Sleep In Heavenly Peace

Dear Octopus,

As the festive season nears its usual drunken nadir (ie: Christmas) I thought it appropriate to write to you wishing you all of the required seasonal cheer and good tidings in the vain hope that these sentiments may somehow reach you, even if said feat isn't technically possible.

So....that's done.

I met a nice girl on the train yesterday. You would have liked her. Her name was Angelfish; she's a teacher (BANG TIDY), has a nose ring (NANG), and teaches secondary school literature (TANQUERAY), so we had a good talk about books.....where I probably seemed unbearably crass by name-checking a huge volume of haughty authors with whose works I am painfully unfamiliar. We exchanged numbers though, so maybe I'll call her in the New Year. Or save myself the trouble and not bother....bypassing straight to the end.

Tomorrow the Squid family ascend the icy plains of the M5 (in search of the wider Squid family, upon whose generous hospitality the Christmas period is now reliant), so this will be my last letter before we all get heinously merry and Vino Squid starts crying over the Queen's Speech and forgets to watch the parsnips. Families are crude and merciless creatures....but I actually can't wait. There are few things left in the world to get excited about, so those rare moments of sickly joy should be savoured for longer than they last - in my humble and meaningless opinion at least - and if the world had a little more festive cheer through the other androgynous seasons then maybe they'd all be a little more bearable. But who knows.

Anyway, time for bed.

Merry Christmas Octopus. I think of you every day, and miss you always.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

Penance, Contrition & A Long Tube Ride Home

Dear Octopus,

You may recall that I ended my letter yesterday with the depressing news that my damaged pride showed no signs of imminent recovery.....well, based on my behaviour at last night's Christmas party that analysis is not only true, but said pride is now significantly, demonstratively, irrevocably more damaged than it was previously. So much so that the head of my department casually mentioned to me as I walked into the office today, 'Ah Action Squid.....so I heard you ruined everyone's nights, nice one...'

How so? As easy as it would be to deny that any of this happened and commit it all to the murky recycling bin of drunken misdemeanour, they say that the first step to overcoming your failures is at least to recognise what they are. As such:

1. Was rude and dismissive to Clare, which she neither deserved nor appreciated
2. Made stupid faces in the photo booth with Jeremy
3. Didn't spend enough time with Al, Jim, Polly or Stevo
4. Didn't do enough to correct Dan's sickening spiral of errant self-destruction

All of these crimes sound trivial now, but they weren't. They were horrible. I am horrible. The only redemptive outcome - maybe - was that after a week of ignoring each other I finally broke the deadlock with Catfish, after our explosive row. Nothing fancy....we were standing together but ignoring one other, as has been the norm for many months now, so when other people wandered away we were left alone together. One of us had to speak. I said, 'do you want to make friends?' 

She said, 'yes.' So we high-fived. Then I went home, to bed. I'm still mad at her, obviously, as she is at me. It can never be resolved. Our lives will just rumble on, as always, separate again. There's nothing too heinous or awful about that. It happens every day. 

So why bother saying anything? What does it matter? Why indeed. It would be easy just to cut her out, and make her feel small. But a good friend said to me recently, 'it's never wrong to be the better person.' Maybe being that person, if only in this minor instance, goes some way to absolving all of those other infractions, for which I am sure I will have to further atone individually over the coming days.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

A Test

Dear Octopus,


Have just returned from the Trocadero up between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus, running an errand for Inky Squid. By way of self-congratulation for this act of unusual altruism I stopped off and played Time Crisis in the arcade, only to be roundly trounced by the computer and eyed warily (as though an imposter) by the gang of feral youths in puffer jackets assembled around the air hockey tables. I thought about asking one of them for a game, but wasn't certain that I could cope with getting stabbed by a nine-year-old in my lunch hour, or losing to one at air hockey.


Other than sourcing Christmas presents with increasing desperation, a big part of my week has been writing the quiz for our university friends' Christmas dinner this weekend. It's perhaps a sad indictment of myself that there will be fifteen of us there, although I only know six. And only six because three are my friends and the other three are those friends' girlfriends. To be fair I only had four friends at university (the other one now lives in Chicago), so I suppose with 75% of my university friends in attendance I should be pleased. The quiz is at present only a framework, although Captain Squid has been calling me hourly for nearly three days to insert sports questions. I'm beginning to run out of room on the form.


Becca has just returned from lunch with the Discovery Channel - which I had to miss in order to run the aforementioned errand for Inky Squid - having been given a CAMCORDER. Jeremy and Clare both got £50 of John Lewis vouchers. My rage is unparalleled. May go back to the Trocadero after work and challenge one of the nine-year-olds to that game of air hockey. Or get them to mug my colleagues at knife point for their startlingly ill-gotten gains, and offer to split the profits. 


