Serve God, Love Me, And Mend

Dear Octopus,

I am spending the Easter weekend alone. Honksy, Pongo and Fobbs have all retired to their distant provincial domiciles; the Goat and the Toad are otherwise engaged with whatever fanciful indulgences currently occupy tethered men, rendering me: solo. Totally. Han bloody Solo. I have not properly seen or spoken to another living soul since leaving Catfish at Charing Cross Station, over seventy hours ago. An experiment in isolation if you will.

I have recorded my exploits. As follows:


Good Friday

9.00am: Start the day by eating the last two slices of horribly drunken pizza from the night before, that I only barely remember ordering. They got my topping wrong, so I was given a two-litre bottle of Coke, but can’t seem to find it, even in the recycling. Watch Scott Pilgrim vs The World. Play two hours of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. I’ve historically never been one for computer games, but the single player special ops are somewhat addictive.

13.00pm: Have developed an exciting new indoor game, basically a type of indoor golf that I'm calling 'Buchholz’, which as everyone knows is after Horst Buchholz, the forgotten member of The Magnificent Seven, and with whom I currently share a strange affinity.  Essentially the objective is to get the ‘ball’ (in this case a carefully sphericalised piece of old blu-tack) from my bedside table in the converted loft down to the ‘hole’ (in this case a saucepan balanced on its side) on the kitchen floor, in as few strokes as possible. Buchholz is somewhat cleverer than golf however – if I do say so myself – as in my game the player (in this case me) is required to use ‘clubs’ of increasing technical variety, and therefore difficulty to master, as the game continues. For example, on the third floor the player is allowed to use the driver, or ‘Dirty Harry’ (in this case a broom handle inserted into an old shoe). When down on the upstairs landing they are then allowed to continue play using either the ‘Barbara Streisand’ (in this case a battery-operated torch swung from the end of its rope lanyard in a tricky pendulum motion), or ‘Little Ned’ (in this case a hairdryer used to blow the ball short distances via its primary electronic function). I initially found that it was easiest to use ‘Barbara’ for approach shots on the second fairway (in this case the corner behind Pongo’s laundry basket) and ‘Little Ned’ for the tighter angles to get around the dog-leg at the top of the banisters. On the ground floor a player can use any of the previous clubs, as well as try ‘The Burly Henchman Plays Roulette’ (in this case – and something of a second layer to the game – whatever handfuls of post I could gather whilst downing a pint of milk with my eyes closed). This option made me feel sick quite though, so I only used it twice. Other than that, my skill at this exciting new sport is improving immensely.

16:00pm: Go to the park and lie on an old blanket under an oak tree. Try and count the leaves and fall asleep after maybe three hundred. It is a sunny day, but because of the semi-shade I don’t get too burnt.

23:00pm: Watch Bad Lieutenant, then A Prophet, then Face/Off. The latter is definitely the worst. Eat the Easter egg I bought Honksy.

4.00am: Literally cannot stop playing the special ops. The phrase ‘AGM missile is online’ has been repeated so often it has now lost all meaning. Am too tired for another round of Buchholz, even though tonight is my chance to win the winter foursomes.

Saturday

10.00am: Sleep in late. Had a dream about religion. I am now following Wayne Rooney on Twitter. Probably would have been stranger to dream about that.

16:00pm: Spent three hours working, then another three writing my book. Eyes gone square. Play some more special ops to give them a rest.

19:00pm: Lie on my sofa reading Moby-Dick, listening to Tom Williams & The Boat on Honksy’s record player. It’s an excellent debut album, and well compliments any reading material on the history of commercial whaling.

21:00pm: Clean the kitchen extensively, whilst loudly singing the collected back catalogues of Damien Rice, Bon Iver, John Mayer, David Gray, Bright Eyes, Elton John and Jamie T. Cook an elaborate dinner, messing the kitchen up again entirely.

3:00am: I can almost fit myself in the chest at the end of my bed. The problem isn’t width but height – funnily enough – if I were an inch shorter I could do it. If I don’t eat some fruit soon I might lose that height naturally anyway, just by not having any teeth to keep my jaw separated. Maybe if I hadn’t eaten so much dinner I’d be shorter.

5:00am: Can’t sleep. Does water taste of anything? Or is it just water?

