down on the playstation at midnight
I wake to the deafening sound of static and white noise. My clock radio is so complex that I can’t do anything about the fact that it goes off very loudly at 6am every day, (not) tuned in somewhere between Hilversum and Radio Buy One Get One Free Europe. This makes me angry. I swear a lot.
Young Snicket, stirred by my swearing, runs in shouting ‘Get me some milk now’. I shamble wearily down to the kitchen stark bollock naked, switch on the 1000 kilowatt light-bulb and then realise that I forgot to shut the blinds last night, just as Mrs Hack, the farmer’s wife, is putting today’s milk bottle on the step. Rather too late, I turn off the light and spill half a pint of full fat into a toddler cup and bung it in the microwave for forty seconds.
I get back upstairs to find that young Snicket has taken my place in bed and whacked CBeebies on so, forgetting the idea of a leisurely lie-in, I head off to the bathroom. Here I sit down on the toilet as I’m too tired to stand and my aim isn’t that good with sleep in my eyes. Anyway, have you tried doing a number two whilst standing up? Whilst I’m there I’ll flick through Heat which is normally plonked over the side of the bath for times such as this. Of course, I just look at the pictures. When I see J-Lo I toy with the idea of having a Barclays. Then I see Donatella Versace and forget all about it.
Once I’m washed and dressed I hit the road without any breakfast and sit on the motorway behind a white van for two hours. I then sit at my desk and try to look busy all day. I do this by setting my laptop at an angle where no-one can see the screen and then appending tiresome and vaguely ironic comments to other people’s blogs. From time to time I get caught looking at the temp’s thong sticking out of her pants as she bends down to get another ream of printer paper.
At lunch time I think ‘bollocks to tofu cutlets and star fruit’ and go for an all-day-breakfast barmcake with a packet of crisps and a vanilla Coke. On particularly lardy days I’ll have a flapjack too. After lunch I’ll browse the web again before reviewing other team members’ work and passing it off as my own. Then I get back in the car and sit behind a white van on the motorway for two hours.
When I get home I have to park my car at the side of the road, get out of it in the pissing rain, stand in dog shite, put Mrs Backroads’ car in the garage, walk back to my car, stand in dog shite again and then move my car to its rightful place. This makes me angry. I swear a lot.
On entering the house I’m greeted by young Snicket who, stirred by my swearing, runs towards me shouting ‘Get me some milk now’. I get this and spend a solid five minutes of quality father-son bonding time with him before scaring him shitless with The Gruffalo’s Child and putting him to bed.
I then open a bottle of cheap wine and proceed to drink steadily throughout the evening. Between refills I invariably eat a hastily prepared meal (15 minutes), give Mrs B a brief snapshot of my day (90 minutes) and review Mrs B’s day at length (5 minutes) before going to bed.
Depending how much wine I’ve consumed I’ll try to convince Mrs B to let me tinker with her moist parts. Depending how much wine I’ve consumed she might let me. Either way, I’ll turn over and try to drift off to sleep watching Naked News on Get Lucky TV. Then, when I can’t sleep, I’ll sneak downstairs and play the Sims on the Playstation and make things difficult for the little blighters stuck in their little hamster wheel lives.