You booked and paid for the hotel. If I remember, you paid for most things on that trip. Although, I did pay for my return train ticket.
I met you on the train with two Costa coffees.
You weren’t feeling too good. You were feeling anxious but I didn’t know this at the time I thought you were acting up.
After one train then a rail replacement bus service that took us to another train station so we can get another train. We finally arrive at our destination.
The Hotel you booked is top notch. We get shown to our room which is something out of this world.
However we’re a bit pissed as the room you booked had a picture of Oscar Wilde on the wall. And this one, is of some old guy with a handle bar mustache that is class but who’s name has escaped me.
We go out for some food. I tell you about a place a friend has highly recommended. So we go in search for the pub in question.
After a few wrong turns and poor google map readings from myself we finally arrive at the pub.
The food is basic – microwave grub. The ale is cheap tho. We eat our nuked food and neck our drinks and head back to the hotel.
Back at the room. You call for room service and ask for an ice bucket to cool the un-refrigerated bottles of Pinot. That we bought from bargain booze on the way back from the Nuke Ale House.
The next morning.
We went for breakfast, which was extra and you also paid for.
The Maitre D gets us a table and asks whether we would like tea or coffee. We both asked for coffee. As we both took a sip, you put the cup down in disgust. To which you said with your volume button set to normal.
I hate shit coffee.
We head out so that you can buy yourself a new dress. You wanted to look nice for our meal and believe me you did.
Once back at the hotel to rest our feet from over sight seeing. I book a table at some place we both liked the look of online. Because after the day walking around shopping we’re both burnt out from interacting with people.
You order another an ice bucket from room service. To try and get the toasty Pinot down to a cool enjoyable drinkable temperature.
As you begin to get ready you’re reluctant to let me see you without makeup. “Don’t look at me I’m hideous”.
You’re not I tell you. You didn’t.
I said wait a minute I’ve got something in my bag for you.
In a nervous smile. “You haven’t?” you say.
Unsure about what you meant. I went and grabbed the lush bath bomb I had bought for you as a gift. You said “Thank god. I thought you were gonna propose”.
Fuck me I was crazy about you. I mean who wouldn’t be even without your eyebrows on. I wear my heart on my sleeve and it was early days. I was still debating if you were the one. Of course you were the one. I’m just being a twat.
We head to the restaurant. I get the directions on google maps. We get lost, again.
We agree in future and for our relationship to work and succeed that I can no longer be trusted to be in charge of directions. I blame Google.
We arrive at the restaurant. A place with no light bulbs, well not in use anyway. Some light up the bar area but other than that the place is lit by tea lights.
The meal is fantastic. The service is even better we are left to eat. The only interruption is when they removed the clean plates from the table.
None of this, “Is everything okay with your meal?” Waiting for a reply when you have a mouth stuffed full of food.
We contemplate going for a few more drinks. We walk past several bars but we think against it. Its heaving, full to the brim of people who are loud and have more front than Blackpool.
Heading back to the hotel. Not before picking up a few bottles of Pinot and some snacks. You ask me to keep dixie. You go in a closed shop doorway. So that you can take your stockings off because they kept falling down.
The next day on the way home. Back to normality. We get into Liverpool there’s some street artist jumping through rings of fire.
Loads of people have gathered. All clapping. Its cringing.
You turn to me.
Look at me with those beautiful wolf like eyes and say,
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.
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.
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.
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.
We were having drinks. As the whisky flowed we’d waffle on. The more intoxicated we became the conversation turned philosophical.
She asked me “What are you most proud of?”
I was stunned. I had nothing. Of course the birth of my daughter. But I had nothing. Perhaps being a full-time slacker?
Bear Grylls had climbed Mount Everest at 20 something. At 30 I had achieved zilch, diddly squat, jack effin’shit.
I couldn’t drive. Still working the same old job, which I resented. No career. No skills. No hobby. Just your everyday plodder.
Realisation is a bitch. It was my life. I was wasting it by the second and only I could do anything about it.
Within a month I passed my driving test. Quit my job, made sure I had a new one lined up first – priorities. Began typing. Became more of an attentive father. Learning whatever I wanted to now became an obsession.
I want the most out of my life. That’s what the “meaning of life” is to me – I’m all in, and I’m going to experience the fucking lot.