While they're at it I might ask them to mug Catfish....I've calculated that she owes me circa £200 (cumulative dating expenditure, hurt feelings, loss of reputation, damage to pride etc). The chances of recovering the latter any time soon are, if today is anything to go by, slim at their most foolishly optimistic.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid

Rolling Like Thunder

Dear Octopus,


Much the same as every press market bi-annual review ever written since the dawn of time, the weekend was a 'mixed bag', with successes and failures in a number of categories. To save time (and lengthy paragraphs of explanatory drivel), I've broken them down as such. As follows:


SUCCESSES

• Went to Winter Wonderland on Friday night and survived the 'Power Tower,' even if said survival was cheapened by what can only be described as an attack of acute nervous hysteria, resulting in me having to hold Clare's hand
• Came first on the giant slide
• Had a lovely evening with Al and Lucy later on Friday... ate pizza, watched Dylan Moran, listened to James, Tina Turner, Elton John and Tears For Fears
• Came home and watched X Factor with Honksy, Maverick and Katie K, which despite the poor quality of the programming was enjoyable in said auspicious company
• Worked on book
• Won Trivial Pursuit in the Telegraph on Putney Heath (or would have done had game not been cut short by boredom / my wanton over-enthusiasm)
• Supervised extensive household clean-up
• No word from Catfish

FAILURES

• Spent far too much money
• Suspect attack of acute nervous hysteria atop Power Tower made Clare think I'm a weasel
• Ate junk food
• Failed utterly in Christmas-present buying exercise, achieving only 1.5 family members now adequately sorted
• Caught my hand in a door (due to no light in bathroom, still)
• No word from Catfish

No list of trivial or uninteresting songs this weekend, as it's only been just the one. It was 'I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues' by Elton John, if you're interested. Clare has moaned at me all day for singing its chorus 'too loudly and too extensively.'

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

Heinous / Psychotic Catfish Raises Threat Of Imminent War

Dear Octopus,


If I was hanging on Tuesday, today I'm well and truly hanged. I tagged along with a few of my old press buyer buddies after the buyers' Christmas party, and come 11pm I was knee-deep in a state of drunken melancholy and all-encompassing self-loathing only previously seen in the aftermath of the 'incident' last summer, which as you know was unpleasant to say the least. If you'd chosen to follow Action Squid on Twitter (@actionsquid) you would have seen this grim operatic meltdown melting down in 'real time', but suffice it to say that you haven't, so you didn't.


After vomiting in the shower this morning I genuinely thought the worst was over. Little did I know that my arrival at work would be celebrated by Simon telling an extended anecdote of how not only has his neighbour's sewage pipe been overflowing into his garden, but his spaniel Rufus has now started deliberately consuming the worrying daily repast of his own vomit, after having consumed said overflowing faeces and finding it so delicious he obviously wanted to consume it twice. My emergency-hangover Pret A Manger croissant remained untouched until 11.30am.


The day has actually yielded little improvement since. We had a discussion about what song you'd like played at your funeral (mine: 'Nobody Does It Better' by Carly Simon), and we're now preparing to go to the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. The thought of rollercoasters makes my stomach twist itself into the grim intestinal phrase 'SURRENDER ACTION SQUID, OR DIE BY STOMACH DEATH.' Shan is going to teach me to ice skate though, so that'll be fun.


Had a blazing row with Catfish last night, in the middle of the street. You wouldn't like her.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid

Revelry

Dear Octopus,


H
A
N
G
I
N
G


today. Last night the six of us (Jeremy, Clare, Shan, Mark, Simon and myself) went to Boisdale's in Belgravia for dinner.To summarise:


6 people
3 courses
2 bottles of champagne
11 bottles of wine
9 cigars


The cigars in question were supplied by Simon (professional cigar dealer and therefore at the absolute zenith of highest Cuban quality) and were smoked after dinner out on Boisdale's specially-designed covered smoking terrace; complete with armchairs, cashmere blankets and jazz music. It was lovely, if cold. I chose a girthy Romeo y Julieta reminiscent of Winston Churchill, if not actually named after him. 


