So with domestic issues back in the mix and honeyed words like ‘you’re unbearable – if you don’t fuck off – I’ll hire a JCB to get you out’ jokingly bandied about, I decided to try my hand at conflict resolution.
Arriving in Brussels – I stopped in for a quiet pint with Donald Tusk to see if we couldn’t iron out some of this backstop nonsense. Suggesting that a statue of Churchill with a squadron of Spitfires flying out of its arse in the middle of the European Parliament might help nudge things along, I found his vision profoundly lacking, so there was nothing for it but up the game.
Kidnapping Jean Claude Juncker, and wrapping him head to toe in a French maid’s outfit, I stuffed him into the back of a Nissan X Trail and delivered him to Boris Johnson’s office, hoping to reawaken his Continental spirit – and to his credit – Boris redrew his red lines all over Jean Claude, until JC’s gag fell out and suddenly it was all ‘managed catastrophe’ instead of ‘Bonjour Cherie’.
Slipping some acid into Jacob Rees Mogg’s port and whisking him through the 19th century section of Madame Tussauds looked like it had real potential – especially when I hid behind Napoleon and said ‘We surrender to ze magnificent British’ in my most Allo Allo accent – but the wheels came off shortly afterwards when Nanny finally tracked his mobile phone and gave me a good thrashing with a hairbrush that once combed the privates of Henry V’s favourite courtesan.
Really struggling by this point – I flew in a team of IT engineers to try and reprogram Theresa May’s soundbite function, but it was apparently more of a hardware than a software issue, so on to Jeremy Corbyn who was found trying to purchase a viable Brexit policy from his local charity shop but had to settle for a new cardigan. He seemed confused bless him – so I accepted the Werther’s Original he offered in the spirit of unity.
Next stop Ireland – where suggestions to just sail the whole place a bit closer to the UK and make the Good Friday agreement an Easter Egg hunt fell on deaf ears. After one final call to Donald Trump pretending to be the Russian Ronald MacDonald – he just kept repeating ‘Iran bad. Saudi Good. No Collusion’ after his latest intelligence puppet show….. at which point, I finally abandoned hope.
Limping home in despair – the final insult is that the wife doesn’t believe a fucking word of any of this and there’s a fucking JCB en route as we speak.
Christ – need to take a long hard look at my skincare regime.
Stepped up to do a nursery school run for two 3 year old honorary nephews this morning due to parental illness / work commitments. Despite warnings of potential chaos and offers to subcontract my subcontract – I was brimming with epically misplaced confidence.
After desperately googling ‘how to fit a car seat’ and breezing one of the lads through a short but dramatic meltdown, we bonded en route through sustained abuse of the car radio which stubbornly refused to belt out anything other than static.
Deeply unimpressed at my inability to play tunes and listen to Google maps at the same time, the dynamic duo were wavering on just how on board they were with this new school run structure and after christening me a succession of poo poo related names, we finally arrived to my undying relief.
‘Right – out you get lads’ I said cheerily.
Enter random pedestrian to witness my abject helplessness.
‘Don’t you want to get out and help Daddy’ pipes in this delightful Samaritan.
‘Oh no – I’m not actually their Dad’ explains I – hoping to justify my total lack of authority.
‘Ahhhh’ says my self appointed new helper… and changing tack, she generously attempted some further assistance..
‘Don’t you want to get out and help Grandpa?’
Massive shout to the guy on the plane from Bangkok who clocked us storming the aisles for empty rows on a militant seek and recline mission.
Despite tactical pivots forced by late boarders, my overexcited volume levels blowing any hope of stealth, and Safia going kamikaze with a meal redirect request that was tantamount to a confession – it was looking like an unmitigated triumph.
Beaming at full wattage and giving theatrical thanks to the gods – suddenly this chunky bearded fella appears beside me with body language screaming ‘Can I get by’ and mouthing the fatal words ‘Excuse me – I’m in 48 B’
As 13 hours of horizontal glory dissolved into the awkwardly shared armrest of defeat, he suddenly burst out laughing – goes ‘Only joking mate’ and dives into a seat a couple of rows back. ‘You just looked so happy’ he says – ‘I couldn’t resist’.
Sir – I salute you. That was some properly high end banter for a total stranger. And the poor fucker had someone next to him for the whole 13 hour flight. While others might have seethed acidly at such a noisy, smug twat kipping in regal style – this tattooed saint turned it into the best laugh I’ve ever had on a plane.
And to the elderly gentleman who saw me swipe a sleeping Saf’s leftover bread roll – I was genuinely impressed at how your glacial look of contempt managed to freeze even further when I explained she was my mate.
I guess the lesson is – when you’re trapped in a small space for hours with someone really fucking annoying (me) – those who conjure up the comedy will get through it a hell of a lot better than those who find some weird sense of self worth in disapproval.
I hope we meet again mate – legend
So we made it to 11 years of marriage.
I’d like to say it was the love, the laughter and bearing witness to each other’s souls that kept the magic alive but that would be a shameless lie. The secret is a newly discovered phenomenon called Marrakech Syndrome that I will be publishing details of in the November edition of Second Hand Scientist.
It’s basically Stockholm Syndrome but a touch warmer, slightly more tagine flavoured and with a bit more emphasis on talking relentless bollocks and laughing at your own jokes until the subject has surrendered any hope.
For those struggling couples out there – don’t give up. We are a shining example of how laziness and an overwhelming barrage of absolute shite can lead to the warm glow of resignation.
Just heading off down the pub to peer review the research.
You’re a fucking survivor Mado
PS – Expecting lavish credit for actually remembering this year xxxxx
Really exciting news. I’ve just done an exclusive multi media, multi platform, multi sensory, multi cultural, multi million pound deal to produce and star in a series of motivational films.
Entitled ‘The Kebab Chakra’ – the series will be filmed on location across Edmonton using doner symbolism to reflect the spiral of life and the transcendental gateway of perpetual motion.
Half TV show and half omni dimensional portal – The Kebab Chakra will chart the fusion of yogic exercises outside the pub, shamanic voyaging on the night bus, levitating toward the pavement, and the tantric mysteries revealed by taking too many drugs to function in the purely physical realm.
Featuring special guests like Jacob Rees Mogg on healthy canned food and the post materialist blessings of Brexit, my mate Dave dressed as Osiris, a talking duck who recites the ancient mantra of ‘Quack’ and Mr Motivator’s nan, the series is shaping up to be part weight loss program, part flatulent ayahuasca ritual and part late night bid to engage with millienials through dated banter.
The deal is totally done – been fighting off Netflix, the BBC, Sky Sports, Dave and UK Gold – but I’m starting a crowdfunding campaign anyway after a flurry of letters from my mum saying you’d all want to be involved.
If anyone would like to be on camera looking amazed as I fall over, do a couple of squat thrusts and then enter the spirit world / pass out – let me know. Only ugly people welcome as the bar is low and the network have specifically requested no-one steals the limelight.
Lamb, beef, chicken or unidentified rodent – we’re open to all races and cultures. Once the doner turns – we are all one..