Conversation with myself III - The Return

Me: Jeez. It's been a while since I've written anything here.


Inner Voice: And how. People probably think that you're dead.


Me: I'm not dead.


Inner Voice: I know. Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation.


Me: Unless I did die, and this is some sort of voice-from-beyond-the-grave type deal.


Inner Voice: Unlikely. Ghosts rarely have chronic back pain.


Me: You're right there. No spine, you see. Ergo, no slipped disc. Q.E.D.


Inner Voice: Do you think you should tell the good readers of 20six how the aforementioned back injury occurred?


Me: I'll just say it involved Lucy, five bottles of red wine, a metal dustbin and a shopping trolley. They're intelligent people, they can fill in the gaps.


Inner Voice: And they don't know about the new employee either, do they?


Me: No. They don't. Although maybe that's for the best.


Inner Voice: Do you know what I think?


Me: No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me.


Inner Voice: I think you should stop being such a lazy fucker and actually write a proper entry instead of this so-called "conversation" with what is essentially a literary device.


Me: Okay, okay. Jeez, no need to get batey.
6.4.04 12:45


A cuckoo in the nest

We have a new member of the Bottle Shop staff. I am less than delighted about this, for reasons that will soon become abundantly clear.


After being one man down for almost the whole of March, the strain was starting to show. You could smell the desperation in the air. Only my pride (and the knowledge that Star Trek would always win out over Shiraz in Keith's spoddy little heart) prevented me from picking up the shop phone and begging him to return. Then I slipped a disc in a messy little incident involving a dustbin and a shopping trolley. Suddenly I seemed to have the spine of an arthritic 70-year-old mosher with whiplash. If I bent down I made the "gah-oof" sounds that my father makes when he picks up golf balls. Moving wine crates was out of the question. A replacement Keith needed to be found.


Cut to one week ago. After a long and agonizing day I'd closed up the shop and staggered up to the flat where my beloved, seeing that I was in a considerable amount of pain, kindly offered to give me a back massage. Flat on my front on the living room floor, I bemoaned our staff shortage.


Me: There must be - aargh, oww, gah - somebody out there who - nnngh, shit - needs a job.


Lucy: I might know someone.


Me: Not - ow, ow, ow, ow - one of the Steves. I can't shell out for - aargh, jesus - another wheelie bin.


Lucy: No, it's a sort of friend of mine.


Me: Does he - gah, nnngh - know anything about wine?


Lucy: Nope. But he could blag it. He's good at that sort of thing.


Me: Well, as long as he can - eek, argh, bollocks - shift crates and hold a broom, I'll be happy. I'm really paaaaast - shit, ow - past caring.


Lucy: Okay. I'll give him a call and see if he's interested.


So, after she'd finished playing bone xylophone on my poor, smashed-up spine, she made the call. Five minutes later, she came back with a big grin on her face and gave me the thumbs up.


Lucy: He's up for it. He'll come in first thing tomorrow morning.


The next day I lurched downstairs to open up the shop. And noticed a guy waiting outside. I stuck my head out of the door.


Me: Can I help you?


Mystery Guy: Here for the job. I'm Lucy's, er, friend.


A Canadian twang to his voice. I didn't like the way he said "friend", with a sly little wink in his voice. I didn't like the way he looked like a tattooed and pierced version of Tom Cruise. I didn't like the way he slouched with a studied nonchalance that would have had James Dean weeping with envy. The only thing I did like was the fact that he can't have been more than five foot five. I let him in. He introduced himself as Ben Vincent "but people just call me Vinnie". I decided to find out a bit more about this "friend" of Lucy's.


Me: So... Vinnie. Lucy told you what the job involved?


Vinnie: Yeah. Wine.


Me: It's a little more complex than that.


Vinnie: Put wine on shelves. Sell wine. I miss anything out?


Me: Well...


Vinnie: Where is Luce, anyway? I want to say hi.


Me: Upstairs in the flat - er, where are you going?


Vinnie: Going to say good morning to the lady. Hey Lucy baby! Come and say hi to the Vinster!


He ambled to the back of the shop and vanished up the stairs.


Inner Voice: Well, this is interesting.


Vinnie re-appeared. "She told me to piss off," he smirked. "Same old Lucy."


Me: Indeed. Ah, Vinnie... how exactly do you and Lucy know each other?


Vinnie: What, she didn't tell ya? We were doing it for a coupla months last year.


Me: Ah. Right.


Vinnie: All over now though.  Unless you don't mind if I, ah... (a slow wink) have another bash.


Me: Yes. I do. Mind, that is.


Vinnie: Sure thing. Can't blame a guy for asking.


Inner Voice: Oh yes I bloody well can.


I should have shown him the door right then and there. Should have, but didn't. And to his credit, Vinnie's actually been pretty handy to have around. He's no Keith, but he does what he's told most of the time and is good with the customers (unlike Keith, who would hide in the back room every time the door jangled open). Even Marxist Jim seemed impressed. Eventually.


Marxist Jim: Late, I'm not f***ing happy having some Yankee c*** working in my shop.


Me: He's Canadian, actually.


Marxist Jim: He is? Oh. Well that's different. Yeah, he's not f***ing bad, that Vinnie.


Yep, everyone seems happy to have Vinnie around. Perky ol' Vinnie with his sideburns and ironic t-shirts. Funny ol' Vinnie with his hilarious Kids In The Hall routines. Smooth ol' Vinnie with his eye for the ladies, and one lady in particular.