Easter Sunday

11:00am: Special ops.

13:00pm: Special ops.

15:00pm: Walk around the park.

17:00pm: Special ops. O Cristo Redentor on the most difficult setting (‘veteran’) is becoming very frustrating for me, due to throat repeatedly being torn out by unfeasibly bloodthirsty Alsatian. Progress exacerbated by stomach cramps caused by eating too many Satsumas.

20:00pm: Watch Lolita, Jeremy Irons incarnation. Found the two-litre bottle of coke from Thursday night…it was in the freezer. Am considering dismantling ‘Dirty Harry’ and inserting the broom handle into it to make a giant ice-lolly. May need to use gardening tools to remove bottle casing.

I will update you further tomorrow.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

Vicious Mauling By Cunning Deep-Sea Predator

Dear Octopus,


I just had the following dialogue on High Holborn, with a man who would be best described in modern terminology as a filthy, toothless, semi-retarded vagrant.


As follows:


HIM: Mate, have you got a spare cigarette?
ME: No I don't, sorry.
HIM: What?
ME: What do you mean 'what'?
HIM: I just saw you take one out of your carton.
ME: So?
HIM: So the pack was full. I saw you tear the wrapper off.
ME: So?
HIM: So you said you had none left.
ME: No, I said I didn't have one spare.
HIM: What's the difference?
ME: Alright fine, yes I have one spare. I actually have nineteen spare.
HIM: Can I have one?
ME: Absolutely not.
HIM: Why not?
ME: What do you mean 'why not'?
HIM: I mean why not?
ME: I don't have to justify myself to you. I don't even know you.
HIM: My name's Justin. Now can I have one?
ME: Sorry.....let's just hold up here. That's not an invitation to be 'mates'. I don't want to get to know you. And I don't want to give you a cigarette.
HIM: Why not?
ME: Because I don't even fucking know you pal.
HIM: Well I just told you my name's Justin.
ME: I hardly think knowing your name constitutes knowing you 'Justin'....
HIM: ....well how well do you have to know someone just to give them a smoke?
ME: I'm not going to lie to you Justin; the way this conversation has gone so far I'm beginning to think that even if I were to know you I still wouldn't like you...
HIM: ....maybe you should be more open-minded.
ME: I think it would be a sorry reflection of my station in life if I were to start taking life advice from a fucking tramp, thank you very much...
HIM: That was unnecessary...
ME: No it wasn't unnecessary, in fact would you like some advice Justin?
HIM: Not really...
ME: ....no of course you wouldn't. Otherwise you wouldn't be a tramp. But clearly following your own advice hasn't got you to be CEO of Imperial Chemicals just yet, so perhaps you'll agree that - for now at least - in the live versus success stakes I do appear to have the upper hand...
HIM: ....well, definitely in the cigarette stakes.
ME: Especially in the cigarette stakes. You want my advice? Get a fucking job Justin. Get into the shelter at St. Martin In The Fields - which is less than ten minutes' slovenly amble from here - have a shower, get something to eat and sort your fucking life out. Then you can buy your own cigarettes, and give them all away to tramps if need be.
HIM: You're a real prick, you know that?
ME: Welcome to the twenty-first century.
HIM: So can I have a cigarette?
ME: [Long, long, long pause]
HIM: Is that a no?
ME: Yeah, it's a no
HIM: If I go to that shelter will you give me a cigarette?
ME: Why? For energy?
HIM: It's a fair trade.
ME: You know what, fine. It actually is a fair trade. Here you go.
HIM: Thanks. Light?
ME: Fine. There you go. Anything else? My PIN number? The presentation I've been writing?
HIM: Fuck you.
ME: You're not going to the shelter are you?
HIM: It's pretty unlikely. Wait....is this cigarette MENTHOL?
ME: So?
HIM: I hate menthol [Throws it onto the ground and storms off]
ME: [Shouting] Oh I'm sorry....it turns out that beggars can be choosers....

Needless to say I'll be searching for a new place to smoke.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

The Surgeon Will See You Now

Dear Octopus,


Today I bumped into The Surgeon, on the third floor of an old warehouse just off Old Street. A shiver ran down my spine, chilling my blood.