Secret Santa gifts received were:

• Mark: x1 hand-crankable personal torch, in the shape of a penguin (from Shan)
• Simon: x1 IOU for an as-yet undelivered Grenadier Guards Regimental Brass Band CD, an IOU for a novelty wine stopper, x2 Terry's Chocolate Oranges, x1 box of Guylian chocolates (from Jeremy)
• Jeremy: x1 mini-electronic organ (from Simon)
• Clare: x1 book of trivia on the London Underground (from Mark)
• Me: x1 copy of 'The Corrections' by Jonathan Franzen (from Clare)
• Shan: x1 red woolly hat with dangly ears (from me)

All in all, a mixed bag of gifts for / from a mixed bag of individuals, really. But very drunken, and very good fun. Even the 20 minutes of emotional speeches / repeated toastings at the end. But Sir Isaac Newton quipped that every action has an equal and opposition reaction (not much of a quip, when you think about it) and as such I'm feeling the effects of said revelry demonstratively. Not even two partially-melted segments of Simon's chocolate orange could assuage this hangover's effects.

It's 5.30 and I want to go to bed.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

Inside The Cloud City Carbon Freezing Chamber

Dear Octopus,


Our house is beginning to look like my former-neighbour Patrick Bayford's ground floor flat. And considering that he was an agoraphobic recluse with hairy knuckles and chronic halitosis, this is no great thing. The miserable, rotting detritus of food packaging and used plates seems to accrue around the coffee table and sofa on an almost hourly basis, at a faster rate than anyone appears to be eating. The whole situation is demonstratively exacerbated by the fact that I am the only one who actually clears any of it up. If any lost or misdirected internet user who stumbles across these meaningless pages has any solutions of how to:

1. politely but firmly remonstrate with deliberately - even facetiously - untidy housemates
2. OR dispose of their corpses (along with their takeaway packaging) 

and could share them with me, I would be hugely grateful. That's not actually fair, Pongo contributes his fair share. An interesting reversal of gender roles then, maybe, that Honksy and Fobbs do nothing, and they are the two girls. Say what you like about the nineteenth century....at least their living rooms were clean.


On another note, some sad days for the Squid family. It's never easy mate, but then nobody said it was supposed to be. To quote Han Solo; 'save your strength. There'll be another time...'


Your loving friend,


Action Squid

Tipp-Ex Solutions For Major Life Problems

Dear Octopus,


Wimbledon Park tube was shut due to signal failure at East Putney (signal failure again!) so I had to stand on a snowy platform at Earlsfield train station this morning for an hour. Nine trains passed before I could muscle my way onto one. Got into work over an hour late. It wasn't until lunchtime that my feet finally thawed. Commuting in snowy conditions is a grim and sadistic method of Guantanamo Bay-style torture, in my book.


(I remembered to be careful on the stairs by the way, as you so often reminded me.)


Made a new friend today. She came to me on recommendation, admittedly, but it's always nice to meet someone new. Within half an hour of knowing her she'd called me an 'egotistical prick' and I'd said she was 'a sour-faced and odious gutter-harlot.' I wish I could say that this kind of initial interaction is rare. But it isn't. Probably something to work on in the resolution arena come the first of Janvier.


It's probably worth mentioning though that I had a message recently from a Cephalopod Mollusc, who made my day. I haven't seen her in many years now, so it's nice to know that people remember each other, and say nice things. I was very grateful.


Anyway, have a lovely weekend.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid

Omaha Beach

Dear Octopus,


Action bloody stations! It's like the opening 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan on Pod Deux today....legs torn off, guts being spilled, fire, bullets and wall-to-wall bravery. Jeremy is coping with pitch pressure, Clare is both making a film and writing award entries, and Shan and I are giving fervent mouth-to-mouth to multiple stuttering campaigns. Am both excited and terrified, in equal measures.


Alright, 80% terrified, 20% excited.


Last night Pongo roasted a chicken and we watched The Running Man. Honksy was annoyed and hiding in her room, writing her book about a boy with four arms and no sense of self-respect. To get her back for being antisocial I put her fountain pen in a jar of jam. She doesn't know yet. I think I'd make an excellent futuristic gladiator. A cross between Fireball and Captain Black from Captain Scarlet & The Mysterons. Although to be fair, he probably wouldn't put Lieutenant Green's pen in a jar of jam. Battery acid, if anything.


Am going out tonight with the old crew: The Chairman, Terry Rock 'n Roll, Major Tom, 'Sarcastic' Nick Roberts. I'm actually quite excited. It'll be nice to be back in the Old China Hand, my favourite local of all time (on par with The Ten Bells). You might remember it, I think you came and met me there one time before we went for those grim 2-for-1 pizzas on Pentonville Road. Seems like a lifetime ago now.


Maybe tomorrow I'll inform you of how it went. The drinks, I mean, not the pizzas. You know how they went. You were there.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid