly she meant ‘just post it through my letterbox.’ The ‘letterbox’ in question clearly being her groin-slot, the ‘it’ requiring postage being my throbbing chapwand, and the act of ‘posting’ being a few minutes of trouserless and semi-rhythmical jiggling mayhem. It might sound like I’m projecting a meaning onto this insignificant-sounding little statement she patently didn’t intend, but it was there - in her tone, in her coyly standoffish body language, in the way she glared at me when she said it. A palpable level of disgust registered on her face when she looked at me. Was she disgusted because I’d just triumphed after you and Dog-Patter Geoff had dared me to eat a tube of Pringles using a full family sized tub of Flora as a dip? Or was she so turned on by the thought of me making love to her right there, amongst the empty marge-tubs and Pringle-lids, that the prospect of it not happening there and then disgusted her? The answer seems pretty obvious: she was what I believe is medically termed ‘gagging for it.’ ‘It’ once again being my erect memberstick. But before you go mental Aunt Maggie’s and start smashing apart her fax machine with pork-chops and copies of Razzle like some kind of nihilism-age Othello, just let me just state emphatically that I didn’t take her up on the gymnastical sexual wizardry that was clearly on offer. I just left and, a couple of days later, literally and non-erotically popped the actual dvd through the non-euphemistic letterbox. I don’t want you to get the idea that I’ve got an inflated sense of my own sense of magnetism or anything, but the only reason I’m telling you all this is because I think it maybe has something to do with the problems you and Veronica were obviously going through of late. I literally can’t imagine what being turned down by me would do a woman’s mind: Christ only knows what witless fuck-donkeys she turned to in her squalid hunt for a sex-shag.

Anyway, never mind all that, right? You’re free! Free! Free! I gather men are normally encouraged to think of the abrupt conclusion to an intimate relationship in this way: free! Said repeatedly with an exclamation mark on the end. You can do all the things you’ve always wanted to do: setting up that roleplay society to enact the woodland battle scenes you always said should have been in Basic Instinct, teaching football at the local cattery, making tiny effigies of Joanna Lumley from dehydrated porridge so you can repeatedly live your dream of watching her dissolve when you put them in hot milk. You could even make your move on Marigold Globfash now. You always had a bit of a thing for her, right? I know the fact she had rather a large testicle growing out the side of her nose is a bit off-putting, but she’s got a great sense of humour. And all the doctors were in total agreement that any rogue man-hormones were almost definitely safely contained within the unsightly Sid James and she was, therefore, all woman, legally speaking.

Things here are more or less the same: work is now a routine, soul-withering experience, the initial novelty having pretty much totally worn off. I’m starting to think I might even look for some other employment. On the plus side, know that girl Agatha I mentioned? The one I kept trying to talk to but instead of normal, human words all that came out was medieval tactical military history of the Middle East? Somehow I’ve arranged a date with her. Don’t ask how - the whole thing was agreed whilst my mind was lost in a fug, listening to myself list the reasons behind Basil II’s initially successful attempt to conquer the Balkans. Before you say anything, I know! I’ve jumped both backwards in time from Kublai accepting Planocarpini’s papal visit to the eleventh century- I’d hoped that, by now, I’d at least got as far Chu Yüan-chang establishing the precedence of Ming dominance over the Mongol regions - and geographically: what the hell am I doing in the Balkans?! I'm out of my depth. Anyway, by some miracle a date was arranged for next week. Wish me luck!

Richard











PS: Funny about French Tony speaking French. Are you sure that’s where his name comes from? I could’ve sworn it came from the fact that he looks like French toast. You’ve got to admit he does look a lot like French toast.

Six

To see the previous email click here.

from: martintrhiggins@acemail.com
to: richardvhirst@acemail.com
sent: 08.02.10 at 21.34 pm
subject: RE: Hello!

Hi Rich,

I know it's been a while since I've been in touch. I've not had any access to the internet for the last week. I am currently staying at French Tony's house and he doesn't believe in the internet. It's not that he doesn't believe in using the internet, or that he's morally opposed to it. No, it turns out that Tony literally does not believe that the internet exists. I bought a laptop and tried to sneak it into the house but he found it and buried it somewhere in the garden. I have had to pay £17.50 for 15 minutes internet use in 'Aunt Maggie's Coffee-Cafe/Shop/Newsagent/Butcher's' on Pernicus Street.