I'm certain that this man made an impression on me so lasting that I must have mentioned him to you at least once, but if your memory fails as frequently as my shower (another story) then it's potentially worth a recap. He calls himself 'The Surgeon' because an actual surgeon once caught him trying it on with his consultant anaesthetist, and professed him to be so clinical in his pursuit of women that once in his thrall 'the safety of their eternal organs rests entirely in his hands.' I met him on a ski-trip to Morzine back in 2008, courtesy of the creative solutions department of an extremely hospitable media owner. I was instantly both in total awe of him and utterly appalled, in perfectly equal measures.


Case Study


I'm not lying when I say he's a conundrum. Honestly, he is one of the most charming and intelligent men I've ever met. But he uses these admirable qualities to lull his prey into a highly falsified sense of security, then pounce like a rabid Alsatian.


On the slopes, he snapped a ski clean in half after falling awkwardly. Later on, we saw the girl who had helped him down the piste. This was a man so confident and yet so vile that he could casually stroll up to her in a crowded nightclub - a complete stranger having a quiet drink with her boyfriend and two of his biggest rugby-playing mates - and totally interrupt their conversation to say to her loudly enough for everyone to hear, 'I've seen you across the dance floor. You move like a young Shola Ama, but slightly less attractive. Oh my goodness, my heart is running away with me. Look: when you're weary of these Neanderthals, come and visit me over in the corner. But bring this condom with you. I don't take on filth like you without an insurance policy...' He then proceeded to sling said crumpled prophylactic down on the bar and dance energetically away. Still facing them all. Still maintaining eye contact with her.


The worst part was: she absolutely loved it. Her boyfriend's mates ended up paying for our taxi home.


Needless to say, today he was very quick to downplay his seduction techniques of yesteryear, claiming that those 'lurid endeavours' were no longer part of his repertoire. And maybe that's the case. Life moves on after all, and we can't all be stupid forever. I think he's even married. But his name - EVEN PRINTED ON HIS FUCKING CREDIT CARD - is still 'The Surgeon', so it pleases me to think that despite the new and advancing junctures on the long road to familial fulfilment, a little of the old scoundrel may always remain.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid

Ode To The Steel-Handed Stingray (In Times Of Distress)

Dear Octopus,


A person terribly close to me is suffering the break-up of their long-term relationship. Never nice, or easy. But you know that.


And as you may also know, this Action Squid has only been manacled to two girlfriends unlucky enough to have their sentences extended beyond a year's tenure, but due to 'complications' at the demise of both relationships I have acquired some skills in handling the protracted complications that can arise from primary, secondary and even tertiary post-break-up run-ins. I may even presume to call myself adept at the art of gracefully receiving drunken late-night phone calls, the grim science of making drunken early-morning phone calls, and a whole host of other less amusing interactions in-between. As such, I thought it prudent to give some unwise encouragement in the field of surviving the apocalypse (if not in its entirety then at least for the rest of the day).


As follows:


Stratagems For The Effective Dissolution Of Romance (Day Two)


'Breaking up' can be hard on the stomach and liver;
Tough on the hairline and looks.
Tough is dissection of the CD collection
that triage of mountains of books.


So get out on the town and party it up,
Drag all your mates up for a dance.
But take adequate measure for securing your leisure;
book your cab home in advance.


Get lost in a bottle of gin-rum-tequila,
Soak up all that angst of regret.
Get shitfaced and run from a future undone:
Wake up, move on, and forget.


Not necessarily the most beneficial mantra for coping with separation, but a short-term fix is better than a long-term need for one. And I'm sure you would agree with me Octopus, were I to tell him: 


In all seriousness mon frere, sometimes it's hard, and unfair, and the worst part is knowing that we'll never really get to the root of why it had to happen. Just know that you couldn't have done more, and that you are good in all the ways I wish I could be..........and while that might provide only the smallest immediate comfort from the besieging hurt of these long hours and days, at least it's something to save for later. Like your last piece of chewing gum, or The Pacific on Blu-Ray. 


(Also, be glad you're not here. Today when Clare requested two weeks off at the beginning of June I told her no, as I was planning to go away on holiday then. 'Well that's a lie,' she immediately snapped, 'you can't afford a holiday and nobody would go with you.')


She's right, on all charges.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid