Sleeping is cheating

I’ve not had a proper nights sleep for 16 months.

Well I think its been 16 months.

I’ve lost track.

I should’ve done a tally by marking the tree wallpaper with a sharpie pen.

Every night without fail my baby wakes me up.

I’ve worked out on average. I roughly get about an hours sleep.

I’ve got work in the morning.

I’ll spend my day functioning on auto pilot.

Some days I don’t remember a thing about my shift.

I’ll start.

Then I’ll leave.

In between its all a blur.

She carries on giggling and laughing.

I could swear she’s goading me. 

I love my child. But for fucks sake go to sleep you little cunt

We live in a one bedroom flat.

In hindsight before me and my girlfriend even contemplated about having a sprog of our own we should’ve sold up and moved. 

I need this little fucker of joy to zip it and go to sleep.

The only way in which she will cease is if I grab her by her tiny leg, swing and smash her head against the wall until she no longer makes a noise.

Suppose I could smother her with the blanket that she has become accustomed to.

Or I could strap her in her pram and take her for a walk and leave her to freeze in the dead of night

There’s a full box of co-codamol somewhere.  That I bought because I’ve been suffering with a stiff neck. They help to take a slight fraction of the ache away.

By the way they’re for me the not my baby. I’m not a complete lunatic. 

Considering downing the entire box with a bottle of whisky. In the hope that my heart will stop beating from being submerged from this early hour cocktail.

I need sleep. I could sleep for days. No weeks. Scrap that months, years.

This is torture.

The only light at the end of this never ending tunnel is that of the morning Sun light that creeps through the vertical blinds.

This informs me that another night has passed. Once again without much sleep. And now she sleeps.

BlackBird

Every morning as I leave for work my car is covered in bird shit.

I wipe the freshly laid speckles of turd from my car with baby wipes.

I used to wash my car.

But I think what’s the point. When every morning it’ll be covered in shite again.

As I go to get into my car. I hear a chirp.

I look up.

And on the roof. There’s a black bird that chirps in a sadistic way. Tormenting me.

I swear I see it smirk.

I know and the bird knows. There will be fresh shite again on my car in the morning.

RETAIL ON STRIKE

The awful woman screams at me.
In the queue behind her there’s some impatiently foot tapping customers who huff, tut and clear their throats with a fake cough.

Perhaps in doing this it would encourage the other sale assistants to hurry up with the customers they’re already dealing with.

The yelling and the finger pointing carries on from the awful screaming woman. I cant fathom what shes trying to convey. Its as if shes bored. Maybe her husband doesn’t stimulate her anymore in and out of the bedroom. This is how she gets off now.

I often think wouldn’t it be great if for once as the customer was moaning I went off script and said…

“Go fuck yourself, cuntface”.

To see their face in complete shock. Or how about,
Slam their complaining face over and over again into the counter.
And when I have finished beating their skull on the hard surface. Say,

“I don’t get paid enough for your shit”

It would be great if the whole retail sector went on strike.

To witness the whole country have a massive shit fit.
Not gonna lie I think it would be well worth seeing. I’d even pay for a front row seat.
A load of angry consumers unable to get their fix. Like penniless drug addicts.

It would be like black Friday meets zombie apocalypse.
The doors would be closed, yet they would persist on getting inside in their droves. Like rage fueled apes.

I always feel for the sales assistant. Witnessing them getting verbally assaulted.
The public can be a vicious ill mannered piece of freshly laid dog turd
.

The only defense for the sales assistant who all day gets bombarded is to put on a polite smiley face.

Their cheeks must hurt from smiling all day as the soul destroys minute by minute as they say “Thank you, have a nice day.”

When really all they want to do when they are getting used as a verbal dart board is grab the tantrum objectionable shit stain and suffocate them with a 5p carrier bag.

Humans like to consume.
I’m guessing a strike of any kind would never happen.
Even people who work in retail, consume.
Its hard not to these days.
When everyday is Christmas with Amazon.

Having dealt with the screaming woman. She is on her way to tell her friends how she kicked and shouted until she got her own way against someone whose getting paid minimum wage.

The end is Nigh

What if?

The dead souls of the Egyptians have possessed the people of the UK.

Telling them to accumulate toilet roll.
So that they can return in a mummified fashion.

When the apocalypse occurs there’s going to be people wrapped in toilet paper looking like mummies chasing us instead of zombies.

Just a thought.

Not So Much Fight Club

Wednesday night is when I go boxing.

I only started a few weeks ago.
Depending on who turns up the class is usually eight men.

Not being the confrontational type I’d thought I’d give it ago.

At first, it was to learn how to throw a punch or two.

There’s also a circuit session – If I don’t succeed in becoming the next Rocky perhaps I can get my corpulent physique into shape.

My hands wrapped.
Gloves on.
We start with some basic combos to get us warmed up.
We pair up and do three for three minute rounds.

Someone holds the pads as the other person punches.

Once we’ve had our turn punching and holding the pads, we have a short break. 

Its time for sparring.

I grab a quick drink and wait nervously until its my turn.
Me and the rest observe as the first two go head to head.

“Time!” the coach says.
“You two next” he adds, as he points to me and another.

It’s our turn.
We touch gloves.
We begin.

A quick one two I cut through his guard and catch his left eye.

With an uppercut and then with a left hook I catch him again.

I’m getting good at this.
I’m moving around like a pro, or so I think.

This time I throw a left jab.

He ducks, moves under my left arm only to hit me in the stomach with a left and then follow up with a right punch to my side.

That hurt.

