This Week I Killed Someone. Sort Of. In A Way.

You know when you watch a film or TV show and you see the main character screaming and panicking as some sort of harrowing scene plays out in front of you? You exhale a judgmental puff of air from your nose and confidently exclaim, “That would never be me that. The most important thing to do is to remain calm and level headed. Most people don’t have the capacity to be like that.” This is often met with whoever you’re sat with calling you a prick while they watch you stick another handful of popcorn in your gob. Well, this week I was involved in a situation that once again revealed to the world just what a nervous ball of mess up I am.

You see, it was a Saturday night and I was relaxing on the couch when I heard the door go. This was strange in itself as we’re not the most sociable couple in the world. So unsociable I am, I employ a technique when an unexpected knock of the door happens. That technique is as follows – I don’t move, wait for whoever it it to get tired of knocking and then I enjoy them fucking off.

On this occasion this did not happen, so I reluctantly made my way to interact with another human being.

Upon opening the door, I am in an instant thrown into a state of panic, as in front of me I see an ambulance and a paramedic.

The paramedic quietly, and professionally, steps forward, “Is Melissa in?”

With my breathing slowly spiralling out of control I shut the front door behind me and grab him by the shoulder, shouting a a little bit too loudly, “Is it her Dad? IT’S HER DAD ISN’T IT?!”

Taken aback by the man screaming in his face, he attempts to respond, but before I allow him to speak again, I continue, “Oh god! He has heart issues. How am I going to tell her?!”

In my troubled head, this paramedic is here to tell me that my girlfriend’s father has passed away. A man who in recent years has had a couple of heart attacks finally beaten by the very thing that keeps him alive. At this point, I have my hands on my head and am pacing back and forward, just uttering frightened grief ridden phrases. The paramedic then stops me, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purse that my girlfriend lost last week on a night out in town.

In a matter of seconds, I’ve gone from a man about to tell his girlfriend that her Dad has passed to feeling like a fucking idiot. My adrenaline being as it was, I don’t exactly remember how the rest of our conversation panned out, but within moments he was gone and I was stood in my front yard sweating profusely and holding my girlfriend’s lost purse.

What an idiot.

I’ve always been this way. I remember once when I was about fourteen, we were playing a game of cricket in the street. It must have been around the time when the England cricket team won The Ashes, because usually there is no chance you’d find me wasting my time playing such an awful game.

Anyway, I was batting and as the delivery came in, I swung back.

THWUCK!

The ball, however, didn’t fly off as I had hoped. It just slowly hit the wall and pathetically rolled back towards the direction in which it had come from. Then, surrounded by a defending silence, all I heard was the shrieking cry of some annoying little kid who had previously been trying to ruin our game. I had only gone and accidentally hit him full force in the head.

I froze.

He ran off.

Moments later his man mountain of a Dad came bursting down the street.

“WHICH LITTLE PRICK HAS JUST CAVED MY LADS HEAD IN WITH A CRICKET BAT?!”

I was petrified. But uncharacteristically I found the courage to step up.

“It was me, sir. I didn’t mean it though, guvnor. He ran behind me. I’m awfully sorry, I am.”

Despite sounding like some Victorian street urchin I had stood my ground. The Dad had been told and had accepted that I wasn’t at fault. He dragged his knuckles back to where he came from.

That had told him.

“Go on then. Next bowl.” I asserted smugly.

Noting happened. Oh. Sorry. Except it did. My siblings and friends pointed out that I had rather embarrassingly pissed my pants. A streak of newly fresh urine making my crotch it’s new home. Like an embarrassed skunk that applies a similar defence mechanism, I walked slowly with my cricket bat and into the house. The smell of piss wafting in the back wind and my days playing that awful game coming to an abrupt end.

I don’t know why I react like this. Psychologically you could link it to growing up around a father who used fear as a way of making sure we behaved? Perhaps being a product of a childhood divorce who grew to panic whenever someone raised their voice?

It could be a myriad of things in my environment that has moulded me into an exhausted, fear induced neurotic moron. Or it could be that I’m just a massive shithouse.

I Only Went For A Meal With My In-Laws. Now I Think I’m In A Cult.

A few weeks back I went for a meal with the future in laws. I’ve been for many meals with them by now and this was nothing out of the ordinary. The usual nice bit of food, a few too many alcoholic drinks and the standard four hours of pure panic making sure I come up with enough small talk so they don’t think that their daughter is with a serial killer.

You know, all the normal stuff.

During my usual ‘make-sure-you-don’t-say-anything-too-weird’ pitter patter with the partner of my girlfriend’s mother, I wandered into my usual safe space of talking about football.

“Liverpool did well considering the amount of injuries we had this season.”

“England have got a manager in Southgate that will pick players on form rather than reputation.”

“If COVID has showed us anything, it’s just how important fans are.”

I was half way through my main at this point and things were going swimmingly. It seemed like I was going to get through another social event with my girlfriend’s family without raising any serious concerns that their daughter would end up chopped up in a fridge freezer.

It was at this point that the subject of ‘matched betting’ came up.

“You can’t lose, mate. I’ve been doing it for weeks and I’m a few hundred quid up.” He boasted while stuffing chicken wings into his gob.

Straight away my cynical side kicked in and I felt the urge to argue back.

“What you do, is you take up an offer on a bookies website that gives you free bets, match that on the bet exchange and then use your free bets to make profit. Simple.” He said like rain man at an all you can eat buffet.

Surely this is one of those things that are too good to be true I communicated with my girlfriend with one of those knowing looks. It’s sort of too good in the same way, when as a child, your slightly older loser uncle used to try and sell you adulthood. Pontificating with his wise words like an ancient sage while holding a can of Strongbow.

“You don’t have to go to school! You have your own money! They let you drive a car!”

Oh it all sounds absolutely brilliant Uncle Kev. Well, until you actually reach adulthood and then they surprise you with credit ratings, a volatile job market and haemorrhoids.

No, it’s nonsense. There’s no such thing as easy money I told myself. Next he’ll be telling me he’s an African Prince who needs money for his Mother’s operation or he’ll try to convince me that I’ve been in a car accident in the last twelve months.

I resolutely kept quiet and ate my vegetable biryani like the polite boyfriend I am.

However, it was when I went home that the problems started. If you have read any of my previous blogs you’ll know by now that once I get an idea in my head, I become absolutely obsessed.

And unsurprisingly, that is exactly what happened.

The following two days passed with my internal monologue incessantly daring me to give it a go. In retrospect, it was actually a nice break from the usual soundtrack to my life of thinking about death and the meaningless of absolutely everything.

On the third day, I decided that I would give it a go. As as a man with not much money in his bank account and absolutely no savings to speak of, all I had to lose was absolutely everything I had ever worked for. But how else was I going to find enjoyment in some Norwegian football game with two teams I had never heard of? Bankruptcy gets you excited quite like nothing else.

My girlfriend’s mother’s partner made it sound so simple, but what followed was three hours of watching countless YouTube tutorials and reading a million different blogs on the topic. Surprisingly, however, after an afternoon of PhD level research, I found myself with £8 pound profit.

Enough money to buy some paracetamol to cure this migraine from trying to work out how to bleeding do it.

Since then I’ve made about another £30 JUST from watching football and I’m totally sold on it.

It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to being a member of a cult and I can’t help mentioning it to everyone I meet. It’s only my social awkwardness that has stopped me from knocking on people’s doors like some sort of Jehovas Witness.

If you do hear a knock on your door though, please do answer. I might not be able to offer you salvation, but I can probably get you a tenner from watching Scandinavian football.

Pretty much the same thing