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.

My Girlfriend Doesn’t Think I’m Spontaneous Enough. This Week Was Her Lucky Week.

My girlfriend often accuses me of not being spontaneous enough. Her idea of men absolutely moulded by a lifetime of watching Hollywood films in which the charming lead actor drops everything on a whim and flies his love interest off to Paris for the weekend.

I mean, I could do that. I could pick her up in a taxi straight from work on a Friday evening and be in France before sundown. I could be walking her down the Champs-Élysées with the evening breeze dancing in the air. I could treat her to the finest of breakfasts in some hip pretentious Paris cafe that has a bicycle on the wall passing off as art. Basically, I could whisk her off her feet and have the most magical forty eight hours she could ever wish for. It would be perfect. What wouldn’t be perfect, however, would be the following two weeks in which we fall behind on our mortgage and end up on the streets having to do unspeakable things to the genitals of strangers in order to get enough food not to starve to death. And all of this because she wanted to post a photo of herself on Instagram eating a croissant next to the fucking Eiffel Tower.

The point is, when you’re working class and money isn’t an unlimited resource, big financial gestures have to be planned to a T. I mean, there is also the absolute legitimate argument that I could save up and not have to make ourselves homeless in order to achieve this. However, that is an argument I don’t have the energy nor desire to entertain.

So last Wednesday, I took action. I decided I would shock her to her very core and suggest a romantic day out. I leant over and whispered into her ear the one sentence that all women want to hear, “Do you fancy going the car boot this Sunday?” A sentence only slightly more romantic than, “I’ve got us two tickets to the lawnmower museum” and “Fancy checking out this rash for me?”

Surprisingly, however, she was up for it. Granted, I don’t think it has changed her opinion of me as an unromantic bone idle layabout, but the mere suggestion of doing anything was enough to raise a look in her eyes that helped to remind her why she’s still bothering to build a life with me.

It must be noted that there was some method to my madness. You see, recently we have become obsessed with these auction/garage sale TV shows where people purchase items for a couple of quid and then sell them on for quadruple what they originally bought them for. Me and my girlfriend have this problem where once we both get an idea into our heads, we run away with ourselves and temporarily live in a fictionalised world in which life is brilliant. Often we get excited that we might be able to quit our jobs and finally establish control over our own lives. And as usual, in the days leading up to the car boot, this is exactly what we did. Our expectations blown completely out of proportion.

“I’m going to find a bag of rare action figures from the 1970’s! I don’t even mind if I only make a couple of hundred pound profit!” I loudly exclaimed like the village idiot I am.

We excitedly arrived at about 8am. Now, I don’t know what we were expecting exactly, but what we found wasn’t this bustling environment that was dripping with hidden treasure that would financially transform our lives. It was, if anything, quite aggressive. At one point, I honestly thought a pensioner was going to physically lash out at a seller for daring to sell a shitty toy campervan for a tenner. It was carnage. It was so far removed from the jolly TV shows where like minded people trade items for a bit of fun. I’ve watched countless episodes of ‘Bargain Hunt’, but I’m yet to see the episode where someone is called a cunt for refusing to take 50p for the 2004 film ‘Million Dollar Baby.”

My foray into flipping cheap shite landed me a ‘Only Fools and Horses’ box set and a special edition guide to ‘The Simpsons’. My girlfriend left empty handed and spent the rest of the day warning me to make sure I actually tried to sell them and not to leave them gathering dust in the spare room.

I genuinely believe that there is money to be made from the few quid I spent and I do have every intention of trying to sell them on. However, if I never get around to it, I might have to treat her to a romantic getaway to the local rubbish tip.

What a lucky woman.

My Comic Book Obsession Has Begun Again And I Need To Publicly Apologise To My Girlfriend.

I love comics. I always have done. One of my earliest memories is awakening to the birds singing and the sun shining and grabbing my bicycle to cycle as fast as I could to the local newsagents to grab the latest copy of ‘The Beano.’

Now before we go any further, I know it’s a shock to all that read this, that a man who lived in his Mother’s box room until he was 27 and also collects commemorative 50 pence coins is into comics, but we must accept this and move on.

I also must note that although I paint my childhood to be something out of an Enid Blyton novel, I did grow up on a council estate. Yes, there was sunshine and cycling, but there was also gang violence and fingering.

I genuinely remember being a small child and desperately wanting to be Spiderman. Concerningly, I’m from that generation where parents dangled the, “You can truly be anything you want to be” carrot in our faces. Nobody told me that this was a completely unrealistic expectation. Up until I was about 10, I honestly thought it was something I could achieve. I thought when I was an adult, I would be a masked vigilante fighting crime on the mean streets of Liverpool. I’m now 31 working in administration. The only thing I fight now is regret and the urge not to cry until the sun goes down.

Anyway, I’m addicted again. It’s all I’m currently talking about. It’s all I’m thinking about. I have this type of personality where I get addicted to things incredibly easily. I took up cycling about six months ago and within weeks I was in the early stages of planning a charity cycle from Land’s End to John o’Groats. It’s a good job that I get addicted to things that are ridiculously vanilla or in six months time you might have got a light hearted blog full of witticisms on my weekend lost to heroin.

I do have to admit though that my current obsession is verging on outright rudeness. I can confidently estimate that about 70% of conversations that my girlfriend has started recently, has been filtered through my brain and turned back to comic book talk. My girlfriend is days away from saying, “Paul, we need to talk…” and I’d instantly reply with, “ABOUT HOW THERE’S AN ORIGINAL FIRST PRINTING OF DC’S BLACK LIGHTNING ISSUE 1 ON EBAY?”

She’s at a stage now where I need her to dress like Wolverine for me to pay her any attention.

A few days ago, I even downloaded an app and created three short comic strips. Three comic strips that were welcomed with an all too recognisable eye roll from my girlfriend.

They can hopefully be viewed beneath. Please read and shower me with compliments.

So to my girlfriend when she reads this, I apologise and promise to enter our relationship again in the coming days. To anyone else, please keep an eye out for my new Instagram page for my comics that will last about another two weeks before I lose interest.

31 years old nerds assemble!