I try to throw a left hook he dodges it.
I throw a jab he dodges it that too.
With my amateur style, my guard is low he takes advantage – I feel his glove firmly squish my nose.

Fuck.

I thought this was a light spar.

Maybe my mother was right when she said all those years ago:

“You don’t wanna go boxing, come and help me finish bake this cake”

Trying to land a punch.
I swing like an angry ape.
I can tell he’s been boxing for years, probably since he was in his mothers baby box.
I get hit a few more times.
This isn’t fight club – I don’t feel any higher consciousness from the pain and exhaustion.

Trying to catch my breath I whimsically carry on.

“TIME!” The coach shouts.

Well done my opponent says.
I don’t know if he’s being facetious, sarcastic or sincere.
I don’t care.
I’m still breathing through my arse flaps.

No Drags Allowed

Spark up or not to spark up?
Smoking in pubs is a past time. Now I‘m not talking about having a suck on your vape – creating a smokey fruit mist when you exhale. No, I’m talking about proper smoking. The mist that you get from smoking a tobacco scented cancer stick. Smoking which eventually makes you cough up one of your lungs.

Good old days…

The room itself was filled with smoke that forever changed shape and direction as it made its way through and around the punters. The whole place engulfed by smog, as if  someone had set off a gas grenade.

At 16. Sitting in the local with my drinking buddy. The floor still sticky from yesterdays dried up vomit. We’d drunkenly mider the hours away and as we did, there would be a super king slowly burning down in the rest of the ashtray.

Smoking Ban Ruined the local!

A landlord named Hamish protested so that his regulars could keep smoking within his establishment. However, this was met with the law coming down hard on this Pro Smoking activist.

Health dogmatic freaks and the government ruined what was once a place of sanctuary.
Had an argument with your other half?
PUB!
Fancy a quick one?
PUB!

Got bills to pay? Fuck’em, PUB!
Once the smoking ban took over. And punters were only permitted to smoke outside or in designated smoking areas. It royally fucked the Pub culture.
It was soon replaced by this eatery chain bollocks. pseudo Gin bars and micro pubs for the alcohol know-it-all enthusiasts.

I say bring back smoking inside Pubs!!

But proper smoking, cool smoke; smoke that’s produced from a coffin dodging old timers tobacco pipe.

Smoke that’s from a cigar, that’s resembles E.T’s glowing finger.

Smoke that’s coming from the last strained drags left before the butt.
And if there’s people who are health conscious, then its simple.

Do Not Enter.
Go to your cigarette free, fruity vape pseudo places.
But Leave the local alone.

WANKER AT WORK

As I arrive to work he’s there. Standing like a Superhero. With a creepy, fucking annoying smile that only someone of his shitheadedness could possess.

Only instead of Clark Kent, its Clark Kunt and he’s come to ruin the fucking day.

As I enter he makes some stupid remark;

“Oh, ur in are ya”

I mutter cunt under my breath.

He always arrives to work extra-anally-early. Its so he can be the first one there to open up the place. Its his A-Word quirk.

Once entered he switches the lights on and deactivates the alarm system. He tells me he can have all of this done under 5 seconds.

Before I’ve even hung up my jacket. He’s bothering me.

Hovering around like a fly trying to find a place to land.

Invading my personal space with his breath that reeks of the owners arse.

More people arrive to get on with the job at hand. They also receive the same annoying welcome.

I don’t choose to be here. But dreams don’t pay the bills.

The pay is dogshit and I loathe the public. Having to put on a fake polite performance all day is tiresome. The customers sap my mental capital – although I’ve learnt to tolerate them. I call this – coming to work meditation.

I’m trying to enjoy a cup of coffee, and low and behold, he’s there again.

Popping up like whack a-mole. If only I could find the rubber mallet.

Continuously informing me of the benefits of Camomile tea. I DONT CARE! He carries on regardless.

Afternoon. Lunch Time.

I’m eating. He comes in and also starts to eat.

He begins to start talking with a mouth full of chewed up chicken. God only knows what he’s saying. It’s inaudible. Talking about his hobbies maybe.

Could be some new innate knowledge that for some reason, he thinks he has to share. Whatever it is, it’s probably pointless dribble.

He persists.

With every bite he snorts. Resembling a hungry tramp who’s wolfing down lukewarm chips that they’ve found from out of a steel litter bin.

I spend the remainder of the day trying to avoid him wherever I can just to run down the remaining hours.

Work Finishes. Finally. Another day, Another dollar.

We all leave. I head off. Got a bus to catch.

See ya later.

I walk towards the busy rush hour road. Traffic whizzing past in both directions. I need to cross over, so I can catch the bus that takes me the fuck home.

Finally, there’s a break in the mad- mundane – everyone – darting home – so – they – don’t – miss – an – episode – of – Eggheads – traffic.

I take one step.

It hits me. A speeding car not an epiphany.

Crashing into me, I get knocked off my feet and tossed into the middle of the road.

I hit the floor. Now don’t get me wrong the pain is fucking excruciating.

Paralysed I’m lying in the road. I hear commotion from the driver.

“He just stepped out, I didn’t see him, is he okay????”

As I lie there I begin to see a light, and its more than likely from the headlights from the car that has tore me a new one. Every part of me is motionless.

Like speckles of rain that land on a car windshield the darkness gradually starts to disrupt my vision.

Its here, the final curtain. My time is up. Death has arrived and it came in the form a Nissan Micra.

Numbness comes to the grand finale. I feel the last beat of my pulsating heart. As the air leaves my body I deflate like a broken bouncy castle.

I hear a voice. Could it be God himself? No.

It’s Clark Kunt;

“I don’t think he’ll be in tomorrow”