Why, you may be wondering, am I staying at French Tony's? Well Rich, I know you won't be surprised or probably even upset to hear this, but Veronica has dumped me and kicked me out of my own flat. And I am gutted. It all happened the weekend before last. Veronica came home early from Speed Chess class to find me sat in front of the PC, large bottle of Lucozade in hand, and a dirty website on the screen. I was mortified. She was furious. I don't know if you've ever seen the site before Rich, you were always so secretive about your online favourites, but it's a cracker. It's called 'Womenofloosemorals.com' and features pictures and videos of women in short dresses smirking, smoking, drinking beer, dropping litter, paying bills weeks later than they should and in some cases NOT PAYING BILLS AT ALL. I know, I know, absolute filth, but I feel very strongly that every man should have a few vices. Obviously my Uncle Patrick believes this in a very literal sense, and the less said about 'Paddy's World of Grip' the better. Anyway, she went ballistic and we had a horrendous arguement.

I can give you a good idea of how horrendous mate, I swore. I said "Why don't you get off my frigging case, you crazy whore-faced miscreant!!". She was speechless for at least a minute. You know very well how little I swear. I guess it's because of the time I spent at the School of Christian Brothers. Those were tough times at that school, Dominic and Lorenzo Christiano were harsh taskmasters, but I was always taught that swearing was wrong and that every time I swore, Jesus would drop some change and bump his head looking for it. Of course, it later transpired that the Christian Brothers establishment was not a school at all but a mechanics. As a result I cannot quote you any poetry, or solve an equation, but I can strip the engine of a ford fiesta in 10 minutes flat.

Anyway, after that fight she told me I had one night left in the flat so that I could pack my stuff, and then I had to leave. I agreed, resigned to the fact that we were coming to the end of our adventure. I was dividing our box sets, one episode each, when the doorbell went and a selection of Veronica's friends and some local sailors stumbled into the flat. She had decided to hold a party to celebrate her new found freedom. Ever the gracious host, I served drinks and snacks to them all until around 1 am whereupon a large man called 'Slash-face' with a map of Swansea tattooed on his forehead insisted that I leave. I made my way to French Tony's and asked if I could stay at his for a bit and here I am still. It's not permanent, I don't really like sleeping in a bath, it's just until I get my head sorted out. I miss Veronica and my lovely flat, but I guess things weren't working and something had to give. I wish you were here Rich, I could do with a shoulder to cry on and a sofa to sleep on. Maybe I could come visit you? Let me know if this is possible, I don't want to intrude on the home that you and Virgil have built there.

I better go, Tony stands out in the street and shouts if I'm not back in the house by 10 pm. Incidentally, did you ever hear how French Tony got his name? Apparently one day 12 years ago in The Greasy Face he inexplicably said 'Oui' instead of 'Yes' when he was asked if he wanted more tea. The name just stuck.

Take care, hope to hear from you soon.

Five

To see the previous post click here.

from: richardvhirst@acemail.com
to: martintrhiggins@acemail.com
sent: 01.02.10 at 22:11 pm
subject: RE: Hello!

Hey Martin,

Good lord, all that business with Mr Crumbgold sounds terrible. It also explains the text message I got from him late that very night. It read:

‘IM GON 2 TAKE U LIEK A PIL LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1’

Actually, no. It doesn’t explain it at all. That’s part of the reason I’m here, Marty - out of the old town and living the high life: the other night I went to a bar that sold African beer. African beer! Can you imagine such a thing? It’s beer, but from Africa. Amazing! I mean, it tasted rank, really rank - like drinking the fermented sick of a tramp who’d spent his final days licking a battery, snorting some onion flavoured pigeon-droppings and eating some particularly garlicky fish semen - but I didn’t say that at the time, obviously. I don’t want my new city-friends thinking I’m racist or anything. So I smilingly drank my way through six pints of the stuff until it felt like my body was going to make me unwillingly swallow my tongue, lips, teeth and most of the skin on my face in protest.

Anyway, my point is: there’s not really a whole lot you can do. This sort of thing with Mr Crumbgold happens all the time - not the ‘bottlefingers’ incident specifically - but when I was working at Betterbins, he’d go through these insane, depressive phases which always seemed to characterised by a manic ‘workplace idea’: there was ‘Sing-Song Snip-Snip Saturday’, where he lumbered round all the workers with a bottle of Farmer Dampcrotch Cider and a pair of kitchen scissors, cutting strips from their shirts whilst noisily blubbing the lyrics to ‘Who Wears Short Shorts’, replacing the word ‘shorts’ with ‘shirts’; there was ‘Funny Foothand Ha-Ha February’ where he made all the temps wear Gola football boots on their hands and stood watching them whilst they attempted to type, drinking screaming passages from Peter Sutcliffe’s trial transcripts through an electronic megaphone; and then there the outright fiasco that was ‘Bring Your Own Pet Into Work Fortnight’. Poor Maureen. And poor Professor Waffles. God rest her poor his little doggy soul. And God rest poor his little staple-addled, rubber-bands-threaded doggy body. ‘Puppetry Of The Puppy’, that homemade video Crumbgold insisted on sending into You’ve Been Framed, haunts my dreams to this day. I can only conclude some ghastly internal programming error has led ITV to repeatedly broadcast it as part of the show’s opening credit sequence.