Christ, I hate him.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Tuella Duoro Tinto 1999 (Portugal). A rich plummy red, full of ripe black fruit, herbs and spices. I always have a bottle to hand, so I can clobber Vinnie over the head should the little fucker ever dare to get frisky with my woman. £4.99
6.4.04 15:28


Say Cheese

To understand today's entry, I must first tell you two things of which you may be unaware:fficeffice" />


(1) Late Bland does not like chocolate.


Now, we're not talking out-and-out loathing here. I can handle it in small doses. The chocolate chips in McVities Boasters, for example, are perfectly acceptable - but only because the presence of Whole Hazelnuts (their capitals) offsets the chocolate. But chocolate bars? Slabs of finest 70% cocoa solid Swiss confectionary? Yuletide tins of Quality Street or Roses? Intricately-packed Easter eggs? I'd rather go and chew on a freshly-creosoted fence post, thank you very much. Now, I know what you're thinking (especially those among you of the female persuasion). You're thinking, "How weird! How can anybody not like chocolate? He must be some sort of pinko-psycho-freak! Burn him! Burn him!" This is not unusual. When I tell people that chocolate really isn't my thing, a strange thing happens to their hearing. For example:


What I say: "I don't really like chocolate."


What they hear: "I enjoy beating baby deer to death and then using their still-warm corpses as a receptacle for my perverted lusts."


This is why I don't tend to advertise my aversion to chocolate.


 


(2) Late Bland does like cheese.


Actually, "like" might be the understatement of the fortnight. I adore cheese. Asadero, brie, caerphilly, danish blue, emmenthal, feta, gorgonzola, halloumi, jarlsberg, kugelkase, limburger, mozzarella, nokkelost, orkney, port salut, quantock blue, roquefort, stilton, tomme, ullou, vacherin, wensleydale (with or without cranberries), xynotyro, zamorano. God, the very act of writing this list is making me salivate (and if anyone can come up with cheeses beginning with I, O, or Y then please let me know, as I would like to try them).


 


So, to summarize:  Chocolate = NO. Cheese = YES. Got it? Good. Now on with today's entry.


Despite being a (very) lapsed Catholic, Marxist Jim always shuts the Bottle Shop on Good Friday, Easter Sunday and Easter Monday. I think this is because his long-buried sense of piety is revived by documentaries about Pontius Pilate and re-runs of 'The Greatest Story Ever Told'. There must be something about Max Von Sydow floating about in a dress and sandals that makes Marxist Jim want to give up worshipping Mammon in favour of a trip down to the local God-shop. Not that I'm complaining, as it means three days' worth of blissful lie-ins for me. Or at least it used to. Now I am sharing my living quarters with She Who Never Sleeps, the good, old-fashioned, not-getting-up-until-dinnertime lie-ins of my bachelor days are a thing of the past. For example:


Good Friday


Me: Zzzzzz.... cabbages.... no, no, get the map..... zzzzzz...


Lucy: Get up! Get up! Get up! I've had a brilliant idea! Rollercoasters!


Me: Gah, argh, mmpfh, gerroff, stopjumpingonmychest. Gah.


Lucy: Get up and get dressed, slugger. We're going to Alton Towers.


For me, Good Fridays are Good because they involve Sleeping, More Sleeping and maybe a trip down to the local for some Beer. That is what I define as a Good Friday. Driving all the way up to Alton-cocking-Towers to overdose on adrenalin does not feature in my Good Friday scenario. Something that I pointed out to Lucy as we got strapped into our seats on Nemesis for the fourth time in a row.


Lucy: Ah, but you're enjoying yourself really.


Me: Yes, but not as much as being in beeeeeedddddddooooohhhhhmmmmmyyyyyggoooooooddddd!


It was quite a relief to be back in the shop on Saturday. At least everything stayed the right way up and nobody tried to charge me seven quid for a keyring featuring a picture of myself looking terrified.


On Easter Sunday, I was slumbering quietly when my implacable girlfriend once more wrenched me from the arms of Somnus by hitting me over the head with a pillow.


Me: Gah! Jesus!


Lucy: Exactly! Happy Cheeaster!


Me: Cheeaster?


Lucy: Cheeaster.


She presented me with a large egg, wrapped in shiny pink foil.


Me: Uh. Erm. Thanks, Luce. But I don't, you know, like chocolate very much. But, you know, thanks for the thought...


Lucy: Open it.


I unwrapped the egg. It was a sort of waxy yellow colour.


Me: What the...? Is this made of cheese?


Lucy: Yep. It's a Cheeaster egg. I made it myself. Crack it open, go on.


I did. It was hollow, and full of Mini Babybels. I sat with it on my knee, utterly gobsmacked.


Lucy: What do you think?


Me: I think this may well be the best Easter egg...


Lucy: Cheeaster egg.


Me: ...Cheeaster egg that I've ever had in my life ever. I also think I love you.


There. I said it. I finally declared my true feelings. And it only took me five months and an egg made entirely of cheese. Not bad going, really.


We broke up the Cheeaster egg and had it on toast for our breakfast. Then we went rollerblading along the South Bank until I got a bollard in the bollocks, at which point we decided that wheels were for cars and not for feet and went to a pub to get hammered on as many different beers as possible. And on Easter Monday I finally got my lie-in.

The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Wolf Blass Green Label Shiraz 2001 (Australia). A dark, luscious elixir of a wine. If they served this at communion then more people might go to church. Oh, and she loves me too, by the way. Cheers. £7.99
13.4.04 17:36