dead body under my floorboards
When your children ask for a pet hamster, always follow your gut instincts and refuse.
Last night, I entered the bathroom to find my wife had suddenly and unexpectedly replaced the tile lino with bare floorboards. She was on her knees sanding the boards for that perfect Victorian antique looking finish.
I carefully navigated my way to the sink and noticed my two children huddled under the pedestal, feverishly yanking at floorboards and ripping up plywood with their bare hands.
'Stop it. What do you think you're doing ? For the last time, it's bedtime. I'm trying to brush my teeth here.'
'Dad - it's Gromit. He's trapped under the floorboards.'
My wife politely interjected...
'Put that bloody toothbrush down and get me a claw hammer. Now.'
And so it continued. The stylish, ivory and cream, fake Italian lino got torn, pieces of plywood got raised and more floorboards got levered up. Still, there was no access to the little, cuddly, brown hamster who was squealing from under the sink pedestal. I could have sworn he was singing 'A song from under the floorboards' by Magazine.
I resigned myself to his imminent death and yet another pet funeral in my garden. I tried to sneak out without brushing my teeth, claiming I was looking for creative solutions on the Internet. I slipped and broke my ankle on pine nuts that were liberally scattered on the floor.
'Get me a pair of pliers. Now.'
Oh no. Not the torture by pliers. My wife proferred a coat hanger which I severed in two places. She then bent the wire into an improvised corkscrew style, helter-skelter type device for small rodents.
Thankfully, with more coaxing, the hamster managed to achieve yet another miraculous escape. This was a tremendous relief as I suspect my wife's next strategy was to start drilling up through the lounge ceiling perilously close to multiple water pipes.
Later in bed, I remarked 'When those hamsters are dead, we are not getting any more pets. Ever.'
Norma replied 'Oh come on. Could you really stand there every morning and night brushing your teeth knowing that Gromit's dead body lay just four feet away under the floorboards ?'
'You know what Norma. You're right. He's such a lovable little hamster I don't think I could have possibly lived with myself.'
'There you are. So you do have a heart after all. You do care.'
'I suppose I would have ended up using the downstairs loo instead.'
non-stop erotic cabaret
Please don't tell Norma but, earlier this week, I spent £25 in Shagorika. Such is the life of a sad, lonely IT consultant on a slow Tuesday night in Sunderland. Unfortunately, contrary to my expectations, Shagorika turned out to be a rather mediocre, overpriced Indian restaurant rather than the sordid den of sexual iniquity I was hoping for. It took me a while to summon up the courage to cross the threshold. My nerves were soothed when I was warmly welcomed by a beautiful, flirtatious lady who led me by the hand to a cosy waiting area. She gave me a complimentary drink and asked me to wait a minute while she prepared a table. A table, not a bed ! How very exotic. I looked nervously at my surroundings; comfy seats, a well stocked bar, motoring magazines and stunning ladies peeking out from behind net curtains. Then my host returned with a warm smile: 'Sir, I are ready for you now'. And by now, I was also ready for her. In fact, I could barely contain my excitement. My glamorous hostess led me to a table with an immaculate white table cloth, set for 3 courses with wine glasses. Perplexed, I reluctantly sat down. I wasn't really that hungry so I asked if this foreplay was absolutely necessary and whether it cost any extra. My hostess looked a little confused, proffered me a food menu and ran back to the bar. Then the awful realisation slowly dawned. This was not a brothel but an Indian restaurant. Words can not describe my utter embarrassment and how stupid I felt. Particularly, as I had already stripped down to my vest and boxers. I immediately and rapidly got dressed again and ordered 'The Chef's Choice'. Fortunately, I was able to bury my head in the July-August 2007 copy of Oracle Magazine to avoid the stares of my fellow diners. Originally, I was going to savour this fine publication with my partner, in the glowing aftermath of our steamy, breathless sexual encounter. Normally, I would smoke a cigarette but a recent change in the law prohibits that nowadays. One of my favourite sections in Oracle Magazine is the interviews with real-life DBA's. However I nearly choked on my Prawn Patia as I read this inappropriate and leading question to M. K Rizwan:'What's your favourite tool or technique on the job ?'I am now frantically leafing through my 157 back issues to see precisely how Tim and Doug replied to this question.
