Friday, 20 January 2012


My friends, I have neglected you lately. I have paid you less attention than James Corden pays to daily calorie intake guidelines.

But I have the very best reason for this withdrawal of the attention you so understandably crave.

I am in love.

Not the kind of love I feel for a sausage. Nor a pint of claret and WKD.

Neither is it the kind of love I feel for lapdancers, trollops, tramps, vamps and checkout girls.

This is the kind of love a grown man feels for a grown woman. Adult love. I mean, not like 'adult bookshop'. Mature love. I mean, not like 'mature' love, like on the websites I've found in my mother's internet history. Special love. I mean, not like 'special' love between a woman and her bulldog...oh, fuck it.

I met a real-life woman and I'm crazy-dogshit-in-love with her.

Here's how it happened.

I was at a work function. By which I mean, I was on a table in a juicer, showing the locals how to moonwalk fucking properly, while everyone else was in some conference centre next door, listening to the MD announce something about parking spaces or whatever or something or whatever.

Then a woman walked in.

This was strange, because it was the kind of juicer where any women present are usually strippers or cleaners. And not good strippers, either. Rather, the kind who appear on a Sunday afternoon, between football matches on the telly. The kind who thwock tired, sloppy pingpong balls from tired, sloppy foofs to three half-filled rows of musty housecoats and greasy glasses, the ennui thicker in the air than the smell of toilet cleaner and microwaved egg baps. That kind of stripper.

So, like, it was well fucking weird.

Then she walked to the bar and ordered a drink. Well fucking weirder. (Most birds who walk in to that kind of juicer ask for directions or want to hide from some rapey type outside.)

Naturally, I leaped from the table, stumbled a bit, regained my footing, stumbled again, fell, got up, tripped on a dog (that fucking dog!) and fell onto the bar next to her. As you would.

'Hello', she said. 'Are you drunk, or disabled, or both?'

'I'm drunk-abled,' I said.

'So I see,' she said. She seemed to be drinking whisky, neat.

'Are you drinking whisky, neat?' I asked.

She confirmed she was.

'Why?' I said.

'Because I'm so fucking bored, I just want to numb my brain until it doesn't work,' she replied.

'I'm your man,' I said, and ordered the rest of the bottle.

From there, it was a pretty much perfect first date. We talked about how much I think my superior-in-job-title-only colleague, Rupert Abbott, is a massive squirt of horse jizz. We talked about how she feels trapped in her marriage. How her husband gave up on them years ago in favour of his career. How we both love drinking whisky until we numb our brain until it doesn't work.

Things got a bit blurry at the end. I mean, I definitely remember bending one through her. (And I turned in quite a performance, I can tell you - despited the obvious constraints of being up against some bins round the back of All Bar One.) After that, though, it's not so clear.

I do remember her listening quite intently as I gave my frank and full opinions of Rupert Abbott. And in the dates and days that have followed, it's become clear why.

She's Rupert Abbott's wife.

This is great on a number of levels. But it's particularly spiffing because every morning, when I rock up and Abbott's been there for three hours eating fucking algae or whatever he has for breakfast, and asks 'Jesus, Dave. What did YOU get up to last night?', I can say 'I fucked your wife again and again and again until she literally shat in my bath.' (She did once. It sounds bad, but it was fucking amazing.)

I mean, I don't respond with those words. I just say, 'Wouldn't you like to know?' and go for a well-earned think in the disabled lavs.

Some people might think the whole situation is a bit messy, fraught with moral ambiguity and bound to end in a clusterfuck of soiled hankies and black eyes. But I don't! I just think it's bangtastic!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

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