The reason, I found out, for these drunken bursts of monstrosity is actually pretty simple: it’s Mrs Crumbgold. His wife, Horny Wendy, sporadically packs her things and leaves him, only to return within a couple of weeks. After this, you’ll find Crumbgold will calm down quite a bit. It might help to talk to Horny Wendy though - both to speed things up and to make sure she isn’t leaving him for good this time. Don’t be put off by her name though: she’s not, as far as I’ve ever been able to ascertain, particularly sexually adulterous. No, her nickname derives from the fact that she actually has a twin set of horns growing out of her head, like a goat or the devil. Don’t be alarmed though! She won’t mind if you stare at them or anything - she’s very un-coy about her horns, proud even. A lot of the time she paints them with nail-varnish. She’ll let you touch them if you ask her, maybe even hang your hat or a tea-towel off them. I remember one Christmas she came into the office with some baubles and a little plastic cherub hanging from them. Very festive. All that said, however, you will have to sleep with her to get her back with Crumbgold. That’s just the way things are.

So, yeah. That’s the sum total of my advice, I’m afraid.

Nothing much is different here. I’ve managed to chat to Agatha, that girl in the office I quite like, a couple of times, but I still have that old problem: I see her making a coffee in the staff-room and decide, after anxiously phrasing what to say in my mind to make it sound as casual as possible, to talk to her. But, instead of saying ‘So, doing anything this weekend?’, when I open my mouth out comes: ‘The Mongol empire owed its successes both to its theo-aristocratic roots and to Temujin who, despite the not initially commanding a heavily populated army, succeeded in uniting the clans of the Onon, Kerulen and Arugun valleys under his leadership and whose military victories gave him an unprecedented authority. The first of these victories took place in 1211 when he launched a successful campaign against the Chin Empire, taking Peking three years later…’ I go on like this until she’s finished drinking her cup of coffee, cleaned up her mug and the spoon she used to make the cup of coffee, and then left the room. I even continue speaking for a while after she’s left, just to comfort myself. So I’m not seeing it as a hugely accomplished wooing campaign at the moment. Where does it come from, this awkward inability to chat to women normally, without lapsing into a narrative regarding early thirteenth century Asian warfare? It’s a nightmare. Still, I’ve rambled as far as friar Planocarpini’s meeting with emperor Kublai in 1245 so, hopefully, after I’ve got past the point where the Mongul Empire finally collapses in 1368, my mind will be able to move on to jabbering mindlessly away about a slightly more romantic period of medieval military history.

Work is still pretty boring. I find myself daydreaming whilst sat in my cubicle copying out the red ink numbers and the black ink numbers. Throughout Friday I was lost in a vivid reverie in which I’d been taken prisoner by a company from the Korean military who were dressed like Amish hodd-carriers, wore matching dressing gowns made out of smoke and Plexiglas, and were aggressively pressing me into staging a production of Evita on a slowly deflating bouncy castle with a cast made up entirely of deceased and decaying giraffes. This can’t be healthy. I keep extending the length of time I’ve allowed Virgil, the tramp, to stay in my flat, just so I’ve got someone to have a conversation with when I get home. And even he might be leaving soon. Apparently he’s been doing some sterling work for the Cunt Fuckers, the criminal gang he’s joined. They started him out on boring, low-level thuggery: answering the phones, filing invoices from fellow gangs, photocopying beating-victims’ faces, etc. He’s shown so much promise there’s a good chance he’ll get a pay rise, company car and an office of his own, the sort that have a little shower in the adjoining bathroom and loads of those weird, slightly boring metal toys on the desk. I can’t imagine a guy with that sort of life hanging round on my sofa, watching Touch The Truck repeats and playing the ‘guess how many fingers I’m about to hold up’ game for too much longer. Ah well.

Anyway, let me know how you get on with Mr Crumbgold. And with Horny Wendy. If you want a tiny bit more of advice regarding her, I’ll only say only two further words: hornymorphously perverse. I’d better get going. I want to nip to the Spar before it shuts: they’re selling some past-its-sell-by-date chicken tikka flavoured wafer-thin ham dead cheap at the moment and the pack of woefully underdomesticated tracksuit-children who are normally to be found lurking around by the entrance hurling paving slabs at the passing traffic tend to leave at around 11pm to go beat up the first wave of pensioners on their way home from the Pug And Shovel. Bless ‘em!

Speak soon and good luck.

Richard