surreal taxi ride
Last Thursday, I enjoyed an superbly entertaining taxi ride back from LHR. Unusually, the taxi driver wasn't waiting for me at the meeting point. I called the taxi company and was told he was '3 minutes away'. He was actually 10 minutes away but, to be fair, he was extremely apologetic when he arrived. The driver was a rather tall, imposing, Indian gentleman. Once in the car, he immediately got into a protracted and increasingly heated argument with the dispatcher about the address for his next drop-off. The dispatcher insisted the location was 'Surbiton' with no address. Not unreasonably, the driver argued that he needed an exact address. Finally, he turned to me and asked 'Sir. May I ask you for your address ?' so I obliged. He then exploded at the dispatcher who eventually conceded that my address was indeed correct, wasn't actually 'Surbiton' and did include a road and house number. Puzzled, I asked the driver why he simply didn't ask him where I lived when I got into the car. 'Because you, Sir, are the customer and I shouldn't have to pester you just because I work with complete idiots.' He then informed me that 'while he wasn't a racialist (sic), British people were all incredibly stupid' and proceeded to expand this sweeping generalisation with the startling fact that 'last years Mensa study reported that 68% of the world's population was below average intelligence.' He then proceeded to regale me with a variety of hilarious anecdotes from just two years in the minicab business. One lady asked 'Are you a cab ?' to which he replied 'No, madam. I am not a cab. I am a taxi driver so please do not leap onto my shoulders.' Another teenager asked if she could smoke in the car. He politely pointed to the 'No Smoking' signs clearly displayed and said 'No. I'm sorry madam. That won't be possible.' Undeterred, she then asked 'How much extra would it cost to smoke ?'. 'Well, madam, if you pay me the current market value of this car, I will get the bus home, you can drive this car to your garage and you can smoke there all night long.' On another balmy summer evening, a rich lady from Mayfair didn't answer the door or phone for 15 minutes. When she eventually deigned to open the front door and announced 'she had been sitting out in the back garden with a glass of wine because it was sunny', he replied 'You're right. It is a lovely evening so I am ending my shift right now and going to sit in my garden with a glass of wine'. He promptly left her standing, speechless, on the doorstep. Another customer threatened to call the office because the driver was slightly late and he had a flight to catch. He said 'Well it's not my fault that I'm late. Blame the idiots working at this company.' When the customer said 'That is outrageous. I am going to call your manager', he replied 'Sir, you can call New Scotland Yard for all I care.' But my favourite story involved another rich lady. It was late on Saturday night, the roads were busy and the driver wasn't familiar with the area so he started to enter the destination address into the SatNav system. The well spoken lady said 'Oh don't bother with that. Just follow that blue Mercedes'. My friend said 'Certainly madam but I really would like to key in the address as well if you don't mind.' The lady said 'Look. I've already told you once. Just do what you're told and follow the blue Mercedes.' The driver complied. 25 minutes later, the blue Mercedes pulled into a driveway. The taxi driver pulled up at the kerb and stopped. He looked into the back seat. His well dressed female passenger was asleep and suddenly awoke. 'Are we there ye - What are we doing here ? Where the hell are we ?'. The driver gestured to the car in the darkened driveway: 'Madam, you told me to follow the blue Mercedes.'The Who at Glastonbury
That set list in full- Theme from 'CSI'
- Track ripped off from 'Quadrophenia'
- Theme from 'CSI: Miami'
- Another track shamelessly ripped off from 'Quadrophenia'
- Theme from 'CSI: New York (Series 5)'
- Song ripped off from 'Tommy'
- Theme from 'CSI: Special Victims Unit'
- Encore: Terrible cover version of 'My Generation' by The Zimmers