Back in the public library today. I’d do this blogging business from home if I had a study. I once owned a desk and a laptop, but I decluttered several years back. Most of my furniture got ‘lashed’ into the communal garden. My ‘voices’ told me to do it. They wanted a minimal, open space. For séances, mainly, so they could scheme more ferocious power from to peel my skin off with. Funny that, how they are always promising to peel my skin off. It’s lovely having voices in the head.
They greet me in the morning with terms like, “Good morning, sunshine, we’re going to crucify you today.” I couldn’t live without their acts of kindness.
My ex-boss, Phillip, or ‘Poo-Poo’ as we called him, used to have me and the boys doing a lot of ‘lashing’ in work. He’d organise a skip and have us clear out the warehouse. I couldn’t believe some of the valuables which got lumped with the general garbage in that metal container.
‘Poo-Poo’s’ philosophy, about anything sub-perfect, was too ‘lash’ it. He’d literally dump anything in the bin, including his car if it fitted, and his wife and her kids if they happened to be situated in it. Where do you think I got my computer?
My boy ‘Bob-a-Job’ extracted an impeccable Bang & Olufsen telly, or entertainment system as he dubbed it, out of the skip one noontime. You may not have heard of them but they were a bespoke novelty make back in the day. Sony, Phillips, LG and Bush had nothing on them. He was well chuffed, until he left the remote control in the garden for reasons unbeknownst to anyone. It rained overnight, so the buttons got buggered.
I think he had the remote control in the garden because he was showing a few drunkard BBQ mates its laser beam in a mirror. Yep, it’s true. Laser beams come out of remote controls if you operate them in mirrors. Fun fact of the day. My bro-bro demonstrated it to me.
Bob-a-Job was one my colleagues. He’d often turn up for work in the morning ferrying a 16 inch Domino’s pizza box, containing leftover sausage and pepperoni. It smelled awfully like a pig pen. Everything but the squeal, he used to say when ordering steak in The Cattle Grill House. We frequented that rubbishy dive on the first Friday of every month. It was always a ‘Challenge’ meal, which is what all the fat bastards wolfed for a free T-Shirt (XXXL), and a photo on the wall.
As an extra incentive, succeeders of the Challenge meal received it free of charge, on the house. So you saved in the wallet, gained an addition to your wardrobe, and were immortalised in a jpeg.
Regardless of this swine-covered tomato pie from the previous evening, Bob-a-Job would still order ‘Bacon On’ at the greasy spoon portable mobile unit before we’d even left the work site. We would talk about him being ‘oinked out’ behind his back. Pepperoni to me could literally be wafer thin slices from a real live piglet, it tastes so piggy (you never hear of Pepperoni On, do you? Or Gammon On.) Both of them saltier than a cupful of sea water.
Bob-a-Job preferred a cheapo full-fat rip-off version of Coke called ‘Buddies’ Cola rather than water, bought in-bulk from a wholesaler, which contains 27 point umpteen teaspoons of sugar per bottle, and that’s the diet alternative. Bobbers, for short, preferred the MAX substitute, which was artificially flavoured with a ‘tropical hint’ of Blue Razz. He guzzled this straight from the bottle, and only offered it out for sharing when he was close to the bottom. I tried it once, out of courtesy, and found it to be taste like a nasty blend of vegetable oil and mud water. He never offered his edible porker package of toast and pizza deal.
There’s loads to Bobbers. But it’s all pretty similar and my memories of him principally relate to food. So far I’ve only gassed about him turning up for his daytime shift. You should have seen him slobbing out on his 3-seater recliner with his missus at the weekends, far away from the working environment. His kitchen reminded me of an All You Can Eat, there were that many dirty bowls scattered around the countertops. Rather than fruit on display, he would have Bombay Mix from Farmfoods. I was once present when he purchased two 12 sets of stoneware plates from Wilkos. I thought he was planning on spinning them for Ripleys Believe It Or Not. Surprised he didn’t buy buckets to eat from, although I doubt they’d contain popcorn. A trough would be more like it.
The last time I saw Bobbers, he was running away from a crime scene. He’d just head-butted someone on the nose outside a Chinese Buffet on Horsemarket St. He was hoisting his preposterous jeans up with one hand, as he always did, because he didn’t wear a belt, and they were too big. We called them ‘preposterous’ because they cost just four notes from Asda, made by George. George is Asda’s answer to Emporio Armani. Designer jeans can retail for thousands of pounds. To rack up a nice handy pair in Asda for less than the price of a Vanilla Latte, with the change from your yellow stickered ‘whoopsie’ supper, is ‘preposterous’ in anybody’s good money. I apologise, but there’s just no other word for it.
Don’t forget though, any more than ten notes and they saw you coming.
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